oh, johnboy

“One day you’re seventeen and you’re planning for someday. And then quietly, without you ever really noticing, someday is today. And then someday is yesterday. And this is your life.”

[johnvalentines]

evethorne:

“And what’re all them boys and old men to me?” She cooed. He would get no denial, because she would not refute the truth. The full truth was that Eve separated men into four categories, two of which she had vocally listed. The remaining half was comprised of bores, and Adam. Sometimes men fit into two groups, and occasionally there were outliers, like John, who were neither young nor old, certainly wasn’t Adam, and hadn’t proved himself entirely dull yet. Cassidy Briggs was another that had yet to fall into a category, but he was a different game altogether. “Call B.S. all you like, but it don’t mean I gotta like them lookin’ as much as I do you.” Her own laughter punctuated the sentence.

“And you an’ I both know a man’s promise don’t mean nothin’.” The filling of his words was hollow, and Eve was knocking on them to prove it. She was grinning even before he assented. A woman’s prerogative firstly may have been to change her mind, but secondly it was to know when she was about to win.

She floated backwards as John let her hand go and began to undress, shooting a strong, playful whistle from between her lips. “Lookin’ good, Valentine.” Eve leaned the back of her had into the water, closing her eyes momentarily as she turned to the sky, face-to-face. The sound of body toying with the water picks her head back up.

“Don’t chicken on me now!” She treads water in place. “Go on, then.  Get in the water and I’ll – - give you a kiss.” Just like that, without even waiting to wrap it up and place a bow on top first.

He rolls his eyes at the wolf-whistle, though he’s grinning as he puts his biceps through a mockery of a gun show. John isn’t really one to preen - he’s a proud man, sure, but his vanity is mostly in check. “Well, you’re welcome to look. I’m just showin’ off what the good lord gave me.”

If there was any doubt left in John’s mind, it is pushed aside with Eve’s teasing comment. And the idea of that particular reward certainly doesn't hurt any. “I ain’t a chicken,” he says, determined. It still takes a few moments, but eventually John slips off the bank and plunges into the freezing water. 

His heart seizes with fear when he catches a glimpse of the inky depths, his imagination providing him with all manner of horrors that could be down there, so he swims over to Eve before he can change his mind and high-tail it back to dry land. It feels safer with her, at least. No monster from the deep could take out the indomitable Eve Thorne. “There. I’m in,” he rumbles begrudgingly, “and I gotta say I don’t like the water any better up close.”

He treads water, watching her, trying to keep his mind off whatever else might be in the lake with them. “So, did I earn that kiss?”

[johnvalentines]

francis-bishop:

“Woah, someone is a little insecure eh? You should pop by my office, I give treatment for that sorta of thing.” Francis replied, taking a step back as the handyman got to his feet. He was bigger and more broad, and the doctor had enough degrees to know it wasn’t a wise idea to be within punching distance.

Bishop didn’t give back the wrench, instead sticking his finger in the end with the hole and twirling it around as he whistled and paced a little from side to side. It was a terrible habit of his to wind people up when they gave him the chance, and may, did John always make it so easy. “Why don’t you ease up, eh? I’m allowed to walk where I please, I don’t remember signing a paper to the lord saying cause I’m a doctor I can’t look at women. Even in the early hours.”

“What about you, hm? Doing nigger work like usual? Do they at least pay you?”

John scoffs, “Maybe it’s you that’s insecure, swingin’ your dick around like you are. What do they call that? Little man complex?” He notices that Bishop backs away from him, but he reasserts the distance between them with a step of his own. “I’ll have my wrench now. I got shit to be getting on with.”

“Not at Legs. Here, if you ain’t buyin’, I think it’s safe to say you ain’t lookin’ neither.” It’s not John’s place to bring it up, he doesn’t even work here, but it’s bad enough that the girls have to deal with creeps like Bishop when they’re on the clock, let alone at every other moment of the god damn day.

