the wolves are my family

graham humbert. 25. the heart is a lonely hunter. average snooker player, but exceptionally gifted in receiving puppy kisses.

[leadthepack]

TEXT: RAE

Graham. Gaston says it's your big day. Have a good one.

[positivelyprimevxl]

For Étienne Gaston, New Year’s Eve was determined to pass uneventfully in Cherry Grove. Despite the sound of premature fireworks erupting, various streamers and empty bottles littering the street of their little town, and sounds of high screeches and giggles in the air, the night felt shamefully un-momentous to the Frenchman. For once, Gaston wouldn’t spend the night nursing a tumbler of amber liquid as he swapped stories with LeFou. Nor would he spend his night with a nameless nobody wrapped around him, sweating and shaking as he truly brought in the New Year with a bang. 

It wasn’t as though the opportunity hadn’t arisen for him to spend the holiday in good company. Cosette had shot him more than one seedy, debauched text. The - ahem - very descriptive prose had been enough to elicit a reaction in him before he’d even had a chance to lay a hand on himself. And the poor girl was an easy fuck. She’d traipse her way over to him in a barely-there outfit, wearing what was sure to be the most delicious lingerie, which he’d happily take off with his teeth later. Still, it felt a little ungracious to be carrying old fucks into the New Year. And as far as Gaston was concerned, there were girls for now and girls for later. And it wasn’t hard to see which category the hapless Cosette fell into. 

And if it was more family friendly fun the man had been looking for, he was surely he’d be able to mooch an invitation from Patricia, who for reasons unknown to him, had taken quite an interest in his unfortunate person over the last few months. A night of watching her six year old fall asleep on the sofa before midnight struck, and Patricia clutching his hand while they counted down, well, it was perhaps exactly what Gaston needed. But tonight he’d chosen a different path entirely.

He wasn’t going to mark the New Year. After all, the old one had been so bloody rotten to him. An ailing Father, hardly a surplus of friends, and month after month of being the lowest of the low on everyone’s shit list. A year of being dismissed, rejected, and publicly humiliated! It was more than he could bear. Worst of all, he hardly even seemed to turn heads anymore. With men like John Smith prowling every bar in New York, and scrappy arseholes like Artie Dodge chasing his girl, how on Earth was he expected to be the centre of attention, never mind get laid?

“I’m disgraced.” he growled to himself, kicking open the door to the Snuggly Duckling. It swung off it’s hinges, eliciting a loud squeal of rusty hinges that notified his presence to the few still littered around the bar. With Midnight growing closer, most of the bar’s patrons had emptied into the street, scrambling for a last minute kiss or eager to watch the fireworks. The only few who hadn’t were draped over tabletops, drunk out of their noggin’s and in a state of disrepute.

The single patron who still stood erect was crowded into a corner of the bar, poised carefully to strike. It wasn’t uncommon to catch Graham Humbert in these parts. He was rather partial to a game of darts, and whilst Gaston’s own talents lay with cutting animals down with carefully selected bullets, he was known to join the man for a game every now and then.

Graham Humbert, an elusive figure, had swanned in to town one day. His presence would have gone seemingly unnoticed, if it hadn’t been for one of two things. One, the manner in which he came, toting an unruly redhead who kicked up her heels everywhere she went, the two of them settling into a new life in this little town like the oddest couple in the world. The second thing, which called everyone’s attention and had turned many heads, Gaston’s included, being that he was devastatingly attractive.

He frowned as he came up behind him, surveying the fine figure the man cut. Feet slightly apart, pert little bum, leaving Gaston wondering just what he looked like underneath his clothes. It was a sick fantasy of his, one that made his stomach twist with guilt, but one he continued to indulge in all the same. Graham was the poster boy for masculinity, rugged and gorgeous, never displaying any kind of sentimentality, the kind of man Gaston couldn’t imagine developing an emotional attachment to. Which was perhaps why he’d formed a little crush, an intrigue, an itch under his skin he couldn’t quite scratch. He wanted to know him, almost, bury his teeth into him and see what he found. He’d gotten one foot in the door by befriending the man, now all he craved was his attention. 

“Bravo, darling.” he purred, bringing his hands together in a slow clap as he watched Graham sink his dart into the board. A sportsman. He practically salivated. 

“Didn’t startle you, did I? I was watching you play.”

