CITY WRECKER.

‎

It’s so like her to dilute his reaction with humor. And the cheeky kind, too, the kind that makes him want to tear his hair out on occasion, but is so distinctly Mitch that he would have appreciated it better if she hadn’t just made a full-body apparition on account of him starting to think she’d been dead all this time.

“Hey Cas?” he repeats with a mocking lilt. He lifts his arms off the counter to fold them across his chest, leaving her under his scrutinizing gaze. “Is that all you have to say- fucking Hey Cas?” He knows, eventually, he’ll get over it, because he always does, because she always makes him, until she runs off again. Rinse. Repeat.

“You’re fucking unbelievable, you know that? Just… real fucking unbelievable…”

—

“oh, jesus fuckin’ christ ——” see, this is the part she expected. the part where she tries to crawl back into the spaces she left vacant but it doesn’t fit anymore: and it’s grinding, screeching pain, and he won’t let her in, and she deserves this, she knows, but it still fucking hurts — not that she can say it. she needs a smoke: when things get tough, watching something burning seems to calm her down. reminds her of her nature, perhaps. but there’s a big ‘no smoking’ sign hanging in the corner, and the blinking red light of a fire alarm staring back at her. she glares, huffs, crosses her arms — she’s a child throwing a tantrum, a child who thought this time, maybe, she would get away with it.

there’s no getting away with murder, is there?

her sigh is the kind of dramatic, i-am-so-done-with-you cue pamela novak invented, and she hates it the second it leaves her mouth — the predictable result is just more nervousness, skittering around her words like a bomb is hidden somewhere between their dialogue and she’s not sure whether she wants to keep it from detonating. another huffing noise, and then she’s stepping closer: sharp gestures to signal she means business.

“can we like, chill it with the dramatics? alright, i was a dick. i get that. but i’m back now. so, yeah. hey cas — how the fuck have you been?”

..

Normally, she’d elbow Mitch for that, but tonight the other woman gets a roll of Maite’s brown eyes. stepping forward, she couldn’t help shaking her head even though she’d seen the business end of someone else’s fist more times than she could count. “Shame, that. The only fix I know is tequila but something tells me that’ll just cause problems.” Her lips pressed into a thin line as Mitch’s state made itself a little more clear. “I’d only like to see them if i have a baseball bat in one hand and a machete in the other,” Maite clarified. Without asking, the brunette moved to Mitch’s..less injured side, ready to offer support. Whoever Mitch tangled with wasn’t fucking around, that much was clear. “The fuck’d you do to piss them off and do i even know who they are?” 

Lips shifted to the side as she considered the different options available. There were a few old neighbors that could help, it was just a matter of who might be up (or easily bribed). Her fingers tapped absently against her thigh.“I know an old granny lady that can get you fixed up and will probably have something that tastes terrible but will help you sleep. I’ll just need to swing by home and get a few things for her first. If you need to lay low, Lucero will be off in a few hours and she’d always fix you up. What is best?” 

—

is this how her youth goes? leaning over the younger generation for support ‘cause her own body can’t take a hit as well as it used to? ah, god — depression is a sad, dull aftertaste at the back of her mouth, but barely tasted among the rest of things flooding her tastebuds tonight: among all of them, the scorching pleasure of lingering smoke on her tongue might just be a heavenly sort of relief. “now, what kinda question is that —”, head tilted, a sort of scolding look on her face as she frowns her eyebrows at maite: then a wince, grimacing in pain with a dull motherfucker—— under her breath. “just the usual, babydoll. talk too much, ask too much, got kicked in the ass ‘cause that’s what i’m into, these days”. hand moving in wide, theatrical gestures: it just makes it sound so much more fashion than it really is.

the truth of things is, she’s barely giving half a fuck about the state she’s in, these days. she likes to claim there is a call for truth pulling her forwards on her steps, a string some might call fate and she calls professional integrity — when she thinks about it, however, when she really thinks about it, she doesn’t really care how many words she gets to put on a page at the end of the day. she cares about how many bones are broken: seems that number is directly proportional to her own worth. “whatever. surprise me”. with a sigh, mitch lets her weight rest gently over maite’s side, then turns with a quirky, inquisitive look: her instincts might not be as energized as before, but she still wants to know. “you got a whole ass database of medics around town, uh?” half a smirk following, leaning closer just enough to push a little harder. “one might just start to wonder how many times you’ve been in my same predicament, maite”.