There it is, the ebb of rage that is barely allowed to catch in his veins these days, instead manifesting itself in a dull throb of pressure that aches behind his eyes. John has spent so long repressing his urge to fight, and hasn’t got any easier. It’d be easy to step to Bishop and bust his nose out the back of his head though…

No, he can’t, he’s not that man. You ain’t a thug, John Bishop. “Of course they fuckin’ pay me, I wouldn’t be out here busting my ass if they didn’t. It ain’t the fifties any more, Doc, in case y’all forgot.”

[johnvalentines]

blessedmabel:

                    “ — Uh, she doesn’t live here anymore. She’s um, dead.”

“Oh. Shit,” John rumbles awkwardly, shifting his feet and feeling like a total idiot. “I didn’t - I, uh, I‘m sorry for your loss.” 

If he sounds insincere, it’s not without cause. Mrs Dunn had been a nasty old bitch, strict with the neighbour kids and calling down the wrath of Heaven on their heretic souls like it was her right to do so. John’s only here because her roof is missing a few shingles, and he was the only guy desperate enough to fix them. Guess nobody thought to cancel his appointment after she popped off.

John rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish as he admits, “I ain’t ever been on this side of this conversation before.” How many times has he been mistaken for his father over the last thirteen years? Too many. And it doesn’t get easier. “I... should I go?”

[reckless-tunes]

Visit Original Link

[johnvalentines]

reckless-tunes:

“We’re just two lost souls Swimming in a fish bowl Year after year Running over the same old ground"

[tylerposey]

[johnvalentines]

evethorne:

Work harder than that. Something lit up behind her smile, her eyes. She was a living jack-o-lantern (the candle was hellfire). 

           ( Oh, poor man – didn’t he know the story of her childhood, wandering into the bayou on a                                                        dare?                                           Or how about the challenge her namesake had answered?                      Never challenge an Eve. They got too much curiosity and too little common sense                                                   to turn anything down. )

“Than I best clean my closet of it,” She answers. “How else would you appreciate me in all them other colours without eyes, John-Boy?”

The sun spread dots of light all across the water, dancing in patterns even artists couldn’t replicate. Eve smiles, really, at his joke (truth) about her danger - it isn’t near sugar but it’s less lupine than before. Mirrors the kind of shape a regular twenty-two year old should take, exempting some sharp edges that would never go away. “Smart man. I got good aim. – - But alright.” She agrees. “We’ll say you ain’t.”

Eve figures it isn’t in human nature to like displays of emotion. It was why everyone looked away from women crying alone at tables and kept their eyes on the ground when couples started screaming. She watches him and understands what he means, the not-knowing, but she does nothing about it - nothing conventional. She moves the attention elsewhere, changes the subject. “Well come on, than.” Both her wet hands take his dry, sun-warmed one as she leans back with her feet still pressed into the bank beneath water, using the leverage to pull at John. Not enough to take him under, but it’s strong, steady. “You can find out. Bet we can get to the bottom of this thing and come up with a rock or a handful of sand or somethin’.” Her eyes are sparkling like the sun on the water. “And I can do better at gettin’ you to blush from in here.”

                  John-boy. 

Well, nobody’s called him that in a very long time. 

                                         Fuck, he misses Casey. 

“You tellin’ me there ain’t a harem of men in this town that could admire you in the event that I went blind? ‘Cause I call bullshit, Eve Thorne.” Beguiling, charismatic Eve is everything that her namesake promises, and half the town knows it.

He lets her catch hold of his hand, though when she starts to carefully tug him forward, John distantly thinks of the beginning of their conversation where she promised she wouldn’t drown him. Right now the pair of them wouldn’t look out of place in that one scene from the Odyssey. Perhaps John should’ve tied himself to his truck.

