good luck with that

who knows why we do what we do? (and who makes a living from the conjecture?)

[justcounsel]

❝ into amethysts they turn, into keys that unlock and gates that hide and the whole wonderful world. and i’m just counsel. ❞

damon graham. the path. 28, he/him, clinical psychologist and newcomer to the horror genre.

⸻ intro ✧ skeleton ✧ magnolia creek ✧ tags ✧ threads ⸻

[noctxrne]

❛ PERKS, ❜ they echo, a faint edge of amusement touching the word. ❛ sometimes. ❜ their attention shifts away from the music, back to damon. ❛ mostly, it means hearing things you wish you hadn’t. ❜ fragments of conversations, the obnoxious crunch of a potato chip, animals rustling the walls. but they will let him think of music. 

rylan’s gaze follows his gesture toward the ferris wheel, watching its slow rotation above the rooftops. lights blink against the dark, bright enough to make the whole thing seem almost cheerful. almost. 

they eye the corn dog cart dubiously. ❛ it’s not something i do, no. ❜  no part of the ‘food’ smells natural. ❛ but i appreciate the warning. and as for the festival… ❜ beyond them, families laugh. couples brush shoulders on the swinging chairs. children drag tired parents toward games they have already lost twice. ❛ it depends what you expect it to do. ❜

the band reaches a crescendo, and rylan’s jaw flexes against the crackle of the speakers. ❛ one year, a woman fainted getting off the ferris wheel. when she fell, her hair got caught in the spokes. were it not for the mechanic’s vigilance, she might have died. ❜

the ferris wheel completes another turn.

❛ another year, a man caught his wife cheating. it took three people to stop him from breaking the boyfriend’s jaw. ❜

their eyes settle on damon again. ❛ it's a festival, not a cure. people enjoy it because it gives them permission to pretend for a little while… but if you’re expecting it to make you happy, i suspect you’re going to be disappointed. ❜

[justcounsel]

How many shards of Damon’s environment did he wish he could hear better? A dozen from today; two dozen from the day before; from the entire week, maybe two hundred. It wasn’t that Damon was nosy or particularly wanted to “get involved” in things; he just… liked to know about them. Was that the style of playing God that most people (particularly of late) pointed their finger at him for? Not really. But it was the more apt comparison. Magnolia Creek was rich with life, just around the corner; for Damon, it all went away. Rylan’s hearing would’ve been a gift.

But he couldn’t scratch out the stage directions on the hunger’s (whom Damon knew called the shots here) director script. Whatever he did was going to be half in the dark.

So when Rylan commented on hearing things they wished they hadn’t, Damon voiced his unwavering agreement: “I can imagine that, for some, that constant experience would wear them down.” What ground down one could be another’s cure. (But what hearing this place in its truth would cure in Damon… he couldn’t say. Maybe his constant discomfort.)

Damon laughed at Rylan’s expression when they looked toward the corn dog cart. But Rylan’s subsequent remarks went down his throat like something bitterly medicinal—the truth without any doubt.

The ferris wheel story… Was that a cosmic parallel of Hawthorne Psychology? Horrifying possessions (the hair, stuck fast); thankless work (what the mechanic had been doing prior); becoming a “hero” because you were finally, and regrettably, needed (the mechanic’s efforts saving the day).

What was Damon doing in Magnolia Creek but tasting worth (self-worth) because of the town’s distress?

His expression went from sober to grim, though, at the account of the discovered affair. “I bet that scared the people close by,” he murmured; and it occurred to him then that, when the stakes were that high, one person (three people here) to stop violence was good. No matter if that person went home satisfied with themself.

No matter if, like Damon, they really fucking needed that satisfaction.

Damon listened to Rylan’s matter-of-fact conclusion to the explanation and replied:

“I’ve never been in a place like Magnolia Creek.” His face was likely solemn as a tomb. “I’ve worked for a long time, privately, professionally, to understand my… well, to be closer to understanding my friends. My family. My neighbors. My community. Magnolia Creek is an inverted sort of community, though; all the hard parts of a life are assumed, and the easy parts are reliably… unreal. Most towns I’ve lived in forewent hard truths for distractions—just like this. Like you’re telling me, Rylan. But people in those places dug for hard truths sometimes, and, well, there they lay.

“No one’s even trying to dig here. Almost like it’s understood that… that something’s wrong? Is that strange of me to think?

“My point is.” Damon met Rylan’s eyes. “I feel the hurt in all this… I wish I didn’t, because it’s uncomfortable, but I do.” He sighed heavily. “I know you’re not—well, I guess I don’t ‘know’ know, but I don’t believe you’re a mind reader. But help me out. How deep does that discomfort run in everyone? And where are its roots?”

[scythebcrn]

alistair takes a lot of satisfaction in the confusion that floods damon’s face and subsequently covers up; it wasn’t what he was aiming for, but knocking him off balance with confusion was just as good as any other reaction. and as damon speaks, his satisfaction only grows, i meant nothing by bringing up my job. alistair rolls his eyes, by his thought process, if damon had meant nothing by it, then he had no reason to bring it up. anyone, degreed or not, could ask how someone was feeling. their job didn’t make them anymore trust worthy than the next. “by all means, make yourself clear.” he waves his hand as if to give the other permission to continue, corner of his eyes crinkling at damon’s phrasing once again. somehow the way damon says it, ‘you’re making an excellent case, alistair. I see that now. let me make myself clear here,” makes alistair feel like he’s a kindergartner being reprimanded by an adult. he doesn’t like it, but he takes it, teeth sharp in his mouth, ready for his turn to bite again. but, damon’s next words dim the smugness inside instead. everyone’s telling me left and right— alistair pryde has changed. he’s somebody else. even if it’s true, it’s something alistair doesn’t like to hear. the constant reminder that he isn’t who people wanted back. he doesn’t interrupt though, unwanted reminder not yet enough to break him away from his usual tactics— which proves to be a mistake.

