Peyton's Place

Of course, Peyton Murray-Jones isn’t a camel, but at this point, perhaps she’d be better off as one -- perhaps then her life story wouldn’t be filled with moms who snoop through her stuff, who yell at her for applying to med schools she hasn’t even applied to yet, who buy her unicorn charms for her hearing aids as a birthday present despite the fact that she hasn’t been into unicorns since she was seven (and barely wears her hearing aids anymore, unless she’s at work), and who start questioning her the second she walks in the door because she’s an hour later than normal and somehow that means they thought she’d died.

Perhaps, if she was any one besides herself, Peyton wouldn’t even have gotten sick in the first place, or maybe, if she had, she would’ve gotten completely better, and could’ve been the daughter her moms wanted, instead of their failed first try.

At least, when she’s gone, they’ll have Reagan -- prodigal Reagan, genius Reaga, hearing Reagan. Reagan will be there to make it better, just like she always has.

But with her Uber driver Santiago a few miles away, Peyton’s so close to getting out of this town for good.

It’s the newly cast shadow over her person that forces Peyton out of her inner monologue, eyes squinting as she attempts to make out the figure above her in spite of the glare.

“If my sister or my moms sent you to try to convince me to stay, you’ve got about five minutes before Santiago and I are heading somewhere far far away,” she quips, hands move along out of habit, even if she doesn’t want them to.

“Sweat, baby, sweat, baby, sex is a Texas drought,” Thomas Scheffer raucously sang to the noiseless song stuck in his head, “me and you do the kind of stuff that only Prince would sing about–” The male seemed to be carrying several signs with him, the kind that you would typically see set up in someone’s lawn as they proudly proclaimed which political opponent they were in favor for. “So put your hands, down my pants,” Thomas wiggled around as he danced all over the sidewalk with little regard to others, casually sliding a hand down the front of his very skinny and underdeveloped chest, “and I bet you’ll feel nuts! Yes I’m Siskel, yes I’m Ebert, and you’re getting two thumbs up–” These lawn signs appeared to be freshly dug up; in fact, not only did they have dirt clinging to the spokes that normally kept them securely in the ground, but they weren’t blank. All of them had faces and names of Blackrock residents that were currently campaigning for the council election next May. 

“You’ve had enough of two-hand touch, you want it rough,” at this point, Thomas had the signs held out in front of him as he mimicked the very thing this song was about, unashamedly thrusting his pelvis into the edges of the signs as if they were some invisible person he was openly fucking in broad daylight, in downtown Blackrock Cliffs, California, “you’re out of bounds, I want you smothered, want you covered, like my Waffle House hash browns!” Either Thomas was unaware or simply didn’t care that his antics were currently blocking the doorway of a business; he was too busy air-humping the stolen campaign signs.  

It was out of the ordinary for Peyton to be seen in downtown Blackrock on a weekday without baby Rosie in tow, but today wasn’t an ordinary day.

No, today, Peyton had been woken up -- more violently than she would’ve preferred -- by Reagan, who was half-dressed and frantically signing about someone stealing the sign from their front lawn. And with the younger of the Murray-Jones siblings committed to her perfect attendance record in her college classes, the job of chasing down their thief had been left to the elder, despite a general feeling of disdain towards this adventure.

At the very least, it didn’t take long to find him -- the culprit practically had a dirt trail following him, something that was pretty abnormal for their mostly-quaint, always-spotless town center. She followed from a distance, waiting for him to slow or pause so she could finally approach him.

And of course, by the time he finally did pause, it was all Peyton could do to stop herself running in the opposite direction.

After a long day, it was finally time to close up the restaurant for the night and head home. Fiona jingled the keys in her hands and she finished locking up. She spun on her heel only to find someone standing behind her, causing the girl to nearly jump out of her skin.

“Jesus, you scared me.” She put a hand against her heart. “What do you want?”

Her shifts at the hospital seemed to be getting longer and longer each weekend, and Peyton’s downright exhausted. Reagan had taken the car for the weekend, leaving the other Murray-Jones sibling with no wheels, but that was probably for the best -- the chances of safe driving at this point were probably slim.

