#more fun with a queue

[allroundlostcause]

Let me tell you something, my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane.

Alaric Saltzman, probably

[allroundlostcause]

great heights

@thexboyxking

It was getting worse every day. The guilt. Watching Sam quietly excuse himself at the end of the working day to go sit on the roof and wait for… well, not Ric, but for the Hood to show up. Occasionally, Alaric tried to talk him out of it, just with a plea to go eat somewhere a little farther away from the office where he might just head home afterward.

Alaric had, one night, taken a quiet flight up there. Sam didn’t seem to be doing much, though Alaric never got close enough to be seen; just looked like he was sitting and thinking and waiting.

And tonight was apparently not going to be any different. Except that Sam looked a little more tired, and a little more disappointed, and Alaric was starting to feel like the worst friend in the world.

The clincher was the very hard, very meaningful, very deadpan stare Castiel gave him as he collected his own things to head home — well, to head home to eat a couple of family size pizzas and then start patrolling the streets.

Alright, Cas. You win.

Alaric left his laptop in his poky little office in the research section and headed downstairs, down the street, to the only good coffee place that was open at night. He ordered himself a black coffee and for Sam, his favorite treat order. On a whim, he took the last two chocolate doughnuts, as well, knowing that there was every chance Sam would decline, but wanting to make the gesture anyway.

And then he returned to the office and made his way to the roof.

“Hey,” he said to Sam, as his friend turned to look at him with a brief flash of hope on his face. “It’s a nice night, thought I might join you for a while.”

He sat beside Sam on one of the benches that had been dragged up here who-knew-how long ago by god-knows-who, and passed him the coffee, in a tall paper cup.

“Chocolate doughnut?”

[allroundlostcause]

the gates

@abiggerworld

Alaric rolled his shoulders. It was late afternoon and he’d been hauling rocks out of the ground for most of the day, getting ready to extend the crops. Better that no one asked him to touch anything green, really, he’d proven that, but manual labor served the dual purposes of actually being a useful thing to do, and also wearing him out enough to sleep at night. Not that there would be much of that tonight, he realized, as he remembered he was on the watch.

No problem.

Possible problem — he hadn’t seen the girls in much too long. Josie and Hope were probably fine; someone, Alaric still wasn’t sure who, had taught them to take cuttings from other plants and grow new ones, and they were doing a great job of that. (It was amazing what some herbs and spices could do for the food around here. Alaric’s ability to cook seemed to make up for the fact that he so effortlessly made plants wilt.) Bonus; all the time they’d been spending together seemed to be softening the animosity they’d had for each other for so long. If he wasn’t horribly mistaken — and as the principal of a boarding school, he did have some experience to draw on — they’d become friends.

Miracle of miracles.

Lizzie, though, might be doing something useful, or might be flirting with one of the boys, and if she was doing that, it might have been for the better part of the day. Time for Alaric to clean up and go find out what they were all up to. He glanced at the pile of rocks, wondering what use they might be (nothing, absolutely nothing could be wasted here) and carried his tools back up to the stables.

And there was Lizzie, brushing down one of the horses with a thoroughly besotted look in her eye.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” she said. “His eyelashes are three inches long. I wish my eyelashes were three inches long. Do you know what I’d do for some mascara, even?”

Alaric pressed a kiss to her temple. “You know you’re beautiful just the way you are,” he said.

“You have to think that. You’re my dad.”

But she was back to brushing the horse down, murmuring endearments. Served him right for thinking she was chatting up boys.

Josie and Hope were, as he suspected, still carefully tending to a small patch of sheltered garden where they kept the seedlings until they were big enough to transplant. He crouched down.

“Don’t touch, Ric,” Hope warned.

“Not touching. What have you got here?”

“Look,” Josie said, pointing to a tiny curl of green. “One day, that will be a chili plant. If you don’t touch it, talk to it or look at it.” She sounded gleeful as she gave her very patronizing instructions.

“Then I won’t,” he said. “I’m gonna go see if I can help with dinner.” After he’d washed his hands and cleaned up a couple of scratches that were bleeding sluggishly. He had a weather eye out for Paul; they were on the watch together later.

[allroundlostcause]

after syracuse | ric and manny

@lcvoyant

The sun is just beginning to rise when they hit the outskirts of Syracuse, a half hour after leaving a grateful family to get some sleep, and then clean up, in that order. It has occurred to Alaric that the smart money is on spending a few hours sleeping in the RV before heading back to Boston. There are two reasons not to, though; first and foremost, it’s less than a six-hour drive home, meaning they’ll be back by lunchtime. Second, and only by a whisker, is that it’s been an exhausting few days, but that is unlikely to stop them from offering to help clean up the broken furniture and shredded wallpaper, and quite possibly, Alaric offering to repair the destroyed wiring. He could almost hear it; he or Manny offering, the family putting up a half-hearted refusal, and then Manny and Alaric insisting.