you could feel like you used to. that’s not up for debate. those words, spoken so simply, devour all satisfaction alistair has left in him from the interaction so far. they hit somewhere that was still too raw from the dream he’d just woken up from. interruption no longer possible from being rendered silent; smugness bleeding from his face into something quiet and upset, angry. “look at you damon,” he breathes out a laugh, but it lacks the bite he wanted it to come with. “got me pegged from a single session. cheap shots and all.” he absentmindedly grabs his milkshake and twists the glass at it’s base, then, he feels it. a hand on his shoulder. firm. comforting. he reaches for it,head turning to look, and lands on an empty lot.  phantom. false. quicker than his reach, alistair rolls his shoulder back more aggressively than necessary. the laughter. the smiles. the happiness. all of it was echoing in his head again, the dream influencing the hand he felt. feels. you could feel like you used to. loathing to admit it as he is, damon’s words had clearly made alistair feel like he needed comforting. another reason to hate him. still, alistair stays silent looking up at damon with a glower. shut up by the man and the comforting hand that wouldn’t go away.  clenching and unclenching his jaw repeatedly, alistair imagines himself literally killing the unexpected and unwanted emotions damon had managed to elicit, but it doesn’t work, he has to look away. laughter. smiles. the hand of someone who used to comfort him often. laughter. smiles.   you could feel like you used to. “you’re right. you’re not my villain.” it’s not an apology, but it’s not a threat either.  his eyes stay locked onto the window beside him instead of the man on the other, voice thicker and deeper than he likes, holding back emotions he doesn’t want burning in his eyes. “but i didn’t ask for your help.” you could feel like you used to. he shakes his head at echoing words. no. he couldn’t. it would kill him if he did; and damon saying so? making him think on those things he wants to keep dead in the ground? it makes alistair want to get unearned payback. worse. teach a lesson he had to learn in the void. help didn’t exist. hope for something better was a lie. he stands up and finally looks at damon again, allowing the burn in his eyes to show instead of beating it down. “you couldn’t help even—” he lets himself stumble on the thickness in his voice, smiling in self deprecation, “if you tried. i was changed. this is who i am.” “you’re better off accepting that, just like everybody else has.”

[justcounsel]

It was after Damon had finished speaking—once he’d “said his piece”, felt the tension at having been unjustly insulted ease by recognizing it—that he realized Alistair Pryde had changed. Not in a small way, either.

He looked sullen. The kind of sullen that happens when you’ve been through a lot (and by God had Alistair); the kind that burns inside.

Damon had a feeling Alistair wouldn’t mock him again. The realization… wasn’t positive. A moment prior, all Damon would’ve wished for would’ve been to disrupt Alistair’s nastiness. To walk a different path. Now… well, Alistair still seemed angry, but in muted colors. Something about that awful dimming of the spirit—that quenching of the fire—hurt Damon bad.

Then Alistair spoke, and something about the situation just… clicked into place.

Got me pegged from a single session. Cheap shots and all. What startled Damon—and that familiar confusion from before entered his face—was that Alistair didn’t try to characterize what had just happened. He was pissed, absolutely. He wasn’t being nice or even neutral. But in letting that aggravated observation hang in the air… Alistair felt like somebody else.

Maybe it was the complex expression he bore as well. But Damon got it. …Got why people liked, loved, their sixth slayer. Got why they defended him even as they feared all the pain that coursed in his blood; got the sacrifice, got the tragedy hand in hand with it.

No. Damon was wrong here. Wrong entirely. Alistair didn’t feel like somebody else…

…he just felt like Alistair.

Damon realized then that he really liked Alistair.

Across the booth from him, Alistair was clenching his jaw—he was extremely angry. (Damon was, too—half angry, half numbly confused by the change inside Damon himself). Alistair spoke, looking out the window; something in his manner had shifted, no longer sullen but weary. It was in his voice; it was in the words “you’re right”—a concession for Damon’s sake, no doubt, followed up by the honest truth.

Alistair did not want Damon’s help.

As Alistair stood, looking at Damon still sitting in the booth, the look in Alistair’s eyes was plain English (and something from Hell, too—something the hunger had tried to write in its own handwriting but Alistair had written over). The look said: I have nothing left. Damon was spiraling in personal emotion he couldn’t understand and secondhand emotion that, he was sure, Alistair understood perfectly.

For some reason, the fact that Alistair spoke again took Damon by surprise. I was changed. This is who I am.

And the kicker: You’re better off accepting that, just like everybody else has.

Damon opened his mouth; nothing came out. He shut it again and tried to remember what it was like to be a human being. Thinking, understanding (that was the tricky part).

Finally, he told Alistair, “I know.” His voice was weak. “I know you’re different because—because God, didn’t you have to be?” The light in Damon’s eyes had dimmed. “But I don’t—I don’t—” Remember how to be a human who believes in something. Half command for himself, half completion of the sentence.

“I don’t think you need to stay in the dark,” Damon finished at last, the words sounding… nowhere close to “sufficient”. Nothing like how he felt. “I meant what I said, Alistair.” Voice catching on the name. “It” —working on himself— “wouldn’t be for everybody else. They may not even notice a difference; but you would. You could. I don’t want you to walk away and think that that’s… out of reach.”

Damon, spurred on by something he couldn’t name, kept talking: “Things you used to love. Things you remember for how they made you feel. The world is still that world, right?... It’s for you to enjoy.” Damon swallowed. He was getting emotional. “Nobody deserves it more than you. I just…” He met Alistair’s eyes. “I just think it’s something worth thinking about.” Half rolled his eyes in a self-deprecating gesture. “A thought to keep in your back pocket. Doc’s two cents.”

[dusktildcwn]

as footsteps sounded after the open door of the rusty nail, and stopped at the stool next to her, odette did not move her body or look at the person who sat down next to her. her eyes watched him in the mirrored reflection behind the bar only for a moment, before turning her attention towards the cigarette in her hand and the ash that she flicked into the tray before them.

was he going to ignore her, like the rest of the people in this bar? no... if he planned to ignore her, he'd sit elsewhere. the rest of the patrons had learned to give her a wide birth when she was here, but not him.

the moment he spoke, she exhaled the smoke and turned just slightly to look at him. the therapist... she remembered now. "doctor graham, correct?" she asked, curious what he could possibly want with her. well, for only a moment, before realizing just how intriguing meeting a vampire might be to a human. one, who she suspected, may not have known about the supernatural world until recently.

the request for a recommendation was easy territory, nothing for her to be wary of. so she answered honestly. "an old fashioned." she motioned towards her drink, the orange peel inside of the brown liquor too old to allow for an enjoyable flavor. "but this place isn't well versed in the art of cocktails. i'd just look for what's on tap." she had never been one for beer, but it was cheap enough to not be a let down when you drank it.

she took another drag from her cigarette, finishing it off and stamping the butt out in the ash try before asking, "so, why did you really want to discuss, damon? i cannot believe it was something so simply as a drink recommendation?" no one had wanted to make small talk with her for quiet sometime. then again, it had become more frequent since returning to town.

[justcounsel]

Well, she was talking to him—and remembered his occupation. Damon nodded (a little eager to see where this conversation could go) and replied: “Yes, exactly right. You can call me whatever you want, though—if that’s not obvious.”

