hello, 911? how are you?

     this might be the most useful she’s been in the kitchen. ordinarily, lesley is the one to handle the cold things. the ice, the cream, the butter. all of the things too delicate for the warmth of her hand. the silence carries as strongly as the buzzing of a bee behind an ear, the way it grows and grows and grows. by her hand is a cold stick of butter, still intact within the proximity of her skin. she’s too unfocused to remember what she’s meant to be doing – 

     it’s the flash of too much salt bleeding into the pepper of his hair, it’s too much snow streaking into his crown. it’s the hair, the quiet, the stiffness, the distance. the glance she shoots him is whip-quick and tainted with the flickering fear of what she doesn’t know. ( what she does know. ) she hikes the sleeve of her sweater back up her shoulder. the weaving is too light, meant for thin coverage in warmer weather. it doesn’t do much to keep in what heat she has left. maybe that’s why her hands are so unsteady. 

     she clears her throat and is surprised to find her tone so even. ‘ was it. two sticks? ’  

         ‘ two sticks, ’ he answers. it isn’t like him to parrot, and certainly not without the padding of his own personality to lend it strength.

lesley watches her almost entirely from his periphery, which still does a fine job letting him know she needs warming, no matter whether she’s willing to accept it. wordlessly, and with the posture of a man already surrendered, he unbuttons and shrugs off his own thicker sweater to hang around her shoulders. he’s lost enough weight from the stress of losing her (hasn’t happened, he knows. will, he knows) that it’s immediately, jarringly clear.

     funny, to know a story from the beginning and still not know what to say. i’m here because i’m too much of a delinquent to earn my wings the easy way. i’m here because i have to be. i’m here because … ‘ i’m here to – ’ she’s perched precariously atop the snow-slick railing, wobbling to and fro. then, empathetic and emphatic, ‘ fuck — ’ she slips off and into the icy waters, right on time and right as planned. ( though the thought doesn’t bring her nearly enough warmth as she’d like. ) 

     ‘ help! ’ she cries out, arms floundering in the choppy waves. 

the snow thickens and slows and the whitecaps below begin to calm before lesley has made a conscious move. he sheds his coat — not because he’s thinking of it, nor of himself in any capacity, for maybe-once — to save himself future resistance in the water, then vaults the handrail and plummets into the river a few careful meters from the first to go.

     she’s stood up in the wake of her initial snap. ‘ you’re not watching. ’ it’s not the movie. he knows she doesn’t mean the movie. her eyes track between the flashing screen– muted beneath the rush of blood in her ears– and the awful consistency of white of his hair. her fingernails feel like ice against the chill of her palms when they curl inward. 

     ‘ you’re not – ’ it’s a sign, isn’t it. ( he knows how the world will end, doesn’t he? he knows it’ll be her. he knows how she came first and how she will outlast him, too. he knows that the world will end in fire and that the only thing left will be this eternal summer, and – ) 

     how quickly her anger has softened into despair. her breath fogs up before she can catch it. she wonders if it would have mattered had she succeeded. ‘ this isn’t – ’ going to end well for either of us. ‘ why are you still here? ’ you’d be better off without me. 

what makes the turn of their exchange feel like a plunge into icy waters isn’t so much that summer is more upset than lesley had guessed, but that things had felt normal in the preceding moments. his processing shifts with a jolt from inquisitive to panicked. he looks like a man still in love just served his divorce papers, without so much as a shuffle of sheet or sniffle from his lifetimes-long partner in the ring.

that’s coming out of the wrong fucking mouth, he thinks. why are you still here, summer?

his face is salty-wet with tears, his shoulders damp with snow now melting, and his throat raw from begging. not for anyone to hear or for anything more specific than a ‘please’ until, of course —

— ‘ i wish i’d never been born. ’

he’s no longer alone, though the weight of his self hatred eases not one ounce. he’ll drown in this. (he’d like to.) he looks at the stranger like an inconvenience and a conundrum at once.

he feels straight out of the fucking santa clause, helped none by the faint dye stains striping him from thumb downward on the left, behind his ear on the right. he’s gone white again. bride of frankenstein again.

much as their children seem to delight in pointing it out (the older two with a twinge of concern, which makes each lie that much thornier), summer hasn’t once commented.

egon’s only tell is in his profanity, so scarcely employed without outside interference (in this case: shame, he’s certain; well, worry, he’s certain; he outgrew this decades ago, he was certain), as he nudges a pair of beds together in the firehouse sleeping quarters.

it’s a ‘damn’ when the frame scrapes the floor, a ‘shit’ when it clips and topples a lamp.

enter ray. (force non-reaction egon.)

     one hand in the soft fur at cheyenne’s neck and the other settled loosely against the rifle slung over her shoulder, sunny levels the courier with an inquisitive stare. the shattered remains of several sarsaparilla bottles lay still-smoking along a fence to their right. with as quick of a succession he’d made of them all, his work had felt a hair too precise for someone so reluctant to lay his hand on a pistol.

     she’s earned the right to this upheaval of honest disbelief, she thinks. 

     ‘ and here i thought you didn’t like guns. ’ 

         ‘ i don’t believe in ’em, ’ he says, too long practiced to sound artificial. his own voice takes a minute to register, and when it does he frowns, paws at his chin to check unconsciously that he’s corporeal, and meets sunny’s gaze with a furrowed brow.

destry redirects his focus, braced for another surprise from the source, and — sure enough — spins the pistol smooth and easy around his fingers. rote-like.

        it shows that she got up an hour early. jane is impeccable today, from the shiny french-manicured nails to the shampoo-advert bounce in her hair, and she waltzes into lesley’s office with such confidence in her step that anybody would think she’s the one in charge. she stands in front of his desk with a cake tin in hand, smile bright as she proclaims good morning!, like she’s speaking it into existence.