They are good people, both of them. But there has to be a limit to what they’ll do to help. There are two teenage boys in that family, tall, strong boys who seem to be the type who are happy to roll their sleeves up and work. The family isn’t exactly poor, and there are probably plenty of licensed electricians who will do a better, cleaner job than Alaric could if getting the home functional again.

And after the month they’ve just had?

They deserve to ride off into the sunset on a high note.

Well. The sunrise. Whatever. Same overall feel, more desire for a bacon and egg sandwich and some coffee.

Alaric is… ebullient. Not a word he’s often used to describe himself, but it seems apt. Credence on the stereo, a wide grin on his face, and most importantly, Manny by his side (more tired than Alaric is, having done most of the work, but looking pretty pleased with himself nonetheless). Despite his tiredness, Manny looks healthy. The last couple of weeks the color has returned to his cheeks, he’s gained a little weight (not much — Alaric might order those bacon and egg sandwiches with extra bacon), and sleeping through the night might still be a dream for another day he’s certainly sleeping more than he was.

Alaric turns, grinning, and adjusts the volume on the radio. It’s probably a little too loud for dawn.

“Manfred Bernardo,” he says, and he can feel how warm and fond his eyes are. “You… you were fucking amazing.” He wants to say that Xylda would be proud — and she would be — but invoking her name can sometimes bring Manny down a little. Never know which way it might go, on any given day, so why take the risk on a day this sweet? “When I think about what that family’s been going through… and you were steady as a rock,” he adds, knowing his voice sounds more than a little awestruck.

He reaches out and gives Manny’s shoulder a squeeze. They’re long healed up from that terrible night, both of them. And after a month living together, and finding it easier every day to settle their bodies together then stay apart, the distance between the seats in the front of the RV feels unreasonably wide.

Alaric loves it. He’s been thriving on it; hadn’t realized how lonely he was until Manny had decided that it was more fun watching television stretched out together, touching from neck to knee (a ploy, Alaric thinks, to get Alaric to play with his hair and a ploy that works every single time without fail).

But this had been a test, of sorts. Manny needed to get back to what he does and Alaric needed to make sure that working together still worked; and it does. Even better than before. They communicate wordlessly and coordinate seamlessly.

“Fucking unreal. Oh, man, I can still taste plaster dust. Can you pass me that water bottle?”

[allroundlostcause]

❛ maybe i get to have a reason for the ache you left in my chest. ❜

poetry sentence meme – no longer accepting – @damonstevedore

Maybe this was a mistake. Coming here. Alaric sits on the edge of his childhood bedroom, trying to do the math. Is he sixteen, in May 1994? Or does he turn sixteen in November? He stares at a row of trophies, lined up on his shelf; basketball and boxing. No, he’s sixteen, if there are boxing trophies. There are photographs tucked into the frame of his mirror. He’d forgotten this was a year he suffered from a touch of acne and started hating to see his own reflection.

Part of him would like to think Damon often just talks just to hear the sound of his own voice. Part of him knows it’s not true, and whatever the fuck it is growing between them was growing long before Alaric committed the treacherous act of dying in his arms.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, opening the top drawer of his dresser and poking through the detritus of his teenage life. A couple of very optimistic condoms, a broken black leather cuff (yeah, don’t laugh), concert and movie ticket stubs, a diary he knows full well contains exactly one entry from when he was fourteen years old and suddenly enamored with the idea that he might be an as-yet undiscovered literary genius. He’d given up and didn’t start another journal until Isobel disappeared.

A look from Damon and he feels strangely exposed, and ashamed of himself.

“If there’s a reason, we’re not going to find it here. And I didn’t choose to fucking die. So stop talking like I did.”

He closes the drawer and stands up. He feels too tall in here, now. The posters on the walls look low. The ceiling actually is low, thanks to the slanting of the roof. The ancient computer on the desk looks foreign, and somehow staged. He can’t stand it another second. He’s out the door, and in the kitchen, looking out over his parents’ garden, over a dozen unmarked graves of cats he’d loved long before Damon.

“You can’t tell me you ache and not tell me why,” he says, when he can hear Damon behind him. “You can’t be honest halfway and then not finish.”

[allroundlostcause]

“Kiss the hell out of me. Please.” From Lenny

nsfw meme – no longer accepting – @insomniacsmuses (lenny)

It had felt like a mistake inviting Lenny to this thing; they were so stuffy, and Alaric was always so uncomfortable in a suit. But he had to go, and weighing up a Saturday night without Lenny’s company, knowing full well she was heading out of town the following day, and wouldn’t be back for a week —

Well, they’d make their own fun. And leave early, and make some more.

