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@finlayhall
( Brian Dietzen / Male / He/him ) — Finlay Hall has been living in Port Leiry for 3 years. They currently work as a Forensic Photographer, and are 34 years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a Hunter or if they’re connected to The Brotherhood. They tend to be quite stubborn and un-emotive, but can also be level-headed and selfless. — ( Bec / CST / he/they / 23 / none )
About ⌕ Look Book ⌕ Pinterest Board ⌕ Wanted Connections
a song of ice and fire + our characters
@kaliofruin, @therawend, @retrospectral, @cutthroat-service, @bloody-deliverance, @juniperscauldron
It gets worse; he's getting more replaceable by the second. What does AJ care for a photographer of dead and gone things? (At least Emo's got some hot boudoir potential in hers, for photographers he doesn't mind) Fucking twat, is what this guy is. Oddly enough, the janitor's warm under Astor's hand; it could be sweat, or flush, but he's running hotter than any average. It'd be easier to tell, without the gloves what's got him so feverish. Fortunately for the miserable git, he's saved by leather.
"Suggestion, mate." Not an insult. A kindness. "Tossing yourself off with your taco might've done you some favours."
He's not worth it; just a needless charity case.
Probably a sad fuck, too. But that's a dark, problematic thought that AJ flicks away from the forefront of his mind after he lets his gloved hand drop away from the individual; it's a powerplay and something sadistic that the photographer might not come back from.
Another, more amused suggestion: "Start walking away now, mate." a beat, "Go play hero at home, jacking off to your picture collection." a laugh, "Whilst I'll go burn another million I was gonna drop on Kenya, 'cause jackasses don't do fuck all, do they? You absolute fucking wanker."
Walking away sounds like a perfect idea, even if Finlay bristles at the idea of following any of this man’s suggestions. Right now, talking is just fucking things up in a way he can’t backtrack from — not an uncommon occurrence, but he’d been so much better lately about keeping himself in line.
(Well, really, no one person should have the means to—)
He took a step back, forcing himself to derail that train of thought. (Argue more with the rich man about money, that’s clearly going to go well for you.) He had to leave, just walk away from the situation. Finlay glances at the man one last time, just to get a better image of another face to look out for, and starts off in the other direction. Back to where he’d actually parked. More importantly, somewhere away from this flaming dumpster of a conversation.
(Fucking hell, I just wanted dinner.)
“Survival instinct? You’re putting everyone around you on edge, sugar. Relax. You look like you could use a break, maybe even a little more than you usually do.” Usually. Because, for some stupid reason, he’d been letting himself pay attention to things like that, the ways this guy held himself and acted in different situations. Body language was always a little easier than words for him, especially with the current mix of a ravenous crowd, the thudding in his head, and only one ear being usable, and this guy’s ever-present coffee scent, dark circles under his eyes, and the way he tended to lean on things as soon as he had a chance screamed sleep deprivation. “Been running into you all hours of the day, when do you find the time to sleep? Or anything else you allegedly do?”
He didn’t really doubt that the hunter’s comments about his sex life were honest, but they sure did sound exhausting. Already, Lucas was fighting the urge to just put his head down and start snoring.
The image the hunter was painting was... helpful. Interesting enough to keep him awake, resting an elbow on the table and placing his chin in his palm, drumming fingertips along his cheekbone. He’d basically made up his mind about trying to see what else Fin had besides the tattoos on his arms, but hearing the rationale behind them was something he hadn’t expected.
“Figured you’d be micromanaging that shit, with how much you put into your... everything else.” He gestured to Fin’s outfit, meticulously buttoned and put together in a mimicry of what Fin thought someone here might dress like. A guy like that, he assumed he’d care a lot more about something more permanent. Hell, none of Lucas’ piercings besides his ears were permanent and he still didn’t really trust anyone with a needle but himself when it came down to it. “You don’t have any ink you regret?”
“Thanks for the notes, I’ll be sure to take it to heart.” He wasn’t sure how he felt about the guy picking him apart like this — with the way he wore exhaustion, people didn’t tend to notice if he was doing worse. (He also wasn’t too sure how to take that ‘sugar’ the wolf had so easily dropped. He wants to find it teasing, but it’s too casually dropped to come across as hurting.) Insomnia had been tightening its grip on him sporadically these last few months, but he was clawing his way back to the closest he ever was to normal. “I sleep when I have to,” he said, because it was true. If he had to sleep, he would. When he didn’t, he just found ways to mitigate the exhaustion. “And I manage my schedule just fine, don’t you worry. I’ve got a lot on my plate, and I’d like to get through most of it before something gets me someday.”