       ‘ i know it’s early, but would you like a piece? i’m already full as a tick from breakfast, but i’ll maybe join you for one. ’  a beat, and then comes the explanation.  ‘ it’s my birthday. ’

lesley decides about a third of the way through his backward lean that he’d take a day of old chair discomfort for one well-timed theatrical groan of springs and metal beneath him. it’s the recline of a man who ought to have a supercilious-looking cat at the ready.

he folds his hands atop his midsection, instead, and smiles at jane in a way that wrinkles him unlike it used to. he’s proud and entertained, but no longer unkind.

FULL NAME.  lesley richard causer. NICKNAME.  les. GENDER.  cis man. HEIGHT.  6′0″. AGE.  49. SPOKEN LANGUAGES.  english, asl.

physical characteristics

HAIR COLOR.  once dark brown/blackish, gone very grey (not majority, but approaching). salt-and-pepper beard. EYE COLOR.  slate blue. SKIN TONE.  tan (farmer’s). freckled. BODY TYPE.  average to (more often) heavyset. never not soft, thick, but just how SoftThick varies. VOICE.  sounds like danny kaye without the (outer-city) new york accent buffed away. the voice itself is very gentle and warm, but the words seldom match. DOMINANT HAND.  left. POSTURE.  comfortable/relaxed. slouches backward, not forward. often crosses his legs either at the knee or the ankle. SCARS.  a minor few from his pre-sobriety days. TATTOOS.  a tiny faded prince symbol on his upper-inner left shoulder blade. BIRTHMARKS.  none. MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).  gap between his two front teeth. freckles across the bridge of his nose. strong dark eyebrows.

childhood

PLACE OF BIRTH.  woodstock, new york. HOMETOWN.  woodstock, new york. SIBLINGS.  joanna “joe” causer, younger sister.

adult life

OCCUPATION.  director of speechwriting, white house office. CURRENT RESIDENCE.  a terraced house in washington, d.c. CLOSE FRIENDS.  i’m pretty sure his only close uncomplicated friend is li manchester (although we are testing that, aren’t we, @bugdown​). RELATIONSHIP STATUS.  very much verse dependent. bad with ‘i love you’s. was engaged once. dated his aa sponsor until he passed away. FINANCIAL STATUS.  quite comfortable. upper middle. DRIVER’S LICENSE.  he has it. as long as he’s in d.c. he rarely uses it. CRIMINAL RECORD.  public intoxication due to alcohol twice. public intoxication due to drugs once; five days in jail. VICES.  light smoking. stress eating.

sex and romance

SEXUAL ORIENTATION.  biromantic bisexual. LIBIDO.  uhhh, moderate? spent his last few years drinking with no sex drive to speak of, but it’s climbed steadily in the years he’s been sober. TURN ONS.  teasing/taunting. if he likes you and you talk down to him in a non-actually-hateful way, he likes you more. socially dominant, sexually submissive. (fine if you get a little physically rough, too.) occasionally gotten going by emotional intimacy. TURN OFFS.  being corrected. being danced on (not with — he likes being danced with, he just finds grinding/sensual dancing in general unappealing once he’s involved). LOVE LANGUAGE.  ‘quality time’ and ‘physical touch.’ RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES.  very, very bad at progressing beyond the toe-dipping stage, but once he does, he’s in it trademark symbol. he is a difficult partner chiefly because he is a difficult person, though he will never: cheat, harm, betray trust, lie (he’ll fib for his own benefit; never a thing to hurt or deceive his partner), abandon. he may never say ‘i love you,’ either. win some lose some.

miscellaneous

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG.  the ideal husband — father john misty. “i’ve said awful things, such awful things” ; “telling people jokes to shut them up” HOBBIES TO PASS TIME.  people watching. doodling. reading reviews for films he hasn’t the time to see. LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED.  mostly right. PHOBIAS.  snakes. planes. SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL.  plays high, feels low. VULNERABILITIES.  sobriety (10 years; only shaky when his commitment is questioned), family, body image.

     ‘ mind if i stay for breakfast? ’ is the line li intends to greet the morning with. instead, it drops directly after a gummy yawn and a sharp curse at the sliver of sunlight that has peeked through lesley’s blinds and directly into her fucking eyeballs. she can’t imagine it’s the worst he’s ever been greeted with, especially from her. she smacks her palms over her wounded eyes and sinks as deeply as she can into the couch cushions. she doesn’t get very far. 

     ‘ christ. ’ 

his opener is little more than a grunt; ‘shit’ or ‘shu’up,’ maybe, if li is looking for some indication that he’s human. he knows before he’s dusted cobwebs that he owes his unconscious mind a debt of gratitude for holding him within his own space, arms behind instead of around her, legs as straight as the couch allows.

lesley can dance — and better than fine, better than passably — but li knows him none too well if she thinks she’ll be swept into a step that isn’t designed to spread discomfort.

(this isn’t because he doesn’t like her. to his own consternation, lesley has begun to realize that he doesn’t—doesn’t not, does he? doesn’t he?) (he guesses he likes her. he guesses he dislikes being aware of it.)

         ‘ why, i— ’ why, he may have considered it. not in the traditional thought-thoroughly-through, ‘what sorta clown do you take me for?’ sense of the word, but he may have, in his whirlwind rage, considered it.

attach a handlebar mustache and a pair of mitts and cosmo is dancing on his toes about the ring, hands clenched and arms coiled, ready to whip fists around right- and leftward to meet an unneighborly mug right in the button.

visibly, as if lenny’s point has peeled a tangible layer of indignation from him, cosmo relaxes.