When Odette gestured toward her drink, identifying it as an old-fashioned, Damon let himself stare at the brown liquid like it would eventually yield some consequence. …Give him advice like a crystal ball, maybe. The fact was that Damon had had a very hard day. For some, strange reason—and this had only really become obvious last night, and the morning after—Damon had thought Mayor White (whom he didn’t know much about) would tell the truth. What would that have done? Cause mass hysteria? Damon almost didn’t care, disillusioned as he was with the lack of progress. The address at the square yesterday simply could’ve done more, he felt keenly—made Magnolia Creek more cautious. Steered them, if not towards the supernatural (which was hard to buy), then towards constructive solutions rather than some curfew.

He didn’t know what would happen to Magnolia Creek now. He felt frightened; he felt responsibility settle over him like the earth upon Atlas’s shoulders.

He wondered if Odette, old as she purportedly was, knew that feeling…

At Odette’s question, Damon held up his hands. “Oh, you read my mind, didn’t you,” he said with a good-natured grin. “And I did want your drink recommendation, no—” A bartender was hovering near Damon; realizing she was anticipating serving him, he just asked for a regular Budweiser. “No matter if that’s trite,” he finished.

He paused. “I don’t mean to jump from ‘sunny day’ to ‘thunder and lightning’ type mood on you,” he told Odette, feeling his facial muscles go taut. Now she could probably see the past twenty-four hours in Damon’s expression. “But… I was at the mayor’s address, I had a tough conversation right after, I’ve been going through it.

“Truth be told,” he explained steadily to Odette, “I’m deathly curious about you. You have zero obligation to tell me a thing; and… I don’t think I’ll be pushy with questions, either. That’s not, from what I’ve seen, your style: tolerating whoever’s miles behind you. I respect that; I really do.”

Damon accepted the Budweiser from the bartender and took a sip. “I’d love your opinion, though,” he said honestly. “Your wisdom? What’s it like, being responsible for something huge? And how do you keep from cracking under it?” He faintly smiled. “That’s something I just know you’ve been through before.”

[prcphetgirl]

usually, she would be off on a run at this time in the morning. while lettie technically could run with her wrist in its cast, she didn't quite have the desire to, so she'd resorted to one of her other hobbies. when she'd first moved to magnolia creek, her classmates had complained about how the flowers they'd buy at briar & bramble would wilt too quickly. they'd decline her invitation to check out the new plants, stating that the shop always smelled of mildew and looked like it was preparing for a funeral. in truth, it was one of lettie's favorite places in town.

the little bell rings as she pushes through the door, making a beeline for the succulent section towards the register. she hears a familiar voice and looks up to see a brilliant smile, her name spoken in a tone that softens her expression.

"it's good to see you, damon," she greets, a genuine smile on her face. although it's been several years, she remembers just how difficult it was to be a new face in this town, and he's handling it with grace. she decides to focus on his latter questions, not quite sure how to answer the how have you been doing question honestly. "that's so sweet of you. i'm sure she'll love them. they're a very positive flower." the doctor's name is familiar, although she hasn't met the woman face to face. "i know the name, but i don't believe we've met yet. i think she does visits at the school at times, though."

[justcounsel]

Lettie’s positivity and brightness made it almost unfair that the hunger was, in the most literal of senses, in this thing for blood. Damon wasn’t stupid, and he could appreciate that Lettie Devaux held her own. But her brand of change—the deeply intentional, deeply genuine kind—deserved to be celebrated. It did not deserve a broken wrist.

It didn’t escape Damon that Lettie wasn’t talking about her. Damon liked Lettie a lot, and he also liked that she defined her own role in things—like in this conversation, for example. So Damon didn’t pry.

They’re a very positive flower, Lettie had said in reference to what Damon had bought. Damon grinned and replied, “I agree completely! And I know these are going straight to the lobby for everyone to see; Dr. Venkatesh likes to spread that cheer, I think. Positivity is the name of the game in a therapist’s office. Are there any plants in your library? Even, you know, the tired-looking potted kind?”

[enhaloes]

THE HARBOR BREEZE CARESSES XINGYU’S FACE, kisses his forehead as if in pity for all that’s happened since the last time he came by with lettie.  xingyu’s doctor had been advising him to take walks. assured him that even if it hurt, it was better to stay mobile than to keep laying down, no matter how good it felt to stay still and lie on his back. for your lungs, the doctor had told him. you’re still young, you got a lot of life ahead of you, you know? don’t wanna sour that. the doctor’s words nearly made him think of maroon peak. make a difference? alistair had spat back, mocking his own words. we might not all come back, lily had announced. logic dictates that he should take all of that life ahead of him with two hands and walk away, that his bruised cheek and aching ribs should be warning enough to get the hell out of magnolia creek before something worse happens.  and yet. he walks further down the harbor, the wooden planks of the pier creak underneath him, when spots the figure by the railing, staring out at the boats and the blue-gray expanse. the unfamiliar face in town who has begun to make his presence known amongst the rest of the group. he still had no idea what to make of damon graham — who he really was beyond his self-proclaimed title, why he had decided to join them, how much he really knew about magnolia creek or the mission ahead.  he approaches, his footsteps declaring his presence before he can say any form of greeting. he gives damon a small smile. “yes, damon. i remember,” he nods, sincere. he’s been fortunately good with remembering names and faces. “good to see you again.” he’s had no reason to particularly dislike him; rather, it was more that xingyu has always felt like he’s had a thumb to the pulse of magnolia creek, and now it seemed damon’s arrival had shifted the rhythm ever so slightly, and he needs to figure out if that’s for better or for worse.

“i used to grow up around here,” he replies, a nod to the neighborhood off to the side, where some of the private bayside docks jut out into the water. remembers the times when he’d stop by the ice cream shop for his siblings and the three of them would take the long way home, following the coast.  “it’s a good place to take a walk, or clear one’s head.” he rests his elbow on the wooden railing, listens to the waves splash against the poles that hold up the pier. he turns back to face damon with a level gaze, a small tilt of his head.  “and you? what brings you here?” 

[justcounsel]

Xingyu’s demeanor—regular, honest—set Damon instantly at ease. Xingyu said that it was “good” to see him again, and the insecure, fragile place buried in Damon’s soul wondered if it were the whole truth. If his circling the group raised hackles, if needing someone who could stop possession weighed on them gravely. …If, for all the good Damon hoped to bring to this cause, he spelled ruin. (Ruin, of course, in the stranger’s form and the invader’s name.) But something about the way Xingyu said it just made sense. Help was help. It was good to see Damon.

When Xingyu nodded at the docks in view of this part of the pier, Damon whistled. “What a dream,” he said sincerely. “The waves outside your back door. The peacefulness.” Damon took a step closer to Xingyu. “I’m a big ‘story’ guy. I love other people’s lives, told the way they saw it… What’s something interesting that happened to you on this little coast?”

