Roarke

Dagny blinks at Roake, the questions growing like mushrooms on a patch of moss after a rainy day. He laughs nervously then reaches for the drink that almost slips from his fingers with how much of the droplets have now formed on the glass. But he doesn’t drink, he just keeps it in his grasp like a handle in a bus.

“Was in the Marines for a while.” It sounds made up now, when he talks about the time he spent in service. Most days, he starts to believe he did just make it all up in his head. “Doesn’t really give you a chance to build much of a life outside of that.” Finally, he downs what’s left of his drink. He waits for the burn to pass, jaw coiled tightly and then, “Got a kid to take care of, a mother to chaperone everywhere and buy fabrics for.” 

“When Ellie goes to college, I might think about moving somewhere. I don’t know. A friend of mine told me to visit New York. Seems like this is a sign now.” 

Without looking to closely, Roarke watches the other’s body language carefully. It seems his barrage of questions struck something of a nerve, though he doesn’t apologize or back off the expectant look that seeks answers. His own fingers are fiddling with his own glass, but in a more easy, relaxed way. Almost passive, something to do just to fidget rather than distract or seek comfort.

The marines, huh? Roarke had seen guys like that back home. They were either meatheads who loved it way too much, or hippies who wouldn’t shut up about the horrors of war and US imperialism. Both were annoying in their own way, though he did tend to find the hippies to be more liberal in bed. He’d never met anyone with such a passive attitude about it. 

“Ellie’s your kid then? How long until then? Never hurt to take a little vacation, you know. Get a sense for where else you might want to be in the world. Where did you go while you were in the marines? Get out much?”

So, he’s not a shaker. Got it. JD chastenedly retracts his hand and stuffs it into the pocket of his hoodie as he’s scolded and humiliated, though there isn’t anyone else around for him to feel much shame and he’s admittedly too distracted by how colorful and creative the stranger is with his words that JD ought to give him a pat on the back, really. But his body is much more reasonable than his brain and he instead just stands there frozen, waiting for the man to calm down before he could dare open his mouth.

“Okay, I see that you have quite the case of the grumpies there, which is, erm, understandable, since it’s the middle of the night and all, but I swear to you, mister, I mean no harm by being here.”

Then he glances behind him like he’s afraid someone might hear what he’s about to say next.

“Truthfully, sir, I can only do this experiment at night. Lots of activity ‘round these parts, I’m told.”

Roarke can hardly believe what he’s hearing. Quite a case of the grumpies, what was this guy, a schoolteacher? Some old, false machismo reared its head for just a second, providing the unhelpful thought I’ll show this guy what a case of the grumpies feels like. Roarke ignored it with practiced ease, but the thought was certainly tempting.

He does have words for that particularly insulting statement, but any retort gets stopped short by the sudden understanding of what this man is doing here. Roarke’s blood runs cold - not that he believes in ghosts, but if he did, he wouldn’t want anyone finding his ghost. All at once, this stranger is both a joke and a threat, a combination that creates quite the internal conflict within Roarke and burns away a good chunk of his unbridled rage.

Not all of it, though.

Jax knew he was clouding his opinion for her sake, that he was trying to take some of the harshness back and make her feel better. But the damage had been done, she knew that. She would always remember this, because it wasn’t the first time. And it wasn’t coming from just anyone. Roarke was important to her, a friend in a place where she had been dropped and left behind. Or at least a place that had been central in her trying to rebuild a life she couldn’t remember having. 

She nodded. “I guess I am,” she said in response, turning back to Roarke. “Do you like this more? The small town life where everyone is connected?” she wondered if she did, wondered if she could go to the big city. But the big city scared her. A lot. “Thank you, for saying that.” 

He knew his tone and suspicion weren’t quite landing as intended, but it was too late. Roarke kicked himself mentally for going too hard too fast. He felt out of practice, a lot of the conversational ease he’d once had gone by the wayside with a decade spent in a place where he just didn’t converse with the same frequency. He was wildly out of practice, and it hurt to realize he may never be as conversationally competent as he once was. Even so, it didn’t help to sit in that feeling at this moment. He could mope and pity himself later.

