{ a m a r o }

pray with knees in the dust, but the gods do not answer. swirling dust moats in sun beams. fractured patters, exposed knuckle bones. wine dark dance. apricot glow stretches endless in the sky. rosary beads imprinted against skin. honey eyed and sweet nectar. scraped knees. bared teeth sunk into plump peaches. juice trickles down chin. stained-glass window shedding purple beams. dissolves in the raptures of a bottomless memory

[amxrc]

MAKE YOUR MUSE.

tagged by :  all these beautiful images tagging :  g o  d o  i t

[amxrc]

{ B L Y T H E } ‌:

As the Italian combo hit her taste buds, she practically melted into the passenger’s seat. She had eaten the same sandwich almost every single day for the past twenty years. Italian combo, lettuce, tomato, cucumber, onion, oil and vinegar on a garlic cheese bread. Every single day it tasted even better. Maybe it was because Blythe tried her best to look on the brighter side of things. That there was grass growing somewhere in this dustbowl. Even when every second of the day she just wanted to curl up in a hole and forget everything. 

“As much as I appreciate you being my partner for a day, I would much rather appreciate you being my partner for the rest of time.” Blythe looked over at the sheriff, mouth full of the the best sandwich of her life. Spending the day with Amaro was more than just patrolling the streets of Boot Hill. He offered her a sense of normalcy to her life. Letting her indulge in conversations that no one else would entertain. They were two completely and entirely different individuals. Two people who lived their lives in different ways. Amaro lived in a way of good while Blythe was a rebellious little shit. 

“The new guy is still annoying me day in and day out. You’d think after two years, he’d finally catch on. But no.” Blythe rolled her eyes, taking another bite of her sandwich. “And no, I don’t feel this way because of what happened with Orion back then.” 

Memories seemed to serve as such fickle things, only ever recalling those moment that seemed so futile. Like the italian combo he’d remember his father always ordering, the way the car would begin to smell like it after his long hours on the job. It was obvious he’d always pick up something on the way home from work. Yet, he barley remembers how young he was when he arrived in Boot Hill, dewey eyed, and crunched fists. He was barley more than twenty. Foolish, barley older than a teen, but he’d always had the world of responsibilities.

Boot Hill almost seemed like an escape. Almost.

“Sounds like he might need a better teacher,” His tone almost resembles that of a tease, only to those who would know it well enough in Amaro. For in reality it’s not much more than the dry delivery the man regularly carries. Keys jingle as they turn in the ignition, and the patrol car easily rumbles to life as he places his sub beside the hand break. “We could invite him along tonight, three’s company right?”

[amxrc]

{ S H E P A R D } ‌:

@amxrc

The longer he waited, the more nervous he felt. It’d only been a few minutes at the most, but it never took much for Shepherd to start second-guessing himself – especially with the weight of the desk clerk’s stare repeatedly sliding in his direction before flicking back to her computer screen. He couldn’t blame her really, what with Boot Hill being such a small town and him being an unfamiliar face, but he didn’t think asking for census information was all that odd of a request. Or, at least, he hoped it wasn’t. Still, her brow had furrowed and he’d received the skeptical response, “Take a seat and I’ll get someone to help you.” Shep felt her watch him all the way to the few chairs that lined the wall across from the front desk and it wasn’t until he was fully seated that she scuttled off. There was little delay before she was back, relaying in a chirpy, customer service type voice that Sheriff Hernández would be out when he had a moment. He’d thanked her with what he’d hoped was a winning smile (but clearly hadn’t been reassuring enough, if her sharp gaze was anything to go off of) and, now, here he was. Waiting.

His leg jiggled, knee jumping an extra inch every so often as he shifted in his seat. Shep didn’t know what he was thinking, showing up at the sheriff’s department with the hope of finding some odd strand that connected family members he’d never met to this place that he’d stumbled upon purely by mistake. It was just too strange how comfortable he felt in Boot Hill. How nice it felt to have the sun beat down on his cheeks each morning as he exited the Copper Cactus Motel. The dusty itch of sand getting everywhere was annoying and it made Shepherd anxious if he squinted into the horizon for too long, attempting to count the staggered flat-top plateaus. But, even so, it was all just too funny to brush off as a coincidence. Maybe he was leaning too heavily into his belief that everything happened for a reason – of destiny and fate, but the cluttered part of his brain needed an explanation. There was a good chance that he wouldn’t learn anything by bugging local law enforcement, and Shep was starting to consider the possibility of public records actually being housed in the library, but it was too late to turn tail and run when a man was headed in his direction.

“Hi,” Shep blurted, biting back the urge to cringe at how loud his voice suddenly sounded. He stooped as he stood, just enough to snag the strap of his backpack and sling it over his shoulder again – a seemingly unnecessary item to take along with him, but after meeting a certain neighbor at the Copper Cactus, he’d thought better of leaving anything valuable in his room. “Sheriff Hernández?” He asked, back straightening as he stepped forward. He offered out his hand reflexively. “I’m Shepherd… Parson. Shepherd Parson. You’re not busy, are you? Because I could come back later.” Or not at all.