In response to Xingyu’s question, Damon replied, “I’ve been learning how to jog.” He laughed briskly. “I say ‘learning’ because I think it’s a skill. Pacing yourself, pushing yourself. Setting goals… setting new ones. I’m a real beginner, don’t get me wrong—but. I’m wise enough to know when to take in the view.”

Damon let the smile dissolve. “I wasn’t able to tell you when I met the group—I’m sorry about your ribs, Xingyu. I’ve heard that that hurts like nothing else. Are you managing it okay?”

[scythebcrn]

“that is not what i said!” ali grabs his hair as he speaks with an exasperated half-smile half-frown at the words being put in his mouth by the others. they were all crammed into “their” booth at fryday’s again: ali, matteo, elias, and lily on one side; thalia, ece, and naomi on the other all of them waiting for their food and first round of milkshakes and drinks to come. “that is exactly what you said, ali.” lily shoots back in a serious tone and clears her throat to mimic him, “if ece spent half as much time training as she did on her hair, she’d be superwoman.” matteo snorts his agreement and ece glares at him and ali, one after the other. “really?”  “she’s lying. why are you lying, lily, you know that’s not what i meant!” “then what did you mean?” “what i said was that if we could find a way to keep your hair perfect during training then you would…” he places his hand over his mouth, realization setting in, “nothing i say is going to make this better… i meant it as a compliment, i didn’t mean for it to sound like—”

in synch ece and lily burst into laughter and alistair blinks his surprise, mouth still slightly open from the words that were cut off, “we know.” “but, next time watch your words.” lily. “he isn’t wrong, except for the superwoman part.” matteo’s words are quickly followed by a grunt, which he follows with a glare at ece who returns it with the same cool air she does everything with. “i meant you have a lot of potential.” “go check on our food and i’ll forgive you.” ali opens his mouth to speak, thinks better of it, and gives a smile and salute as he walks towards the diner counter. fryday’s was unusually empty. none of the other booths had customers seated and a glance to the front doors showed no one waiting to come in, only high and thick mist blotting out the scene beyond. coming up to the counter, ali notices that the kitchen is empty as well, but as he turns to tell the rest of the crew, he pauses.  they all look so happy. he closes his mouth and walks behind the counter and into the kitchen. he didn’t remember anyone’s food order, but he knew what milkshake everyone liked or drink they wanted. it couldn’t be that hard. and surprisingly it isn’t. two regular drinks, and three of five milkshakes down. ali may as well have been born in the kitchen how easy it was to make the shakes, listening to the others laugh and chat. but, he can’t hear the details. a quick glance and he sees them talking, mouths moving, heads going back— elias gone? maybe he had school work to finish— but he can’t hear the words. “what’s so funny?” he calls out setting down the fourth milkshake. no one answers, everyone still laughing and chatting without detail in the sounds. “come on, i wanna know what i’m missing out on!” “nothing ali. you had to be here to understand.” his smile falters, dampens. "you don't think i wish i was?" turning back to the milkshake machine, ali throws in all the ingredients for his favorite; strawberry with whipped cream mixed in and eventually on top. laughter still fills the background, wordless chattering like a charlie brown episode, and ali finds himself smiling again, he didn’t know what they were saying but hearing them happy was good enough for now.

“there you are.” a voice from the back of the kitchen turns ali’s head towards it. instead of stoves and freezers and deep friers, there is black. pitch as night. stretching for longer than the diner has ever been. a void that drowns out the laughter with its silence. “we've missed you, alistair.” “that’s not my name.” a soft whisper. "i came for you."  “why me?” "you were mine for six years, you still are.” alistair ali shakes his head no. “you always will be.” “no.” “you need to come home.” “i don’t want to go ho—”  ali’s milkshake explodes all over him, covering him from head to toe in strawberry blend, milk, and whip. the kitchen returns to normal. voice forgotten. he bursts out laughing. “fuck!” “what happened back there?” words returning to voice. ali walks out from the back carrying the tray of drinks, hair still dripping with milkshake. everyone, suddenly six years older, looks at him in shock, a pause stretching into infinity until ece snorts so loudly and uncharacteristically it startles everyone into reaction. backs double over, eyes water, hands slap the table. it takes a minute for everyone to calm down as ali watches with another exasperated smile, a happy one. “put the milkshakes down and don’t take a step closer, ali.” lily says fighting a smile on her face as thalia snaps a photo with a disposable camera. glaring jokingly at all of them, ali sets the milkshakes down in the very center of the table, making eye contact with matteo who’s covering his mouth but failing to hide the humor in his eyes. ali feels something like a tickle rise up in his chest and looks away as he rises, tutting as he goes. “these milkshakes aren’t free, lily.” he smiles wide, plan already formulated and showing via the glint in his eyes. “everybody scatter!” lily shouts as she climbs over the booth seat, reading his mind in the way twins do. without missing a beat he pounces, hugging the slowest person and getting milkshake all over them; thalia who’d been blocked by where he stood. screeches and laughter follow as he chases everyone around the diner, hugging them, shaking his milkshake hair at them like a dog. milkshakes are thrown, somehow never ending, and—

alistair wakes up with a fading chuckle as damon shakes him. mind still caught up in the fog of sleep, and reeling from the happiness fleeing his chest like it isn’t his anymore and never will be again, he just barely manages to process the words spoken to him. eyes drawn up, and head following slowly after, alistair stays silent for a good minute, looking at the man dumbly. confusion not from sleep but genuine disbelief. for a second, he wonders what the fuck damon is on, but then the man continues to speak like he’s eager to dig his own grave. my point is, though. you can tell me how you’re doing, and there will be zero judgment at all. that’s what therapists do best. alistair could have written damon off as some whack-a-doodle to scare off if the latter had stopped at the words he’d already said, but then he leans back with a half smile and something nasty and poisonous wakes up inside of alistair. this cocky, arrogant, son of a bitch. something about the way damon says it lands wrong, makes alistair feel like he’s being looked at as a project, test subject, poster boy. “hey look at me, i helped the dead boy! you can be helped too if you come to me!” alistair’s mouth twitches, a dark half smile and short chuckle that’s nothing like the one he had when in the transitional seconds between sleep and wake. 

this arrogant fucking asshole.

as insulted as he feels, a small part of him actually admires the arrogance of damon; it takes brass to be so cocky and self assured, but… slight admiration is not enough to save damon from the ugly thing in alistair. “is that how you always introduce yourself?” he turns his voice, mocking, “damon here, let me fix you and turn you right... you need a better slogan”  alistair sits up fully now, glancing at his melted milkshake then his watch. an hour of good sleep was all he got because of damon’s interruption, and he’s almost grateful; happy to have the happiness the dream brought dead and humilation that would've followed the feeling gone before it could do damage, damon’s words not letting the feeling live long enough to hurt. “what exactly do you think you could do for me, doc?” he spits the nickname out like a curse. “the only reason you were brought on was because of your alleged knowledge on possession. and last i checked,” he throws a fist forward, and stops halfway to home, splaying his fingers as if to let go of the action, “i’m not possessed.”  just damaged goods.