RAIN ON ME || Roarke & Rhys

Rhys nodded several times in a row, smiled at the mention of black being bold - mostly too much sugar would be the bolder choice in his case. Caffeine was one thing, he could handle caffeine, caffeine actually handled him. But sugar, not that much. Milk maybe? 

Maybe milk…

But he had never liked it with milk.

Like tea with milk.

Horrible. 

“Caramel,” Rhys said, trying to imagine the taste, but not having much of an idea. 

He turned back and smiled. 

“Yes, okay, one caramel macchiato,” he said, running to the counter while muttering caramel macchiato under his breath. 

He ordered a black coffee for himself with a bit of caramel syrup, just to try it out.

He might come to regret it.

Or it was going to be fantastic. 

None of it might help with his stress-levels though, but who knew. 

He ran back after being told that they would call him when the order was ready. 

Sitting down, Rhys’ attention was brought back to the books.

“Oh, uhm, kind of. I actually read them for my students, they all have such fascinating interests, so if I read them and then share the book with them we can bond over the subject together,” Rhys explained. “Like… like… it’s important that you uhm… if there is someone who likes what you like, it’s easier to like it.” 

Speaking from personal experiences of course. Rhys had never had that type of friend when he was younger. Someone who was extremely enthusiastic about dinosaurs, or also wished to know someone who wanted to become an astronaut. 

Who knows, it might’ve helped.

Roarke watched the stranger scamper off, amused by the air of chaos about this man. It did mostly match the instigating event that got them into this situation, giving Roarke the impression that Rhys really was just like this all the time. He looked back to the table and two chairs, the bag of books, and the fresh ring of water on the floor, growing minutely with every drip off his soaking coat. For just a second, lost in the absurdity of the moment, he forgot the pain in his shoulder, his grumpiness, his general distrust of this town.

It was broken a moment later when Rhys returned and finally took a seat, making the decision for him. Roarke followed suit, gingerly sitting on the edge of the seat, trying not to soak it for anyone else who might need it next. Snapped out of his discomfort, Roarke is genuinely surprised by the thoughtful answer he gets.

An imposing, tower-like structure threatening to crush him, JD sizes the stranger up under his shadow. From his shoes all the way up to the clothes on his shoulders and, ironically enough, the faint halo of a nearby street lamp providing an angelic sheen to his head, JD finds some relief in his being real, though the gruff question raises another problem altogether if he isn’t careful.

He grabs purchase on the small stool he’d stumbled out of and hurriedly stands. Despite only being around an inch taller than the other, the stranger’s presence easily staggers his own by a mile. A hand then swiftly extends towards the man like he’s drawing a gun from his hip in a duel. Or a real estate agent about to close a sale. “JD Kozlovsky, how do you do, sir.” He offers his best, most charming smile, then with his other hand, gestures at the now deactivated sensors. “I’m just doing a little experiment, nothing to be alarmed about. No pun intended, heh.”

The only reasonable conclusion Roarke can draw in this moment is that the man before him is a fucking disaster. As the stranger stumbles up and out of some sort of stool, Roarke stands planted there, agitated beyond belief. This town has taken its chip off his shoulder, but he hasn’t been quite so wildly, viciously incensed since his days back in the city. Perhaps it’s the proximity to the house that can’t seem to decide if it wants him or not, but Roarke’s nerves are alight and this man is dancing on every last one of them.

Sir? Roarke’s never been a ‘sir’ in his life, and even pushing 40, he’s not about to start now. “What sort of half-baked walnut sets up an experiment with loud sensors in the middle of the fucking night on a suburban street?” He doesn’t take the hand, the bubbling fear of the hour and the mild risk of his lie being discovered quickly converting itself into raw rage, much like coal to a steam engine. “You born with a head full of eggshells or did one too many chickens take a shit on you as a kid? Huh motherfucker? No pun intended,” he spits, “pick a different lawn to booby trap, no one here needs this shit.”

Dagny finds a sordid sort of humor in the comment about Alby, or one of his businesses, at least and he offers a quiet, good-natured laugh at that. The guy certainly isn’t for everyone and yet curiously, he seems to be everywhere. At least he’s a character.