He watched the wolf rest his head in one hand. “You’re real concerned for my health for a guy who gave himself a concussion for fun. No offense, I feel like I’m doing better than that.” The idea of anyone putting themselves through that kind of abuse still boggled his mind.
Some people could never quite seem to move past the idea of him having tattoos — let alone anywhere near the level he had. “No,” he said. “I don’t go in blind, by any means, but I know I don’t have a sense for… artistic things. I trust the people I’ve had work on them.” As much as he could stand to trust anyone, at least. And though it was no surprise to be called a micromanager in how he dressed, it did always throw him to hear it taken as any measure of vanity or appearances. “I’m just a pain in the ass about how I dress because I’m particular about what makes me feel comfortable,” he said. “I mean… I like how it looks, but I care more about how it feels.” It sounded stupid out loud, but he just could not stand the fit or feel of most ‘casual’ wear.
Regret was a concept he always struggled with. He never liked dealing with the consequences of his bad decisions, but he also didn’t see much point in wishing he had done things differently. It wouldn’t change them, so what was the point in wasting time wanting a different what if? “No. I like what I’ve gotten.”
(Well…)
“…there may be a few details here or there that I would do differently now. But that doesn’t mean I dislike anything I’ve committed to.”
Sticky situation, this was. He knew, deep down, that whatever had made him walk away at Infamy was still possible, that letting a win turn into a bender that turned into scoring with a hunter, with this particular hunter, who he actually liked against his better reasoning, was going to trigger something.
He also knew that a threesome with some vampires was going to probably have ended up way worse for him. Honestly, fucking Fin was the healthier choice here, if he really thought out about it. Less biting and bloodletting, more actual fun with a guy who he admittedly liked a lot more than he expected.
When it came down to it... it was taking a lot of willpower not to let it reflect on his face how much he liked watching Fin stand there and process what he’d said, how his expression shifted from stiff to confused to interested. And he couldn’t exactly lie to himself and say that this wasn’t a good look on him, swooping in to save the day and leaning into their flirting thing more than he ever had before.
“Sure, but mine’s a full outfit. You’ve just got that headband. Can’t say it looks bad on you, but the least you could do is loosen up a little more.” He reached up, hooking a finger into the collar of Fin’s shirt to bring the man’s face closer, loosening his tie in the process. “See? Better already.”
Honestly, attending the rave was already asking for trouble. Why not enjoy the trouble he’d already found?
“A lot of layers for a rave. Aren’t you hot?” The concern wasn’t completely false, but it was definitely more of an excuse to get his hands into his suit jacket, one hand on his waist and the other down to the waistband of his pants, pulling up the shirt that was so neatly tucked in. “I’d be hot. Probably couldn’t wait to get out of all those clothes. Want some help with that, sweetheart?”
A hand drew him closer, and he followed obediently. “Yeah?” He said. (Oh, he’s so ready to hit his mark.) “You wanna loosen me up?” With hands already getting friendly, Finlay decided he had permission enough to shift his touch to Lucas’s chest. Fingers crept under the open top, ghosting over the man’s skin.
“I am,” he murmured, just happy to have those hands on him. “Help me, please.” He wasn’t really all that hot, not with the cool October night surrounding them, but the attention left him feeling warm enough. And the sweetheart— he was already so close to the other man’s lips, was it much more of a stretch to meet? It was softer than he meant it to be — he wasn’t typically so tender in hookups, but he just melted against Lucas. A hand came up to cradle his jaw, holding the face that had been haunting his nights for too long.
Was this a want? Need seemed the more correct term. It’d been too long since he’d sought someone else’s touch, and after countless nights aching for this to happen, it was fucking heavenly. Bodies pressed together in the dark, but he wasn’t pushing Lucas back against the wall — he just draped himself against the man, as if he couldn’t bear to leave an inch of space between them.