[justcounsel]

The instant that Alistair smiled, Damon knew he’d fucked up.

Had he done what he’d come over there to do? Yes and no—what he’d envisioned doing had been giving Alistair encouragement after waking him up. Anyone would have. It had to suck, realizing that you’d fallen asleep in a public space. It had to mean something about how your day prior had been going. Damon had wanted to make it suck less.

But when Alistair smiled—and chuckled, a sound that sent a wave of adrenaline through Damon’s system—Damon knew there would be no kindness exchanged, no “fighting spirit” restored. The fighting spirit had been replaced—by something a little more lethal.

Damon’s expression flickered briefly at Alistair’s words. (...you need a better slogan.) What flooded his face, and was abruptly covered up: confusion of the highest degree. He… he hadn’t come close to his therapist persona, had he? He walked back through the interaction: shaking Alistair’s forearm, introducing himself, sharing a bit about him to let Alistair know he could trust him. At no point, and with no insinuation, had Damon crossed a line. Alistair had to be joking, right?

That smile. That chuckle. He wasn’t.

As Alistair sat up and looked at his watch, Damon said, “I meant nothing by bringing up my job. I just wanted to know how you were feeling, how your day had gone before this… I thought you’d trust a therapist. If you don’t understand where I’m coming from with that, well, a lot of people are in the same philosophical boat. But you’ve got no reason to insult me. No matter how I phrased that.”

As Alistair continued—called him “doc” in probably the meanest way Damon could’ve imagined—Damon continued to look at him steadily. Waited for him to finish.

Then the punch.

Damon swore—one quiet fucking Christ. Alistair finished: “I’m not possessed.” And Damon immediately replied with, “You’re making an excellent case, Alistair. I see that now. Let me make myself clear here.”

He sat in the booth opposite Alistair, looked at him over the melted milkshake. He took a deep, calming breath; this had officially gone too far.

“Alistair, you derive a lot of satisfaction from me being your bad guy,” said Damon, diction precise (the way it got when he was livid). “Everyone’s telling me left and right—Alistair Pryde has changed. He’s somebody else.” Damon raised his brows. “What they didn’t tell me is that you take cheap shots. That says more about you than one hour of therapy ever could.

“I’ll lay my cards on the table, because we’re going to be working together for a good long while. Do I have any desire to change you—no. I think that journey needs to start with you. Do I think standard psychology could help you—absolutely, one hundred percent, without a doubt. You could feel like you used to. That’s not up for debate.

“What’s uncharted territory right now is if me saying that is going to drive you up the fucking wall. What’s uncharted is how you’re going to get back at me for that.

“But I just said I was going to make myself clear. Here it is: the random guy who tried to help you out at Fryday’s is not your villain. And if he’s willing to tell you that, that doesn’t make him deserve” —Damon held up his fist— “this. Right.”

Damon got ready to leave the booth.

[noctxrne]

RYLAN WOVE THROUGH THE CROWD, a backpack slung loosely over their shoulder. it was filled with heavy silver chains, yet the ease with which they carried it wouldn’t betray as much. their supplier had asked to meet in public, and rylan hadn’t begrudged them. as far as supply runs went, a hundred pounds of silver chain was surprisingly inconspicuous.

they looked up when they heard purposeful footsteps approaching, meeting damon with a raised brow.

right, the head doctor. rylan still wasn't sure what to make of him. what were the stakes for a therapist who happened to understand the nuances of possession? and, crucially, they weren’t certain what he might make of them…

their headspace was something of a minefield, more so as of late, and they weren’t eager to unpack it. as far as they were concerned, he was just as likely to dissect their thoughts as he was to ask about the weather.

 ❛ i don’t mind it… damon, the possession expert. ❜ the possession expert. in time, he might have cause to prove his expertise. for now, they entertained his small talk. ❛ they could stand to tune their bass a bit better. ❜ sound reached them more sharply than it had when they were human; any note out of key or string improperly strung was immediately apparent. as it stood, they winced at every third note.

 ❛ i’m a fan of music when it’s played well. ❜ one of the few luxuries immortality offered was the opportunity to hear the greats of each decade perform. they regarded him for a moment. ❛ are you enjoying it? ❜

[justcounsel]

Damon chuckled. The band at Rylan’s back started in on something moody, and he wondered if being the possession expert for this mission—this life-or-death cause, this new everything he’d stumbled into—really did suit him. Rylan didn’t seem to mind, as they said.

Damon’s brows inadvertently rose at the comment on the tuning. “Good ear,” he said, meaning it both ways—physically and musically. “I wish I had that gift. Musically, I could—well, my older brother Al has perfect pitch. I’ve always envied him for that. And, though I’m sure it’s hard sometimes, keen hearing has its perks.” Damon tried not to harbor vices… but the one he couldn’t break himself of was eavesdropping.

Damon laughed when Rylan not-so-subtly insulted the group on stage. “You know,” he said. Damon gestured toward the towering ferris wheel close by. “I thought I’d get it more. The ferris wheel, and the snacks, and the live music. I thought, If this festival really is a miracle cure for everything, I’d like to bask in it for a little while. But it’s not hitting home for me, Rylan. I wish I were loving this, but I’m not.” He cast his gaze toward the corn dog booth and added, “Do not get a corn dog, whatever you do. If that is something you’d do.”

He asked them, “Does the Summer Festival usually… pack more of a punch?”

[griefbound]