“I said I weren’t goin’ in there,” John reminds her, but even he can hear that his voice lacks conviction. He’s got to now, as a matter of principle - he can’t be the guy that won’t face his fears after blurting them out like an idiot. And he’s sure no man alive could resist Eve when she looks like that. He sighs, shakes his head, chuckle weakly, “Aight, you win. Hold on.”

Pulling his hand from her grasp, John makes short work of his boots and socks, and then gets to his feet so he can strip down to his boxer shorts. His clothes now deposited in an untidy pile on the grass, John sits back down, dangling his feet in the water.

The closer he gets to going in, the more he thinks about the recent deaths that’ve plagued the town, panic settling heavy in his stomach. What if there’s somebody (or some body) at the bottom of the lake? “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.”

[johnvalentines]

elisshart:

“I was gonna try since I’m here an’ all.” That and she didn’t have a ride back yet. The cook that’d drove them both out there, to help her bring lunch for a few of the people working, had found himself a girl to spent his lunch break with while Elissa was stuck waiting for him to finish.

She gripped her elbow with her free hand, the hammer hanging loose from her other hand in front of her as she shifted her weight. “Unless you want me to go but I am a bit handy since I do most of the improvements at my place. I can’t really afford anyone else so I have to do it myself.”

Another pause as she glanced up from the ground. “It’s up to you.”

When he realises that the thief rummaging through his toolkit is only Elissa, he feels bad for snapping. "Sorry, doll. Thought you were one of the... yeah," he says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "The girls keep comin' over here to, uh, chat."

"Are you followin' me or somethin'? Seems like I'm running into you everywhere just lately." Why else would she be here? Elissa doesn't seem like the type to wet her appetite at a place like Legs - not that it would prevent her from getting on the force if she did. Rumour has it that Lincoln Cane is here more often than he is at his desk.

John shrugs, "If you really ain't got anything better to do. Or anyone."

[johnvalentines]

francis-bishop:

Francis smiled as he walked through the trailers around what you could consider ‘Legs’. It was a rather sordid place to wander during broad daylight for sure, but image wasn’t exactly what one tried to cultivate when not part of the church-loving brigade. After all, missing sunday service automatically made you a heretic of sorts, so dragging your name in the dirt a little more by strolling in an open air brothel didn’t mean too much. Anyway, the doctor felt it was a good way to wake up in the morning, and since he ran on his own schedule, there was nothing wrong with starting your day with watching skimpily dressed trash strutting about. It was free too, no one was going to charge him for an ogle or two. 

He was intending to be in and out, before people began to offer their wares out, but like a bee pulled in by nectar, he decided to stop by the nearby handyman who was working, intrigued by another dick owning male being around at this time of day. But mostly because it provided a chance to meddle and poke around someone he wouldn’t usually talk to, something that could be considered the doctor’s profession as well as morbid hobby. He leant down and pulled out a spanner, twirling it around his hand with a faint whistle.

At the other’s ‘advice’, he merely smirked tossing the tool in the air and catching it again. “Useful in what type of way? If you mean undressing, I’m afraid I don’t quite fit into that business. For once my clothes are too expensive.”

“Watch your mouth, Frank. I ain’t queer,” John grunts in response, getting to his feet in order to meet the the ‘good doctor’ head on. Fucking Bishop, he’s a real creep, always smiling like a shark and trying to bait people with his bullshit. He wonders how people ever feel comfortable enough around him to sit on his leather couch and spill their guys... maybe it’s different for church folks. Or rich folks.

He holds his hand out for the wrench, taking pains not to scowl. It’s not like he actually needs it right now, he just doesn’t want the shrink getting his greasy hands all over his stuff. “What’re you doin’ round these parts, doc? I didn’t think you took house calls.”

[johnvalentines]

evethorne:

“Tryin’.” She repeats, stressing the word to prove it hasn’t worked yet. Eve was always trying to make men blush, to see what their soft spots were - trying to see if she would ever find a man that was all hardness, forged by whatever hellfires had made her. “Thought red’d be a pretty colour on you.” It’s just play, rolling him in her flat, open palms rather than pressing at sunken spots with her thumb. Eve likes John, insomuch as she likes people that aren’t Adam. It helps that he’s handsome. That always helps.