“Ain’t nothin’ like being your own boss, huh?” Dagny says, though he’s probably the last person qualified enough to attest to that. For all of his adult life, he’s only ever been just a cog in a killing machine. It’s only recently that he’s decided to liberate himself and work for just a slightly lesser system of violence, but corrupt all the same. He is, by no means, an authority on how enjoyable it is to be your own goddamn boss.

The exchange is painfully awkward and it shows in the off-beat pauses, the parroting of words - gruntwork that is necessary in carrying a conversation. They do this to each other with each seemingly harmless inquiry like either of them truly give a shit. He shakes his head like he’s about to refuse the other an answer. 

“Nothing as fancy a story as yours. Just grew up here. Seemed like a reasonable place to make a living.” And die. “You grow up around these parts and it’s all you’re mostly gonna know, really.”

It shouldn’t be this hard. Roarke knew how to carry conversations, had done so with all manner of people. You could hand him the human equivalent of a wet rag and he’d find his way through at least ten minutes of casual back and forth. And yet this was painful, painful to an almost unfamiliar degree. Maybe because they both knew it. They both felt the shallowness, the dishonesty, the pointlessness. Maybe that’s what made this so hard.

Roarke spares a side-long glance, spinning his glass around in his hands, fingers pulling and pushing the object in a slow motion. “I never much cared for bosses in any case. Better to run myself than be run by anyone else. Set my own hours, my own pay, can call in without having to get someone to cover my ass. Especially in a place like this. People understand if you’re just closed on an odd day for personal reasons.” Not that he ever had any personal reasons.

The only credit Roarke will give this man is that he doesn’t understand him. This isn’t a life he’s ever had, it’s not a perspective he can empathize with. How do you grow up looking so fucking miserable and yet never wanting to leave? Though, that said, Roarke knew how hard it could be to leave this place if it didn’t want to let you go. Still...

x

“I’m basically a 3 AM informercial. Just go on and on in a loop forever, yeah,” Sonny replied with a light laugh. Perhaps the alcohol, perhaps the setting, or perhaps the company, he had evidently taken the nosedive into wry philosophy. “My Nonna took me to the opera a lot as a kid, ya know? Moral of the story is, you just gotta quack a lot and be loud, and everyone thinks you’re sayin’ something profound. That’s not to say I don’t think the opera’s profound. It is. The birthright of my ancestors and all. But I was, like, six-years-old, so what did I know? The poor lady up there on stage is coughin’ her brains out because she’s got some mystery disease, and she’s still gotta sing.” 

He sighed very deeply, as if he had uncovered some jewel of the human experience in all this babbling, but he seemed genuinely amused by the sliding glass. “See, they never did that shit in New York. Only in movies. Too many people; too many hands in the way,” he replied, distracted. Still, with a nod, Sonny seemed to perk. “See, between you and me, the wine’s the only thing keepin’ me off the absinthe. Who the hell drinks absinthe? What am I, Edgar Allen Poe? Jesus Christ.” He shook his head. “I won’t label you, though. Drink whatever the hell you want. The kids didn’t really think I was cool either. I mean, I thought I was cool, but my sister, she’s, like, actual cool. I thought velour was ‘it.’ Still kind of do.”

He raised his brow. “What? You mean more than the opera bit and the necklaces? Lorenzo is where we draw the line here?” He clicked his tongue jokingly in Roarke’s direction and cocked his head to one side. “Where was that, huh? Maybe I’m in the wrong place. Ought to be out there odd-jobbing with my countrymen. But, yeah, it ain’t actually good luck if someone don’t give it to you. That’s part of it. Me? I’m borrowing mine,” he mused, fiddling with the cornicello. Which was stolen from his uncle. He hummed softly.

And at that, Sonny bit his lip, as if lost in thought. He spoke up with a dry lilt. “Just some…lady. I think we used to have feelings for each other, but not anymore. So now we just spiral into misery and all.” This was, of course, all true, even if said woman was the departed Edith Alby.

“But 3 am informercials are the best! That’s not the put-down you think it is, pal.” The drink was going down more easily with each progressive sip, the burn covering for itself as the alcohol worked its magic. This casual conversation was... quite unexpected fun, and Roarke was letting himself try to enjoy it. He didn’t even have to let down his defenses for this one, it was just casual and easy. Exactly what he liked out of a conversation at a bar.

