eyes on a new prize

Valerie Estrada, DVM. Thirty-three years old. Veterinarian at Healing Paws Clinic. The aloof city girl who's new in town. A BleedingHeartsFM RP blog.

[veticent]

Valerie Estrada

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[nixscriptum]

[lyricsts]

this is me trying, taylor swift

[wldngmn]

“Mhm,” Hiro nods, response non-descript and vague until he adds to elaborate simply, “West Core.” He’d gone to Myristica once on a class trip to the museum and been slammed by the differences. He’d never felt poor until that moment. The moment his dusty boots hit the sidewalk he felt changed and exposed like a live wire. It felt very much like they only needed to look at him to know he didn’t belong. Sometimes being in the Springs felt the same way. Like everyone knew the steps to the line dance but him and he kept bumping elbows with his neighbors and no matter how many apologetic glances he gave them, they never got over it. Small towns could be warm and welcoming but they also held grudges and they never forgot.

“Yeah, my grandfather forces me to do manual labor to earn my keep,” a joke with a very blunt and flat faced delivery that splits into a sideways smirk at the very end.

Really, he has to fight his grandfather to let him help. The garden has seen so many battles with Hiro trying to pull up the weeds and his gichi smacking him with a straw broom to get him to stop because he insists he can weed the garden just fine. It’s a wonder anything even managed to grow.

He looks up at the mention of Metzli, “Oh, yeah it is,” sometimes it’s easy to forget how small the town is. Everyone knows everyone and he’s reminded of this now. “Yeah, they texted and we met the other day so they could meet the kittens and pick one out. They seemed excited about it.” And like they had done some research, which was great. Hiro didn’t want to dump the kittens with just anybody. “How do you know Metzli?”

[veticent]

In her eyes, the Empire City/West Core rivalry is a dumb joke that was far too overdone. Still, there is a reflexive urge to at least reference it. An urge she squashes in favor of an actual attempt at conversation.

“It's nice to be reminded I'm not the only outsider,” she says, a slightly sardonic curve to her lips.

In retrospect, it seems clear that Hiro isn't one of the townies, but Val's attention had been more so on the job than him during their initial meeting. But there was something subtle in his mannerisms that set him apart from some others that now seemed blatantly obvious. A guardedness, maybe? Or maybe it was just the knowledge of their otherness in such an otherwise tightknit community.

She reciprocates his sly smile, ignoring the slight ache in her chest at the little peek into their family dynamic. “Must be rewarding to see the literal fruits of your labor.” Ugh. She regrets the words as they leave her mouth. But the regret only doubles as a warm laugh echoes through her mind. Damian always loved making puns, and it absolutely delighted him whenever she made one— inadvertently or not.

Jaw clenching at the memory, Valerie looks back down to the fresh produce. It's not an ideal setting to keep her mind off of her foodie ex-fiancé, but she can't really do much about that without just absconding from this conversation.

“How much?” she asks, nodding toward the peaches. To her relief, her voice sounds normal, steady.

And, hey, her assumption was correct. “Oh, good.” She's glad that at least one of the kittens will be finding a good home soon. “We met at the Stag,” she explains with a shrug. “Had a few drinks, bonded over shared heritage,” exchanged deep dark secrets. “They seem like good people.”

[herrring]

"Well, I sure do 'preciate that. I learn everything by ear! Not many people offerin' zipper lessons 'round here," she chortles, pushing her glasses up and taking a better look at the woman in front of her. City slicker. It's not so much an insult as it is a statement of fact. There's something in the energy and the stance that really tends to set them all apart. The way she's poised reminds Lydia how severely she's slouching herself, and it reminds her to straighten up, even if just for a few moments of conversation.

Except now she's talking about Austria. Is that the place with all the kangaroos? And Weird Al— well, that's definitely not a local, otherwise she'd have heard of him by now. She blinks, fingers stopping, edges of her lips rising into an awkward smile, as if she's not sure whether to just go along with it or admit she has no idea what this woman is talking about. Now, she's not judging her for making references she doesn't understand, but she is a little irritated at herself for not understanding them. Unfortunately she's a bit too rural and phoneless for even a modicum of pop culture to stick in her waterlogged brain. "Where ya from, if y'don't mind me askin'?"