[leadthepack]

Holiday season didn't really hold much relevance in Graham's life. It wasn't that he thought himself better than those who enjoyed the celebrations, but they just held very little significance to him. There had once been a time where Christmas had been the time of the year that he looked forward to the most; barrelling down the stairs at an almighty speed, diving under the tree in his pyjamas as he and his siblings scavenged for gifts, their parents staring on fondly. They'd never been overly wealthy, but with the farm in full swing, and a wholesome kind of community that filled their village, Graham had never been left wanting more. Since he'd been left behind, however – abandoned and tossed to the dirt – such dates only left a sour taste for Graham. The bitterness that filled him at the thought of joining in with the festivities over Christmas always managed to extend too New Year's, too. He'd never involved himself in the traditions that came with ringing in the upcoming year, and so he kept himself to himself and allowed everyone else to enjoy themselves.

Though it was always in his best interest to keep a low profile in Cherry Grove, and to keep to himself as much as possible without effecting the case, he had only ever wanted an ordinary life for Scarlett. He wanted her to experience life in as normal a capacity as she could, and to immerse herself within the tiny community, and to even make as many friends as she could if the opportunity should arise. No case should come between her well being and her happiness. Graham wanted her to be happy, and not a single thing Hunt had to say could ever stop him from trying to give her that. So, as it was, he'd given her the go ahead to head on out and paint the town red, to enjoy herself and let loose. If she wanted to immerse herself in Cherry Grove's culture and to ring in the New Year with a few drinks and a kiss from a pretty girl, then he'd be happy for her. He didn't understand it, but it wasn't for him to understand. So long as she was enjoying herself, what should Graham's own personal feelings on the evening matter?

So, while Scarlett was God knows where, Graham opted for a quiet evening in The Snuggly Duckling. It suited him perfectly, with barely a soul in sight. Not even Anya, his usual bartender, was in sight. Instead, merely Hook Hand, a man not nearly as menacing as the inhabitants of Cherry Grove seemed to deem him, and he seemed perfectly able to provide Graham with a semi-constant stream of refills so long as he should ask for one. There hadn't been another soul in sight all night, and so Graham busied himself with a night of darts, finding the action somewhat calming. He often liked to imagine that each little slot – that perfect, circular bullseye, the triple twenty, and any and all in between – resembled Hunt and his crew. Though Graham was technically a part of his team, his 'family', so to speak, he'd never felt as though he fit in. He'd never belonged, nor had he ever wanted to.

With an unnecessary level of ferocity, he fired dart after dart at the board, before hearing the telltale sounds of the pub door opening behind him. He didn't bother glancing over his shoulder, feeling no need to see which other miserable bastard had joined their party of two. Cherry Grove had been teeming with activity, with people throwing their own celebratory parties amongst friends, but even then the vast majority of its inhabitants had ventured further towards the city. Anybody left behind wouldn't be caught dead in The Snuggly Duckling, and if they were then it probably said a lot about them. He heard the footsteps behind him, feeling the approach of someone new, and still he didn't turn. Whoever it was would make themselves known soon enough, should they wish to. Graham was well aware of each step, his ears pricking as he took in the nature of the figure behind him. His job required that he remain attentive, even when off duty, and each miniscule sound and flurry of movement could tell you a lot about a person. They were heavy footsteps, that of a larger man, he thought, and only as another dart sunk into the cork board opposite did a voice fill the air, confirming Graham's suspicions.

With a lazy glance over his shoulder, Graham clapped eyes on Gaston. He recognised him immediately, if not from his thick accent, but the words that dripped from his lips, the nicknames that he graced everybody with – whether his affections were wanted, or not – and his appearance as a whole. Gaston was widely known across the town, and Graham highly doubted there was anybody in Cherry Grove that hadn't heard of the Frenchman. Some seemed to hold him in a very high esteem, others not so much, but Graham hadn't ever gathered much of an opinion on the man. He'd gathered enough intel on every single person in town to determine whether he should view any of them as a threat – moreso for Scar's safety than his own, but a necessity all the same – and he'd come to conclude that Gaston was nothing but a bit of a... pest, at most. He seemed relatively dim, and it didn't appear to be an act. He seemed to have a gaggle of followers, girls and boys that seemed to be constantly garnering for his attention, and he always managed to say the wrong thing from what Graham had caught onto. All the same, despite his size, Graham was sure he could handle him should he need to, and he felt no immediate threat or intimidation within his presence.

“Nah, you're good,” he responded, barely batting an eyelid. It would take far more than Gaston to startle him, but he was no fool. He knew that Gaston thought highly of himself, and probably thought that his heavy footsteps and his loud presence had gone unnoticed, that he'd been subtle in his approach, but Graham had felt his eyes on his back from the moment he'd entered the bar.