Lost to memories in the fragrant hours, basked in summer’s dusk would Amaro know days spent as a child. Longing. Lost. His father he thinks he remembers- the sheriff’s hat that adorned his thinning hair, and the gleaming badge that would reflect the blushing sky.  We’re the same. He prays. Or perhaps it was a cry. To be good enough. 

To be loved.

He once fooled himself that perhaps he was. Those were the days he knew the soft sorrow that pooled in his grandma’s eyes, against the harsh years that aged her figure. But those memories seemed so distant to the one that haunted him. Lurking between shadows, and flooding his dreams. The figure Amaro would glimpse in the corner of his eyes, and darting through bushes where the coyotes howled. The thing with razor teeth that gleamed the street lights above, threatening to devour him. Sunken into the night. 

He’s too old to believe in such things.

Even when the night falls onto the town, and he hears the static fill the air as if he were right back in the caravan and he was seven again. Wedged between his father and grandmother, hands rattling the cutlery on the dinner plate. Fear? Of what, of being loved?

The buzz to his office snaps Amaro from his thoughts, the haze of paperwork before him coming back to light. He tells himself Tuesdays were a quiet day- but Boot Hill had all sorts of anomalies. The kind that eleven years doesn’t make a man accustomed.

“Mister Parson, please.” He offers the other his hand, before gesturing back to his office, “Nothin’ but dust bunnies keeping us busy tonight. Come on in, take a seat.” Walking back the way he came in, Amaro closed the door behind Shep. “What can I help you with.”

[amxrc]

{ C H A S E } ‌:

At a moment’s glance, a casual conversation between colleagues. Were they even colleagues or just conveniently thrust together despite their different departments. Before he could utter another word, Amaro was already gone. Panic struck him for a moment, thinking that he’d said the wrong thing before catching a glimpse of the all too familiar hat that adorned his head, surely it weighed on him, the responsibility of a whole town. Even one such as this that was quiet by nature, heavy lies the head.

Trailing behind him, a puppy longing for attention and affection, silently begging for it. That was all a puppy needed to be fulfilled. The dull words were anything but leaving the lips of their owner, the strength and pointedness of his question made Chase simply nod, for now, the inside of his lip swollen with teeth marks before he realized what he was doing. “I reckon it was, but not intentionally, just some kid not paying attention.” While the Sheriff eyed the bin, Chase couldn’t help but let his eyes linger for a moment. The cough of a cleared throat as he once again nodded. “I’m down if you are.” That didn’t sound needy or desperate, right?

Chase was one of those few, despite being born from Boot Hill, didn’t seem to look at Amaro like he wasn’t. Because that’s all these ever seemed to be- Those who were from Boot Hill, and those who were not. The dust stained houses, and humidity that clung to skin and left an ever present sheen of sweat on one’s forehead. Home. It was rare in these parts, ever since the beginning, that he could step through the town and be seen as anything less than the deputy that didn’t belong there. An outsider. 

Not much has changed these days, besides the way the years have aged his face, and the dust began to settle in his clothes, and his skin kissed under the southern sun. Even now he’s the sheriff- he’s still not welcomed when he walks into the station, and shows up to the resident’s houses. At least that’s the case for the older ones. Traditional he wonders. How long until he belongs?

“I’ll get the first round, how else can I thank you for all the hard work you’ve done down here tonight.” He doesn’t know why it’s fun to make these jabs of fun at Chase, but he can’t help but looking over his shoulder with amusement on his face. “I can write up the paper work tomorrow morning.”

[southboundhq]

MEET AMARO,

FULL NAME › Amaro Domingo Javier Hernández Flores - ie Amaro Hernández AGE › thirty three GENDER › Cis male (He/Him/His) FROM › Michigan, United States RESIDENCE › Stagecoach Apartments (Outskirts) OCCUPATION › Sheriff at the Amen County Sheriff’s Department NOW PLAYING › God’s Gonna Cut You Down by Johnny Cash

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger/content warnings: smoking, rape/sexual assault, gun

Honey- something bruised. Grazed teeth across the fuzz of a peach, and sink into the soft skin. Amaro would be devoured by the world.

An apricot glow stretches endless in the sky, and spills in through his open window. Wind sways the silver rosary beads that adorn his rearview mirror, as he glances back. But all he sees are boxes packed, and draped jackets over the seats when they failed to fit into bags. Sweet nectar scent fills the air. Everything seems to tint the colour of the sun, even his skin he thinks begins to blend with the dusky surroundings. This is his first hint that a place like this was going to consume him. He’s twenty two, bright eyed for this transfer. He tells himself it wasn’t because of the incident. He lies to himself.

Everything now feels like a distant haze, perhaps he thinks that comes with age. Where you start to forget those days of youth, feet swinging in the earth toned lake as his father skips rocks beside him. He’d try himself under the summer gaze, picking up the smooth stone between his fingers and throwing it. Too harsh perhaps, with all the grace of a five year old. It would sink straight to the bottom and bury under the stream.