"Exactly! You're gonna miss it, 'cause you don't know! I can help!" This guy has admitted he's out of touch with the real things walking among them. They're going to miss something and then, it'll be a big mess. Tomás knows it. He doesn't want the same press everyone else gets, because that's without all the truth, and the nitty gritty. He just needs ten seconds, if he could just —
Priestley could try justifying further, but the grumpy man doesn't want to budge.
I won't interrupt!
And the officer buys Tomás' ruse for half a second. It's enough to send the writer off bolting towards the active crime scene. Just a glimpse, okay? Just a glimpse—!
Slam.
Oh. Ow. Ow, ouchie.
His back hits the deck with a cry of surprise, a hand that'd caught him quickly and wrenched him backwards. He'd gone off balance, and now, he was staring at the sky, with dancing little swirls in his vision, and an angry, grumpy man staring down at him. His pad and paper has fleed his grip, and stamped into the ground next to him, somewhere. A hand slowly rises to rub at the head that'd cracked on the floor.
"Why would you—"
A strained groan, as Tomás tries to roll over to get back up. His back aches, electricity streams up and down his spine. A vision that's convinced himself that he's going to walk a concussion off, maybe. He can hear his mother's voice in his head, and his brother's — airing about a lawsuit, for injury. Tomás isn't like that. More whine, than protest: "— need to do that..."
He may have fucked up here.
Suddenly the guy’s hitting the ground with a harshness that shouldn’t come anywhere near a non-hostile human (even if he is annoying), and Finlay’s abruptly clear that was a bit of an overreaction. He can’t be risking lawsuits for the station like this, and he doesn’t need to incur another round of employer-mandated anger management sessions.
He didn’t think this through. Finlay grimaces, and crouches down to grab the pad and paper. He hands it back to the man. “Sorry,” he says, quietly, and it feels hollow coming out of his mouth, but he does mean it. “That was… not what I meant to do.” That’s at least a concussion. (Fuck.)
Finlay stands and offers a hand to help him up. “There’s a first aid kit in the M.E.’s van,” he says, and he hopes the kid picks up on the chance for what it is. He doesn’t like crime scene interference, but he’s done enough damage here, and… he remembers how it felt to be so determined to find answers. He can throw the guy a bone after what he’s just put him through. “Come on. Let’s get you an ice pack and make sure you don’t need a hospital.”
finlay’s answer- the same as everyone else’s, at least finlay doesn’t fret over him, makes him feel a little more like an adult. maybe more than what he deserves, given that he’s sat here, in someone’s office, begging the universe for his papa back- undoes a seal that had been firmly latched. it starts letting out steam through the cracks, the kind of hissing that comes pressed out in rushed words.
“ right, yeah. ” gabriel stands up, sudden. he feels how uncomfortable and stark the contrast of his behavior is to the shield of silence that he usually dons for hunting. “ thank you, sorry. i- um … he’s just … not talking to me, so … ” he also doesn’t mean to let that out, but it’s a cold, and sharp realization that lets him know that he has to leave. and, like a survival instinct, he does.
“ anyways, thank you, again. let me know if you need anything else. ” he nods to finlay. “ see you around, yeah? ”
Finlay doesn’t relax from dodging what he thought was a bullet. This conversation has rapidly become a minefield that neither of them wants to cross. Something is hurting so obviously in Gabriel, but if his only option for emotional support is truly him — well, then, if that’s the case, unfortunately he’s fucked, but Finlay’s pretty sure that’s not the situation.
He wishes he could help. He wants something to offer the kid to give him some comfort, any indication that things will be alright. But Finlay’s never figured out how to fix broken things; all he’s ever done is grit his teeth and bear it until the jagged edges soften, or until the callouses build and make it all matter so much less. And it doesn’t feel particularly inspiring to tell someone that it doesn’t get better, it just is. That sometimes families shatter, and instead of putting the pieces back together, everyone just goes their separate ways.
So all he does is nod, and say, “I’ll come by for photos tonight. See you then.”
Of all the ways he expected to have this encounter end, Fin swooping in and saving his ass wasn’t one of them. He already suspected the guy was stalking him, before, with all of their semi-coincidental run-ins, but he hadn’t seen the man in a week or two, and thought he might have lost interest in whatever it was that they had going on.
Putting two vampires down didn’t really look like interest, per-se, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t glad to see the guy out and about again. Or just to see him again at all. He was starting to miss hitting on him every few days.