a  sharp,  exhausted  breath  cuts out of him as both hands  come down against  the  edge  of  the  sink.  the  impact  sends  the  loose  faucet  shivering  at  its  rusted  base.  his  eyes  pinch  shut  as  his  tongue  scrapes  uselessly  over  his  teeth,  chasing  the  bitter  chalk  that  has  already  worked  itself  into  every  corner  of  his  mouth.  jaw  flexes  once.  hard.  when  his eyes  open  again,  the  irritation  is  there,  hot  and  undisguised  in  the  mirror. wearing  his  face  better  than  anything  else  has  in  years. he  could've  crushed  the  pill.  has  before,  when  waiting  felt  impossible, and  there  was  a  counter  nobody  would  miss  if  he  left  it  dusted  white.  the  laminate  in  his  trailer.  the  back  of  a  cassette  case.  the  cracked  lid  of  the  toilet  at  lucky’s.  anything  flat  enough  to  take  the  pressure  of  a  lighter  dragged  hard  across  it. but  not  at  fryday’s. not with  customers  rattling  the  handle  every  few  minutes  and  lucia  working  barely  ten  yards  away, close  enough  that  he  can  hear  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  voice  through  the  wall.  crushing  it  meant  noise,  powder,  time  spent  hunched  over  a  sink.  swallowing  it  took  one  movement.  something  he  could  still  pass  off  as  medicine  if  the  door  opened. half  the  town  knew  better  than  to  look  too  closely.  lucia had never needed to. “yeah?” matteo  turns  from  the  sink  too  fast,  shoulder  clipping  the  paper-towel  dispenser  hard  enough  to  make  it  rattle.  the  heel  of  his  palm  drags  across  his  mouth. “and  what  the  fuck  did  you  think  there  was  to tell?” one  hip  knocks  into  the  warped  counter  when  he  shoves  away  from  it.  there’s  barely  enough  room  between  the  sinks  to  breathe  without  sharing  it,  but  matteo  takes  the  space  anyway.  one  step  and  he  is  between  damon  and  the  door.  another  before  the  first  has  properly  settled. “that  you  caught  me  swallowing  a  fucking  tylenol? because  my  head  hurts  from  this  shitty  town and  every  asshole  in  it?”  the  lie  comes  easily  because  it's  hardly  a  lie  at  all.  his head does hurt. has hurt in one shape or another for six years.  “i  know  you  think  you're  smart  because  somebody  gave  you  a  fancy  education.” another  step  takes  what  little  room  remains  between  them.  close  enough  that  the  distance  feels  deliberate. “some  little  piece of paper  on  the  wall  telling  you  you’re  allowed  to  crawl  around  inside  everybody’s  head,” his  mouth  twists around the last of it. “but  don’t  act  fucking  smart  with  me.”

[justcounsel]

As Matteo roughly occupied the space between Damon and the restroom door, Damon felt the air freeze in his lungs and the train of thought in his head go still. He’d figured it would go poorly—well, this was worse. He’d figured Matteo wouldn’t like being caught in the act—well, this was ten times worse, because now they weren’t talking about Matteo anymore.

It was a common thing, as a therapist (especially a therapist in training), to be on the defensive. Your education, your ideas, your right to “pass judgment”—everything was on the chopping block for the patient who wanted to hear something else. Matteo wasn’t a patient, though, wasn’t even a friend. Matteo was a slayer embroiled in a life-or-death battle who personally took issue with Damon. And as the words left Matteo’s mouth—some little piece of paper on the wall telling you you’re allowed to crawl around inside everybody’s head—Damon could see that this didn’t end in the men’s room. This ended when one of them was gone, the tensions gone with them. This didn’t end at all.

What, Damon thought as Matteo said, Don’t act fucking smart with me, was worse than discovering an addiction? (As Damon’s experience, well-worn read of people, and gut feeling shrieked that he had?)

Having an enemy.

Damon was not in the business of backing down from a conversation; neither was he in the business of lighting fuses. So, as Matteo glared and as Damon’s heart stuttered a rapid tempo, he held Matteo’s gaze evenly. Said, “Sorry about your head.”

Damon continued: “I don’t for a second confuse my job with my personal observations. I do, thanks to the little piece of paper on some wall, get to be a therapist. I have the right to live and work in Magnolia Creek as a therapist. But, off the record, I’ve made two observations that I’ll—again—keep between you and me. Just Damon. No crawling around anywhere.

“First is that, based on your body language when I came in, you really needed that Tylenol. Second is that you would’ve told me I was ‘acting smart’ for less than this. And as it happens, I’m glad it was now.

“Because we’re in private, and I can say very bluntly: I don’t take shit. I’m happy you’ve got a label for everything I do—but Matteo, if you speak to me like that again, my observations will not come from a charitable place anymore and then where will we be?” Damon glowered back at Matteo. “That is, of course, your choice.”

[nevcrmourn]

"Satanist then," Olivia stated as though she had just put the pieces of one of those aggravating 1,000 piece puzzles together (she seldom had the patience for even a 50 piece one). Of course, she had to wonder if absolutely anyone in the entire town — if not essentially the entire world — had a normal relationship with religion… but, yes, perhaps there was a difference between 'complicated' and 'involved and complicated'. "Hey, everything needs a pioneer — I'll even give you a hypothesis for you to work with: adding arsenic to water makes it holy." Man, rest in peace half of Magnolia Creek. "Thanks, my dad gave it to me!" If she knew Damon, here is where she would make a perfectly timed Daddy Issues(TM) joke… "Along with a couple complexes — but not an Electra one, thank god." Listen, sometimes you have to sacrifice the common courtesy of not immediately oversharing to commit to the bit! "Man, he got Bear and you got Damon? He older or younger?" Did Damon's parents get more or less creative with age? "Save someone's birthday party before?" He was gonna say that and not share how!? Not that she couldn't believe it… "Man, the three endings make the movie." Well, that and the singing telegram and the many one-liners that floated through Olivia's head day and night. "Which is the truth for you?" Sure, they had the one ending that said 'but this is what really happened,' but would they dare include two others if they expected the audience to take their word as gospel? "And that's not the one they went with?" Olivia responded, tone filled with absolute betrayal and disbelief! "God, maybe that guy would still have a career worth talking about if they had!" "Y'know, I'm thinkin' I'm just gonna turn this storm into a movie night." Now, had she been planning on renting both of them? Up until he'd seen her and initiated contact, the working thought was renting one of them and, ya know… just accidentally taking the other! "Any movie in any genre…" Well, probably one of the two that she had in her hands! "You know what — I don't know if they'd have this one in stock, but I think everyone has to watch Blood Diner just once in their life." Because it made no sense and it was beautiful!

[justcounsel]

Damon just nodded and half-rolled his eyes, smiling, at the Satanist comment. Olivia was quick on her feet—always a step ahead of him. She could probably do his job, because that was eighty percent of clinical psychology. Here came another quip: arsenic as holiness. Damon said, with the demeanor of someone who’d thought about it, “Lose the battle, win the war. Or lose the host, rather.” His gaze grew unfocused, and he added: “You wonder if, for all its strengths, there’s not some—some giant weakness that the hunger’s hidden away. Like if in possessing people, it’s taking on some human vulnerability? I mean, if Jesus Christ could be killed—and if I, known Satanist, can even speak his name—maybe the arsenic could hurt the hunger.”

He asked Olivia, “Where would you assume this thing can be damaged?”

Damon listened to Olivia’s response to the naming comment. “Sorry about your complexes, Herron,” he said obligingly. “Or congratulations on not getting Electra. You’re right—thank God.” Damon added, “Bear’s third in the lineup, and I’m… fourth. So here’s what happened—sparing you the messy argument details, my parents wanted to go ABCD. They had no names in common for B, though, so skipped it for C. When B came around again? They made something up that they could appreciate. I just got a regular D name.”

