#thomasrekowicz

horror starters || accepting

      “That’s why I’m going over in the daytime first.”

      The thought of being there, of being anywhere in that town after nightfall makes the air catch in Alice’s throat. She has to force herself to breathe again, counting the seconds of each inhalation and exhalation, relaxing her shoulders back and down. Tension pulled taut every fiber of her being for the duration of the cross-country trip. The hotel of her choosing isn’t in Bright Falls proper, but in the nearest larger town with a chain mote presence. Her distance isn’t born of snobbery -- Alice just doesn’t know if she can handle small-town motels and rental cabins at the moment.

      But it isn’t the place or the landscape itself that has the photographer on edge -- it’s what it all holds. Or doesn’t hold, as the case may be. She has a notebook in front of her on the hotel room desk, the page with an old photo paperclipped into it open to her. It isn’t a picture she herself had taken, but a copy she’d made of a page in a book. As far as Alice can tell, it’s one of -- if not the -- only surviving pictures of Diver’s Isle taken before the island was lost. To volcanic activity, that’s what reports said. But then why, years ago, when she’d asked locals about the place had they all taken just a moment too long to remember that the cabin had ever been there at all?

      Truthfully, Alice doesn’t know what she’s here to look for. If the desired outcome is to see the cabin again, or prove to herself that it was never really there. Either way, being proactive feels better than another sleepless night spent alone in the apartment that’s too big for one. At least here she can feel like she’s doing more than being bait in her own trap.

      Miles knew he was being followed. Between the extrasensory eyeless perception he found himself privy to, and the general paranoia that followed him like a third shadow, it was difficult for anyone to get the jump on him. 

      He’d been trailed once or twice before, but it had been some time since Murkoff had been so bold in their attempts to corner the reporter -- and the asset he kept under his skin. And at first, he’d been certain that the guy was Murkoff. Or there was something about him that rang out with a familiar cord, at least. His presence and the way it charged the very air around him was like getting hit in the face with--

      Mount Massive. Something buried deep down in the man’s synapses felt like Mount Massive. And even if by some strange stroke of coincidence he wasn’t an agent of the corporation, the way the Walrider trickled interest down Miles’ spine was enough to set him on edge.

      Hair trigger nerves had him turn quickly when a hand reached for him, and he seized the man roughly by the wrist before he could initiate the contact. The effect was immediate and staggering, a wave of vertigo that made him relinquish the stranger’s arm and take a stumbling step backwards. A headache hit him like a freight train that eased into a dull throb as he felt the Walrider surge inside of him, perturbed by the intrusion but curious.

      Eager.

      Hungry.

random dialogue starters || accepting

      Too long.

      At some point his attention had split between computer screen and open-faced notebook, the fingers of one hand idly hunting and pecking for keys while his other hand scrawled a pen across lined pages. Perhaps there was something intelligible buried in the typed gibberish like some kind of children’s wordsearch game, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to examine it. The notebook was equally incomprehensible, pages of heavy handed ink etchings. The pen must have run dry at some point, for the page that was currently opened to the ceiling was marred by inkless lines dug into the blank paper.

      He blinked at the sound of a nearby voice, his eyes stinging as though he hadn’t closed them for some time. His fingers cramped as he released the spent pen, and a frown tugged at his lips when he got a look at how productive the last -- lost -- chunk of time had been.

      A housefire. Pain, unimaginable pain, so deep it felt like his soul was being wrenched from his body. A gunshot. Gossamer wings, butterflies -- or were they moths? The faint ticking of a pocket watch.

house of leaves starters || accepting

      She ducked her head, a tinge of color creeping across the high rise of her cheeks. Alice was not a complete stranger to compliments, but it had been some time since she’d been paid one so directly -- and by someone she’d come to think of so fondly. And certainly it was a compliment for how softly and sincerely he said it. Did he know that the light within her burned brighter and surer at his presence? Did he notice the spark in her eyes when she looked at him? 

      There had been others in her home and in her heart since Alan. Not a great many, and none that she’d allowed to stake a more permanent claim there -- none that she’d hoped so fiercely would stay. The nature of their relationship didn’t matter in the grand scheme of her reasoning. As a friend she still held him close, and she didn’t think it a crime to consider something more when she laid alone at night. There was no harm in imagining a warmth beside her in the evenings and a smile over coffee mugs in the mornings.

      If he’d begun to guess at her feelings there was no indication of the fact, and Alice had already made her peace with it. Both of them had been through hell and lost the people they loved on the road there and back. She couldn’t blame him for holding onto those memories and emotions, not when there were still threads of Alan woven through her life even now. 

      But with Thomas by her side, Alice didn’t fear the dark. That alone meant more than she could say.

hill house starters || accepting

      “It’s a sad way to live.” An agreement, albeit a sympathetic one. It was no way to live, really -- imposing limits on your own potential for happiness in an attempt to stave off pain and sorrow. But what was the summation of human existence if not a craving for connection? Even a simple kindness from a stranger could offer a respite from sinking loneliness. 

