[ jeremy allen-white, cis-male, he/him ] - was that KENNETH CRAWFORD i saw by the lighthouse today? i heard that the TWENTY-EIGHT year old who has been in nightrest for HIS WHOLE LIFE and works as a KITCHEN MANAGER & COOK AT MAMA’S has a reputation of being STEADFAST, but also SELF-DEPRECATING. they reside in FOG GATE & people in town usually associate them with A CHEAP BOTTLE OF WELL WHISKEY, THE STING OF GRABBING A HOT PLATE AND NOT LETTING GO, A BLACK MILK CRATE THRONE TUCKED BESIDE THE DUMPSTER, & A LOTTERY TICKET SKITTERING OFF INTO THE NIGHT. let’s hope the killer doesn’t go after them next.
at the tail end of his freshman year, life flipped upside down when his mother suffered a severe stroke. things we never the same after that. his spot on the baseball team was dropped in favor of hospital visits. new clothes were put off in order to pay the bills. homework fell to the wayside; grades along with it. crawford could only give so much. his father should have given more; should have given anything, but it seemed as if he’d almost taken it as his way out. his first foot out the door.
crawford always had an iffy relationship with the church, but he’d held out up until that fateful night in december. his father had always been a gambler – horses, chips, lotto tickets. that last one finally showed up. 140 million, the papers said. crawford never did hear the exact truth from his not; dad had gathered his things and left before he’d gotten the chance. never looked back. seventeen and crawford was alone. he stopped believing in god after that.
he’d gone by k.p. – short for kenneth patrick– up until the midst of high school. then, as his father pulled back, he did too from that given name, the one that he and his father shared. it became crawford. just crawford.
from the outside, he was the boy that barely made it to graduation. everyone’s guess to fail. they weren’t wrong; his grades had suffered, falling as he begged for more and more hours behind the dish pit at the sunset diner. he found himself oddly thankful then that he hadn't gotten accepted to wardwell on scholarship. it'd been his mother's idea to apply, a why not try sort of thing. on top of that, college was never an option anyway. taking care of his mom became the number one priority.
in time, crawford graduated beyond dish, learning to prep for the kitchen, upgraded to a cook, until he recently became kitchen manager. he's still learning what this new responsibility means and how to handle it.
just a little over a year ago, his mom suffered a second stroke and sadly passed. it’s been a complicated thing for him to process, sad because he misses her but also… he’d been missing her since he was fifteen.
between past medical and funeral expenses and the cost of living, crawford’s car has fallen in terms of priority. good ol’ gretchen had a habit of breaking down from time to time; never enough to junk her but always enough to threaten it again and then some.
when he’s not at his trailor in fog gate or the diner, crawford likes to spend his time getting tattooed at permanent record, tossing back drinks at deadlights, and sitting out in the bed of his truck, whether its putting up with the ambiance of shipwreck beach or just hanging back in mama's parking lot.
crawford’s main mode of transportation is gretchen, but he’s also got red: a motorcycle he’d pre-emptively inherited from his mother.
crawford grew up living the local trailer park in fog gate. his family had a short stint in a more spacey apartment when he was in elementary school, but that was just a year and half. then his father got caught and charged with a class b theft and a year behind bars. he’s been back in that trailer ever since.
his family was known to have records. both of his grandfathers had had their stints, then his father. even his mother with a few acts of shoplifting, though she’s mostly wasn’t welcome in certain places anymore. didn’t make much a difference now. but crawford was pretty proud that he’d managed to keep his nose clean, though he’d definitely had some close calls with a bar fight or two.
location: royal cove yacht club
open to: everyone ( @nightreststarters )
she wasn’t used to these kinds of events. galas to be more exact. weddings? absolutely. those were fun. but this? this wasn’t her cup of tea. with deciding to not go at first, it was her parents who had practically forced he to attend with them. she felt out of place there. like she didn’t belong at these sort of events. and maybe she didn’t. her parents? they would attend them. but hana rarely did. if anything she would always stay home. standing near the door to the room, she took a sip of the glass of water she had. “this gala is nice and all, but an auction would have been just as fun. maybe a date night auction. that or maybe a carnival.” she noted before taking a sip from the glass of water she had.