“Yeah, I’m fine, they only nicked me a bit.” Good thing he'd shoved them away as soon as he did. A second longer, they might have hit something vital, instead of just grazing him. “Thought they were going for something way different. Disappointing.”
“Can’t say I’m disappointed to see you, though. Where’ve you been these past few weeks? Got another monster to hunt?” He asked. Enough time spent hitting on this guy in civilian spaces, it was easy to forget what a hunter could do, would do to supernaturals if he had a chance. He ran a finger along the wound on his neck, already stitching itself closed nicely beneath his fingers. As much as he hated that hunter shit, it was... difficult to ignore that it was kind of hot, seeing this guy in his element. He pulled his attention away from the disintegrating bodies of his would-be assailants, focusing on Fin. “Don’t tell me, actually, I might get jealous. What’s... uh...”
Way to miss the elephant in the room. Alcohol, adrenaline, and the sheer surprise of this turn of events had pushed the thought of the two slowly-developing ash piles from his mind as he finally picked up on the obvious. He really hadn’t noticed the guy’s costume, or attempt at a costume, was just cat ears and a full suit. He pointed at the headband, letting his eyes flick over the rest of him to look for any sign that there was an effort made to look like any sort of recognizable character. Who was he even supposed to be? “What, no collar? Didn’t want to go all the way?”
He could see the wound closing on the wolf’s neck (stop looking at his neck like that), and let himself feel a small rush of satisfaction at a job done well. It didn’t do much against the chasm in his chest, but a fleeting second of anything beyond nothingness or misery was a respite, however brief.
The inevitable teasing was sure to come — Finlay only managed to hold onto the man’s words to look for the right time to excuse himself and find somewhere else to smoke. One of his (many) faults was the way he let words melt together when he didn’t want to listen, but he forced himself to focus now to get himself off the hook of this conversation faster. But then…
(You don’t have hopes left to get up. Why are you entertaining this?)
But then… Lucas had observed his absence. Wondered where he’d been, like he was claiming to miss him. (It’s not true. It can’t be, because why would he miss you?) It was all just a joke, it has to be, because he said I might get jealous, and, well… why? Why would anyone, let alone a werewolf, want his attention? He didn’t dignify the questions with any attempt at an answer. Lucas wouldn’t care, and Finlay wasn’t sure what he’d say if he had to sum up this last month.
(He thinks this has been an absence, well… then this has been a trial run for when you’re gone.)
He should’ve been ready for his costume to become a conversational centerpiece. With all the times the wolf’s commented on his appearance, he really should have, but he still finds himself speechless for a moment at the teasing comment. On a better day (of a better month, of a better year, of a better life), it would’ve made him consider a laugh, or more likely an eye roll. Instead he stayed quiet, eyes flicking over Lucas’s leather-clad form, contemplating the faint flicker of want kicking up in the pit of his stomach.
(How about this? If it really is flirting, you can get what you want for a night before leaving this godforsaken town; if it’s not, it’s not like you’ll be around much longer for it to come back and bite you.)
Finlay stepped in closer, and took the edge of that open top in hand, tracing the pad of his bandaged thumb over the leather. He couldn’t feel the texture of it, only the dull pain of a half-healed burn pressing against a bandage as it smoothed over the material. “Putting something in a collar traditionally means it belongs to someone,” he said, a little absently. His right hand found its place at Lucas’s hip. Just resting against the leather and metal accents decorating his little outfit. “I don’t.” He glanced up at those (beautiful, soft, warm) eyes. “I also only dress up as little as I have to.”
He tilted his head slightly, letting himself take in Lucas’s features at this far more personal proximity than he’d experienced before. “You’re not exactly specific, either. Hot, and a cowboy, sure, but I’m not the only one ducking the theme.” His touch was so carefully restricted to the clothes the man wore, even if he ached to get his hands over every inch of Lucas in a way that felt so painfully and pathetically obvious. “Not that I’m complaining… unless complaining opens a few more closures.”
(Please, tell me I can have this. Let me get what I want just once in my life and I’ll never ask again.)
gabriel nods, taking in the information for safekeeping and a genuine intent to make finlay’s life easier, in anyway he can. additionally, it just makes sense. and then, it’s done, now gabriel only needs to let go of the weight that something may be lurking in the woods behind his house, the one he’s been entrusted to look after, while everyone else is keeping themselves safe. it’s fine. that, too, makes sense, because gabriel’s always been good at bearing things.
the boy forces himself to let it go, but it only means that he’s moving onto something else, leading finlay with a question that he doesn’t want to ask. but, mostly, he doesn’t want to ask because he already thinks he has to- but if this was the missing piece, he’d never forgive himself. so, gabriel has to try.