Even so, the Graham that this town knew him as wasn't a fully trained officer, but a janitor in a small animal clinic. Gaston was included among those few that did seem to know him, having ventured in a few times with that glorious dog of his. They rarely exchanged more than a few words, though. He supposed now was the chance, of course. He knew that he was supposed to be blending in, to be immersing himself in the culture of the town. Hunt had been insistent on him slipping under the radar. But, often times, he found that slipping under the radar meant the complete opposite, and that in times like these it was probably more beneficial for him to create more personal, close relationships within the townsfolk. That was surely the only way that he could be viewed as one of them, and to do that it meant he actually had to try and befriend the people of Cherry Grove. Even if that required meaningless small talk.

Arching a brow, he nodded towards the board. “Ye fancy a game? Or, I s'pose ye've got big plans, aye? Parties an' pretty girls.”

[positivelyprimevxl]

↳INSTAGRAM: @thatgaston uploaded a photo:

With an influx of dog photos on Instagram tonight, look at what @ghumbert​ just texted me. Summer is one of the many women who love giving me kisses. :)

[leadthepack]

@ghumbert: Aye, she has a wee soft spot for you, alright. Don’t be goin’ gettin’ too cocky now, though!

[rottentothecxre]

The sickly sweetness of Cherry Grove was going to give Mal a damn cavity if she wasn’t careful. The quaint little cobblestoned streets and small businesses running through the town where everyone knew everyone was the perfect fairytale setting that she’d had nightmares about. And now she was expected to live here and just deal with that. So gross.

Smacking her gum obnoxiously off her roof of her mouth, Mal slammed her front door shut behind her. She figured the noise might rouse Evie from her beauty sleep, but a complete lack of humility left her pretty uncaring about that. It was after noon anyway and if Evie wanted to snooze away her day then that was her prerogative, but Mal wasn’t going to tiptoe around like a timid little mouse to accommodate for the other girl, even if she was her best friend. But that was only something she’d admit under duress.

She pulled her hood up over her purple locks, and slung one strap of her backpack over her shoulder before stalking off. The rattle of spray cans sounded from her bag, but it wasn’t like there was anyone around to prod their nose into her business. At this time, the citizens of Cherry Grove were probably tucked away in the nearby café or having some sort of afternoon tennis match up at the country club. At Evie’s pleading request, Mal had relented and trudged up to the complex last week so her best friend could snoop around and take WhatsApp pictures for her mother to fawn over. The whole place was drowning in teacups and doilies and Mal’s fake retching had been tutted at numerous times, but never outrightly scolded.

She’d seen a couple of the rich kids dressed in their pristine white tennis skirts playing a game which didn’t seem to be competitive at all. Every point scored was met with a ‘good shot!’ from their opponent, whereas back in Mal’s hometown, a loss would be accompanied by a hostile ‘fuck you!’ before someone stuck a Swiss Army knife into the tennis ball.

Still, the visit hadn’t totally been in vain as the country club was made up of a number of towering and unmarked walls that were dying for a lick of paint. Mal had heard the treasurer say so, even though she was pretty sure that her idea of a makeover was vastly different from what he had in mind. But who said that Mal didn’t have any sense of community spirit?

Instead of waltzing through the front entrance with her dirty combat boots like she had last time, Mal ducked under a nearby fence instead, ending up on the outskirts of the golf green and upsetting a tiny circle of children playing some sort of Duck, Duck, Goose game. They sat on a picnic blanket and stared gormlessly at her, up until she reached out and plucked a lollipop from one of the younger boy’s pudgy hands. Pulling the wrapper off, she popped it in her mouth and strode off, listening to him wail as she went. God, kids were such suckers.

Security around this placed seemed to be lax, as the group of infants were the only thing remotely close to an obstacle that Mal encountered. Coming around to the back of the building, she was pleased to see that the place was deserted, figuring that all the adults were crowded inside for high tea so they could discuss the ongoings of their rich society lives. It made her nauseous just to think about and she dropped her backpack by her side before hitching up the bandana she’d tied around her neck so it covered her mouth, protecting her from any fumes.

Pulling a purple can from her bag, she gave it a vigorous shake then began coating the wall in front of her with her signature colour. It was bright and sharp and contrasted the pale, pastel aesthetic of her surroundings perfectly. She’d nearly finished her large ‘M’ when a crunch of pebbles from behind alerted her to someone approaching. Whirling around, bandana still obscuring the bottom half of her face and her bangs covering the top half bar her eyes, her short-lived fear dissolved into amusement.

