starter for @bleadhound
The streetlight flickers once overhead, throwing Desmond’s shadow long across the uneven concrete. He doesn’t move at first. Just stands there, boots planted like roots breaking through asphalt. His hands are tucked in the pockets of his jacket—old wool and denim, worn soft at the elbows, smelling faintly of sweat, blood, and river air. His frame doesn’t shrink with the dark. If anything, the dark clings to him, outlines him like a warning. There’s a stillness in his shoulders, but his jaw’s working, slow grind of molars and fury.
He hasn’t slept again. Not properly. Not since the last one they found—one of those bastards who laid their filthy hands on Kerry. Or on Maddie. He’d thought maybe putting the man’s head through a pipe wall would buy him an hour or two of rest, but no. The ghosts in his chest stay hungry. The baby stays dead. Rowan. A name he didn’t get to say out loud before it was buried with the rest of what they’d lost.
Desmond’s eyes, dull with lack of sleep, sweep over the porch of the old house like a hawk taking stock. Claire’s not here. He waited for that. There’s no comfort in crossing wires when the grief’s still fresh and the dead are still being talked about like they’re ghosts instead of people. He doesn’t want to see her cry. Not tonight.
But Alo? Aye. That’s different.
He steps forward now, climbing the steps with slow purpose, the wood creaking under his weight. He doesn’t knock. Just leans sideways into the doorframe and peers through the window beside it until he catches a glimpse of that familiar frame—shoulders curled too tight, jaw slack from whatever hell he’s trying to sleep through.
“Alo,” Desmond says, voice low but clear, accent softening at the ends. “Know you’re in there, mate.”
He waits. Crosses his arms. Shifts the weight on his feet just enough to keep from pacing.
“No need to hide n' there.” His tone lightens, a sliver of warmth slipping in. “Just thought maybe you could use a walk. Or a pint. Or both. I’ve got a car out front and no one worth talkin’ to inside it.”
He tilts his head, tries a crooked smile. Doesn’t quite land, but it’s earnest.
“You’ve been in this house too long, brother. You’re startin’ to look like furniture. Let me get you out of here for a while, ya? Clear your head. Maybe knock around a few ideas that don’t involve drownin’ in your own thoughts.”