He’s seven now, learning beneath his father’s shadow. Amaro doesn’t remember this time if he succeeds, all he remembers is a gust of wind picking up his father’s sheriff’s hat and floating it into the lake. Broad brimmed it sails away. The next day he comes home from work, a new one perched upon his head. It’s felt all in tact, and not a hint of dirt on it. Amaro wonders if he ever saw his last hat like that. But nothing else would seem to change, despite the disturbance in their trailer. His grandmother would place dinner on the table, and the three of them would cram around the vinyl covered table, and all he’d know was the pack of camels that rest beside his father’s own plate and he’d always share with a meal. Sparked to life, it would fill the air.

Static television would fill the air, white noise he’d think. He’s ten before he stops finding tears in his eyes. When he claws at his own ribs, and finds where his flesh begins to tear. Lying bare before him. To be devoured. The rancid smoke he inhales. And bites into the soft of his own lip.

A man begins to form from the shape of a child. Youthful, his body would grow lean from his days helping his father move scraps from the yard, and climbing trees by the lakes with the other children in the trailer park. Eleven years old, he’d walk with his father home from work. Night fell on their town engulfing it- he’d feel the street light’s didn’t dare emit enough light to see the footpath and the moon was nowhere in sight. He’d remember the density to the air, and the way it crawled into his lungs like heat and suffocated him. He’d remember his father, and the thing he saw too dark for his eyes to make out in the shadows. The eyes he’d recall- inhuman. And the lingering smell of his father’s smoke. Glowing embers left on the pavement long after he’d gone.

People don’t just get snatched by things in the wild like that. But when he returns home to his grandma, without a father by his side. He finds no words, only a stream of tears fill his eyes.

Amaro never tells people of the darkness he saw, the thing that claimed his father. But he sees it, every night restless in bed he wakes in sweat soaked sheets, and a humidity he can’t seem to shake. He prays by his bed when he wakes in these hours, that he can go back in time and count back those seconds. That he can do something- anything besides just stand there and watch.

He’s sixteen, he’s restless. He learns the habits his father taught him, a pack of camels and to give himself up willingly to anything foolish enough to take him. Bruised skin, and soft to the touch. Grazed neck, and tamed by bared teeth. He doesn’t come home most nights, a haze of influence. His grades begin to slip, and his grandmother begins to worry. She prays for him. And perhaps it works.

The years of youth pass, and memories of a creature fade. Amaro will never quite learn to sleep a full night again, but the restless nature in him fades. He begins to mature, at first he thinks he can see it in his face. A moments resemblance of his father- perhaps though, he thinks that’s the khaki deputy’s uniform that adorns him.

He buries his grandmother in a grave marked beside a grandfather he’d never met, but name rings familiar from stories and tales told reminiscing amongst old photo albums. A pink bouquet he leaves there, just as he does every Sunday after mass. And tells her the town gossip she misses out on. He wonders if he grows into something she can be proud of.

He’s twenty two before the endless expanse of night comes back to haunt him. He’s on the job, and he sees it. The darkness, the eyes he thinks catches in the streetlight. It all floods back again- Amano freezes. He’s eleven years old again, stood before the monster that devours. Hands tremble, and his knees threaten to buckle beneath him. He doesn’t dare cry out for help, and his fingernails dig into his thigh. But he’s not that he tells himself, he’s not afraid. He lies. Shaking, he raises his gun. And shoots. A mistake he’ll never be able to take back.

Dust suffocates his lungs, and bleeds red onto the tires and kicks up behind him. He says a silent prayer.

But the past is lost with age, and memories rust with time. His demotion to Boot Hill would lead him to the rest of his life, a town where he’d be at constant battle for respect. Young and reckless they’d label him. An outsider. It’s ten years now, inside a town that would show him love in the only way he’d know. All encompassing. The sound of static is sharp in the air for a moment, and jolts him from his seat. Sheriff, we need your assistance down here.

❝ i find pieces of myself everywhere, and i cut myself handling them. ❞

CENSUS,

FACECLAIM › Manny Montana AUTHOR › Chester

[amxrc]

{  S A L } ‌:

HE   OPENS   HIS   FRIDGE   to   get   a   pitcher   of   ice   -   cold   water   for   his   friend   ,   then   thinks   about   it   for   a   moment   or   two   before   he   takes   a   can   of   beer   for   himself   .   Closing   the   door   with   his   foot   ,   he   shimmies   over   to   his   pantry   and   takes   out   a   glass   before   laying   the   spoils   of   his   kitchen   on   the   counter   ,   hand   going   through   the   motions   of   pouring   out   water   onto   the   glass   before   sliding   it   forward   to   Amaro   ,   water   condensation   already   forming   on   the   sides   .