STARTER FOR: @mtchstick​ LOCATION: EASY RECORDS. TIME: NEAR CLOSING TIME. 

They’ve always been more ghosts than they were people. Always haunted, always haunting. He just never expected apparitions, not the way he’s been catching glimpses of Mitch in the street the past few months. He chalks it up to fatigue or maybe the heat. She’s not dead or he would’ve received the news somehow. She always just seems like she is.

But she doesn’t return his calls and she doesn’t text back and he starts to think that maybe she is a ghost. Or she’s just being a dick. He can’t tell which one is more likely to be true.

And, lo and behold— Mitch Novak, Mitch Novak, Mitch Novak. Utter the name thrice and the vengeful spirit shall appear. 

She must’ve been standing there for a minute—he hadn’t heard the chimes at the door ring—or she must’ve phased through the glass windows.

Nevertheless, the sight of her, spontaneous and pale, almost sends a chill down his spine. A soft, tearful ballad plays from the overhead speakers, strangely akin to a spirit howling.

“What the fuck, Mitch?”

hey, look at that, strike two! her personal bingo of less-than-enthusiastic welcomes is heading towards a spectacular victory — keep it up, she might just win a fluffy teddybear. not that the look on his face isn’t deserved. not that it doesn’t answer the unspoken question she doesn’t dare utter, the one that takes a different shape each time she thinks about it but in the end just sounds like just how much should your damages affect others, mitch?

“well, shit, i wasn’t expecting a red carpet, but ——”, arms crossed, mitch shields herself behind a cover of sarcasm. that’s easier. far easier than admitting she’s spotted him at least a couple times on the street, but pretended to be someone else (not that she can explain this to him, but really, it was all for his sake). easier even than admitting the final straw, the reason she finaly caved in and showed up in here today, was not remorse or need, but the fact that she’s dreamed tommy last night: she hasn’t dreamed of him in so long she barely even remembered what that felt like.

it feels like shit. it feels like all the connections that had been keeping her together after his death are now loose threads, tangled all around her. the contours of her being are blurred, she is, by all means, nothing but a scribble: and casey was good, once, at giving her a shape. a home, a container for all this rage she never knew how to mold. it’s odd, how she’s spent so little time in this store but it feels like home, always: somewhere among the dusty records and unplayed tunes is a song she forgot but a part of her remembers, about the joining of failures and how internal voids can fit into one another to make someone, if not whole, at least not dissolving.

with a sigh, mitch takes her sunglasses off: looks at him for a split second, then flashes the usual, shit-eating grin that nobody, literally nobody has ever really trusted. “ — hey cas”.

Starter for: @mtchstick​

The shift at the Phoenix was ending and Jericho was more than happy for it to be over. He moved to the back to change into his street clothes and clocked out. A check on his phone and he didn’t have any messages which meant he was free for the night. At least if nothing else came up for him to do. That called for a drink or several, something he genuinely needed after all the shit going on in Red Ridge. That and the rumors that someone who looked a lot like the sister he hadn’t seen in nearly two decades. He figured it was just a coincidence and if it wasn’t he was better off not knowing. Red Ridge was big enough for them to avoid each other.

Jericho could have gone to one of the bars in the Phoenix but they weren’t really his style. Besides, if he went to Lewis’ he was already on the South side and close to home. That meant he could drink as much as he wanted and he wouldn’t have to pay for a ride home then back to his car the next day. When he arrived there and walked up to the bar to take a seat he would regret not going to St. Peter’s. No sooner than the whiskey hit his lips did she come into his peripheral. It had been a long time but he still recognized the brown locks and the blue eyes. His mother’s eyes, same as his. He turned his head to get a better look at her and a swarm of memories crawled played in his head like a cockroach infested apartment in the dark. The urge to scream at her built in his chest but the sound never left his throat. Instead he stared for a moment, his mouth slightly agape. He’d always imagined she’d come back and take him and Liz far away from home and Red Ridge. Mitch would come home and she’d hold them tight in her arms and  they could go somewhere safe, she’d always brought them somewhere safe. But she never came and now here she was a little over sixteen years later. He wasn’t the scared little boy he was back then and he certainly didn’t need her protection anymore. 