“Maybe.” The answer is short, warm like spring. Holding a greater truth. “But you’d be a lot less interestin’ if you were.” Eve was always wanting. Wanting too many things. That’s why it never felt like she got enough.

She reaches a hand up to slick back her wet hair, raising an eyebrow along with a side of her lips as he answers, looking up at him.

“You don’t like deep water?” There’s a genuine curiosity (a genuine amusement) in her question. Her eyes turn away, off into the distance, the town too far away to hear them. “Huh.” Another beat, silent for her thought. Eve couldn’t register fear, couldn’t understand it. It was a curiosity to her, foreign and sticky. “Is it the idea of somethin’ bein’ down there, or nothin’?”

“Well you’ll have to work harder than that. I ain’t exactly got the pigment for rosy cheeks.” Not without you feeling ‘em, anyway, and that ain’t happening. John gets the impression that Eve just likes to play with her food. “Yeah? Well if it’d look pretty on me, it’d probably burn people’s eyes out on you,” he comments idly. 

                  Red would suit her. 

                                     Danger, danger.

He snorts a laugh, “In that case, we’ll say I ain’t. I just have regular self-preservation instincts and a healthy respect for the barrel of a shotgun.”

For a moment more John watches her, her small hands pale in the dark of her hair, but then he shakes his head and looks away. This time he does look embarrassed, eyes resolutely fixed on a small hole in his shirtsleeve as his pride smarts at his admission. A man isn’t afraid, and if he is, he sure as hell doesn’t admit it in front of a pretty girl with nerves of steel. “Both. Neither. It’s the not knowin’ that’s the worst - like that thing with the dead cat.”

[johnvalentines]

sara-rabe:

She rests her elbows on the railing of her porch, frowning slightly as a flake of paint crumbles and falls onto her lawn. Sara makes a mental note to hire someone to repaint it soon, but in her state, mental notes didn’t last long. She was sure to forget before she went back inside and then she’d find herself discovering it again before forgetting once more. It really was a vicious cycle, she thought. 

“I will drink what I like, thank you very much,” she snapped, though her tone really held less bite than a toothless dog. She usually didn’t start picking fights until the sun starting going down and it wasn’t there quite yet. She paused for about a minute, manicured figure picking at the white paint before she looked back up at the stranger and what he was doing. Maybe he could paint it. “Are you some kinda handyman or just some gardener or somethin’?”

John just smirks at her, lifting his shoulders and getting back to clipping the hedges because he really doesn’t care what she does. Sure, it’s very early in the day to have started on the strong stuff, but John Tandy’s pretty widow is a bit of a mess these days, if you put any stock in town gossip. He usually doesn’t, but the evidence is here, plain as day. 

“Or somethin’,” he gestures in the direction of his pick up with his shears, to the truck bed full with the tools of John’s trade and the slightly faded paintwork on the door that announces his business information. It used to be his dad’s name printed there. “Could fix up that porch for you, if you want. Lick of paint and a few new balusters to replace the rotten parts of your rail and it’ll look right nice.” John can see the flaking paint from here, always hyper-aware of things he knows he could improve.

[johnvalentines]

inthegardenof-edenreily:

                                              All the girls had been giggling about the handyman bent over Margot’s porch.  At the time of his arrival, Eden had been well, busy. If that’s what you wanted to call a not-so-cheap seven minutes in total. There was barely an ached between the junction of her thighs and the scent of sex was faint, hardly there at all. But it cost just the same as a good ol’ fucking had so the brunette sauntered out of the trailer a good few bucks richer.

                                              Snippets of the handyman’s arrival met Eden as she moved to deposit Margot’s share of the makings. Few of the girls had gone of their way to flaunt their talents his way while they worked, hoping to entice him to their little piece of heaven at a price. He wasn’t a regular at Legs, and everyone wants to be the one to break a saint.