“ … you haven’t, um … heard anything from my dad, have you? ”
You haven’t heard anything from my dad, have you?
It’s the sort of question he’s been dreading, anything that dredges up the fear that Gabriel knows something that no one should. Finlay’s not a particularly anxious person, but there’s a few things he carries with him that he really, truly cannot stand for anyone around him to know.
He has to remind himself that this is an innocuous question — he’s someone that knew Adrian, and Gabriel’s looking for answers in the wake of an unfortunate thing like this happening. He’ll try any path that may lead to something.
“I haven’t,” he responds, in his same stoic tone. “But if he reaches out, I’ll let you know.”
He doesn't say anything more - and that feels like a blessing wrapped in a curse. Andrea finds that she wants him to say something else - to give her a reason to be angrier, to be more hurt. But he doesn't. He simply.. moves. Her leg aches. There's a phantom tingling and burning on every inch of her scars that feels more psychosomatic than any actual sensation. Dumbfounded, she watches him put the DVD back where he'd found it - watches the tremble in him.
It flares up in her: how dare he be anxious, how dare he react to this in the way that she should?
She glances to her side - to the records she'd been so happy about just seconds prior to seeing him, and leaves them behind as she adjusts her cane and makes her way towards the door. An expanse of negativity grows in her chest, encompassing the cavity that had been made the night of the lab attack - growing and growing with despair and anger and guilt.
A part of her wants to look back as she leaves, to see distress on his face and delight in it - but she finds that she can't make her head swivel as she steps onto the sidewalk. She needs to find her coven.
That will help. They will understand.
gabriel forces himself to swallow what finlay says. no matter if it’s his job, it’s still extra that he wouldn’t have on his list of duties that gabriel imagines to never ending. something he wouldn’t have to do had gabriel just minded his business. but he’s too old to argue with hunters that have ten years over his head. he knows better, and it’s plain disrespectful.
he’s old enough, too, not to preen when finlay says good. however, he feels a weight slide off of his shoulders. gabriel nods, he will keep it up. “ around seven thirty, i think. i left the house then, and i hit it after only about five minutes or so of walking. ” whatever survival instinct keeps his spine strung tightly upwards to the ceiling of finlay’s office, is the same one that keeps his mind sharp enough to recall this sort of thing, he thinks. gabriel’s thankful for it.
“ yeah, okay, thanks. ” he’s thankful for finlay too. the boy doesn’t get up to leave, but he considers it. instead, he shifts on his chair, batting away questions he knows finlay can’t answer, or doesn’t want to. he just needs to be an adult about this. it’s just a simple question. gabriel holds the words in his mouth. “ is there anything else, or … ” just one more thing. just one more thing. “ can i ask another question? it’s not about … this. ”
Finlay scribbles 7:30 AM down on the bag, and the date, then carefully transfers the sample out of the ziplock into the paper evidence bag with his gloved hand. "Paper is better for biological samples," he explains without waiting to see if Gabe's even wondering. "Plastic isn't breathable, so it traps moisture that can cause problems down the line. It was a good choice for transport, though." He doesn't want to discourage him from taking samples down the line. "I just need it to match how we prepare our evidence."
Not that the other lab workers pay too much attention to what he does. Photography eats up a lot of his time, and offering to handle the brunt of the paperwork (and morgue visits) buys him enough gratitude to have a blind eye turned to his... personal projects.
He assumes this is the end of it, but Gabe doesn't get up. "Yes," he says, though he wonders what exactly he's agreeing to. Of the younger hunters he's interacted with, Gabe is... a bit of an unknown quality. Both in what's happened with him lately, and who exactly he is, behind those searching eyes. He's so quiet, in a thoughtful way. There's just no way to guess what he's thinking. "Ask away."
TRICK! All that music's got your blood pumping! Unfortunately, that's a bad thing in Port Leiry; Vampires drag you into a corner, ready to make a snack out of you! Some hunters catch sight of it - not on their turf.