❛      C’mon   ,      ❜      he   says   .      ❛      It’d   be   convenient   for   the   both   of   us   .      ❜      But   there’s   not   much   passion   in   his   voice   ,   he   finds   ;   he   wants   Amaro   to   settle   ,   and   the   key   is   a   token   of   the   esteem   he   holds   for   their   friendship   ,   but   he   does   not   want   to   be   pushy   and   make   the   other   uncomfortable   .      It’s   not   a   prospect   he   savours   doing   to   anyone   ,   much   less   the   people   he   calls   his   friends      (      few   as   they   already   are   in   number   )      .      ❛      But   it’s   your   call   ,   buddy   ,      ❜      he   finishes   ,   speaking   words   he   feels   he’s   already   said   before   ,   before   opening   the   can   of   beer   and   taking   a   big   gulp   out   of   it   .

The   can   comes   back   down   to   the   counter   and   Salvador   answers   Amaro’s   remarks   with   a   nod   ,   dark   eyes   looking   out   of   the   window   as   if   expecting   to   see   something   there   ———   but   no   ,   there   is   only   darkness   .   Silence   .   The   endless   expanse   of   the   desert   .   

(      A   thought   he   never   quite   shares   with   anyone   ,   not   even   to   the   male   in   front   of   him   :   sometimes   ,   it’s   the   emptiness   that   unnerves   him   more   ,   the   terrifying   possibility   of   absence   more   than   presence   .      There’s   nothing   there   ,   he   thinks   ———   and   what   if   nothingness   is   the   horror   waiting   for   us   at   the   end   ?      )

But   no   ———   it’s   not   as   silent   as   he   first   thought   .   He   only   thought   it   to   be   silent   because   he   got   used   to   it   :   there’s   the   sound   of   cicadas   ,   the   rustle   of   the   wind   ,   the   hoots   of   the   owls   .   Nighttime   sounds   he’s   long   since   tuned   out   or   regarded   as   his   new   normal   .      ❛      Y’know   ,      ❜      he   says   ,      ❛      I   never   really   thought   about   it   but   …   yeah   ,   you’re   right   .      ❜      He   turns   his   attention   back   to   Amaro   .      ❛      There’s   lots   of   things   out   there   .      ❜      Somehow   ,   though   ,   the   statement   sounds   hopeful   in   his   tone   of   voice   rather   than   ominous   .      ❛      But   I   think   you’re   giving   your   driving   skills   too   little   credit   .      ❜      It’s   a   dry   remark   but   the   smile   on   his   face   is   warm   ,   like   he   truly   believes   in   it   .   He   lets   the   silence   settle   for   a   moment   before   ———      ❛      You   saw   something   out   there   while   you   were   driving   to   here   ?      ❜

The question lingers in the air like so many times before this- he hears it in his voice, the lack of protest against Amaro’s own gentle one. He’s sure if he pushed a little more, Amaro would take the key from him and keep it nestled amongst his chain of rattling metal. The station, the cabinets, his own home, his beaten car, the small golden star that’s began to rust at it’s edges and scratched from it’s time before it was his fathers. Just as the car itself was.

There’s something about first resting his eyes on Sal though, when the man opens the door and the white noise of the mountains beats against the sound of old games debating on the television- that he’s suddenly in the real world again. From his house, to the drive, to even knocking on the door. He fears his nightmare isn’t yet over until he sees him standing there. 

He allow’s a dry laugh to pass his lips, his hands reaching around the cool glass. Condensation swimming beneath his fingertips. “None of them are running at me just yet. They don’t even seem to wander onto the road unless you’re further out it seems.” He’d seen it, the aftermath left from those who drove too far out and stopped paying attention to the road. Tire marks burnt into the road, cars left abandoned when they’re too far gone. That or they’re towed back with their fronts crumpled or grazes across the doors. Maybe he did have some luck after all.

The silents washes between their conversation, and continues to threaten in Sal’s question. His hands wring across his glass as perhaps it’ll offer steadiness, as the cool pools at his palms and settles into his fingertips. And the question settles into the air, as Amaro’s eyes glance to meet Sal’s. “Nothing more than coyote’s on the road.”  But his answer seems to offer enough- the unspoken tension that holds Amaro tight. On the road. For it was there that he rest in reality. Where creatures that haunt nightmares, and linger in the corner of eyes surely can’t exist.

“Maybe an owl or two.” He tells himself he’s too old to be afraid of the dark. “It’s all that’s ever out there.”

[amxrc]

{ H E C T O R } :

if there had been a life, an alternate universe of some sort, where hector isn’t what he is, he wouldn’t want to be there. it was a pitiful thing to some, probably even this guy in the restaurant, but hector hadn’t known anything else. even as a child, growing up in the overwhelming normal ibáñez household, hector had only been waiting until he could be what he is now. others saw a disgusting lifestyle, or an unfortunate circumstance, or even a worthless blight on society, but he only saw it as freedom. freedom to do as he pleased, take what he wanted, play on sympathies and goodwill like he truly believed himself to be an innocent, sad little boy that was forced into a life of eating scraps off of tables and walking into towns with only his clothes on his back. of course, it didn’t exactly feel like freedom when he slept underneath overpasses in freezing temperatures or got himself into actual scary situations where his life was quite literally on the line, but his life was his and that’s what he had wanted. (sometimes, more times than he’d ever admit, he hated never having an actual address to go back to and a regular place to shower, but hating it and loving it were dependent on mood and surroundings; sometimes, when it got really bad, he even wanted to go home.) and of course, things seem rosier in boot hill, even memories of death and destruction.