“The birthday started with five minutes—no kidding! No kidding! Five minutes of dead silence. We came from somewhere else, and nobody was in the mood. Imagine nobody wanting to celebrate your birthday because of other shit. Well, Jake put on Airplane—and somehow changed people’s minds. No way the movie isn’t magic.”

Damon froze. “God. No one’s ever asked me which Clue ending I prefer.” He held up a finger. “One second… Okay. Okay. I’m going with the Mrs. Peacock ending, where she did it all. I think Eileen Brennan stole the show. You?”

“Blood Diner.” He’d never heard of it—but, for Olivia’s sake, he would look for it. This wise-cracker and, Damon could tell, deep thinker wouldn’t steer him wrong. “Riddle me this. I’ve been thinking my life just turned into a horror movie, which I assume that is, when I got to town. Would you rather be in Blood Diner or whatever the hell is happening to us?”

Damon still knew nothing about banshees—but this would tell him everything he needed to know about Olivia.

[nevcrmourn]

Olivia had never cared much for ‘normalcy.’ What was the point of life — what was the point in living if you lived in monotony? Wake up at 7am, brush your teeth, slap together a perfectly Business Casual outfit, go to your 9-5, eat your dinner, go to sleep. Rinse and repeat and repeat and repeat.

Maybe it was consistency that some folks took solace in — the idea of ‘yes, if I know nothing else, I know this will happen tomorrow; if I do not know what my spouse really thinks of me, I know my alarm will go off at 7am; if I do not know the results of my medical test, I know I will be heading to work at 8:45am; if I do not know whether there is a god or a black abyss, I know I will have to file end of quarter taxes tomorrow.’ Yes, perhaps that was appealing to some of the population — she could understand that! But the grey area, the area of not knowing, was where she found she thrived.

…up until a few weeks prior — up until the night that Lettie had filled her in on. The Hunger had been more present than ever — both in her personal life and in the entire town! Death was shaking its hand in the dead of night more often, the both of them pressing against her, suffocating her…

Some sense of normalcy would do no harm, especially in the midst of a storm!

Indeed, in the middle of Creek Video with Airplane in one hand and Clue in the other, the biggest question on her mind was simply which of the two to rent! How refreshing!

She could always rent both… Storms always did lead to a fine movie experience… Hell, maybe she could even add to the collection and make a whole night of—

She was torn from her well of deep thoughts by… someone she vaguely recognized (what else was new? She sometimes felt like her entire life was just pretending to know someone until she’d picked up enough context clues…)

— Oh, thank god, he introduced himself!

“Well, if there’s ever a time to stay in and watch a party of murderers and madames and corrupt politicians pretend to make out with corpses,” she began, holding up Clue, “it’s a stormy night.” What a great scene…

“‘Possession expert’? Y’know, you don’t strike me as a man of the cloth.” Magnolia Creek getting their very own exorcist? What a concept! “I mean, Damon is pretty close to Damien.” Now if only she also had The Omen in her stack!

“Olivia Herron — decidedly not a possession expert.” And she hoped she never would be — she was close enough with other dark forces, she didn’t need to add straight-from-Hell demons! (Wait — ‘Damon’ was also close to ‘demon’! These were the missed opportunities that kept Olivia awake at night…)

“Storm equals movie night and movie night equals —“ — she held up the tapes for Damon to read for himself. It was decided: she was going to make a night of it! “Labyrinth is a classic. Real shame — you never really hear about that Bowie guy anymore. It’s like he did one movie then just disappeared.” …Sometimes even Olivia couldn’t tell whether or not she was joking… “Probably in fantasy?”

[justcounsel]

At Olivia’s comment about his “specialty”—and whether or not that was religious territory—Damon just shook his head slowly. “If you knew my involved and complicated backstory about religion… If we are to know each other, you cannot claim I’m even tangential to organized religion.” He grinned, all lightness. “I’m the only exorcist using the scientific method. When holy water can compete with trial and error—and that’s a low bar? You might see me change my tune.”

After she’d introduced herself—though Damon had remembered her from before!—Damon said, “I love the last name Herron. It’s so expressive. My brother’s name is Bear—legally, from birth—and I feel that way about him, too.”

When Olivia held up the tapes, Damon leaned in. “Oh, Airplane is always a hit. I’ve seen Airplane save someone’s birthday party before. Of course, Clue is—do you know about the three endings? Most people know, right? You seem very aware of what happens in Clue; anyway, the video version has all three. I honest to God wish more movies did that, because one possibility just isn’t enough for me.”

Damon laughed hard at her comment about Bowie. “In the alternate ending of Labyrinth,” he replied, voice still quavering, “you find out that that was David Bowie. He knew his career just wasn’t powerful enough—he needed to branch out, become a goblin. Turn a baby into a goblin. That’ll show ‘em, David.”

Damon asked, “Are you renting both? If I were to rent another movie—you can recommend any genre, I’m not picky—what would you demand that I watch?”

[justcounsel]

⸻ @dusktildcwn. a closed starter. ⸻ the rusty nail. ⸻ july 19, 10:45 pm.

The Rusty Nail had grown on Damon. Back at Berkeley, he’d been a regular to the town’s booming bar scene; at Washington State, he’d enjoyed getting to know his peers over a drink; here, though, the atmosphere felt wrong. The mirror reflected things that didn’t exist. All Magnolia Creek’s pent-up emotion ran beneath the floorboards. And despite himself, Damon sometimes felt worse after social interactions here. It was cursed, right?

Lily (and Alistair) worked here, though; and at some point after he’d learned that, the place had begun to feel normal somehow. Just a slightly-eccentric bar.

…A slightly-eccentric bar that served vampires.

Damon realized too late that he was sliding onto the barstool beside Odette Beaumont. Whether her aura had repelled people without some tie to the supernatural, Damon didn’t know. But… they were in the group together.

They could not be more dissimilar, and they were in the group together. Damon had to say something.

He imagined asking about her life… He imagined learning something unique… He imagined growing that tiniest bit closer to this woman, this dark silhouette of a being, this wild card. But nothing he could say would meet the high standard he’d already heard Odette upheld within her world. Nothing he did competed with centuries of vampirism and a frigid heart.

So he just said, “Remember me? Damon Graham?” Half-smiled. “What’re you drinking tonight—I could use a recommendation.”

[justcounsel]

⸻ @griefbound. a closed starter. ⸻ fryday’s - the men’s restroom. ⸻ july 18, some point after the mayor’s press conference.

Damon wasn’t sure he saw it right.