“Fuckin’ Michelle Novak.” A bitter laugh escaped him as he said her name and he downed the remainder of his whiskey glass tapping the counter for another. Jer sighed and shook his head before turning to look at her again. “Nice to see you’re fuckin’ alive and breathin’ after all.” The words came out of his mouth like poison and left a burn on his tongue. Or maybe that was the two shots of whiskey he’d just consumed. The bartender dropped another half full glass of the liquid in front of him and he finished it off just as quick. “Yeah just leave the bottle man, put it on my card.” He said, exhaling the burn in his throat and filling the glass again.

well, what were you expecting?

barely anything, to be honest. she’d avoided thinking that she was back in red ridge from the very second she’d seen the bullet-holed welcome sign on the town border. she’d been surgical-like in her precision — avoiding any thought that might make her wonder what had come of her siblings, if liz had turned into yet one more white trash trophy or grown into a woman different enough from pamela that she’d have an actual fucking chance at life. if jer was still counting the years by the number of bruises on his skin, or if he’d found someone to get his head out of the gutter, finally — if he’d found something close to happiness, as close as one could in a place like this.

no, she’d avoided any such thoughts: or else she’d have to admit why she cared, still. she’d have to face the guilt in the pit of her stomach, over the way she ran, tail between her legs, a goddamn stray running out of a crime scene. didn’t mean it wouldn’t catch up with her, eventually. didn’t mean that stepping back into the crime scene wouldn’t get her bloodstained, again — far more than she’d gotten herself, already. so there he was, her dear old brother — something close to a ghost at the counter of lewis’. when she’d come here, her purpose had to do less with drinks and more like weaseling her way into the bed of someone who might offer some good, decent insight in the chaos that was raining over red ridge. a family reunion hadn’t been in the plans. anything to do with the novaks had never been in the plans.

“hey jerry”. arms crossed, approaching far too cautiously for anyone to imagine she’d once held him and their sister all through the night while henryk went and did his thing. she imagined his resentment like a scolding kind of aura: get too close, you might just not leave without your skin on. so she kept her distance instead, a step to his side, leaning over the counter. maybe she should hug him. maybe she should fill that gap between them and pretend things are back to normal — maybe. instead she toys with the leftover umbrella from someone’s drink and loses all the proverbial bite to her words, the theatricality of her lines: no act to play. just a fucking coward owning up to her bullshit. “i was gonna drop by, one of these days”. a half mutter, flicking drops of whiskey to the other side of the counter with the umbrella. “see how y’all are doin’... you, liz...” and that’s it.

..

red ridge was a great many things. quiet never seemed to be one of them, depending on how you lived your life there. for maite, the town was always awake, always moving. nighttime was her bread and butter - the cover of darkness lent itself to work and her special pet project. a reputation that would attract valencia wouldn’t build itself, that was for sure. small side deals - nothing big enough to get on their shitlist, but hopefully enough to get their attention in a good way. if nothing else, no one had beat the shit out of her yet.

and even that might present a unique opportunity. if they did send some of their soldiers after her, maite wouldn’t go down without a fight. if she were fierce enough, fought smart enough, maybe that could be a way to prove herself, too. her personal business attended to for the evening, she found herself wandering the streets. though she had no contact with her blood relatives, the people she’d met through them still spoke with her. those relationships were tended to, her cuervitos. for them, she always had time. as much as she could, she gave whatever else she could spare. she wasn’t seeking out any in particular when she caught sight of a bright orange spot. frowning, she walked closer without hesitation. 

the familiar voice gave her pause, and maite shook her head at the request. “jesus fuck, mitch. what happened?” she demanded, concern obvious. “you need a doc or patching up? lucero is working the er tonight so if you need good bedside manner, doc might be the way to go,” she rattled off, one hand moving to rest on her hip. “where are you hurt the most?”