how could they not be rosy? how could his outlook not be nosy when everywhere he went, someone was willing to help him? boot hill, boot barn, whatever it was called, it seemed to be a town where everyone wanted to take care of hector ibáñez, and there was nothing he loved more than taking advantage of those that wanted to take care of him. the ones that wanted to take care of him were usually women, and usually of the older, lonely sort. men weren’t foreign to him, not even close, but it could be harder to play on their sympathies; most believed they’d never be in a situation like his, they were too strong or good or what-the-fuck-ever to be homeless. so, when the man spoke up to him, in a suspiciously cop-like tone, hector didn’t react sweetly. “what’s it to you, man?”

Amaro’s youth was long lost to the idea of freedom, for he was a child born with shackles to this earth weighing down both his ankles and his talons trimmed and tamed. Where others claw at the world, kick and scream against the inevitability that courses through their veins, Amaro would always remain silent. There was no protest from the boy, no cries for help muffled into the crook of his arm. 

Instead there would be prayers, but hardly ever for himself- They’d be for his grandmother and his father. That kindness and heath would find them, that the demons and sins that walked this earth would learn to leave them alone. That his mother would find safety in her life. For he was a child who found little anger in his bones, and violence seemed something only ever self inflicted. Simply by allowing the world to happen to him.

Praying to be the same. Accepted. The shining badge that would prick his thumb so often rest against the bedside table, and the Campaign Cord that hung over bedposts at night. The one he’d stare at- covered in filth and grime tainting it’s tanned felt. And he’d imagine himself in it- if only ever for a distraction. A distraction that he’d fool himself turning into longing.

And this silent protest from allowing himself to be anything more than what the world allowed him would carry through to foolish youth- when the nights stretched endlessly and he found comfort in intoxication on his breath and the rough grasps of strangers. To be loved in only the way he knew how.

Amaro’s eyes wander over the boy before him, and he can’t help the pity that wells in his stomach as he replies. “Haven’t seen you ‘round before is all.” Foolish, from a child who prayed for the demons of the world, and safety of those who abandoned him. From a man who prayed even when he heard no response. “I’m Amaro. You wanna take a seat?”

[amxrc]

{ B L Y T H E } ‌:

AMARO + BLYTHE | closed starter for @amxrc​

Leaving Dominelli Deli with two lunches in hand, Blythe made her way over to the patrol car. She still didn’t know why Amaro wanted her to patrol with him. Maybe to relive the good ol’ days when the two of them were practically partners. But, she wasn’t questioning it too much. Anything to get away from the rookie that had been annoying her day after day. Thankfully they have had an easy morning. Just driving around the streets of Boot Hill in the same loop they do every two hours. She didn’t know what the extra patrol was for. Or why it was the two of them doing it. What was actually going on? 

Setting one lunch on the top of the car, she opened the passenger’s door and got in. Blythe handed over his favorite deli sandwich over to him with a wide smile. “You know, I love when we get to patrol together and when we get to have these lunch dates. But, I’m questioning what the occasion is or are you just getting bored being the sheriff.” She shot a smirk over at him before opening her Italian Combo up on her lap and going at it. 

Warm metal he comes to rest against, two hands on the bonnet reminding him it’s right there- beneath him. The ever lingering sound of wind picking up through the faraway mountains served as white noise when one paid no attention- combined with the distant passing cars along the Southbound Highway. Those few that bothered not to stop at this decaying town. Amaro wouldn’t have had that choice when he first pull his red ford pickup, beaten from those years his father had driven it before him. And engine a present rattling reminder that it was long ago on its last legs. It’s the same car he continues to drive ten years after arriving, and the ten before that.

He wonders if that’s why the patrol vehicle offers comfort from the station as he slides back into the driver’s seat- or perhaps it’s that spending all day on the paper work inside there gets rather claustrophobic.

“I thought you might appreciate the break from your partner as much as I from paper work,” Perhaps it wasn’t so much Blythe herself he missed, as much as it was her energy in a town such as Boot Hill. Or perhaps it was that she was one of the few that would entertain his notions of conversation- few and far between they were for Amaro.

“How are you treating the new guy? Showing him the ropes?”