With her hearing aids in their case in her pocket (they’d started hurting her ears in hour two of her shift, no way would she keep them on now) and the sky a dark black, Peyton’s safest pathway home was through the center of town, which was why Peyton found herself in the prime position to watch the young woman locking her store for the night -- dropping her phone in the process.

After checking to make sure no one was coming, Peyton crossed the road, picking up the phone from the ground. She reached toward the woman to tap her shoulder just as she began to turn.

Whoops.

Peyton ( @peytons-place​ )

“How are my favorite girls doing today?” Ches calls out as she opens her front door, already going to ditch her keys onto the counter. Honestly she wasn’t expecting a response from the girl, in fact - the reason she called out was mostly to gauge if Thomas had wandered in or if there was anyone else in the building.

She had a long day at work, she’d rather not deal with him at this exact second.

Once her keys are on the counter, she goes to seek out Peyton and Rosie - a massive grin filling her features once she sees her daughter. “There’s my girls.” She coos, signing the words as she says them. She was trying her hardest to make Peyton’s life easier, if that involved learning another language - she was going to try her best. She wasn’t comfortable enough with it to count it among her languages, but she was trying.

“Do you want to stay for dinner? We’re celebrating six months with this little angel.” She says these words slowly, an apologetic look crossing her face over the lack of signing as she waits until she finishes speaking to fuss over her daughter. “I missed you so much Rosie, you were good for Auntie Peyton. Right?” The baby talk is back as she goes to hold her newly six month old daughter in her arms, no matter how much she loved her job - she still hated leaving her daughter during the day.

Even if Rosie was truly in the safest hands. Phoebe wouldn’t have recommended Peyton to her if the baby wasn’t.

There were many decisions made by her parents that Peyton disagreed with, but God, her mama did good when she landed her this job.

Peyton sits in the Elswood living room, Rosie balanced on her thighs. She’s not really sure how long they’ve been in this position -- twenty minutes? Two hours? -- but tickling the cutest tummy in the world is today’s top agenda item, so tickle she will.

Her actions send Rosie into another laughing fit, her whole tiny body vibrating from happiness. Peyton would probably watch this child laugh for hours on end even if she wasn’t getting paid for it.

Spending all this time out of her parents house was definitely the homemade icing on the Mansion-sized cake.

Peyton lets her hands fall, giving the baby a chance to breathe. Seconds later, Rosie’s eyes light up, and her body starts wriggling, meaning one thing:

Ches is home.

Peyton picks up Rosie and stands from the couch, balancing the baby on her hip. She turns toward the hallway just in time to watch Ches meander into the room, a smile spreading across her face at the sight of Ches’ ASL -- even if it’s only a few signs, she’s still picking up on it faster than Peyton thought she would.

Rosie squirms on her hip, tiny arms reaching toward her mother. Peyton crosses closer to Ches so she can hand Rosie over -- it’s easier to sign with both hands, anyway.

“I’d love to stay, but only if that’s alright, and only if I can help,” hands and lips move in tandem, words feeling strange on her tongue after hours of not speaking. “Dishes should all be clean, I ran a load earlier.”

                ALONE  and  LONELY                 are not the same thing.

⌜‧ ˔ ✧ʾ Is that LIANA LIBERATO walking down the streets of Blackrock Cliffs? Oh no, it’s just PEYTON MURRAY-JONES, a TWENTY-ONE YEAR OLD CISFEMALE that works as a BABYSITTER/HOSPITAL INTERN. She has been around for TWENTY ONE YEARS, ELEVEN MONTHS, AND TWENTY SIX DAYS and she seems to be PERCEPTIVE and COMPASSIONATE. Someone said she is also SHELTERED and INTROVERTED.⌟

hi hi hello! ‘tis i, your friendly neighborhood spider-rach, and i am so excited to introduce you to my bae, peyton. she’s currently one of my go-to muses to write, so i’m excited to bring her to all of you! if you’d like novels, please feel free to read her (very long) bio, but also you can find a bunch of info about her under the cut! also please like the thing/reach out if you want to talk connections/plot because i am such a sucker for plotting kaycoolbye

CW for Chronic Illness!