                                             And there here was, his denim-clad ass greeting her as the young sex worker made her way to Margot’s trailer, the roll of notes safely tucked away under the small swell of her chest. Her gaze caught sight of his tool box, innocently open. She could see various instruments of work there, and Eden’s curiosity got the better of her.

                                                Picking up a strange twirly looking thing that didn’t look unlike what Eden usually used to open a bottle of wine, the girl blinked in surprise when a deep rumble of a voice sounded, catching her off-guard. “I though you lot were meant to have your ass crack on display,” she commented, completely ignoring his warning.

John straightens with a quiet huff of laughter, though he tugs at his t-shirt to make sure he’s still decent. “You’re kidding. If it got out I’d been hanging round this place with a builder’s bottom, my mama’d woop me from here to Jackson County.” But in that case, maybe he should try it sometime - at least it’d get her out of the house.

He holds out his hand for the corkscrew extension the young woman is examining, a tool that’s largely useless when it isn’t connected to John’s powerdrill. Could cause a lot of hurt in the wrong hands, though. “’Sides, I think y’all see enough asses in your day-to-day without adding mine to the list.”

“You need to get in to Margot’s? You’ll have to go around if that’s the case, these stairs ain’t safe yet, not even for a skinny little bit like you.”

[johnvalentines]

tommycrowe:

Awful eager—a phrase that only applied to Tommy when it came to fighting or getting something pretty into bed. So at the man’s suggestion, he could only shrug; a half shrug, one shoulder raising almost imperceptibly. Not an apology, but an acknowledgement. A sigh escapes him. He’s so tired, but he can’t stop himself. For the past twelve years, things were solved with violence; if someone said something about him, he’d find them in the showers and beat them with a sock filled with soap. Or a he’d corner them in the cafeteria, slip a knife through their uniform. Or he’d get his friends—old friends, best friends, his boys from The Outside who’d found themselves in the same yard—and he’d teach them what not to say to Tommy Crowe. By now, it’s a knee-jerk reaction. To control it, he has to think. And thinking isn’t something that comes naturally to Tommy.

“Ya would be too, if ‘n this shit was happenin’ to you,” Tommy grunts. “Even the fuckin’ cops wanna get rid of me.”

It’s a sad truth, but truth it is. No one much likes him in town, but the cops are the ones who hate him the most. They think of his release as a personal insult, despite only a handful of them actually having been around when he was first incarcerated. Whenever he sees them, lounging around town, they look at him like dog shit on their boots. When people start hurling insults his way, they don’t even move; they just raise their eyebrows, a little smirk playing on their lips. He’s never once been a friend to cops, but he’s not used to being their enemy.

“Out of every fuckin’ one here, though, ya might be the only one that could understand, huh?”

Bigots and racists flocked to the force like moths to a flame. All they wanted was the freedom to do whatever the fuck they wanted, which was mostly being an asshole with a gun and the law on their side. This guy, they probably hated him on principal. Made assumptions about him based on the color of his skin. That sort of judgment ran parallel to the way people though to of Tommy, when they saw his tattoos, his scars; except, those assumptions were right. Tommy’s dangerous, he’s documented most of the shit he’s done on his skin so that everyone would know. This guy, he was just born into it. Fuck that.

“Who the fuck is Huck Finn?” Tommy asks, voice tearing out of him like a warning shot. “And what did he ever do to you?”

John shakes his head at that. 

                                          If it were me...

The thing is, it could have been him, and it still might be one day. He tries to tell himself that he doesn’t believe in his ‘curse’, but deep down John is terrified he’s the one that killed those people. Dewey, Casey, his own god damn father - a list of tragic accidents with one common theme. Him. 