The person staring back at her was tall and burly enough to be a figure of authority, but he was wearing clothes more suited to a hiking trail and his fluffy hair reminded Mal of one of Evie’s American Girl dolls that she’d dutifully styled when they were kids. Mal didn’t think this guy was a threat at all so she quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Can I help you?” she asked pointedly.

[leadthepack]

Despite the fact that Graham had been positioned in Cherry Grove on the very strict business of finding Alba White, he still had a duty to carry out. He wouldn't deviate from the task at hand; he was fully focused on getting the job done and ensuring that he slap a pair of cuffs on White and find her behind bars, exactly where she belonged. That being said, he was still living here now; and he wasn't alone. He'd made it very clear that he wanted Scarlett standing by his side when he moved to the town, and though it had come as a surprise that Hunt had pulled through on his promise, he now needed to ensure that Scarlett wasn't in harm's way. It was bad enough him dragging her into a town that could lay down all the answers to the Alba White case. As far as he was concerned, White was dangerous. She was a criminal, and somebody who was not to be taken for granted; she was sneaky, good at covering her tracks, and she was a lot smarter than Hunt and his men gave her credit for. With that in mind, he didn't want Scarlett living in a town that could potentially place her in danger, and so he was taking all the precautions imaginable to ensure that the town was otherwise squeaky clean.

He kept under the radar as he carried out these investigations, scoping out the rougher part of town, as well as the classier parts. Graham couldn't quite fathom why, but people often found themselves surprised upon the discovery that, quite frankly, more often than not, socialites tended to edge further and further away from plain old arrogant, and tended to veer more towards sociopathic. No doubt it had a lot to do with the fact that some people thought that money could buy them absolutely any luxury that they so wished; including the ability to do whatever, whenever, without even the slightest  repercussions for their heinous actions. Aye, sure, wasn't their President proof enough of such a case.

That's what lead Graham to where he stood now. Country Clubs certainly hadn't ever been his scene and, other than a few procedural calls after some high profile incident, the odd complaint about noise levels, and the occasional break-in, Graham's work very rarely found him mingling with the upper class; and he quite liked it that way. He had nothing against those who came from money, or had simply earned it, but they didn't tend to extend the same courtesy to him. He was the shite on their shoes, and he knew exactly where he stood in life.

He made his work quick, giving the place a brief rundown; slipping in and out undetected, taking note of anything that set off alarm bells. He was a little alarmed by the slack security; Graham was well enough trained that, even with the best security guards money can buy, he'd have gotten along just fine without anybody even noticing he was there. That being said, mind, their severe disinterest in just who could be caught roaming around meant they were leaving themselves wide open for any kind of robberies – or, God forbid, something far worse.

Graham had all but grown tired of scanning the grounds, and was just readying himself to head back home and spend the rest of the day watching whatever movies Scarlett subjected him to, when he a strange noise caught his attention. It was something close to a clicking noise and, had it been anyone else, it may have even been cause for concern. To a perfectly trained ear such as Graham's, however, he knew better than to duck for cover. He remembered all the times that he'd been tackled to the ground by one of Hunt's incompetent men; the sound of a car backfiring, a firework being set off, party poppers being released. The list could go on and on, but Graham knew how to tell a gunshot apart from the rest. No, the sound he heard was something else. Cocking his head to the side, his ears straining, he heard the gentle rattle of glass against tin, the hiss of something that followed. Arching a brow, he sighed as he resigned himself to the idea that maybe he wasn't going home just yet; his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

Following the faint noises, he rounded a corner until he spotted an all-too familiar sight. There she was; a tiny frame, a curtain of shocking purple hair flowing down her back, a girl expertly training her hand along the pale expanse of the Country Club's wall, marking her territory. Narrowing his eyes, he made out the shape of an M and smirked to himself. It was the typical response; kids these days had a strange obsession with marking their own names, initials; giving away their identity and, should he feel the need to, making it easier for him to track them down.

Graham wasn't on duty, nor was he altogether perturbed by the girl's actions – though illegal, she could be spending her time doing far worse – but he wasn't about to let it go unnoticed. Having made his silent approach, now wanting to draw attention to himself, Graham carefully scuffed his boots against the gravel below him, letting pebbles skid forward until the girl whirled around and faced him.