      They weren’t strangers, not anymore, and yet there were so many things Alice didn’t know about him. Thomas was a guarded man. Both halves of him were. He explained little about himself, but she’d pieced together the offered scraps into a picture of vague understanding. He was a widow, a father of two -- though he spoke infrequently of his daughters and never without his emotion getting the better of him. The nature of his abilities, his connection to that fabled other side had put him and his family in danger before, the exact details of which remained a mystery to Alice. But it was obviously a source of so much of his pain. 

      She’d never begrudged him his privacy, the thick walls he put up around himself in the name of protection. Alice had put up barriers around her own life, roadblocks meant to keep others at a safe distance, for her sake and for theirs. Her heart couldn’t stand another shattering, and she couldn’t imagine inviting someone in to deal with her burdensome baggage. And it was easier like that -- and she told herself it was easier like that -- but all it had really done was make her feel alone.

ship meme || accepting

Gives nose/forehead kisses

I don’t know if Geoffrey is actually taller than Thomas but I feel like he is. Not sure he could pull off a nose or forehead kiss without getting mocked though, and also not sure if he’d even feel compelled to try for it.

Gets jealous the most

Realistically, this is a friends with benefits sort of situation. Both of them recognize they’re not exactly boyfriend material for the other, so if they’re seeing other people on the side it’s fine.

Picks the other up from the bar when they’re too drunk to drive

Thomas is probably the only one out of the two of them who’s still capable of getting drunk, depending on how the vampire rules work. If he’s having a shit day and went out to drown his sorrows, Geoffrey is at least good about picking him up and not asking questions.

Takes care of on sick days

Are either of them sympathetic enough for that? Probably not. Eat some soup and shut tf up.

nonverbal starters || accepting

      His relationship with mirrors had grown complicated. Miles had always been something of a vain man -- putting perhaps too much stock in the upkeep of his physical appearance. Expensive creams and shampoos, the regimented schedule of dyeing over the peppering of gray hair. The reporter cared about how he looked, how he presented himself and perception of him that came about as a result. Strange, really, considering how infrequently he bothered with the opinions of others. What they thought of his work or his attitude didn’t matter -- but he didn’t want a first glance to reveal someone past their prime.

      But that was before. Before Mount Massive and Murkoff and the Walrider. There was little he could do to influence certain aspects of his appearance in the wake of everything. The dark circles under his eyes never faded. The slightly ashen undertone of his skin never warmed or brightened. The scars would never truly heal away. Sometimes that made the little things seem all the more important, like the boxes of hair dye picked up at the nearest drugstore. The little things were easier to control and he could manage that. Could appreciate that. Everything else was spiraling and he looked and felt like a corpse walking but god damn it all, at least he could maintain his skincare routine and pretend like it made a difference somewhere.

      Where mirrors had once been an opportunity to preen, to make adjustments when a curl was out of place -- now the view they offered was anything but desirable. Miles hated the reminder of what he was, and when he looked at himself reflected back in the glass all he saw were the signs of it etched into every crease of his skin. It didn’t make him feel ugly -- it made him feel unnatural.

      Some days were better than others, at least. When he was in higher spirits and everything felt a little more tolerable what he saw in his reflection didn’t seem all bad. Today was somewhere in the middle. As he brushed his teeth and studied himself at the mirror he still saw the flaws, but they didn’t overwhelm everything else. His roots were starting to show and he made a note to pick up more dye the next time he was out. Leaning forward he spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink and wiped his mouth on the nearby towel, straightening and reaching for a glass that he could use to rinse his mouth out. 

      When he saw movement in the mirror from the corner of his eye, his heart seized.

      For a heartbeat he froze, paralyzed, the familiar fingers of paranoia constricting inside of his chest. Nothing about the constant low thrum of the Swarm indicated immediate danger, and for a horrible second that stretched into eternity he wondered if he was dreaming. If he’d take a proper look and the mirror would distort into the funhouse shapes of a nightmare. But the problem was that he couldn’t not look. Whatever was there was still there, a shape he couldn’t properly make out without focusing on it. So he turned his head with the speed of a band-aid being torn off, ready to-- he didn’t really know.

      What he saw didn’t exactly settle the question of dream or reality, but it did drag his lips downward into a slight frown.

      “Most people would just knock.” If this was a nightmare invasion, it could be of the Walrider’s making -- but it could also be of theirs. Granted, he thought that they were past the animosity stage, at least where him and the Spirit’s human counterpart were concerned. Perhaps the Spirit himself was less inclined to a truce. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack, or is this the prelude to scooping out my brain like pumpkin guts -- or whatever the hell it is you do to people?” If his hands held a slight tremble as he filled the glass with tap water that he promptly swished in his mouth then spit out, Miles did his best to keep it at bay. He could play casual all he wanted, but the panicked flare of adrenaline had still run its course.