.
“Nice is one word for it,” Crawford said from his spot leaning against the doorframe, the French doors having been staged open. He knew that in theory he should be more thankful, given that everyone had turned out tonight to help Mama’s but there was this layer of resentment with him that just never went away, that had him looking at the evening through a pessimistic lens. How many of these people were here for their own egos? “Yea, I’d skip out on the date one but a carnival, yea, fuck, that sounds a hell of a whole lot better. You could put a few people here in a dunk tank, make a shit ton.”
— “i love dressing up, but i don’t think this is my scene,” with two champagne glasses julia leaned against the wall next to crawford handing him the other. “if it wasn’t for mama’s i wouldn’t of showed up.” though she could of bought the ticket and stay home, the idea of being by herself put her on edge. “how are you though?”
.
“You can say that again,” Crawford practically groaned, a finger crooked into the collar of his shirt, tugging at the uncomfortable way it rest against his throat, “minus the dressing up. I feel fucking ridiculous.” As an employee of Mama’s, he was gifted a ticket to the event. There wasn’t much he could contribute aside from standing around like some sad show pony, a visual representation for everyone there— the charity case. “I’m... I don’t know. Fine. Be a lot better if I had another whiskey,” he remarked, looking down at the glass he had clutched in his other hand, a thin layer of amber liquid left at the bottom. “What about you? Feels weird asking anyone that right now if I’m being honest.”
She hadn’t meant to fall apart, nor for the moment that finally finished her to be out of the sheer relief she felt that maybe Crawford wasn’t lost to her after all. That he was here, and he was safe — his hand on her arm, and the familiar scent of sweat and cigarettes assuring her he was alive. She could only feel the full terror of this whole experience — the fire, the fear he’d been hurt, the dawning dread that she’d been rejected — as it suddenly began to lift, leaving a hollow void in her chest for everything else to immediately rush into. Every excruciating feeling she’d numbed herself out to, surging in like a tidal wave she had no way of stopping.
“I texted you,” she exhaled on another sob, too caught up in the undercurrent to care about where they were, or who could hear them. “And your phone- I was so fucking scared.” She was more scared than she had any right to be. Scared for him, and scared of the way he made her feel. She wasn’t supposed to care so much; she wasn’t supposed to miss him when he was never even hers. “I thought you were dead, and then— either way it hurt. Kahretsin, everything that’s happening, and you’re what I was thinking about!”
The last thing she needed right now was someone else to care about, another person to worry over, another potential death to mourn. And the way she felt about Crawford… She didn’t know what it was, but it felt important and heavy — too heavy to carry on her own, but that was exactly what she was doing. Because he loved Lu, and she— “I can’t do this.” This, any of this. She could feel her lungs constrict as it all threatened to consume her. “This town. Everything that’s happening. I can’t- I’m so fucking scared.”
.
His soul could not take any more of her three words. Now, such an innocent phrase— ‘I texted you’ —except it was so much more than that, wasn’t it? It was a reality that, despite every hateful part inwards towards himself, Crawford had been forced to recognize as the flames claimed Mama and he remained standing: people had worried and people had cared. A phone that he didn’t care one bit about, burning at the edge of his station, likely still playing a song into a sixth pan until it just.... died out. Smothered. Burnt. Undelivered. Unanswered.
Crawford lost focus in his gaze, his eyebrows both drawing into a slant as a wrinkled formed deep at the bridge of his nose. His hand weighed heavier on her, not that he had let go. It might’ve broken both of them if he did, the caring now apparent. “Fuck,” he exhaled, his hands squeezing against her warm skin before sliding down, pausing at her wrists before, “I’m sorry. My phone. I didn’t grab it. I didn’t realize...” how much worry would be held within it. Ask him even then and Crawford would have lowballed his answer in how many texts there were, how many missed called, the voicemails, it all.