   “heeeey matey —” the words coming out far too cartoonish, a line meticulously fabricated to downplay the jolts of electrifying pain shooting through her nerves. cue the smile, that looked more like the strained line one might see on a wounded animal — well, she was looking particularly roadkill-y tonight. but there was genuine appreciation of the company presenting itself before her (at least ‘cause it could’ve been anyone from valencia coming back for round two — or worse, a blue-suited man of the law escorting her to yet another night with her ass on a cold hard bench). in an attempt to prove herself less pathetic than she feels, mitch peeled herself off the wall and half stumbled forward, smiling.

     “oh, my pride, babygirl — it’s been ripped to shreds”. another drag, another puff of smoke thrown to her side, and a muffled groan slipping out her lips as the motion of her hand caused her to squirm. “should’ve seen the other guy”. hardly touched by the fight at all. eyebrows furrowed, a sudden look of curiosity about her, mitch grabbed what was left of her smoke and threw it out, too far: for a second she considered the civic usefulness of stomping on it, snuff it out, avoid it getting in touch with any of the pieces of trash littering the sidekick. just a second, then mitch shrugged — for all she cared, red ridge could’ve burned down ten years ago. “you got any guys for a quick, off-the-book job?” she inquired, nodding towards her wounded shoulder. “kinda don’t wanna deal with all the hassle of an e.r. you know? all those questions... all that... bullshit....”

✤₥♔

                                St. Peter’s wasn’t the kind of bar that drowned with clients each night. People didn’t necessarily stand still, waiting in line to get served. It was the kind of bar that attracted those who had a lot of stories to tell — many of which involved the Rogues Club at the other side of the street. In some ways it felt like a family bar — despite the fact its subjects were the furthest thing from family-friendly. Every Friday night, however, every stool was occupied and every table was filled. Mila liked to think she had a little something to do with that. It’d been the first place to offer her the opportunity for a gig, its stage the first one where she performed with her clothes on. Perhaps traces of her old lifestyle were still there nonetheless, leading her to choose mixes that had a sensual, ominous atmosphere to them — one she felt complemented herself, the bar, even the whole damn town.

After finishing her set with Show Me by Alina Baraz, Mila thanked the audience, wished them a great rest of their night and headed for the counter. It was then that she was greeted by a woman she couldn’t possibly ignore for a couple of reasons. It wasn’t just that she exuded the kind of certainty and confidence that she found appealing ( her striking blue eyes could have something to do with that, too ), but her offer drew a small, amuzed grin on her lips. “That’s very nice of you.. Thanks.” Liquid chocolate orbs fleeted to the bartender and offered them a wink that in their language meant my usual before landing back on her company. “Okay, I have a little secret to share.” The tall woman’s elbow was propped on the counter, her body facing the stranger before she leaned in a little. “They don’t ever charge me for my drinks. Think of it as a bonus policy along with my paycheck.” An apologetic smile pulled the corners of her mouth — as if it was her fault that the other couldn’t ( or rather, had no reason to ) buy her a drink that she got for free. “I’ve never seen you around before so I thought you should know,” her shoulders rose in a small shrug, her tone teasing “In case you plan on buyin’ drinks for every singer that performs in this city and all.”

—

mitch’s laughter was only partially fabricated — one might consider it an animal instinct, akin to the sounds of animals in the wild. something programmed into her, the cool, friendly persona that got her close to people and closer to the truth. sure there was a part of her still genuine somewhere, genuinely appreciative of the music and the conversation, genuinely having fun — in her personal statistics, however, it covered about twenty-five percent of who she was. the rest was hunger. the rest was a need to know, regardless of what would have to be sacrificed on the way. taking a sip from her drink, mitch let it go and clicked her lips in amusement at the other’s words. “oh, come on. humor me, will you? i just got back in town, let me celebrate”.

hardly anything to celebrate, really. the second she’d stepped back in town she’d felt her skin crawl with a particular brand of rash she liked to call the mark of a novak. she barely belonged to this town anymore, and yet somehow it felt strangely fitting: a broken town, its toxicity seeping through every corner. wasn’t close to who she was, too? surely priscilla would’ve agreed. sighing, mitch shifted over her stool, let the effect of the warm, silk-like whiskey chase away the sudden blues coming over her. “gotta say, i’m not hating how this place turned out”, she mused, an appreciative smirk as she let her gaze wander around the tables and patrons of the bar. each busy in their own preferred brand of numbing — be it alcohol, be it a juke box, be it the stupid fucking pick up lines they’d dish out on the poor, exhausted waiting staff. “i mean, it’s still a shithole — just upgraded. i like it”. but she hadn’t come here to muse over the amenities of st. peter’s, nor to make friends — well, that last part, maybe, but it had a purpose. small talk wasn’t part of it. turning her focus back on the singer, mitch’s eyebrows raised in inquisitive interest. “you been singin’ here a lot?”