[veticent]

She's not exactly surprised to hear that there aren't many people offering lessons for this uncommon instrument that is almost certainly not called a zipper. But learning music by ear is pretty impressive, and she tells the woman that much.

The music stops as her Weird Al mention is met with a blank stare and an uncomfortable smile. Between that and the Billy Joel pull, Valerie suddenly feels very old.

She's never really been someone who cares much about whatever's trending or going viral, and that's only become more true as she's gotten older. But, damn, apparently there's nothing like entirely stumping a young twenty-something to remind you of those high school insecurities.

Whatever, it's not like she cares to impress this kid.

“Empire City,” Val states, adjusting the strap of her small cross-body bag. “But, don't mind me, I just have old references.”

[vespcrtines]

Whoa now. Eyes goin’ up ! Huck turns his face aside, giving the woman a moment to hitch up her skirts proper, but keeps a firm grip on her hand as she steps into the stirrup. She takes his boost like she’s done it a dozen times before, and settles herself in the saddle easily, back straight, hands steady, not a single jitter working off her. Not bad.

Valerie, huh.

“This here’s Pandora,” he says, tipping his chin toward the mare in question. Woman to woman (well... mare) introductions matter, after all. He gives ‘Dora’s neck a fond pat, and a stray marigold drops loose into his hand. Without thinking on it much, he holds it up toward Valerie, as his other hand keeps a steady hold on the reins. “Pandora’s my girl, ain’tcha, love?” he murmurs, and sure enough, ‘Dora noses against his head, clearly in on the conversation. He gives her a good, rough-knuckled rub along the side of her face for her trouble.

They fall into an easy walk, the clip of hooves against the cobblestones mixing in with the spill of music and the shrill giggles of kids darting between legs. Huck lets it settle around them, and for a while, he doesn't say much. Never been one for filling up the air just to hear himself talk.

But after a minute or so, he glances up at her in the saddle and lets his curls bounce as he tilts his head, meeting her eye. “Y’know,” he drawls, shifting his reins in one hand, “you sit a horse better than half the fellas I know ‘round here. Got good balance. Most city folks I’ve seen get up there like they’re in a hostage situation.” He tips his drooping crown back a notch with a thumb, sunlight catching the edges of his hair. “Might’ve fooled me, if not for the shoes. Ain’t nobody from around here wear boots that clean.”

[veticent]

Val holds back a grin, clocking how he pointedly looks away as she adjusts the skirt of her dress. It feels a little stereotypical, this cowboy with his Southern manners, but it's certainly preferable to the alternative, even if that is what she's more used to.

There is a strange sense of safety in the Springs, honestly. And while it is genuinely refreshing, it has her a bit more on edge. She knew what to expect in Empire City, it's flaws as numerous and conspicuous as the glowing advertisements plastered all over Ages Plaza. Places like this, though… Well, she knows better than to let her guard down because of this small town's charm.

It's clear that the man loves his horse, not just in how he speaks to her, but there's a shift in him, his tone and body, when his attention is on her. It's something she sees with pet owners, of course, but it's something she does, too. She feels it as her attention turns back to the mare, something in her softening just a little. “Well, hi Pandora.”

She still doesn't get his name, though. So she asks. “And you are?”

She's not exactly sure what to do with the marigold her offers out to her, but she takes it with a quiet, “thanks,” and tucks it into the side pocket of her bag for the time being.

They fall into a rather comfortable silence for a few moments, as Valerie adjusts to the feeling of being on horseback for the first time in… Well, it's definitely been over a year. But Pandora is calm, and they're walking at a slow pace that's easy to relax into. From the saddle, she's got a good view of town square and all the people gathered around for the festival, but it's relieving having a bit of distance from all the excitement. It's a bit like she's escaped from the heart of a party and found the host's cat.

He breaks the silence with what's both a compliment to her, but also many an indictment of these 'fellas' riding abilities, considering her limited riding experiences. Either way, she's taking the compliment— both about her riding skills and her boots. Also, as a bonus, he gives her an amusing mental image to ruminate on.