If John was in Tommy’s place, out on the sidewalk and picking fights with strangers after maybe killing some innocent white folks, he knows wouldn’t live to tell the tale. He doesn’t say so. “You sound surprised. You made ‘em look real stupid when you got out, Crowe, so whether you’re a murderer or not, they either want you dead or back in your jumpsuit. It’s more convenient.”

He honestly doesn’t know what to make of the ex-con. John’s gut is churning, mostly out of fear (hello, the guy could be a murderer), but there’s something else too. Sympathy? Does he really feel bad for this asshole who just walked out of jail like other people walk in the park? If he didn’t do it... 

“Suppose I could,” John agrees, albeit reluctantly. It’s not the same. There’s nothing like being black in the South. “But I ain’t ever been to jail.

“With that in mind, though... you know it ain’t exactly good for me to be seen standing here shootin’ the shit with you.” The woman who had been peeping at him earlier is notably absent from her window, the lace still stirring slightly in the draft caused by a hasty retreat. What if she’s calling somebody? He’s sure as hell not getting named as a co-conspirator, misplaced sympathies aside.

He pauses though, lifting an incredulous eyebrow at Tommy’s lack of recognition. “You didn’t do The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in school?” He asks, realising how stupid how stupid that had been immediately after he’s said it. “Whatever, it’s just a book, and it ain’t worth the read.”

[johnvalentines]

As promised, John has found time in his schedule to fix the damaged steps outside Margot’s trailer, and has set up camp there with his tool box and a pile of wooden slats. 

It’s not difficult work, not really, as long as he doesn’t allow himself to be distracted by the... uh... scenery. He’s never spent a dime at Legs, and he’s not about to start now, but all the hot young bodies milling about are making it a real fucking problem.

“Unless you’re planning on making yourself useful, you can go ahead and put that back,” he says gruffly, hearing the rattle of tools behind him.

[johnvalentines]

evethorne:

She liked using full names. It gave her more syllables to imprint with her teeth. Hearing it returned to her was rare, but amusing. Her lips curled, a half-moon, Cheshire cat shape.

 “I always did like you.”

Eve avoided his hand over the water as she moved to the bank – it was too light, too sweet a touch, and she didn’t go near things that didn’t leave bruises – and rested her arms on the land, then put her chin on her forearm. She chortled, looking up at John. “Should be, probably, but there are bloodsuckers a lot bigger in town than the ones in here. You scared of ‘em?” A lazy pause, her feet kicking under the water. “– Or me?”

Everything Eve does calls to mind the image of a predator. The way she drags her words like she's testing them with her teeth and even her smile making John think of gators or snakes. It's no wonder she's right at home in the Bayou. Still, he finds he likes her well enough - at least she's interesting.

"Tryin' to make me blush?" He chuckles, picking at the flecks of paint that've dried underneath his nails. The thought is warming, though, all joking aside. Part of him still wants to impress this cool, dangerous girl, unattainable as she is. It's a ridiculous feeling on a grown man, so he squashes it.

John watches the way she avoids his hand as he considers her question. Each of those things would require a different answer: pond leeches, no, church leeches, maybe, and Eve... "Do you want me to be scared of you?"

It's not beyond the realm of possibility. There's something about Eve, about both of the Throne siblings realy, that merits more caution than John would afford to the average citizen in town. Perhaps it's the threat of the sawn-off shotgun he knows she's got stowed away in their trailer. She's like those pretty, poisonous fruits that fairy stories always warn against - and for good reason. "Either way, you won't get me in there. I don't like swimmin' in places I can't see the bottom of."

[johnvalentines]

sara-rabe:

          The drinking had started early in the morning, as was all too typical for the blonde. She tried not to count how many drinks she’d had since that would mean she would have to come to terms with it and reality wasn’t something she dealt with well, especially when it came to her drinking problem. All she knew was that she’d passed being able to drive somewhere around noon and she definitely wasn’t getting any more sober. Luckily it wasn’t like she had a job or any other commitments, so she wasn’t too worried.