@finlayhall
A job well-done, his part of the Harford plot handled, and one new costume later (Sorry Flick and Codie, you're gonna be one sister down for the night) and he was free to hit the dance floor, the punch bowl, and whatever else he could get out of this.
Say what you want about Avi, and those Warwick wolves probably would be after tonight if everything went well, but he could throw one hell of a party.
Swirling lights, drinks strong enough to get a werewolf tipsy (and other stuff, whatever he’d taken was hitting hard), and music so loud it had him almost glad he could only hear from his left side, and this was turning out to be the kind of fun that would leave a monster of a headache the next morning. The best kind of fun, if it was up to him, the kind that would guide him into any other sort of situation.
What number cigarette was this? Finlay glanced into the pack as he stepped outside the party for yet another break. Whatever it was, there weren’t enough left to make it through however long the night promised to be, and he couldn’t substitute their relief with alcohol (he didn’t much trust himself with moderation, given how the Gala had gone).
Somewhere down the wall, he heard a scuffle. Finlay glanced up, unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, to see someone backed against a wall by two figures. He dropped the unlit match and tucked the cigarette into a pocket as he edged closer to the confrontation.
“Hey, wait, I’m a werewolf, idiot!”
He tried to ignore the spike of adrenaline that voice sent through him. As he moved closer, fast but light on his feet, he slipped the pistol from the holster under his left arm, a short-range weapon intended for wooden bullets. The vampires (two of them — hungry, potentially intoxicated, definitely not listening to what Lucas was saying) weren’t much thrown by the wolf’s attempt to shake them off, and were closing back in. One attempted to put their hands back on Lucas.
Quickly corrected by a shot to the back. Right in the heart. They slumped and collapsed, skin already beginning to grey. Their comrade whipped around to face him, lunging at Finlay with impeccable reaction time. Thankfully, the vampire was too addled or just too dumb to think of pulling the werewolf into the fray. The vampire was fast, but instinct beat their intention — before they could close the gap, Finlay fired twice again, both hitting the chest and dropping them too.
Violent vampires dispatched. Lucas Potential victim safe. His job was done. He glanced around, scanning the area for anymore hostiles.
All he saw was quiet, open darkness. The buzz of danger had faded from the back of his mind. Only the soft thrum in his head that came from one nearby werewolf.
He looked back up at Lucas. It’d been a few weeks since he’d seen the man up close, and about as long since he’d quit watching the man altogether. Lucas looked… good, in a way he didn’t feel he deserved to look at right now. He forced himself anyway, chancing eye contact with the man across the yard or so of space between them.
“Are you okay?” He asked, his voice subdued, as he tucked the gun back in its holster. (You would’ve done this for anyone. It’s not any different doing it for him.) He couldn’t bring himself to comment on the costume, not around the worry resonating so deep within him. The best thing to do here was to affirm Lucas was okay, and leave as soon as possible.
“It happened in town, yeah. No idea what details there are on it, though, but I can see why not being able to get those details could make a man tie himself to a city he doesn’t need to be in.” Another throw, another hit as close to the center as this damn curse would let him be. Which wasn’t very close.
“I can’t really blame him for being curious. If I was in his shoes, I’d be doing the same.” Good thing he wasn’t in them, then. From what he’d seen of his client’s work clothes, he wouldn’t be able to make it to steps in those deathtraps. “Not that I have a brother to lose like that. Only child. But still, it’s leading him to some dangerous places, things he really shouldn’t be messing with.”
Finlay nodded, watching another green dart hit its unimpressive mark. "People would do a lot for answers," he said, after another sip of his drink. "Might not be the smartest things, but it's hard to blame them for searching." He flicked idly through open cases he could recall off the top of his head - really just a portion of what he had encountered in his time in Port Leiry.
"I've been there. It's not just curiosity," he said, lining up his next shot. "Curiosity you can curb, that... that's harder to sate." Outer ring of the bullseye. "If someone's determined to go to dangerous places, though, chances are they do better with a guide. If they aren't charging in blindly, then sometimes they get a look at things and change their mind." Finlay picked up his glass and shrugged. "Other times, they keep going. But at least then there's the choice, instead of just consequences."
“Who said I was gonna be fair with you? The guy who tried to cave in my skull’s got his own problems, you’re the one making my head hurt now.” He was almost surprised at the man’s willingness to so quickly abandon eye contact, but he took it in stride.