“Can ye help me?” he mused, tilting his head to the side as he watched the girl, curiosity plain in his features. A faint smile on his lips, he shook his head. “Nah, ye're grand. I was jus' wonderin' if ye realise this is protected property here. Ye know, there's a hefty fine for people caught trespassin', nevermind people caught vandalisin' the property.”

[villanes-blog1]

[leadthepack]

faiirestofalll :

Niamh tipped her head up to regard the stranger as he cursed, her fingers never straying from the downy fur of the kitten’s back. The poor thing feebly arched it’s back in response to her touch, letting the dark haired girl know the poor creature was alive, hanging on, if only barely. It was the slightest of responses, but a response. It was enough to make Niamh tear her gaze away from the man’s own, where only moments ago she’d been silently, desperately imploring him to do something with her eyes, as though their roles were reversed. As though she’d barged into the veterinary clinic swaddling the poor, helpless kitten. Now, she took a pointed step back, hoping to gain some clarity simply by putting distance between the panicked man and herself. 

“I don’t know, I…” she started, bringing a pair of shaking fingers up to her mouth. It felt cold under her touch, the coarse pads of her fingers rubbing the dry sandpaper of her lips. Panic choked her, as she wondered how to further explain to this man that she was good for absolutely nothing. That the Wildes were kind people, who let her idly standby and comfort the animals as Winona dished out painkillers, gave stitches, bandaged them up and sent them home to people who loved them. Her mouth opened as though to vocalise this, but instead she simply muttered, ‘shit, shit.’, repeating the man’s sentiment from earlier.

“I… I think we need to keep her warm.” Niamh suggested, and brazenly, her fingers found the hem of her jumper and tugged it over her head, leaving her clad in only her muscle tee. Which was again, a few sizes too big for given the startling amount of weight she’d lost since arriving to Cherry Grove. A fact no one seemed to pick up on, given that she always buried her tiny frame in baggy clothes, and her round babyface stayed perpetually that - round and filled out. She shed herself of those baggy layers now, bustling towards the man with the jumper. Gently, she tucked it around the kitten, unsure what else to do in the meantime. 

“It’s okay, little one.” she promised, as she bundled the poor thing in her sweater, her voice sounding hoarse even to her own ears. She tucked the kitten in tightly, wondering if she imagined the slight twitch of her nose and the flicker of pain across her face when she nudged her left paw ever so slightly. Then, under her breath, Niamh silently pleaded, “Please Todd, come on.”

As though he’d heard her, the door immediately swung open, Niamh swallowing a yelp as Winona moved into the room quickly, alert and aware. She took a few steps back to avoid colliding with the woman, who made a beeline for their new companion to take the kitten from him, her sweater and all. Niamh chewed her fingernails as she watched, sinking into the corner, not able to feel relief quite just yet. 

The full weight of the man’s gaze resting on her, Niamh’s mouth fell open as she repeated his phrase, “I’ll help her?”

Her eyes searched his hopelessly, and if it had been any other scenario, she might have scoffed. Despite how badly she wanted to, she wasn’t sure what she had to offer that Winona couldn’t. She was useless, a spectator to this situation, and she didn’t appreciate all of flannel-and-denim-jacket-dude’s hopes being pinned on her. Didn’t appreciate those brown eyes (both soft and wolfish simultaneously, but how?) looking at her with so much sorrow, thank you very much. In fact, she wouldn’t entertain the thought she could help at all. Wouldn’t allow that flicker of hope, instead choosing to pointedly shake her head.

“I can’t…” she insisted, taking a step back, feeling her heel hit the wall. She stumbled slightly, looking at Winona, before daring to ask, “Can I?”

Snuffing the spark of hope, Niamh instead asked the vet with practicality, “Is there anything we can do for her?”

Graham felt dizzy with concern. He hated nothing more than to see any sort of animal come to harm. It was a trait that had been instilled into him from a young age – oh, how he'd cried when Missy the cry had passed away. He'd been 7 years old at the time, but the feeling never went away. Animals were innocent, and if their suffering could be avoided then he'd do anything in his power to make it so. When Hunt had taken him in, Graham had been so afraid, so lost and alone, his heart overcome with grief, that he'd just blindly followed them. He'd allowed them to mould him into something of their own creation, something that he hated. When guns and hunting knives were thrust into his grips, and he'd been ordered to find his prey, they'd behaved as though Graham was indispensable to the game. Each time, without fail, he'd winced and cringed away from their orders, instead finding himself on the receiving end of their taunting, cruel words – and, on an especially bad day, the sting of a hand across his cheek.