Sadiye did make it more real.
Whatever blame you wanted to give it— the whiskey that flowed through his bloodstream, the lingering intensity of the town and the fire, or maybe even something that had been burning for longer than that— something had cause Crawford’s hand to lift off her arm, moving until it fell gently upon her cheek. “Hey, look at me.” His thumb touched at the crook of her mouth. Those blue eyes of his had gotten closer, his words urging for her forest colored ones to look up, to look at him. “Look at me, I’m right here.” Soon enough that thumb of his had drifted, pressing lightly to the center of her lips. “Look at me,” he continued, “I’m not going anywhere.”
What was happening, it scared him too. It was a truth that he could not, would not admit to. Crawford had been forced, always, to be strong. It was how he survived. It was how he would continue to.
“Of course it is, who else am I supposed to get white girl wasted with?” Kyle asks, as if the answer is obvious to begin with. Truthfully, he’d never been much a birthday guy, but if there was any time to do get in the spirit, surely it had to be while he was stuck in a bar with half the town. He took a sip of his own beer, nodding his head at Crawford. “See, that’s the spirit.”
.
“I don’t know, your ex over there is looking pretty fucking sloshed,” Crawford commented, eyeing a certain blonde as she sat propped up on a barstool, practically being held up by the person beside her. He shook his head, not necessarily judging, as if they hadn’t all had their fair share of nights like that. Guess some people really liked basketball. “Also about one of the only ways I’d get through all this,” Crawford commented. As if on cue, the people around them cheer, someone in particular sounding very shrill. “Alright, yea, time to drink up.” And like that, he tipped the contents of the bottle back.
kat let out a dramatic gasp as he turned down one of her shots. “ forgot you are such a beer guy. ” she giggled as she took a seat next to him. a smile plastered on her face as the alcohol started to hit her. after taking the shot that crawford declined and quickly threw it back, her hand found its way to his shoulder. “ how you feeling tonight? you enjoying the game? ”
.
“Not what I’d call myself but alright,” he scoffed, shaking his head as his eyebrows scrunched; it was hard for him to imagine himself with that label, thinking only of the types with their IPAs with long, shitty names, talking about hops and stuff Crawford didn’t care about. After taking a sip, he went on to offer his substitution. “If I’m going liquor, I’d just rather sip it; pour me a tall glass, but I’m not knocking it back.” He glanced at her as she did, though. Shots might not be his thing but he was glad to see it not go to waste. “Honestly? Couldn’t give two shits about it. It’s something to do , though.” He quirked his brow, “Are you enjoying it?”
Pierce stood near the bar, watching the game from afar. The crowd was close to the television, talking loudly as they waited for the second game’s clock to start. He wasn’t really focused on anything, lost in his own thoughts—and he nearly missed the words directed toward him. “Hmm? Oh—hey!” he greeted, recognizing the other from the night of the fires. “Yeah, that’s me.” He glanced towards the kitchen, brain making assumptions and connections. “You been working tonight?”
.
Crawford smiled softly, an odd sense of pride in being right over something as silly as getting a stranger’s name right. He’d rewarded himself for it, in part, with a sip of whiskey— though every ounce of that glass had been earned behind the line. “Oh yea,” he nodded. “Mostly covered fry tonight so if you got the wings like every-fucking-body else, that was me. Don’t tell me you were the one that put in 10 orders all flats. Wouldn’t be good,” he said, shaking his head.
taking a deep breath, hana made her way towards the kitchen with the plates she had. already, some people were ordering a second serving of food. thank the lord she had put in a big order for tonight. placing the dishes by the sink, she nodded her head at his question. “oh they are. both alcohol and pop alike.” she didn’t expect it to get this busy there. but she was prepared. “i’m hoping we slow down during halftime.” and give them a chance to just breath.
.