“Well, now I kinda want to see that,” she admits, grinning down at him. He's blond, she realizes, noticing the way the sunlight catches his curls. “But thanks.”

“There aren't many places to ride in Empire City unless you head upstate, but there are some stables in the northern borough,” she explains, “and running in animal welfare circles, everyone knows someone who knows someone. So, I got to ride every now and then.”

[dumbandy]

i have this constant feeling of wanting to leave all the time, i don't know when, i don't know where, but i only know that i want to leave

[herrring]

Billy Joel. She recognizes that name, right? Isn't that old Mrs. Gertie's neighbor? No, that's Bobbi Jo... With a crumpled expression of deep thought, she forces herself to think before she's grasped it— that one tune, heard time and time again in her little corner of the Stag, somewhere between jaunty and melancholy. Something about a piano man singing a song, heavy on the piano and perhaps even heavier on the harmonica. Probably would've been more apt to name it harmonica man. Or even singing man, seeing as they're asking him to sing. What kind of lyricism is that, Bill?

She starts feeling around for chords. Once. Twice. Then she finds her starting point: a vibrant C major, comfortable against dirt-lined nails. "Might sound crazier than a soup sandwich without the piano," she snorts. "Can't remember what it is, but I know the name Oz called it was real funny," she says, strumming a couple more times before pausing to tap her chin. "A zipper or somethin' like that..." She descends into an amenable rendition that is very clearly Piano Man and not Vienna, but she's trying her best. "I don't think I know the song you said," she murmurs, still strumming. "You're tellin' me this guy wrote a whole song 'bout those little sausages?"

[veticent]

It had been a long shot. And after a moment, the girl does start playing Piano Man, so at least she recognizes the name. She'll take what she can get.

She's been trying her best to socialize more, be nice and polite. Does she hate it? Yes. But so far it has gone a lot better than she would've thought. She's even met a few people she tolerates, or likes, even. And, in those interactions, sometimes, someone will hit Valerie with some insane adage that reminds her she's not in Empire City anymore. Crazier than a soup sandwich, really fucking gets her.

“I mean, there's a lot of harmonica in Piano Man anyway,” she manages after a moment.

Okay, so the woman isn't quite sure what it is either. It's a little odd, but sure. “Well, it's sounding pretty good for something you don't even know the name of.”

“And that's alright,” she shrugs, “it's pretty old. It's just the first song that came to mind.”

Val has to bite her tongue at the sausage comment. Nice, she reminds herself, polite. “It's about the city in Austria, actually,” she says. “But that sounds like a premise for an amazing Weird Al parody song.”

[vespcrtines]

Now, Huck’s nothing if not polite. His Mama wouldn’t’ve let him set a foot out the house without knowing when to offer a hand to a lady and when to hang back, mind his own, and let her decide if she wants the help. Old lessons like that stick. Not much in this world you can count on lasting, but his Mama’s voice in his head is one of ‘em.

He glances up at Pandora and, well, maybe he meets her gaze. Hard to say. Old girl was his best friend, but she wasn’t exactly the type to lay her feelings out plain, and reading a mare’s mind ain’t a skill he’s nailed down yet. What’s that look mean? Help her up, or don’t stick your nose where it don’t belong? She snorts.

Well. That didn’t clarify much.

“Alright, alright,” he mutters under his breath, and turns back towards the waiting woman, adorned in gold. He extends a gloved hand, palm open, easy, no pressure, while his other hand shifts the reins just enough to ease Pandora’s bulk into a better angle. The stirrup faces them now, easy to reach and hook your boot into.

“She ain’t skittish,” Huck offers, tipping his chin toward the mare. A curl of hair works loose and a marigold petal drifts down right in front of his eyes, which he blows away with a soft puff of breath. “Just watch them feet when you swing up. Kid feet she don’t mind so much, but grown boots got a little more bite to ‘em.”