“Well, I’ll just… take the compliment, thank you.” While he was still holding on to whatever semblance of self-preservation he could find, he knew that this town would tear him to shreds if they could. He didn’t have the protection of Valencia, and he wasn’t exactly in the good graces of all of the town’s police force, so he was mostly just trying to survive the day-to-day structure he’d gotten used to in the past five years. If Mitch’s word would get out about him, then who knows what would happen to him? He’d prefer to not have to find out. “We’ve got wine, but I could make you some bullshit cocktail with a cherry, if you want.” He gave a little half-smile, shrugging. The cocktails with the cherries were far more popular, but they did have a few bottles of red, white, rosé, and champagne stored away. “What’s your preference again? I know, I know, I should know this by now, but spare the lecture, I’ll remember for next time, promise.”

her eyes were wary in following him — an investigator’s knack for picking up clues, finding hints that would give away what he couldn’t verbalize. she was figuring out that something about her, or maybe what he’d asked of him, was making him nervous: as much as that could sadden the part of her that genuinely cared about him and appreciated his company, it also worried the more cynical, practical side of her: it meant he might get spooked. he might leave her in the cold. by response, she had to make herself warmer, somehow — just a hint, letting herself relax, an amused smile blooming over her lips. “god, you make me out to be such a bitch ——”, head tilted, she teased, wanting to clear the tense fog that had wrapped around him just before. mitch tapped a finger over her lower lip, pensive, until a hand moved in a vague gesture, as in wanting to wave her concerns away. “ah, fuck it. make it a bullshit drink with cherries and one of those stupid umbrellas. i need to widen my horizons, anyway”.

“Okay, I listen to them and then talk to you - but not much more than that.” He knew that getting involved with her was dangerous - he knew that, in this city, between Mitch and Valencia and the murderer and everything else going on, it was really best to just keep his nose out of things. But his nose was the problem; it kept getting him into trouble, and it would keep doing so until he decided that it was time to kick the little habit (if he even could, at this point). And he needed the companionship. He would never admit how lonely he was out loud (admitting loneliness was to admit that his family won when they irreparably damaged him during his youth. When he could be nothing but a shadow to a sibling’s light). So he’d just take what little others were willing to give him, savor it for as long as he can, like a chocolate melting in someone’s mouth, and then turn back to the powder when he could no longer feel that warmth. “Oh - yeah, definitely. Sounds like a plan. Do you just want to… wait here ‘til I close, or…? Should I get you something to drink?”

      it had to do with self-preservation. that was the only explanation she could thin of, as to why he was so reluctant to admitting his role. in some way, she could understand it — though she severly lacked the same instinct for protection, she could guess that the morbid, treacherous nature of this world they were navigating could make someone, if not scared, at least cautious. she was wary, too: but that never really held her back from treading one step closer to the flame. mitch shrugged, a vague gesture of her hand waving his concerns away. “alright. nevermind, it doesn’t change the fact that you might be the only useful citizen in this shithole”. then, as silence fell, she gave herself the time to analyze him the way she would the subject of an article. she could spot hints of a desire in him — something that said perhaps he found some pleasure in their escapades (and she couldn’t guess it came from her charming company, so it had to be something else). it made her at least somewhat understanding: less callous than she’d be with anyone else wishing for her attention. “yes please”, straightening her back, she turned her attention to the bottles behind him. “do you serve wine here, or is that not fancy enough? should i order some bullshit cocktail with a cherry or —?”