He watched, with a curious gaze, as the brunette cuddled the kitten close to her chest. It was so nurturing, so protective. It was evident that she belonged here, that her heart was in the right place and that she wanted the same thing that Graham did; to help the poor creature. He couldn't find it in him to be hurt by her earlier outburst; he understood how strange it looked, wandering in with an injured animal that had clearly been left for dead. He'd never do such a thing, but he figured that fear had kicked in long before logic, and that the woman was reacting purely on concern alone.

He wasn't used to being within such close proximity to anyone, not in the manner that they were, but the way that she had eagerly pushed forward to take care of the injured animal, intent on keeping it warm with whatever means possible, only further proved that she was worried. With her face so close to his own, it allowed him a moment to truly take her in, to scan every detail on her face. She looked undeniably familiar and, had he not forgotten why he was making his way to the clinic in the first place, he might have clued the pieces together in an instant. Instead, however, he merely bundled closer to her, using the warmth from his own sweater to protect the kitten from any further harm.

“Yer friend, he's takin' an awful long time...” Graham muttered, his brow furrowed in distress. It wasn't an accusation, he knew they were doing their best, but he could hear her whispered pleads for him to hurry.

Just then, like clockwork, two figures entered the room with a ferocity akin only to that of which Graham had seen down at the station. Ms Wilde, followed by the young boy named Todd, surged forward to take the kitten from him, tenderly placing her hands on the tiny one's fur as she cradled it close. She never stopped to acknowledge him or the brunette, instead setting to work to get it comfortable. She knew her priorities and a wave of relief washed over Graham, but he couldn't breath just yet – not until he knew the kitten was okay.

“I... I don't know,” he responded stupidly, glancing at the girl. He felt helpless. In his line of work, he usually had something to do. There was always orders being thrown around, even when he felt the most hopeless. Whether or not the right decision was always made was one thing, but that was something he'd hold on his conscience for the rest of his life. Right now, however, he felt like a lost cause, unable to offer any even remotely useful notion. “Ye work here, don't ye? I mean... can't ye... I jus'... I don't know.”

He sighed, lifting a hand to run it over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as he searched for some sort of solution to their predicament. This had been his goal for so many years; he'd wanted so desperately to be a veterinarian. He'd wanted to protect animals; to take care of them and nurse them back to health. And now that he was being faced with a very real need to, it dawned on him that he lacked the capabilities entirely. He watched wildly as the girl posed her question, holding his breath in wait for the response.

The look on Ms Wilde's face was nothing but sorrow. She was hard at work, her son at her side assisting in whatever way that he could, and it was clear to see that she felt for the two of them. She seemed to know that it would help them both to have something to do. Nodding towards the brunette, and gesturing over her shoulder to the doorway she'd just bustled through, she started. “Niamh, take Mr Humbert here through to the store room. Get as many blankets and towels as you can. We've gotta keep her warm. Grab some gloves, too. We don't want her to get any kind of infection while we're working. I'm gonna need tools; Niamh, you know where I keep my stock. And, Graham, is it? Welcome to the team.”

Graham blinked, frozen, rooted to the spot as he tried to absorb all that she'd said. It made sense, in reality, for her to know who he was. He'd been expected today, and his accent was no doubt a giveaway, but it still caught him off guard, and he merely turned to face the girl – Niamh? – in hopes that she might offer him some kind of help in leading him in the right direction.

[leadthepack]

Who was your New Year's kiss?

Eh…

Ye know, I don’t think, eh… It was somethin’, that’s for sure. And someone, too.

[leadthepack]

@niamhwhite: @ghumbert Also fierce easy to delete evidence, dude.

@ghumbert: @niamhwhite Aye, I've noticed that.

[leadthepack]

@niamhwhite: @ghumbert I don't think she'd be my buddy if she did. 😇

@ghumbert: @niamhwhite It's on the internet, ye know. Fierce easy to fine people on the internet.

[leadthepack]

@niamhwhite: @ghumbert Sorry I fell asleep halfway through that sentence, Irish.

@ghumbert: @niamhwhite Does Judy know you're this mean to me?

[leadthepack]

@niamhwhite: @ghumbert Oh my God. Who are you.

@niamhwhite: @ghumbert I'm telling Judy you told me to shut up.

@ghumbert: @niamhwhite Aye, go for it. While you're at it, tell her that a honeybee at an average speed of 25km per hour and beat their wings 200 times per second. Fierce interesting, don't ye think?

