#pnkb1tch

‘it’s  you  that  i  came  for .’ [ from here ! ]

                        ——  𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬  𝐧𝐨  𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞  𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧  𝐢𝐭  𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞  𝐭𝐨  𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞  𝐬𝐚𝐰𝐲𝐞𝐫  𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬  𝐡𝐢𝐦,  a  hideout  the  two  of  them  made  all  their  own  throughout  their  childhood;  a  sanctuary,  tucked  away  from  the  pompous  events  that  his  parents  hosted  rather  frequently.  it's  quiet,  holding  a  small  corner  of  the  earth  that  is  all  their  own.  she's  sure  not  even  giselle  has  even  seen  this  sacred  place;  maybe  sawyer  shouldn't  feel  smug  about  that,  yet  the  feeling  remains  as  a  lingering  blemish  in  her  being,  a  vice  she's  struggled  with  all  her  life.  but  it's  not  about  her,  not  right  now.  there's  a  reason  she's  sought  arlo  out,  a  reason  she  treks  through  the  acreage  on  the  thompson  estate  to  the  small  cottage  quarters  at  the  back  of  the  lot.  it's  a  little  decrepit,  but  it's  been  a  while  since  the  two  of  them  spent  any  time  sprucing  it  up  like  they  used  to  every  summer.

                              there  are  lights  on  inside  and  sawyer  finds  it  amusing  that  the  thompsons  still  paid  for  the electricity  (  or  maybe  they  just  don't  notice  where  that  money  goes  ).  pulling  the  door  open,  obvious  footsteps  make  their  way  through  the  threshold  and  towards  the  figure  that's  sat  itself  on  the  couch.  he  doesn't  even  need  to  look  to  know  it's  her,  she's  sure,  and  thus  takes  a  seat  at  his  side  in  silence.  their  extensive  text  conversation  prior  to  her  search  for  him  tells  her  to  simply  sit  and  listen;  that  is,  if  he  even  wants  to  talk  about  it. 

@pnkb1tch : ❛  how am i supposed to do this without you? i can't. ❜

                              faux  offense  etches  into  her  features  as  she  lets  her  attention  fall  on  him,  hands  clasped  in  her  lap  as  her  head  tilts  and  her  chin  lifts  up  to  morph  her  lips  to  purse,  ❛  well  . . .  the  good  news — ❜  she  leans  towards  him,  shoulders  lifting  as  her  eyes  shift  their  attention  up  and  off  to  the  side  of  the  ceiling.  not  a  moment  after  does  she  relax  her  shoulders  and  her  eyes  find  his  face.  she's  fully  leaning  against  him  now,  shoulder  to  shoulder  as  her  hand  reaches  out  to  rest  on  his  thigh,  patting  it  a  few  times,  ❛  is  that  y'don't  have  to. ❜  her  tone  is  low,  still  holding  a  sense  of  teasing within  it  as  her  lips  pull  into  a  soft  grin.

she's tired. she's always tired, sure, but she's felt so observed the past few days. arlo isn't bad company, per se, but she feels as if she's a creature under observation rather than a person. he'd found her on accident, bringing little things to the ghosts of the cemetery to keep them from menacing the groundskeepers & nearby houses. after all, they're still just people. they want some sort of connection, even if they can't have it. (she understands that far more than even she knows.) selflessness has always been her strongest motivation.

there was an old man, rather unpleasant fellow, who'd perhaps been less than satisfied with her offer of conversation & trinkets. he'd gone on some unseen tirade about how he doesn't need any charity, or any help, especially not from her. the venom in his tone sapped what little energy she had left, the spectre of the man vanishing with the approaching steps of her living companion.

ㅤShe looks insufferable and is keenly aware of it. Penny had sworn she'd never become a sunglasses indoors person, but that was before Kit Wallace had hit her in the face with a cricket ball. Now she's peering at Arlo over the top of her sungigs and, after a moment, pushing them back up her face with a grimace.

Darling? Oh, this guy clearly thinks he's charming. Maybe some people fall for it - a few cute words in an accent, sure, there's a type of person who thinks that's charming. Katrina is the kind of person who takes a stranger calling her a pet name with a scoff and a raised brow, if not a quick retort. It was either a sign of guts or stupidity to talk to authorities like that. She knows that firsthand. 

She watches with crossed arms as he takes care of the two creatures, taking a mental check of the weapons on her person just in case. Admittedly, he does have skill - a bit of training and refining could do him some good, but skill nonetheless. Not that she’s going to say that out loud and feed into his already almost annoyingly confident demeanor. (As if she hadn’t gotten too cocky many times herself.) 

❛ we can just sit here, you don’t have to talk. ❜

Jamie almost laughed at that. With his hands between his legs, his fingernails of his left hand picking at the calluses of his right, he kept his head bowed. "I'm Jamie fucking Tartt," he replied, as if that was an answer to his statement. "I don't know how to shut the fuck up." All in all, it had just been one of those days. Training went poorly, he was waiting for texts that he knew would haunt him when they came, but he was still looking forward to nonetheless [ why did Jamie want to hear from that wanker so fucking badly? ]. "It's just been a day and a half, Arlo Thompson. You ever make shit decisions that you know're shit decisions as soon as you make 'em? And then you're sat there, waiting for the consequences of your shit decisions to hit you in the face, but they haven't hit you in the face yet, so. It's just. Fucking. Waiting? That's what today's been like for me."

kissing them to shut them up .

Jamie had always had a big mouth. A mouth that he'd let run, and run, and run if no one stopped him. His mum had always teased him as a kid - our Jamie, she'd say, has enough words to fill an entire day and then some without stopping to breathe. So, there he was, going off again - this is why it's best not to ask Jamie questions about himself. Or football. Especially questions about himself as a footballer. "I'm just sayin', it ain't like it's never fuckin' happened before. You can win the treble and not win the Ballon d'Or, like -- Roy Kent, in the year Chelsea won the Champions League, he could've easily won the Ballon d'Or that year, people are just fuckin' dumb. And I'm still young, I'm still fit, we've got our first Champions League run comin' up, don't we? I think I could win it - I just dunno if I'm being pushed hard enough. That don't mean I don't think Roy ain't pushing me hard - 'cause he is, fuckin' hell, he is - I just dunno if it's hard enough to win the Ball--"

Playing an open mic always gave Jamie the feeling of being back where he came from. Back in Manchester, in those coffee shops and bars with their low lighting, one of dozens of Mancunian boys with guitars and big dreams. Not that Jamie's much further from there now - but London is about as far from Manchester as Jamie has ever been. He's playing smaller venues, but smaller venues with stages and lights and his name on the marquee. It's fucking surreal, isn't it? If you Googled Jamie's name even a handful of years ago, nothing would come up. Now, there's his website, with links to buy tickets, and a fucking Wikipedia page with his name on it. Bizarre, isn't it, how things work out?

The lights on stage are fucking hot. When Jamie finally exits stage left after the show, his beloved guitar still in hand [ with no offense to the people that the venue hired to handle equipment, Jamie doesn't trust anyone else to handle Georgie's old instrument ], he can feel sweat dripping down his forehead. He hasn't been sweaty like this since his days of playing street football with his mates. His manager pulls him aside, telling him that there's somebody who he ought to speak to, so he gives them a gesture of go ahead; he'll follow behind after setting down the guitar on a stand nearby.