[amxrc]

[amxrc]

{ H E C T O R } ‌:

the first thing hector remembers when he wakes up is his mother’s face. sprawled out haphazardly on the itchy bedspread in a cheap motel—hasn’t bothered to remember the name, he’ll only be here long enough to get kicked out—he wakes up every day thinking about gulshan kamezmi-ibáñez. really, it’s getting to be fucking annoying. guilt has no purpose for hector, it only holds you back, and hector never lets anything get in his way. except hunger. every day (and really, it’s more like evening) he wakes with his mother in mind, and then just how hungry he is. he’s survived years not knowing when his next meal will come, searching couch cushions for quarters and pennies to get a honeybun from the gas station, but often he has to resort to less dignified measures: dine and dash. so far, though, every restaurant he’s been in, someone’s paid for his meal. perhaps this place… what was it, boot barn, arizona? is a town where everyone’s super nice and enjoys wasting their money on strangers.

stretching his arms over his head as he exits his mote room, he starts the search for something to eat, deciding to walk a little farther down the street towards a different building than the turquoise one he’s been eating at. the patio of the florita cantina is open, facing the sidewalk, and hector sees only opportunity. a couple leaves a table, half-eaten entrées left on the table. he only has a few seconds before the busboy comes to collect, so hector moves swiftly but casually. hip resting against the table like he’s just waiting for someone to come out of the bathroom behind him, his fingers swipe the tortilla and he immediately takes a large bite. only then does he realize there are eyes on him. hector only sheepishly shrugs.

“well, it’s not like they were gonna eat it.”

Amaro would never know desire- not the kind that ached in his boned and clawed at his chest. He’d never know what it was to truly want something. Not in the way that was talked about in poems and books, the kind that can lead a man to madness and to throw away a life. He thought perhaps he was close to it, coated in his father’s shadows and admiring the badge that adorned his uniform. Glinting in the light, it would always catch his eye. 

To be something he could be proud of.

He can’t stop thoughts of him flooding his head, even these days as he stands isolated in Boot Hill waiting on his regular eggs and bacon to arrive. Amaro wastes time wondering if he would be proud of him now?  But he knows the answer like it was his birthright. To be a coward. Even for the man he loved.

His mind wanders with thoughts, looking perhaps for any thought that wasn’t that of Michigan. And his attention lands on another. A stark sight in the diner, only because it seemed anyone new seemed to stand out in a place like Boot Hill. “You alright, Kid?”

[amxrc]

{ A L T H E A } ‌:

The alcohol already running through her system was sure to help her fall asleep once she made her way home, but considering how much of a lightweight she was and how buzzed she felt on a beer and a shot alone, she didn’t quite trust herself to make it home just yet. She wasn’t sure how strict the bartenders were about their stool limits, how long she could sit there and wait for the buzz to wear off some; and perhaps the remaining shot she had was the only thing keeping her from being kicked out. She was, after all, no longer a paying customer the second she passed the glass of shot on to someone else. Still, she wasn’t too worried; the thought merely passed her mind before she was distracted by the person next to her. A familiar face, she thought, but one she couldn’t quite place a name on. Even after six months in town, she still struggled.

“You don’t have to do that,” she’s quick to respond, her head shaking as she looks down at the empty bottle of beer placed in front of her. The generosity of the man has her offering a quick smile in return, though, and she gives a shrug of her shoulders. “If anything, I should be drinking water, I don’t really trust myself with any more alcohol,” she explains, almost feeling a bit ridiculous for sitting in a bar and barely being able to handle one bottle of beer, so she swallows her pride and her worries before adding, “actually, one more beer won’t hurt.”

Some days in Boot Hill would feel endless. Another car spinning out just on the verge of town, or a coyote attacking another bystander. Aggressive they seemed to be, especially on the outskirts of town. Besides for that it was the same as any small town expectations, Mr. Hensen calling in his disturbed cows after teenage boredom lead them to their sides the night before. Or a smashed window, and a trashed car. Things never really varied from that. But he’d heard stories, or past times that crossed Boot Hill. Cursed.

“I don’t have to,” He gives a gentle shrug gesturing over the bartender, ordering two beers and a glass of water. Better be safe than sorry. “Big day?” He finds the small talk easy, unsure of what to really talk about in Boot Hill. After all it wasn’t so often that people talked to an outsider.

[amxrc]

{ C H A S E }‌ :

The crowd dispersed slowly, thinning out like ink dripped into the water and disappearing in thin wisps, allowing Chase to return to the side of the truck, a vehicle that commanded such attention and respect, people literally parted in the street for it. Once the public had thinned out he settled against the truck, leaning against it like he was about to be involved in his very own photoshoot, the kind that was done for charity calendars and wasn’t very PG.

Giving a small start at the all too familiar voice, the one that found its way into his head when its owner was nowhere to be seen. The voice that distracted him on a regular basis. He didn’t even know why, it’s not like the other had done anything to warrant this feeling confusion. Turning around he stared at the Sheriff of Boot Hill, just standing there, in his uniform. Just standing and watching him. Pulling his eyes from him with great difficulty he looked around, in almost a panic, looking for anyone else, a cute girl, hell a girl in general. With a quick cough to clear his throat, he nodded. “Looks like.” Feeling the sun warming the ground beneath them, warming his very bones to the point where one would normally relax, but not Chase, he was suddenly very aware of the heat he was feeling. “Lieutenant to you…” He felt cocky, when he said this to others it felt normal, but when said to Amaro, it felt like a challenge, a game of sorts. “…Amaro.”