He allowed her to take the notebook from his hands; it was probably for the best that he didn’t look at it any longer. “What face?” he asked once he was free of the burden of whatever that notebook had hidden within its pages. It was much easier to carry the burden when it was inside his jumbled mind as opposed to being laid out in front of him. He didn’t feel guilty for sharing the information, per se - after all, it wasn’t as if he was eavesdropping in someone’s home. Everything he’d told Mitch had been spoken in front of him, in a public setting, even if the patrons of Violet believed that Cas’ hearing was worse than it really was. Could it still get him into trouble? Almost definitely - he knew that Valencia’s power was far more than his own. Pushing a hand through his hair, he forced himself to take a deep breath. This would be fine. It would turn out fine. “What to say? I don’t - you know I don’t talk to these people, right? I just hear them and serve them drinks, for the most part. It’s not like they’re talking to me about…” he gestured vaguely with one hand. Trying to force himself not to panic, he glanced around the bar, making sure that no one was listening in. She drew his attention back with her last sentence, though. His eyes lit up again, no longer caring about what the other patrons of Violet had to say or what they may or may not be hearing. “Oh…?” While part of him knew that, if not for the information he was providing, she wouldn’t be doting on him like this, another part didn’t care. He missed physical touch, he missed affirmations and gifts. But now was not the time to linger on his own familial issues that led to a fucked-up adult. She had his full attention again.

in the space between a man’s doubt and their resolution, that’s where mitch novak thrived best — not anywhere close to the hero she’d dreamed she’d be as a child, she’d instead become skilled in the art of deceit and, to various different degrees, manipulation. though her appreciation for caspian was genuine and went beyond the benefits he could provide (whether strictly professional or purely physical), adapting herself to his needs was an old, overused technique for exploitation, and yet — ah, it only seldom failed her. mitch tilted her head right, a vaguely sugary look on her features, childish pout as she spoke. “aw, come on, cas — don’t sell yourself short. you know you do much more than that”. he’d been the thread connecting the frayed spots of her intuition far too many times: perhaps he was not aware of just how vital he could be. she could count on her instincts and her knack for observation, for dissecting the truth in simple blocks of logic she could pull apart and rearrange like lego bricks — still they wouldn’t make sense without the bridges connecting each different block. he had the key, even though he believed his job amounted to hearing. that made him, at the moment, one of her most precious assets. surely with time she’d find a way to shed him off like unwanted baggage (they’d always get discarded, the ones who gravitated around her: not once sticking around, not even those bound to her by blood) — for now, she had to keep him close. mitch smirked. “let’s just say i got lucky with a friend of a friend, and i got a present in return. allegedly good stuff. what do you say, your place, after your shift...?”

He could tell when things got serious; the atmosphere that surrounded the conversation changed. While he enjoyed the playful aspect of their relationship much more, he knew what he needed to do to keep her in his life - to keep getting a fix, in more ways than one. So Caspian would play along, he would keep giving her what she needed - as long as she kept giving him the same. Plus, how was he supposed to wait until the end of his shift to find out more? He knew he couldn’t last that long with the anticipation - it would be like an itch he just couldn’t scratch. Picking up the leather notebook, he looked down at the open page, his brow furrowing. “Fuck…” he muttered under his breath as his eyes scanned the map. While he knew exactly what was being illustrated, he’d never seen these connections that he’d made physically mapped out before. Now that he was looking at it, it seemed clearer than it was in his head. Biting his lip, he continued to look, resisting the urge to trace over some of the lines with his fingers, knowing that that could possibly ruin the map. Nodding slowly as Mitch spoke, Cas slowly pushed the notebook back to her. “Okay – okay, yeah. Um… it seems like you’ve got a lot figured out - what help am I gonna be…?” Concern was almost evident in his eyes - he didn’t want to lose what they had going, despite the fact that the map was definitely less jumbled than anything he’d told her in the past. It was like she’d taken the information he’d given and clarified it, understood what he was saying when he didn’t even understand. That was probably why she was the journalist and he was just a bartender, though.