“I feel like if you think you’re cool, you’re not actually that cool. I never paid much attention to it in school, I barely remember who I hung out with. I did alright for myself. Kept a low profile, got out alright. Kind of place where kids grew up on beer. I never got the fancy shit until I got into my new job. It’s insane the shit people will drink to feel important. Absinthe was common, though I don’t really care for it.” The culture of high fashion was one Roarke never cared for, even if he blended in well. It would be a lie to say he’d never tried some of the things passed around at parties, but he wasn’t keen on being indisposed in public spaces. Still wasn’t, though maybe he was getting a bit cheeky with the drinks.

Roarke glanced over again, eyes on the small pendant. It felt familiar, even it wasn’t something he was personally involved with. He’d seen them plenty, both up close and from afar. Some of his old crewmates were a bit more superstitious about it, though Roarke never pressed too much to learn more. He never knew it had to be gifted, though that particular bit of information did explain a few things from his days back in New York.

As Sonny explained, he listened quietly, slowly working on his drink. It wasn’t said, but he had a feeling it was that freaky shit around town he hated having to think about. It seemed rude to pivot away from the question, though.

-

Mara agreed. Sometimes living in such a small space became too familiar. The streets were known, every little corner was found, the people, the fields, the trees. The only new things had ever been when new people came and brought a piece of them from another place with them. For people who had lived away in big cities, she could see how it could be slightly suffocating. “I know. Sometimes everything just begins to repeat. It is as if your brain turns itself off because there is no additional information that is needed to be stored.” She offered him a small smile, placing her hand over his shoulder. “If you ever need anything from me, though, please feel free to bug me. I have lived here so long, I feel sometimes it’s good to run at the unexpected. Though the supernatural history of this place may make you feel as if you were a character in a book.” It wasn’t entirely true. Most of the stories that the people whispered were something that they added to themselves. The truth was harder and harder to unwind. 

“Ah, all that work stuff. Question, do you ever try things? Working surrounded by those things, I wonder if creativity strikes you?” It was a simple question, one that she was already wondering for some time. Mara inhaled another puff from the cigarette, letting the nicotine settle in her lungs. “I decided it was a good time to walk home. I work long hours and I feel that if I sit too long in one place, i might get a hunchback. Or there is a big possibility that I will become one with the chair. So a brief walk in the rain - is nothing.” 

The sentiment was so accurate that Roarke chuckled along, shifting his weight as he took a drag from the cigarette. “Nailed it. Feel like my brain has been turned off for years. It’s all so familiar already, it’s like I do everything on autopilot. Then again, that’s nice sometimes. Comfortable and easy. Who could complain about that?”

Perhaps the sentiment was a little earnest, all things considered, but whether like this always made him a bit vulnerable. His eyes flicked toward her as she set a hand on his shoulder, a move that felt strangely familiar, almost intimate. He ducks his head, suddenly put off by the entirely-too-honest tone of their conversation. “Thanks,” he mutters, “I appreciate it. Been here a while but it feels short compared to the long-timers who have grown up here.”

Roarke took another drag off the cigarette, flicking a little ash off and blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. A little rain water, warm off his scalp, trickled down his face. Reminds him of the night he ruined his vest. It hadn’t been the end of the world like he thought, but it had put him off his usual work for a while. The ache in his shoulder reminded him that, as much as he hated this place, the change of pace had been worth it. He could have kept living that life, but it would have been a short one.

RAIN ON ME || Roarke & Rhys

Rhys nodded, pushing his lips together as he did so. Understanding the comment, because he had kids in his class who were the same. Some kids had a huge aversion against nicknames, and they would state that as formally as Roarke, with less threats however. 

Rory was also not the first name that came to mind when Roarke introduced himself. Maybe because it really wasn’t what Rhys did right away, thinking in nicknames. 

Rhys did notice the wincing, but they were almost there, so he kept his mouth shut and held open the door of the coffee place, hoping that sitting down would make the pain go away. 

He was very sure it was from throwing the bag.