          Grabbing her glass off the counter, she decided to go out and get some fresh air. That was healthy, right? She straightened her sun dress as she stepped out, still sober enough to bother with getting it down below her backside. The sun hit her skin nicely, warming up the chill from the iced drink in her hand. Taking a few steps out onto her porch, she spotting someone not too far away that she was certain had to be watching her.

          “What are you lookin’ at? It’s tea,” she drawled. Long Island iced tea, actually, but that was just being pedantic.

This part of town kind of freaks John out, what with it’s perfect, cookie-cutter houses and lack of kids trying to kick each other in the street.It’s not often John finds himself in this neck of the woods, but today he’s doing a spot of gardening for one of the nicer old ladies in the area - you know, one of the ones who'll compliment him on how hard he works for ‘a man of his background’ instead of straight up hollering ‘blacks are lazy’ - and damned if he’s going to turn down that money.

He’s just strimming the hedges that line the woman’s front garden when a pretty blonde in a short dress comes stumbling out onto the porch of the house next door. John swears he only looks her way for a split second, but she’s on him just as quick, calling out in defence of her choice of beverage.

If that’s tea then I’m the fucking Batman, he thinks, noting the little slur in amongst those lazy Southern vowels. Thankfully his mother didn’t raise a fool, so he denies it with a shrug. “Didn’t say it wasn’t. Drink what you like, ma’am, it ain’t nothing to me.”

[johnvalentines]

darcy-shep:

“We’ve all gotta dream big, right?” Darcy’s grin broadens, a cigarette hooked in the corner of her mouth, amused by this guy’s vague willingness to humor her. It was a long, slow day, minutes lurching by with the rising temperatures, sweating beading at the back of her neck while her free hand pushed back the heavy tuft of tangled brown that curtained her face. “So long as it my partakin’ in killin’ my lungs don’t bother you. Wouldn’t want to tempt you or anything, as I’m sure that you’ve got more to accomplish than I do.”

“Only one, scout’s honor!” A quick salute is gestured his way, but there’s an empty promise behind it. Sure, he was free to limit himself, as most people who didn’t harbor her vices did, but Darcy wasn’t quite so keen on stopping at one beer, or even one case. Thin and limber were the main components of her frame, but either she had a liver of steel or a liver that was slowly creeping to its grace—- whatever option it was, Darcy was revving her way to the finish line one way or another. “Just cool yourself off, even the bar’s dingy fan could serve you better than another second in the sun.”

“Pft, just feel free to tack on ‘and the Bandit,’ and you’ve have me down pat! Would that make you Sally Field? You’d probably be able to pull off a better Burt Reynolds moustache than I ever could—- oh, fuck, right… my name’s Darcy. Darcy Shepherd, so there’s Shep or Darc or I dunno, whatever you wanna call me. Or nothin’ at all, if you’re feelin’ inclined.”

The tangent halted, smoke swelled her lungs, and her manners, the very few she had left, called upon her to crane her neck to cast a curious glance at the large man. “And you? I ain’t clever enough for nicknames on the spot.”

“I was thinking more ‘the fire-safety bear’, but maybe Bandit suits you better, since you look like trouble,” he chuckles the moment he can fit a word in edge-ways. Lord, this girl’s mouth runs like a hamster on a wheel - it’s lucky he’s no big talker. “And I actually can’t grow a moustache, so no Burt Reynolds for me... whoever that is.” As a rule, movies aren’t his thing; he always gets bored after half an hour and never makes it to the end, so references to actors usually go right over his head. He’s not exactly sure who Sally Field is either.

Trailing along behind Darcy as she chatters away, John takes the opportunity to fish his phone out of his pocket and check his mama hasn’t called. Call him what you want, she’s the only family he’s got, and he’s going to do his best to take care of her. “It’s John,” he answers absently, “Valentine.”

“So where’re we meant to be going for this beer? Is it gonna be a bar or a paper-bag-on-a-public-bench deal?”

[sistermoonwillbemyguide]