mitch saw it — the sudden, unspoken shift in the mood. his gaze clouded just slightly, doubt, perhaps, crossing his eyes. it brought her leaning over a little closer, unconsciously needing to bridge the distance between her suspicions and his doubts. it meant, also, that she had to step up her game some — perhaps he had his reasons to be cautious, wouldn’t be the first time she’d found herself on the other side of a large, endless pit of something dangerous: wanting nothing more than to dive into it, knowing other people — the more or less functional ones — would be the ones running away from it instead. her allies in this quest were few, and precious: caspian brought far more to the table than the few bridges she was rebuilding in red ridge. perhaps it wasn’t just business that made her wish for his company — the sharing of a loneliness perhaps halving it, somehow. “c’mon, don’t make that face”, mitch smirked, reaching back for her notebook and quickly, furtively sliding it back in its pocket. “i just need you to confirm it, see if it makes any sense — maybe give me some pointers, you know. who to talk to, what to say...” she leaned closer then, chin propped up against her fist, her gaze shifting from focused to suggestive, her tone huskier now than it had been while discussing plans. “figured we could talk about it over drinks, later. you know, i got a present for you”.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

a chunk of chestnut locks    nestle against the crook of her neck  ,       soft and silky  ,     and probably heavier than amara as a whole  .      she leans a warm cheek against the bump of her own ,   freckled shoulder  ,      chewing on that thought .      “     why do you like pissing people off so much?     ”    there’s no    emotion     behind her lacy tongue aside from sweet  ,     mild curiosity  ;    that growing urge to    know   ,     to unravel things ,     to burrow yourself within others  ,     so they may become a part of you  ,    too .     “     i don’t like other millennial,  i like you.    ”      her admissions are simplistic ,    flat   &   to the point  ,       lacking the elaboration for proper adulation  ,      though surely she was capable of it with enough incentive .      what did she expect of her ?      they met  ,     and shortly after  ,  entwined their lives like vines in abandoned ruins .     “     besides ,     shouldn’t you be out there in the streets?    you won’t find a body before the cops staring at that thing …        bet i’ll beat you to it.     “     

  if she’d stuck around, perhaps, life with her younger sibligs would’ve looked a lot like this. too blunt, sharp edged, overall about as pleasant as a wet sock — yet welcome, somehow. for the privilege of shared annoyance, or the raw honesty she could expect from amara. with a loud, theatrical groan, mitch slammed her laptop shut and turned, head resting against the back of the couch, to stare at amara. a grin on her face: bright and sugary and not one bit honest. “i’d be typing if someone wasn’t so desperate for attention, you know?”. be it as it may, this is vital to her. not the physical accomodation — she’d been just fine with her asphalt-like motel mattress. but the sense of home, in a way: the distinct shape, occasionally uncomfortable, of gravitating around another’s space. exhausting, yes, but in an odd, unexplicable way, nourishing. “why do you like being a pain in the ass so much?”, question retorted right back amara’s way, mitch lets out a huff and crawls to the corner of the couch, sprawled, reaching to the nearby coffee table for her smokes. words half-muttered then come as she slips one between her lips and lights it up: “ama, i would like you so much more if you were off doing your job or whatever it is you do”.

You know what they say - same shit, different day. He’d gotten used to Violet’s workings in his past few years there. That’s why he was so unassuming; he’d learned to practically blend in with the bar itself, simply there to refill drinks, return small talk, and be of assistance when people asked for it. When they didn’t, though, it was almost as if he wasn’t there. They spoke like he didn’t listen, as if he couldn’t hear what secrets were being traded within the establishment. And, while he had memory issues on occasion (thanks to the little habit he’d picked up in college), it was easier to remember facts about strangers than it was to remember what he’d ordered at the coffee shop that morning. After all, almost everyone’s life had to be more interesting than his. When he saw Mitch take a seat at one of the barstools, he made his way over to her, a dishrag tucked into his pocket. “Who, me?” he replied in a teasing voice, pointing at himself. Leaning against the counter towards her, his eyes were locked to hers (aside from the moment that they drifted down to her lips, but that was beside the point). “Free for you? Always. You gonna give me any hints, or am I just going to have to wait and see?”

the hint of a playful smirk crosses her lips — there’s a bit of fun to be found in these covert affairs, the same kind of fun that one might get from grazing the sharp edge of a blade with their fingertip. a sharp smacking sound of her lips met his comment, head tilted in flirtatious mischief. “aw, so sweet. keep it up any longer and i might just leave a tip”. then her gaze turned serious, scanning her immediate surroundings. this was a conversation better suited for after his shift, yes, but as pleasant as the conversation could be, she would constantly itch for a thread to connect the buzzing thoughts in her head. once she’d make sure there would be no eavesdropping in their proximity, mitch reached into her worn leather bag and dug a pocket-size notebook out. fingers quickly retrieving the bookmark, once she slid it across the bar top it was open and carrying the intricate arrows of a makeshift map. “i got artsy today”. there were names (either code names or abbreviations, people they’d mentioned more than once in their private talks) — arrows connecting their various affairs, providing a roadmap for her investigations. mitch let her elbow rest over the counter, leaning closer, prying look as she observed him and tried to guess his reaction. “i’m not sure about some of them. but i think there’s enough to start asking... more poignant questions, let’s say”. because, clearly, she didn’t trust the police was asking the right ones — maybe she trusted someone like caspian more, in figuring out what was behind the apparently innocent victims of this killer.