So he should pay for the coffee.

Or just be really awkward for the next ten minutes.

“Uhm, black, normally,” he said. 

“But… uhm, I think I should buy you coffee!”

“You know, because of the throwing books incident.”

He smiled, pointing Roarke to a table.

At least there wasn’t any joking ribbing about it, unlike people he’d known the past. The kind of people who do the exact thing you said not to do because they think that qualifies as a joke somehow. The kind of person that helped Roarke not miss his old life quite so much. Though he’d take those people over the last ten years in this place. Try to look on the bright side, he thought. More coffee. Yeah, coffee he’d already had.

As Rhys held the door open for him, Roarke muttered a quick “thanks” in passing, closing the umbrella at the last second to protet the bag as long as possible.

“Black, huh? Bold tastes. I usually take at least a little caramel.” It was a lie, his coffee always tended toward the sugar slurry of Starbucks, something not dissimilar to a melted milkshake. He’d never admit to that, though.

Jax shrugged, but there was just the tiniest smile in her eyes. Because the fact that George was powerful was one of the things she could appreciate about him. He was powerful, but he wasn’t distant, at least not to her. It was something that she felt like she should care about. In a world where she was mostly met with questions, she felt like she could like George Alby and not be questioned about it. Problem was that she was questioned about it, sometimes more than she was being questioned about who she was. 

“Hmm, maybe. I didn’t really have that much choice,” she shared. “I- I just took the help that was offered.” She had been confused, constantly on the verge of crying and being angry. She hadn’t known what she wanted, she just wanted people to stop. And George gave her a room to stay in, a warm meal, no questions, just the company of other human beings who wanted to help, who wanted to offer her a place to stay until her memories came back. And they didn’t come back, but nobody gave her shit about that. 

Shivers ran down her spine when Roarke defended what he had said, her mind not at first having come to the conclusion, but now they did, and she turned away from him, biting her teeth together. “Uhuh,” she said in response, the awkwardness pressed into her. She had never viewed George like that, he hadn’t been touchy, and now she was starting to think her judgement was clouded. 

Nothing about it sat right with him. Maybe it was the cynicism bred by city life, but no one with that much power was that kind without an ulterior motivation. That wasn’t to say no one was kind - Roarke had met his fair share of kindly strangers who had helped him out of a bind. But they were always people who already knew what it was to be in a tough spot, not people whose minds has been rotted by greed and wealth. George Alby was certainly in the latter category, but what good would it do just now to express those suspicions to Jax? None whatsoever, not right now, so Roarke let it go. He didn’t really make friends, especially not in a place like this, but he wouldn’t forget the kindness of strangers if Alby ever did turn out a creep, or otherwise push Jax out into the cold, cruel world again.

-

“You know I’m not talking about fabric stabbing with needles, you know?” She grinned, blowing out the smoke in another direction. “Though if a stabbing is something you think would lighten up your week… Do I dare ask what’s been keeping you so bummed out?” Even as a joke, stabbing should never have been a thought of much glory or an event to brighten one’s mood. Even though Mara read an endless amount of books and research concerning various related topics, she herself was squeamish about any object cutting the skin. “Sadly, don’t think I’d be able to do that, though. First, I don’t have anything that would cut and second, I really don’t believe that’s something you nor I would enjoy.”

Digging into her pockets, Mara pulled out a packet and offered the whole to Roarke, quickly enough as to not get them wet and thus make them useless. “How’ve you been? If it were anyone else, I’d say walking in the rain in the evening offers somewhat of a gloomy mood. But I’m right here with you.”   

“Yeah, neither was I,” he quipped. “But I’d really take any excitement I can get in a place like this. Fun way to spice things up, if I do say so myself. It’s a nice town, but I guess sometimes I miss the speed of the city. Spiced things up, you know?” He was mostly joking, not that he would ever let on that there was any seriousness behind the statement. It’s not that he actually missed getting stabbed, he’d had enough of that for a lifetime. It’s just... the danger was what he missed. Sure, there was plenty of danger in town, but it was the kind he didn’t know or understand. Unpredictable. He missed what he knew, when he knew the threats, the consequences. That was long since gone, though.