[leadthepack]

@niamhwhite: @ghumbert But it's just so funny, dude. Can I borrow it when you're done? I'm real interested in the article about how Why Niagara Falls Doesn't Freeze Solid.

@ghumbert: @niamhwhite Shut up. It's interesting.

[leadthepack]

@niamhwhite: Today I discovered Graham subscribes to National Geographic. A moment to make fun of that, please.

@ghumbert: @niamhwhite Ah, g'way. Don't be going telling my secrets to the world.

[leadthepack]

How're you liking Cherry Grove?

Aye, s’not so bad. Quiet, jus’ how I like it. People’re sound too. Grand job, tidy little place just outta town. I keep to m’self an’ nobody pushes me or nothin’. S’pretty great, alrigh’.

[leadthepack]

keepflapping :

Farrah’s therapist always liked to hear that her patient was being active. The young woman’s shoulder had stopped seizing up, despite the remnants of shrapnel lodged in there, and her physio instructor credited her energetic schedule for that. There was little time for rest in Farrah Brown’s life what with school and cheerleading practise and her eagerness to be outdoors on a hiking trail. Perhaps if she was a little bit lazier, she would be prone to lying around and letting her shoulder grow stiff. Then her muscle tissue would fall victim to a fierce ache and the internal souvenir she’d unwillingly brought home from Afghanistan would present itself as a bigger problem than it currently was. No, the more she kept moving, the safer (and happier) she would be.

One of her days off found her on a familiar hiking trail that, admittedly, paled in comparison to the ones in Virginia. She knew those mountain paths like the back of her hands, having always traipsed through them as her little legs struggled to keep up with her older brother and her father. It had upped her stamina levels, that constant scurrying up gravel paths and climbing over rocks in an effort to prove that, as tiny as she was, she was just as suited for mountain climbing as Jay and her father were. It had helped her when she turned eighteen and enrolled for training in the Marines, as being a female in a male-dominated company drew some attention that brought with it a negative stigma concerning a young woman’s ability to keep up with the men in her company. But she’d managed just fine.

Her dog tags were cool against her otherwise sweaty neck, but the weight of them as they rested on her chest was familiar and reassuring as she pushed further up the trail. Her pigtails swung from side to side and she clutched onto the straps of her backpack, making sure she watched where she was going as the trail lost its way a little bit and she had to pay attention to the nature-made ruts in the ground instead.

Hopping down from one rock to another required all of her concentration, as she was wrapped in so many layers to ward off the cold weather, that her scarf threatened to obscure her vision. Yanking it down a little, she jumped from the last rock and landed safely on the ground, swivelling around quickly to get back on track when she was greeted with the feeling of a solid body crashing into her.

Admittedly, her first instinct was to panic and a startled gasp crawled its way out of her throat as soon as the stranger gripped onto her waist. It wasn’t a threatening hold, but her mind was a little too fuzzy with fear to instantly be able to make sense of the situation, too busy roaming through her catalogue of training moves from Marine camp. She wanted to remember exactly how to transfer this man’s weight onto her back so she could flip him over her shoulder and onto his own.

But that was soon deemed unnecessary when she heard the man’s accent and she stood up straight at once with a little ‘oh!’ of recognition.

Hearing Graham curse was funny, because it was like hearing a teacher curse. She knew that her co-worker wasn’t a teacher by any means, but he still had that cute fluffy-haired look to him and kept himself to himself most of the time, often muttering an occasional ‘good morning’ to her from behind the rim of his coffee mug while keeping a distance between the two of them that Farrah told herself wasn’t anything personal. Maybe he was just shy? She could be difficult to take at face value after all, especially seeing as she didn’t know when to stop talking sometimes.

“Christ shite, Graham!” she giggled, raising her eyebrows at him as a wide and cheeky grin made itself at home on her face. The sight of him, wide-eyed and apologetic and looking like he had no idea what to do, only made her giggle again.

“You’re totally fine!” she reassured him then giggled once more for good measure. Farrah was a giggler. It drove Violet crazy.

“I didn’t see you either, I was too busy hop-skipping-and-jumping my way down these rocks. Are you hiking? I didn’t know you hiked! I mean, I say that in a way that implies I know a lot about you when I don’t because I definitely haven’t tried to look you up on Facebook or anything like that or anything just to make sure you actually existed or whatever, but anyway, what I mean is you didn’t really seem like the kind to go hiking,” she explained, then widened her eyes when she realised that could be misconstrued as rude. She had been clutching one of her pigtails and smacked the offending braid against her forehead. “No! Sorry! What I mean is, I didn’t know if you were just kind of an indoors guy or… if you were allergic to… trees.”