Chase would always remind Amaro of a rose- tamed and trimmed to be handled so easily. Plucked from nature, homed in glass vases on display for the world to see. Beautiful they’d call, as if there was anything wild left in it. Aimed to please, but there was time wasted in regarding him. For he was nothing more than a tamed rose. A thing to claim.

He dismisses Chase’s words without much more than a sidewards glance as he steps through the police tape, and approaches the scene. It’s easy to assume Chase is following, he never seems to be the kind who’s left alone for very long. Fire scenes, and car crashes. Chase would always be there, eager to follow at his heels. “So was it a cigarette?” Stepping forward he eyes off the bin, “Arson? You getting a beer after this?”

[amxrc]

{ E R I K } ‌:

erik still doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing in boot hill exactly. each time he tries to conjure up a reason in his mind, he simply goes blank. despite the decrepit look of the dusty, old streets so different from the bright city lights and fast paced life style that now seems more like a distant memory, the town strangely feels as though it could one day be home. so it’s no surprise that he makes his way straight towards the coyote’s howl bar, eager for a drink (or several) that’d help get him numb. there’s not a whole people inside and for erik, that’s a good thing. less annoying locals to deal with. there is one person, though, someone sitting right next to the empty seat he’s desperate to occupy. “this seat taken?” it’s amazing how americanized he’s become, german accent now disappearing entirely. he’s about as american as the rest of the hicks around here anyways. he doesn’t wait long for a response before sitting down, not caring. “is the liquor here any good or am i just wasting my time?” he adds, partially eager to start conversation and also because he’s curious.

Boot Hill was never much of a choice for Amaro, not if he still wanted to strap a gun to his belt and call himself a deputy. For he wouldn’t be welcomed back in Michigan, not after what he did. But that wasn’t what he told himself when he drove down the dusty road leaving everything he knew behind- memories of his family, his childhood home, his local church.  He told himself it was temporary, just long enough for him to become a ghost by name and forgotten in the papers. But that time never seemed to come, no matter how desperately he waited.

Haunted by his mistakes. By his own past.

He thinks though as he stares down into glass of whiskey, that he spends too long feeling sorry for himself. Distracted by a voice, he nods an easy invite to the free chair. “I guess that depends, if you’re after anything other than tap or those three bottles you see lined up I think you’re choice out of luck.”

[amxrc]

{ K I M } ‌:

it’s not uncommon for her starkly contrasted jobs to bleed over into one another. she’s taken 911 calls from customers at may’s ranging from concerns about a pending earthquake, to mental breaks–folks claiming they’re losing their memory or some other staff member worried about a stroke due to some out-of-towner’s sudden onset of confusion. she even sees her coworkers come into may’s sometimes–breakfast after nightshift or a night of drinking. 

“yeah, generally if i’m not at the station, i’m here.” it helps that kim doesn’t have much of a social life. being a pariah from a young age does that to a person, makes them reserved. she’s never had an abundance of friends and her primary interest–though it waxes and wanes inexplicably–is finding out what happened to her family. it doesn’t make for fun dinner conversation. hi, nice to meet you. i’m kim liu–yes, that kim liu. it suits her just fine enough. doesn’t mean she doesn’t get lonely though and, she thinks, maybe she should get a pet. “we’ve still got a couple specials, if you’re interested.” after seeing them, she’s almost wishing she’d gone with the carne asada hash instead of her usual french toast, eggs, and bacon.

“back tonight?” she raises her brow. like any small town–or at least she extrapolates boot hill to be like any other town–there’s not a large staff for the sheriff’s department. it’s not uncommon to be offered a more than generous helping of overtime, which she has benefited from herself on more than one occasion. “jesus, amaro, are you tryin’ to make some last minute christmas money or what?” she asks with a smirk.

A cross hung from his mirror, even on patrol. Protection- from a lord who’d he imagine abandoned him a long time ago. A lord who stopped listening to his prayers when he came in contact with a thing sent from the devil. Or perhaps it was long before that- when he was nothing more boy trapped in the walls of a mobile home. Tin roof above his head, kneeling before the floral printed bedspread. Kneeling before the cross nailed above their bed. Praying to a god who’d never respond.

“Have you ever heard of burnout?” It’s an attempt of a jest, something that was still to come naturally from the man’s mouth. Ever since his town in Boot Hill he’d been isolated. From the outside world, and from the community.

An outsider. Even after then years.

But a town like Boot Hill chastise even their own, for being the unfortunate ones. Born into a life they’d have no control of. Amaro doubts he’d be any less an outsider if he was born in the town. “No need, eggs and bacon is good thanks.”

He allows a gentle laugh as Kim walks back over, “How else am I supposed to afford your tips?” It wasn’t that though, it wasn’t even Christmas funds. He had no one to spend it on after all. It was more peaceful when he was at work, the excuse to be doing something. Anything. He was thankful for. “The Davis boy needed some time, I think his grandma isn’t doing to swell. And I ain’t gonna stop the boy from having one last holiday.”