“Sure, you’re twitchy around me, but that’s a different kind of twitchy. This ain’t that.” Lucas wasn’t going to unpack the fact that he’d paid enough attention to this guy to pick apart some of the nuances of his body language, but he was right. Fin at Infamy was different from Fin at the fight club, which seemed to be what Fin might have been at the gala before a half-dozen drinks and a murder had him showing off his tattoos.
Speaking of tattoos... “Oh yeah? Got something unexpected you wanna share, sweetheart? I’m all ears. Or, ear, I guess, I only got the one good one, but you get the picture.” A hand went up, habitually going to mess with the piercings on his bad ear, and finding only flesh, freezing for a second before his memory caught up with him. Right. He’d had to take them out for safety before the fight.
Getting those back had to be step one, after he left the table. He felt kind of naked without them, and not in the kind of way he might want to be around Fin, or anyone. His hand went back to the table, fingers running along a groove in the wood to make up for not being able to fiddle with his piercings. “I’m curious, though, how does a guy end up with as many of them as you say you’ve got? Most others I’ve seen, which isn’t a lot, thank you very much, are just the little symbols, nothing else. You got a whole sun and moon thing going on up two arms, if I'm remembering right.”
Finlay rolled his eyes, but... the frustration he normally took as its cue didn't spur it. Something warm bloomed in his chest at the jab. He refocused his gaze off in the distance for a moment, before dragging his eyes back to the wolf's chest. "Yeah, well... no complaining, then. You asked for it."
You're twitchy around me.
He tried not to think of Lucas making him twitchy. "You remember where we are, right? Of course I'm going to be a little on edge. It's called having a survival instinct."
His eyes flickered up to follow the movement of Lucas's hand. Piercings, right. Not currently in, but then it wouldn't be the most sensible to have in a fight. He'd seen them in person before, and in photos - how exactly did that work, for a wolf? ...This wasn't the time to consider that. “No, I won’t spoil anything for you,” he said. “You can decide if you think it’s worth finding out. Then you can let me know if it's worth the wait. I've never really done the whole anticipation thing, so feedback would be great.”
(You want something else after him?!)
He took a sip of his drink, quieting a pang of... something he didn't know how to respond to. “I never said I had many. I just said to not make assumptions.” He settled back into his seat. “But I’ve got an sun and moon on the forearms, yes.” The whole… celestial bodies theming hadn’t been his idea initially, but the imagery had stuck since getting those down in Georgia. There was something nice in the balance — he didn’t understand magic much, but the principle behind the symbology was simple enough to grasp. “Not my first, and not the most traditional, but...” he shrugged. “I’ve lived a lot of places. Things change across them. I don’t invest too much when I know I don’t stay anywhere too long, so I’ve ended up giving the artists a lot more say in how they want their inks to be used. I haven’t been disappointed yet.”
Really, a lot of them bordered closer to magical tattoo than they did Brotherhood mark, but the lines muddled when their inks came from witches, and with the way Finlay moved Brotherhood factions. His first mark was clearly one — he’d thought Brooklyn would stay his home, back then, and he’d wanted the imagery in tribute to his mentor. But the rest had been… far less dedicated. Slight tributes to the places he’d been, favors from witches he’d worked with, chasing impulses to feel something… and never again had the reason been I want this place and this faction to be my home. Never a mark in the truest of senses.
who: @goldenveins-silas where: the Halloween rave when: early(ish) in the evening (sometime before midnight)
Tonight was purely professional, and he meant it. Actual decorum, unlike how he'd handled himself at that goddamn Gala. If he was going to leave town, he'd better do it on a high note. There was no guarantee of peace here, and he'd made no promises to leave the weapons at home. Not with supernaturals on the prowl, ready to take take a bite of the mass of inebriated humans out here.
It was... unbearably loud, though, and Finlay had found it most manageable to hang around the edges. Earplugs were a no-go - he had to stay alert, and deafening himself just cut off another avenue of input.
...the bar was a little closer to the speakers than he wanted to be, but... he could have one drink tonight. At least to hold so he didn't look quite so out of place on the outskirts of the party. Finlay slipped through the crowd and slid in at a gap in the bar. Bartender, bartender... oh.