Not the most romantic thing, taking separate taxis and meeting at the venue; but again. Practicalities. Alaric had tried to wait outside, but been dragged in to meet some important donors, people with connections to occult libraries and collection all over Europe, people he knew full well he had to schmooze, or find other work. He talked, and kept an eye on the door, and almost fainted with anticipatory humiliation as he realized there was a band there, and a dance floor.

A fucking jazz band.

Alaric couldn’t dance to a fucking march, let alone something in a time signature that was conceived under the influence of peyote.

Oh, this was such a terrible, terrible mistake. Maybe he could fake spraining his ankle. Or a heart attack, he could fake a heart attack, right?

From the corner of his eye, as the music started up, he saw a streak of red. A tall woman in a gorgeous dress that looked like it could have been made for her. Holy shit. Half the eyes in the room turned to Lenny — envious, admiring.

“Excuse me,” Alaric said, cutting off the donor. He figured he’d be forgiven.

“You,” he started.

“Me,” Lenny replied, letting Alaric kiss her cheek. “I told you I scrub up nice.”

“Yeah, you roll out of bed looking nice. Right now, you look like an heiress.”

“So, the badass bounty collector was born with a silver spoon in her mouth?” she said, letting Alaric lead her toward the bar. “I like it. Are the family Mafia, or diamond smugglers?”

“Both,” Alaric said, slipping an arm around her waist. “I’d really love to kiss the hell out of you in front of this entire elegant shindig,” he said, with a sigh.

“Ric,” she answered. “Kiss the hell out of me. Please.”

[allroundlostcause]

❝ I just wanna hold your hand and make out, dude. ❞

randoms. – @thatslayer – no longer accepting.

So life is never going to be the same. Alaric never imagined seeing something like… his mind won’t even wrap around the word ‘vampire’, let alone ‘demon’. He’s never believed in God, much to the delight of his atheist father, and the bitter disappointment of his Lutheran-turned-Baptist mother. He’s feeling kind of banged up, thanks to that fun moment where he got tossed across the room like a bag of potatoes. The bruises tomorrow should be fun. He really needs to start doing some research, maybe talk to that Giles guy, because these olde worlde weapons are cool and all but they don’t seem to be as efficient as they could be. Maybe he’s delusional. Maybe he can’t help at all.

But since he’s already refused point blank to leave — and not only to Faith — he might as well try to make himself useful.

Faith lets them into the motel room they’re living in and tosses the keys on the table, quietly. She’s quiet. She’s not often quiet. Alaric is quiet, when his tongue isn’t flapping at both ends. Maybe she’s traumatized? Maybe she needs to talk about what just happened?

“Are you alright?” he asks, as she empties a tray of ice from the tiny bar fridge into a plastic bag, and wraps it in one of Alaric’s t-shirts. She holds it to her chin. “Do you want to talk about… well. That?”

She looks sort of inscrutable, for a moment, eyes blank, and then she shrugs, and tosses her hair over her shoulder, and gives him one of those smiles that make her dimples pop. She gets up close, and catches a finger in his belt loop.

“I just wanna hold your hand and make out, dude,” Faith says.

Maybe a distraction will do, for now.

[allroundlostcause]

❝ Your tie is crooked. ❞ Elijah

randoms. – @insomniacscanons / Elijah – no longer accepting.

“Right.” Fuck, it’s been a long time since he had to wear one of these things. He’s never liked them. Feels like he’s being strangled. So… probably a funeral? Maybe Tyler Lockwood’s funeral. Yeah, these days he has to schmooze donors, but he took the hint, styled himself more along the lines of Indiana Jones than James Bond. It seems to play well, and much more importantly, it means he doesn’t have to wear a stupid tie.

He turns back to the mirror, and glances at the knot. No. It’s not crooked. Okay, maybe Elijah has higher standards than Alaric does, but the knot is fine! Alaric’s eyes follow the tie down —

And, fuck. The back part is about two inches longer than the front part. He grunts in frustration. He is not doing it again. He reaches for a pair of scissors on the counter, and yanks the offending part of the tie to the side. He’ll just lop it off, and go get this thing out of the way.

“Ric,” Elijah chides, slipping the scissors away deftly, with a hint of fond irritation in his voice, before loosening the knot and starting again. A double Windsor. The classiest knot of them all. Obviously.

He’s distractingly close, and Alaric finds himself holding his breath, studying the look of relaxed concentration.

They could just skip the tie, skip the outfit, and Alaric could act out an ages-old fantasy right here in his office.

Instead, as Elijah steps away, he stammers a “thank you”, and reaches for his keys.