Crawford shook his head at her. “Gonna tell you right now, I’d kill that hope if I were you.” His hands busied themselves with collecting the tickets coming off the printer and taking the time to hang them up along the line, little bits of yellow going down halfway. “The game stops and people will start having time paying less attention to the ball and more attention to the menu. Gonna guess we’d be good to drop five orders of wings now at least.” He shook his head, wiping his hands with the rag at his station. “I’ll buy you a beer if I’m wrong.”
“For you,” Kyle let out, bringing two beers to table before taking a seat. Hearing what had happened to Mama’s was upsetting to say the least, a restaurant that had once helped him get on his feet burnt to the ground. But he was glad Crawford was okay, even if there had been one who hadn’t shared the same fate. “You’re off the clock, and it’s my birthday. So drink up,” he added with a grin.
.
“So what, is this my present to you now? Drinking this?” He asked, sat back in his chair, the drain of work showcased in how his shoulders had fallen. There was always energy, however, to reach out and grab a beer, a free one especially. “I mean, trust me, I’m not going to fight it. Times this by five or so: those are my plans for the night.”
LOCATION: rhee’s, sometime during the second game
CLOSED: @kattcalled
Crawford didn’t care much at all about the games; if he had a sport, it was baseball and that was only just approaching spring training. But the buzz around the restaurant was a good excuse for a drink. Speaking of, he shook his head, dodging a shot glass slid his way. “Yea, I don’t think so. Doing pretty alright with my beer here.”
LOCATION: rhee’s, in-between games
CLOSED: @mphillipsfms
“So he really did it, huh?” Crawford nodded his head towards the screen, the camera capturing the new local star, Coleson currently surrounded by teammates and coaches, sweat beading on his forehead and a smile pressed to his lips. Maybe it shouldn’t have been, but sitting on that barstool, it was odd for him to recognize the kid as someone from Nightrest. Just felt like there was too much success around it. “Good for him.”
LOCATION: rhee’s, the start of the second game
CLOSED: @pierce-walker
Crawford had just stripped himself of his apron, pushed out the doors of the kitchen, and headed towards the bar, finally and officially off for the night. It was still a lot getting used to, working for someplace else. The quick access to a post-work-whiskey was a strong selling point. Already with one in his hand, already his first sip taken back, he turned to acknowledge who stood on either side, what company he kept. HIs brows furrowed at the sight of the one, familiar.. at least more recently. “It was... Pierce, right?” he asked before going in for his second take of the amber liquid.
LOCATION: rhee’s, back of house
CLOSED: @hanaxrheex
It had been nice being back behind a grill, normal even, though the items he was in charge of now weren’t the same burgers he was used to flipping. Folding yet another quesadilla, Crawford looked up between the space in the line, catching Hana’s gaze. “They drinking as much as they’re eating? Fuck.” He laughed, shaking his head as he concentrated on cutting the item into slices, forming a plate and passing it over. “Halftime’s gonna be a bitch.”
Her previous callous indifference seemed heartless now. She knew the names of everyone who had died, knew some of them personally as far back as she could remember. Woody, Vivi, Amoni… She and Crawford had seen first hand the devastation of Jacob’s car crash. But Sadiye had been so determined to cling to the palatable narrative, to believe in random shitty chance instead of watching all the puzzle pieces fall neatly into place. She might not have believed it before, but she did now: the people of Nightrest had a serial killer in their midst, and no one was safe…
She knew why she didn’t run — why she would stay here, fighting, despite whatever safer action logic screamed at her to take. No one here truly needed her, but she needed them: her family, her friends, the community that had never abandoned her even after she left them first. For so long, she’d done anything she could to prove she was self-sufficient, that she was more than this town and her father’s name, but as everything crumbled around her, she finally saw the truth.
She was weak. And she was needy. And she always had been.