He recognized the man behind the bar. Human, at the Gala... Finlay flicked through mental files until he hit on Silas. Had he promised to talk to this guy sooner? ...it was possible, but it didn't much matter now. Whatever might be dragging this man into the realm of the supernatural, he wouldn't be around much longer to be of any real help.
Finlay settled a hand on the bar, bandaged fingers idly tapping at the counter. "Are you serving?" He asked, as the man stepped over to meet him. "I'd just like a martini, please."
“ thank you. ” gabriel starts with that, before finlay’s question. because he means it, really. the boy has no qualms with telling him so. “ i mean it, i really appreciate it. it’s not … trouble for you, or anything, is it? ” like he could take back what he’d given to finally, like he wanted to. it’s better off his plate to worry about, he’d take the duty back once he knows for sure what he’s dealing with- or what he doesn’t need to.
finlay distracts him with the sight of him donning protective wear, so gabriel cuts in. “ i wore gloves this time, i swear. ” then, he hears his question. gabriel, nods. “ this morning. ” better than beyond that, but, still he doesn’t know everything that finlay’s thinking right now, even though he wants to.
as for a sign of struggle, “ um … ” gabriel doesn’t have as much certainty. in a way, he does, but describing it isn’t as easy as what’s going through his head. “ do you want to see? or i can come back with pictures, or something? ”
then, he decides against hesitating. “ anyway, i think there was signs of struggle. tracks, too. they seemed human, i followed them out to the road and then there weren’t anymore. ”
"No," he says, flatly. "It's not trouble. It's my job." It's a simplified answer, but Finlay's learned how to trim down his tendency to over-explain what he really means. It is more work for him, and his plate is never empty, but the work needs done. He's got the resources and the experience. This is what he brings to the Brotherhood, above all else. So it's not trouble, even when it's another thing to keep track of.
Besides, if he wants something done right, it's near always got to be done by him, because most hunters don't understand the rules of collecting evidence and never seem to pick up on the intricacies. "Good," he says, to Gabe's statement. "Keep it up."
This morning is... painfully vague. He taps the pen against the bag. "Morning like what? 6AM? 8? 10? Don't need a direct time stamp, but I need an estimate."
He gives Gabe a moment to decide what he wants to say, and sure enough, he comes up with an answer. "Human tracks leading to the road..." he murmurs, scribbling that down on a blank sticky note. He'll type up a formal file later. "I'll come by when I get off work and get some photos." He knows, he knows, that the offer was meant to help. But he knows himself too well. All he'll do is judge how unprofessional the photos are.
His compliment sounds like someone who knows what composition is, rather than someone who parrots the word after hearing it mentioned to them and pretends to know. She's heard every variation of every type of compliment and criticism so far - little bits of memory leaking through from the trip to New York, but not quite enough to piece together whole strings of memories. A professor here, a critic there, an ex-lover elsewhere.
"Thank you." Polite, as much as she knows how to be.
She studies him for a moment - pushing the limits of her ruined memory to try and see if there's anything there. When nothing comes up, she's both relieved and frustrated in equal measure.
Moving right along, she watches him pick up a business card and quirks an eyebrow. "Well now, I have two questions - are you a photographer yourself? And, well, are you interested in my services?"
He glances up from the card, back to the photographer that seems to be at least partly the source of the mild headache he's feeling. (Sometimes he wishes he could snooze the damn thing. Warning's nice and all, but it's just not that essential right now.) "I am a photographer," he says with a small nod. "PLPD Forensics. My work is an internal affair, for the most part, unless it hits a courtroom."
Saying that, it does hit him how little he documents anything of his own. Cliff has a whole album on his phone, sure, but he was hard-pressed to call snapping a quick shot like that photography. The camera only comes out at work or on hunts. Then again, there's not much in his personal life he finds worth preserving.
The services has him glancing at the photos surrounding them, then landing back on her. "No, uh," he swallows. "I prefer to stay behind the camera." It's not like he can claim to be all that unwilling to be seen by others, but something about the idea of an image like that existing outside of the moment... it makes his skin itch. He's always been a touch odd about modesty. "With any subject matter, not just this. I've always been a better photographer than a subject. Just a matter of preference. But, your work is really great, and I..." he flips the card over in his hand. "It never hurts to keep a card on hand, in case something comes up. What else do you shoot?"