the ice in her glass had been tingling against it for a while, now — her hand mindlessly twirling her drink, while her gaze lost itself around the dimly lit corners of st. peter’s. there were thoughts swirling in her head, observations she wanted to note down: she couldn’t. if there was one thing she’d learned in the decade she’d worked in this field, it was that nothing put people on edge as much as a notebook, and someone taking notes over them. she let herself get swallowed by the music instead (how posh st. peter’s had turned, over her absence: now they even got a singer to cover the sound of the drunks retching in the back), her gaze occasionally drifting over the singer’s silhouette. not just appreciative of her looks or talent (would be hard not to notice either of them), but remembering rumors of her ties to valencia — if anything, a connection worth pursuing. by the time the set was over, and she could spot the singer reaching the counter, mitch made sure to signal the bartender before she could order: then, flashing her best big-shot kinda smile, she turned, her back to the counter, elbows resting on its top. head tilted, turned towards the singer. “my treat. that was a good set you played, felt like i owed ya”. 

that old song lingered in her ears as she made her way through the maze of half-hazy patrons at violet. there ain’t no rest for the wicked — unclear if the subject, here, was the buzzing, restless youth of red ridge or herself, the wildcard, the anti-hero looking for a redemption song among the treacherous valleys of the city. and there she went to look for it, where whispers gathered around the ears of one certain caspian hayes, unassuming star witness to the trails of secrets tying each respectable member of the town to one another. she’d made his acquaintance over the past few weeks, found that, if not mere fun, he could provided much needed help when she was most desperate for a lead — and his services, at least, came rather cheap. (sure some morality had to come into play, she’d have to ask herself, at some point, if exchanging a fix for a rumor could be justified by her devotion to the job: or, and that was a much more poignant observation to make, whether her own fixation wasn’t just as addictive and destructive as cocaine). half an hour to midnight, and the city wouldn’t hint at being tired — mitch would find herself emulating it instead, taking her place at on a stool, a rather lively, perhaps too friendly look on her features. “just the guy i was looking for”, she started, leaning over the counter with conspiratory look. “you free later? there’s something i need your take on”.

      she’d seen him at roberto’s first. standing out of a paper’s front page, the same old vaguely pouty, pissed-at-the-universe, cat-died-this-morning kind of look. unmistakable — even if it had taken her more than a double take for her to process the news. two months she’d been in red ridge already, and her acquaintances with the police department had limited themselves to her fleeing whatever crime scene with hurried steps and implausible sunglasses. this surely was out of character: her marching into the precinct not for want of a lead, or a clue, or any sort of push in the right direction, but a need to see that could envy st. thomas’. the receptionist, of course, was reluctant to let her in to the captain’s office: not that she could blame her (she wouldn’t even let herself in, all things considered), but then again little miss sugarplum here could not understand the bond that tied her to red ridge’s very own captain of police — something alike the one binding roadrunners to coyotes, and all that. 

      “come on, shirley — i’m sure you must be tired of all this testosterone ‘round here. how ‘bout a little gal solidarity, uh? how ‘bout you let me in?”. such a splendid way of filling an empty wednesday: harassing the poor old woman whose name most likely was not shirley, stealing candy that most likely should’ve been reserved for children — and then, the second marr himself was spotted sliding out of a hallway — beaming up like sunrise itself had blessed the halls of the police precinct. “barney!” the loud, enthusiastic call came: nevermind the name she should not have been using, this was a reunion worthy of an exception, was it not? in a much too theatrical fashion, mitch slapped the palm of her hand against the reception’s counter, pulling back just enough to better take in the scene. “— i cannot fucking believe my eyes”.