He motions toward the saddle, the worn leather gone soft and warm under the sun. “Once you’re up, keep your back straight, hands on the horn. She’s surefooted, won’t spook easy, but you gotta keep your core steady or she might take it as a sign to trot off. Likes to test folks now and then.” His mouth twitches up at the corner as he watches the mare’s head shift from side to side, the pretty blooms in her hair held neat and tidily away from her eyes. “She won’t mind a stroke on her mane, neither. Spent half the damn mornin’ gettin’ all dolled up for this.”

Well, Lord knows he ain’t built for small talk, never has been, but something about these festival days makes it simpler. People get softer at the edges, and maybe it’s not such a chore to loosen up, just a little.

He glances back at her, one brow lifting as he nods down at his still-extended hand. “I’ll give you a boost if you need it. Ain’t no trouble.”

[veticent]

It looks like there's some kind of communication that passes between the horse and her rider, but what it is, she's not sure.

The mare is beautiful, and big– a pinto, if she's not mistaken. Anatomy-wise, Val's been doing her homework, and getting some fieldwork in at the clinic, too. Different breeds, however, she still could do with some brushing up on. She didn't interact with many horses in Empire City.

The rider offers her his hand as well as some advice. She takes a second to adjust her skirt, pulling a hair tie from her bag to use as a sort of makeshift skirt hike. “Thank you,” she nods, glancing up at him. She appreciates the advice– it's solid and succinct– as well as the small insight into her personality. “And, no worries,” she adds as she readies her foot in the stirrup, “I'm definitely rusty, but it's not my first time.”

She takes him up on the extra boost, taking a steadying breath as she grips his hand tight before giving him a nod. With his added help, Valerie easily swings her leg over and settles onto the saddle, flower crown only slightly sliding out of place in the process. But she'll fix that in a second.

Letting out a breath, she takes a moment to adjust her posture and run a hand over the mare's coat. “You alright, girl?” she murmurs, trying to gauge the horse's mood.

In her limited experience, she did pretty well with horses. They tend to be incredibly characterful as well as sensitive to the emotions of other beings. And she's a person who can keep her cool, compartmentalize her emotions, and she's good at reading animals.

“What's her name?” she asks, peering back at the man. Then, after a moment, she remembers to add, “I'm Valerie, by the way.”

[wldngmn]

“Considering I’m from the next city over, that’s not surprising,” Hiro returns. He hails originally from Japan but upon moving to this continent, has lived primarily in the bustling metropolis that is West Core City. Less shinier and impressive than Empire City and significantly more grimier. No one really brags about being from West Core City, they brag about leaving it.

“And no,” rises from his folding chair and leans his hands against the edge of the table in front of him, “I just have resting asshole face,” he dodges the next attack of a flying leek, half of a laugh spills out, “or so I’ve been told,” he finishes with a shrug and takes the leek away from his gichi to set it back among the bushel of its others. “You here to buy something or just talk smack?” He pointedly doesn’t use a swear word to avoid another attack by leek. "Oh, mama cat is doing good, by the way. And might have found a home for one of the kittens."

[veticent]

“Oh?” she asks. “You from West Core, then? Or Myristica?” Myristica is the northern neighbor of Empire City, and has a reputation for being the white, rich, and snobby part of the tri-state trifecta. She assumed it's likely the former rather than the latter, but she doesn't actually give much weight to all the stereotypes, either.

His resting asshole face comment pulls a chuckle out of her, as does the little battle between him and, what she assumes is, his grandfather that follows. “You were the one glaring me down,” Val says, countering his question. But she does turn her attention to the stall then, eyeing the produce they have laid out. “Is all of this from your garden?”

It obviously doesn't compare to the amount of produce the local farms have out for sale, but it's still an impress little haul for just a home garden. She's still adjusting to the country life, to people owning plots of land with enough extra space to have an actual garden. The most she's used to seeing is the occasional rooftop or terrace garden, or the even more rare little community garden situated between two apartment complexes. She's eyeing some peaches and strawberries when he mentions the cats.

She perks up. “Oh, good! I was about to ask how they've been doing.” After a checkup, in which Valerie had confirmed that the cat was not feral and, thankfully, didn't have any complications, they'd had a chat. Then she'd given him a packet on cat care and dealing with pregnant cats in addition to her number. And since then, she'd seen him and the kitties for checkups and shots.