Her facade of defiant confidence had taken several blows over the last few months, and it was only sheer stubbornness that had kept it standing. It seemed Amoni’s death and Crawford’s rejection were the final straw that had it all crumbling down. She wanted to be stronger, for this to be the moment she finally proved her worth, trial under fire, but she was bowing under the pressure. Poor spoiled rich girl, she could imagine people saying; for the first time in her life, she’d finally encountered problems daddy’s money couldn’t fix. It was pathetic — and maybe so was she. All she knew was that she’d never felt so powerless before, and it terrified her…
Fuck, what she needed more than anything was to be held by someone, and despite herself, what she really wanted was to be held by him. She would never admit just how scared she’d felt when she thought that he was dead, and seeing him now, looking at her with something she could almost mistake for concern, nearly fucking broke her.
It was his casual mention that his phone was ruined that finally did her in, her chest seizing and then loosening with an unexpected, hiccuping sob. “You fucking asshole,” she muttered, no wiping frustratedly at an escaping tear, even as another one followed it.
.
There she goes again, surprising him with just three words. But it wasn’t even what she said that had launched him forward, scooted nearly off his barstool, his body just barely sat on the edge as his feet touched the grimy floor. It was the sob that racked through her. It was the sight of that tear. He didn’t need to understand anything to know that something was wrong, whether he did it or someone else. And maybe against better judgement but ruled by the simple need to comfort her, his hands fell upon her arms, resting near the crooks of her elbows as he drew in.
“Hey,” he breathed, hoarse in his concern. The whiskey had already made his gaze unfocused but then those blue hues danced across her features, never able to land anywhere. He felt dumb, like he was putting together one of those million piece puzzle and couldn’t find even two that went together. Not even a corner. “Fuck,” he whispered softly, not even meaning to say it aloud, just frustrated that he didn’t know. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
His thumb brushed against her skin. ‘What did I do?’
Julia’s life had went up in flames more times than she can count. The first time she felt like she couldn’t breath and everything was on fire was when her mother got diagnosed, and when they finally came close to putting out the flames, she passed away creating an inferno the Davises couldn’t come back from. Something in her father snapped that day, they buried his soul alongside her body. Julia lived in her own person hell for several years with that man, only to be betrayed by the person who saved her from it later in life. But each and every time she was left by herself to suffer, she focused on healing herself though she did a horrible job at it and you could barely call that healing. And now when she looked around everyone else was suffering and Julia didn’t know how to be there for them. She didn’t know what were the right words, she didn’t know how to comfort them when she was in dire need of it too.
Helpless. She felt helpless as she listened to him and it didn’t matter what she had to say when their reality was, now literally, engulfed in flames. You can’t sugar coat it. “God, that’s vile. How did we end up here?” They somehow ended up in a twisted game with no set rules nor players. Who woke up one day and decided they can choose who lives to see another day? Who was next on the list? How long was the list? Julia’s mind kept piling question after question, but no answers. “Don’t - please don’t do that.” she couldn’t watch this, she couldn’t let him fall in this hole. “Something could of happened and we’d be burying two people. You can’t blame yourself or think about ‘what ifs’, because if someone did this,” she paused for a second, bringing her hand to point toward what was once the diner, “if someone wanted this to happen, chances are they would of taken you with her or done it the next day. I know what blaming yourself can do to a person, and it’s really exhausting and pointless.”
.
When it came to grief and blame, Crawford was like someone being told not to touch a hot plate: warned but they just can’t help but reach out and grab, maybe even pretending that they can handle it. So despite her urging, his brain would travel back to the what-if’s. Maybe not then but certainly later when he was back at home, sitting in the silence with nothing but himself. “I’m not blaming myself,” he muttered instead, turning his hand over in his lap, casting his blue eyes down upon his palm. “I just think I could have done more... that’s all.” Callouses stared back at him, small cuts from the knife he never let leave his station— he figured it was gone now. His heart sunk. Another lose, even small. How many were they all to collect? “Not sure where I’m going to go now,” he added. Nearly everyone knew that Crawford had worked at the diner ever since he high school, over a decade beneath his belt. The two were synonymous. What was he without it?