What it looked like—Matteo Nassar in the men’s room at Fryday’s, standing at that little sink and popping some kind of pill in his mouth. (No prescription med container in sight. Couldn’t wait. Damon knew this story…) What it felt like—a scene Damon hadn’t been intended to witness, by God or any other actor in this small-town biography; what it seemed like—Matteo didn’t want even his friends to know. Damon wasn’t stupid; he, at this stage of the game, knew that much.

What it continued like:

Damon felt the restroom door swing shut behind him; he still needed to wash his hands (he always did, before eating), and so he stood at the other sink and turned it on. Looked in the mirror. His game face. Calm.

…What had Damon learned so far about Matteo Nassar? That he was one of the six slayers (apparent); that he’d had a brother named Elias (tragedy); that he kept things close to the chest (unfortunate). Damon had learned, about Matteo, that this situation was akin to lighting dynamite. The sorry fact was that Damon knew too little about Matteo to do anything about that and too much about Matteo to be blissfully comfortable right now. He made no mistake:

This was about to fall apart.

But he owed Matteo his secrecy still, and so he glanced over at the man who’d covertly taken something and said: “I won’t tell a soul.”

[justcounsel]

⸻ @noctxrne. a closed starter. ⸻ the fairgrounds. ⸻ july 27, 7:20 pm - the summer festival.

The musicians on the stage were local—a group Damon had never heard of at Washington State but maybe could have, if he’d cared about music enough. Warm beer washed down funnel cakes and hot dogs everywhere Damon glanced. People clapped their hands to the mid-tempo beat. But beneath the revelry was a current of anxiety, biting and ruthless; the town was under siege, and this was a lovely lie.

Damon Graham took a bite of a corn dog that was mostly breading and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, someone new had joined the crowd: Rylan Ellis, a member of the resistance against the hunger and a story that Damon hadn’t heard yet. They were a vampire; they were also, as Damon understood it, a different sort. (A paramedic, for instance.) If Damon had to choose (impossible) someone in this group he’d love a two-hour conversation with most…

…it would be Rylan. Whom Damon was now approaching (after throwing away his excuse for a corn dog); he had to know at least something.

How hard is it for a vampire to do what you do? Has it always been this way? …What darkness does the hunger bring out in you?

“How’s it going?” said Damon as he drew near. “It’s me, Damon. The… possession ‘expert’, if that’s even achievable.” He chuckled a little.

“What do you think of alt rock like this? Are you much of a music fan?”

[justcounsel]

⸻ @pyreburn. a closed starter. ⸻ the daily grind. ⸻ august 2, 8:15 am.

Coffee was something Damon splurged on every once in a while—when he was either feeling very good or very bad. Today was a good day. Thursday’s patients had taken to the possession-stopping strategy with remarkable skill, and Damon felt as though the hunger had truly lost. Wouldn’t happen again, and the hunger was everywhere, not just Hawthorne Psychology. (Damon wondered, not for the first time, if properly using “the technique” before sleeping might stave off the sleepwalking…) But Damon felt that progress of any kind should be rewarded, and so here he was at The Daily Grind.

Voices tangled together within earshot; couches, worn and well-loved, were fully occupied; permeating everything: the aroma of bitter coffee. Damon ordered, and then he idled behind the line, waiting for his cold brew.

Lily Pryde was waiting, too; Damon spotted her and grinned. “Lily!” he called. Sidestepping a college student, Damon approached and asked: “How’s your morning treating you? And life, obviously, but your morning first.”

His eyes moved to the menu written in chalk right beside them. Someone had told him it hadn’t changed in decades. Glancing back at Lily, he added: “This place is so mundane. I love it; it’s just hard to believe…”

[justcounsel]

⸻ @withinruins. a closed starter. ⸻ the square in front of town hall. ⸻ july 18, right after the mayor’s address.

None of it was real. By which Damon meant: none of the explanations made contact with the things he’d been hearing about, that haunted stare that graced half the town, that feeling of being an insect under a microscope—which insect would be impacted next? Damon, of course, knew that the threat was solidly supernatural. But, from the murmurs rippling through the crowd post-address, you didn’t need to know that to doubt. To grasp. To look at Mayor White and call the well-water story what it was: a fairy tale.

Damon didn’t know what he’d expected to hear… but it hadn’t been that. Things would only get worse from here.

About five feet from his position in the crowd, Damon spotted Malachi Reyes—the vampire-slayer. How to describe Malachi?... Damon hadn’t gotten to speak with him alone yet, though he’d wanted to—but Damon’s suspicions whispered that this man had seen some things. Of course, the follow-up question was how those things could inform Malachi’s actions… but, to curious Damon, there was no clear link. Malachi Reyes appeared very much like his own man.

And with that came unpredictability. Or not. Damon couldn’t say yet, didn’t want to on Malachi’s behalf.

He figured he’d greet Malachi—get his take on the mayor’s words, still weighing heavy on Damon’s own heart. So Damon pushed past a couple people and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Damon Graham,” he said—assuming Malachi would remember him as the group’s new “possession guy”. “I can’t believe—I mean—that was a slap in the face. Irresponsible, too. What were you thinking the instant he said ‘well water’?”

[justcounsel]

⸻ @und3ads. a closed starter. ⸻ magnolia community pool. ⸻ july 24, 10:35 am.

Despite the hunger staking a claim on his work life, Damon fought tooth and nail to preserve some semblance of a leisure life. This Wednesday, he had the day off—which was why it was not mired in futility and brutal prophecy, which was why he was at Magnolia Community Pool and remembering why he wanted to exist in the first place. Kids were squealing, and the water was, well, green and not blue (though he understood how hard it was to take care of a pool, he did); he opened his eyes under the surface of the deep end, and the painted lines on the bottom of the pool stared back at him. What was manmade could feel infinitely more powerful than what was “natural”; the hunger had come of its own accord, and yet these feelings he had basking in the summer fun?

These were—

Margot Long. Sitting on the edge. Grinning.

Damon felt like he’d swallowed a lungful of water—in the best way possible.

Margot had been a pleasant difference from the leagues of self-furthering dolts that were all too common, from ego altogether. Margot was honest, and she didn’t think twice about it; Damon had had a couple brief interactions with her and yet always wanted more of her whimsy. Her magic. Her grace.

Damon, realizing he was just staring at her and forgetting to speak, raised a hand in greeting. (He was, of course, cognizant of the lifeguard three feet to his left; hopefully she wouldn’t see.) “Margot. I—I can’t believe you like this green pool, it’s so green” —forget his empathy for pool caretakers, this was really inexcusable— “I know you’ve lived here your whole life and you just… accept that your pool is going to be like moss? Like grass? We deserve a blue pool. Let’s agree on that today.”

He grinned. “What’s been on your schedule this morning, Margot?”