“Oh?” she asks before pausing. “Wait, is it Metzli? They mentioned they were maybe getting a cat soon.”

[petaltexturedskies]

Anaïs Nin, in a diary entry dated 31 May 1926, from The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin Vol. IV: 1927-1931

[daddiclaims]

priscilla quintana + flowers.

[wldngmn]

“Good, give ‘em somethin’ more interesting to gossip about,” Mars replies, flippant. He really wouldn’t care at all about turning up the volume on his phone or commandeering the speakers of Granny’s in order to play a choice song for a little rendition of one of his dances for Valerie. He made an occupation of sensuality and it didn’t always involve removing all of his clothes to do it, just some of it. The suggestion of nudity was usually more attractive than the full reality of it. Probably something existential was there. Something about vulnerability being unbearable to face without shame. Or something like that.

Marsden keeps his clothes on. He also doesn’t play music from his phone or comandeer the audio system of this small town American diner. The most movement that comes from him is a twist of his wrist, the joint clicks and he leans his elbows again against the table’s edge in a slouching way that indicates his comfort. His head tilts as he listens to her talk about her own experience with dance.

A brief jaunt with ballet in her youth. Ballroom was a wildcard. He nods with sage-like wisdom. It was that difficulty in work life, school life, and life life that prompted his parents to take him out of high school just as he was starting it in order to focus entirely on ballet. Education became secondary, something to be done in the spare time away from ballet rather than the opposite.

With an abrupt scooch, damp jeans squeaking grimly against the plastic covered booth seat, Marsden breaks from his slouching comfort to stand. Perhaps he might look like he’s about to dance afterall. He takes a careful moment to smooth back his damp hair, flat over his head, elastic tied tightly to make a small ponytail at the back of his head. Water ensures that not even the usual wayward strands of hair fall out of line so the prominent rise of highly angular cheekbones is on full display.

“Dance with me, Estrada,” he prompts her to rise with a taunting lure of his hand. In the middle of Granny’s, in front of everyone, with absolutely zero music save for the percussive hush of the storm outside. He’s absolutely serious.

[veticent]

A grin spreads across her face at his response. It's exactly what she's come to expect from Mars, but she's glad he doesn't follow through on the lap dance– even if the reactions would be absolutely delicious.

Valerie notices more than just the muscles now that she's looking.

Knowing he's a dancer makes every move Mars makes feel more deliberate. Dance, especially ballet, requires control and precision; it teaches you how to manipulate your body and make it look effortless. It makes her wonder how much of his persona is a performance.

He leans in, tilts his head, shows her and anyone that may be looking that he's listening. Then, once she's said her piece, he stands. She quirks an eyebrow as he pulls his hair back, a question, though she's fairly certain she knows the answer. And she's proven correct as he voices his request with a taunting crook of his finger.

For a moment, Val hesitates. The idea is slightly terrifying; she doesn't like being the center of attention, and she absolutely will be if they start dancing in the middle of the fucking diner. She's rusty, too, and her insecurity flares at the thought of being seen at less than her best. Not to mention the last time she danced with someone was with Damian.

But she's not going to back down from his little taunt.

With a purse of her lips she side steps out from the booth seat. She's in jeans and her new rain boots, hair half down, half pulled into a bun to keep strands out of her face. It's not ideal for dancing, but, well, Mars isn't exactly in the best state for it either, clothes still damp and clinging to his skin. She takes his taunting hand in hers, ignores the mess of emotions it stirs up in her chest.

She knows he's tall, but it's so much more apparent when they're both standing this close. He's nearly a foot taller, and the boots don't give her enough extra height, Valerie still needs to crane her neck a bit to look him properly in the face. “You lead, I follow?”

[fromdarzaitoleeza]

Sanna Wani, “Who is the Sun, Asking for Sleep?”, My Grief, the Sun // Brenna Twohy, A Coworker Asks Me If I Am Sad, Still

[petaltexturedskies]

Anna Akhmatova, from "The Sentence"

[petaltexturedskies]

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

[ravenclairee]

THE VAMPIRE DIARIES — 1.01 "Pilot"

↳ requested by @heartwasglass