#blairchat

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Watching the scene before her, Blair sits in silence beside her sister and the main rig. Vesper isn't incorporeal, he's on her shoulder in full raven glory, also watching as the actors work. The unimpressed glance between sisters is momentary and fleeting, not a word uttered before Blair peels herself from the uncomfortable director's chair. "Okay, cut. What the fuck?" she flails her arms as she reaches the set, now in front of the camera. "Her head has been bitten off and you're hallucinating her fucking ghost! It's a sign of grief and insanity! What's so fucking hard about that!?" she whacks the script with her free hand and marches to join her sister again. "Take it from the top." she swirls an arm dramatically through the air, Vesper's wings expanding out in a quick flap.

Allegations of hostile work environment's aside, Blair settles beside her sister again with a huff, the director's chair squeaking beneath her which causes her to glance down as she shifts in it with more squeaks following. "Did we have a fucking budget cut on our comfort?" she remarks, glancing up to Sloane. With several more squeaks, Blair makes little jumps in her seat to etch closer to her sister, peering into the camera view as Vesper pecks at a strand of Sloane's hair. It's his version of affection, Blair not even taking any notice of it as she looks at the work through Sloane's perspective. "Tell me it translates on this thing, Slo." she pleads with a dry tone. "Is this gonna be a flop, be honest? I didn't even like the first two."

-

It's the same haunting memory. Twelve years old. Suffocating beneath the weight of her own mother's hands, submerged relentlessly over and over again. The sensation of drowning clings to her, her eyes opening just as her mother's hands release the pressure and lets her rise. A gasp for breath. Now her senses are assaulted by the faint hum of an engine, a deep rumble that's first loud but once her senses adjust, it's steady. Comforting. She isn't twelve. Her brother is beside her, she can feel his presence now but Blair doesn't look at him. Her eyes are set, dead to the road ahead. Desolate and empty. Pale fingers sweep away pitch black hair from her face, and now her breathing is as steady as the truck's hum.

-

It's not like she's going to sleep, anyways. Blair declaring to keep watch while her brothers and sister rest is the best way to avoid whatever lurks into her brain as her eyes close. But, there is a downside to staying awake for so long. Irritability, for starters, and the fact the wolf that's with them isn't much of a sleeper either. "Good thing about motels..." her dry tone resounds as she leaves one room, pottering towards Cole where he slumps by the main reception. "They're usually used by delinquents, drug abusers, criminals-" she continues, still no enthusiasm in her tone as bottles clink in her hold. Blair knew the exact places to look for discarded and forgotten about bottles. Muscle memory comes to mind, which is just the same if called "an addict's thought pattern." She places them down one by one in the undercover entrance, lined up like shot glasses. "Alcoholics." her lips twitch at the fact all of these things are still true. "And coincidences." she finishes, unable to help vocalize the irony she enjoys.

Blair chooses herself a half empty whiskey bottle before nodding sharply to the vodka. "Could help with all that." she gestures before she takes a swig, the days old bandages that aren't doing anything to keep Cole's injuries from seeping with blood. But there's something else she's noticed beyond the slow healing from silver and wolfsbane. How he doesn't seem fazed in the slightest. Blair's eyes constantly narrow and sharpen to the wolf, a stern look that tries to look through him and find all of his secrets. Because there are some. Everyone has them. "Are you trying to be a hard motherfucker because of your little bromance with Trick going on? Because he doesn't care if people cry. Works on him more than the rest of us."