[amxrc]

{ S A L } ‌:

IT’S   A   LATE   HOUR   ,   and   it’s   these   hours   that   keep   Salvador   company   ,   even   as   the   inky   darkness   that   approaches   and   blankets   everything   in   sight   would   make   other   people   uncomfortable   ,   make   them   turn   more   lights   on   in   an   attempt   to   keep   the   darkness   at   bay   .      He   is   at   home   with   solitude   and   privacy   ,   or   rather   he   thinks   himself   of   being   at   home   with   it   ,   confusing   familiarity   with   comfort   .      In   these   hours   ,   he   reads   .      Sometimes   ,   he   watches   reruns   of   old   baseball   games   because   ———   well   ,   because   of   course   he   does   .      The   noise   is   sometimes   all   that   he   needs   ,   the   presence   of   sound   aside   from   his   own   within   the   four   walls   of   his   home   something   he   craves   for   but   will   never   willingly   admit   .

He   hears   the   scrunch   of   gravel   under   tires   first   before   anything   else   ,   a   break   in   the   silence   that   alerts   him   to   a   presence   he’s   found   to   be   a   salve   to   his   lonely   soul   in   the   decade   that   they’ve   come   to   share   together   :      a   first   friend   that   also   was   ,   for   the   longest   time   ,   his   only   friend   as   he   tried   to   fit   himself   in   the   image   of   normal   and   functioning   humanity   that   came   so   easily   to   others   but   never   himself   .

The   knock   comes   but   he’s   already   at   the   door   by   then   ,   already   going   through   the   motions   of   a   ritual   they’ve   done   far   too   many   times   to   count   .      ❛      Amaro   ,      ❜      he   greets   before   ———   ❛      Dios   mío   ,   I’ve   told   numerous   times   already   :   let   me   give   you   a   spare   key   so   you   can   just   let   yourself   right   in   .      ❜      He   swings   the   door   wide   ,   before   nodding   towards   the   inside   and   leading   the   way   ,   trusting   the   other   to   close   the   door   for   him   .      He   goes   in   a   brief   segue   into   the   living   room   to   turn   off   the   television   set   ,   before   picking   up   the   trail   back   to   the   dining   room   .      ❛      Can   I   fetch   you   anything   to   drink   ?      ❜

Breaths begin to measure, deep- they fill his lungs but his hands give him away. They always would. Trembling, ever since he was a child he’d know the tremble of his hands under the weight of the world. Gripping anything he could, he thinks would stop it. Fingernails digging into his arms as they folded cross, or into the fabric of his shirt. He claws and clings to something real. He reminds himself that this, this is real.

Standing here, humid night air swamping his lungs. The gravel crunching beneath his boots, and the ticking of his fan. The voice that fills his ears as a gentle comfort- routine. 

“I told you, I don’t mind knocking.” Even with a key to call his own, Amaro knows he wouldn’t use it. He could never bring himself to. Perhaps it was part of the routine he feared to lose, for ten years now he’s been able to ground himself when that door opens. The greeting he wonders if it is, or just the consolation of seeing another. Perhaps it’s just knowing that every time he knocks, Sal is there to answer. And that’s enough.

Following Sal through his home is easy, the familiarity- the ease it brings to his shaking hands. “Water would be wonderful.” Sweat still shines his forehead, and he shoves his hands into his pockets.

“There’s lots of creatures out tonight,” He knows it’s not the kind of conversations friends have, not the kind who had known each other for ten years at least. But he struggles to find his words, or his thoughts. All he can think of is the eyes in the dark. “Surprised I don’t hit one more often.”

[cosmere]

“just – just be good, alright?”

[amxrc]

{  S A L }

@antiquatus​

Tick. The fan on his roof rattles, clocking its rotation. Tick. He measures his breaths with it, sweat clinging to his back and soaking the sheets beneath him. A sheen cools his forehead under the imitation breeze the fan allows, it moves the musty air through the room. He tells himself it was the heat that woke him, but he knew that to be a lie. It would be the darkness that moved through his dreams- the thing out of the corner of his eye that darted in the shadows. The thing with teeth bared, and eyes inhuman. Tick. Amaro thought after these years he’d grow to live with it. And perhaps he has.

The moon hangs low in the sky as he steps from his confined apartment, but he likes that. The safety of claustrophobia. He drives the streets, headlights catching refections of animals in the bushes. Coyotes probably, but as the thoughts creep up he thinks of the ticking of his fan. Counts it. The seconds, the moments that were real. He was here, two hands on a leather wheel as he drove. And it keeps his thoughts at bay- long enough that is for him to make it to the familiar front step.

His engine rumbling to a halt, along with it so did his thoughts as his eyes lie on what had began to feel like safety. Taking a spare shirt he had strewn in the back seat he changes, a thought he’d failed to have before he’d gotten in the car. He never really was thinking after he first woke up. Stepping from his car he hears the gravel beneath his shoes, and makes his way to the front door. He knew Sal would be awake, he always was in these moments. Nothing’s changed in the ten years he’s known him. Yet he still knocks gently. Incase. And he counts.