She trailed off then clamped her mouth shut then spun on the spot and pretended like she was surveying the woods around them.

“So, it’s October,” she announced, pointing a finger skyward as if the shelter of orange leaves above them were a clear indication of the month. Really, she had just hoped it would be a good conversation starter if they both agreed where they stood in the calendar year. As if Graham would nod hastily and say ‘oh, it is October, isn’t it?’ like he hadn’t realised before and Farrah would eagerly nod and her previous blunder would swiftly be forgotten. It was unlikely that would pan out, but she held out hope nevertheless.

Hearing the way Farrah playfully mocked his outburst from before, Graham let the corners of his lips turn upwards into an awkward smile; his attempt at a peace offering. He wasn't the ideal coworker. Keeping himself to himself and barely uttering a word to the various people he shared a space with, he probably came across as a little emotionally stunted, rude, dismissive, and all around quite detached – strictly speaking, none of that was actually untrue, but not for the reasons that they perhaps thought. While he had taken on the role of janitor at the clinic, it was merely a guise while he worked uncover the truth about Alba White – or, as she was now presenting herself, Niamh. He'd been enlisted the task of taking her in to custody, and he wasn't about to let anything distract him from his job.

Now, however, away from the clinic and with only mother nature – and Farrah, it would seem – to keep him company, Graham supposed that he had no justifiable reason to dismiss the girl. He could just as easily offer up a clipped response and be as cold as he wished to save him the hassle of grinning and bearing it, but he had no real qualms with the girl; she was a little over excitable, but there was nothing wrong with that, not in the slightest. She carried that same enthusiasm, same optimism that he'd once seen in Sara, and he couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt in writing the girl off. There really was no reason to be on bad terms with her. He could easily be civil without investing himself too much in her life – there was no use growing attachments, not when he'd soon have the job other with and would be well on his way with Scarlett.

He found no break in their conversation though, as Farrah rambled on and on, barely stopping for breath, as she somehow managed to veer the conversation away from hiking and on to the matter of facebook. Eyes widening a little, Graham found that he was actually struggling to hide the smile that was now playing on his lips – the opposite of the kind of issue he was usually faced with. There was a sort of irony in her backwards admission to searching for him on facebook to ensure he existed – though she'd claimed she hadn't done that, Graham wouldn't very well be the officer that he was now if he couldn't see through a simple lie such as the one she'd told – when the very woman she worked with on a daily basis was quite clearly hiding her own identity. While Graham had fabricated a lie, shaping it around his true intentions and role at the clinic, his name and his personality were completely real.

“Not allergic to trees,” Graham assured her, eyeing the girl curiously. The ghost of a smile was still flirting with his lips, and he found himself a little endeared by the hole she'd managed to dig herself in to. She was entirely harmless, only trying to integrate herself into his life and get to know him, and he couldn't really fault her there. Deciding that the following didn't really count as any sort of divulgence of top secret information, he shrugged. “Aye, hikin' is sorta m'safe space, ye know? Bitta sanctuary ou' there in the scary ol' world.”

He paused, realising that maybe he could have just settled with yes, Farrah, I like to hike, as opposed to informing her that it was something of sanctuary to him; but there was no going back now.

Letting his eyes wander skyward, tipping his head back so that he could stare with her at the abundance of trees that surrounded them. Neither the month, nor the setting, had escaped him, and his shoulders shook as he laughed. From the way he'd seen Farrah interacting with Nick and Todd at the clinic – he was a keen observer, always taking the time to get a firm read on people, their dynamics and behaviour, and try to get at least a vague understanding of what made them tick – he'd never pegged her as a particularly insecure or awkward person. While her rambles seemed a regular part of her character (she spent a lot of time going on long winded tangents with the boys and Judy, the band of them never quote knowing when to pause for air), she seemed utterly at a loss for words suddenly as she hovered awkwardly beside him. It was a curious switch.

“Aye, does it normally take ye this long inte the month to figure ou' where on the calendar we happen t'be?” he questioned, amused. He had a tendency to be blunt, even his sarcasm coming out harsh, rather than playful.

[idiona]

fire

[leadthepack]

TEXT: COOPER

Graham: Happy birthday, lad. Hope the wee pup is doin' better than the last time we saw him, kid.