| Cold Ones on the Roof |
[23 Oct 2006|12:43am] |
Bowling pins just don't disappear. Whistler'd heard a lot of excuses when someone rolling a perfect game missed out on the last pin. But to say three pins, which were there when the ball dropped and then winked out as the marble orb was about to crash into them?
That was just fuckin' ridiculous.
Admit you slipped and threw the damn thing into the gutter. It wouldn't be the first time, and there's always tomorrow.
And they wouldn't leave. Jackson argued until he was blue in the face, demanded a free pass for another round. But Whistler wanted to close up shop for the night. He'd been putting in his fair share of hours between Las Vegas and Searchlight, and what he needed now was a cold beer on a hot tin roof.
Say what you will about Searchlight (and the locals usually did, with vigor), but the night sky was nothing short of spectacular. Especially from the vantage point on top of the darkened bowling alley.
The doors were locked.
She tugged on them to make sure, and peered past the ‘closed’ sign hanging on the glass. No sign of movements within the alley, but he had to still be there. Whistler wasn’t at his trailer, and where else was he gonna be?
The Lighthouse? Probably not. Not unless he liked freak time traveling.
Rhiannon took a step back and stuck her hands in her pockets. Two fingers pinched a quarter and began to flip it, the sparse room making sure it was little more than an idle hand movement while she mulled it over.
Until the hacking sound from above. A lifetime smoker Whistler was, and how many years was that now? One-fifty... sixty? Birthdays weren’t among Rhiannon’s strong suits, but she estimated that to be one hell of an emphysema case.
( A Friend Drops By )
( The Straight Dope )
( Shimmers: Let the Weirdness Commence )
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| Family, The Ties That Bind...And Gag |
[23 Oct 2006|07:35am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 exhausted |
] |
The inside of Oliver's mouth tasted like a cotton ball. If he could get upstairs without dying, he was going to drink a gallon of water, then throw up, then drink some more water and then sleep for the rest of the day.
He'd spent eight hours in a holding cell before Virgil shuffled through the precinct's door, looking rumpled but efficient. Bail was made, and Oliver glowered his way through signing for his personal effects before he was released own his own recognizance. All charges had been dropped. Oliver was still going to sue every fucking one of them, from the arresting officers to the desk sergeant who'd dropped his wallet and watch into a brown paper envelope when he was booked. Fuckers.
He slipped the keycard into its slot, pushed open the door. His muscles ached. He wanted to curl up into a fetal position in the bed. He pulled the curtains the rest of the way shut, fumbled his way towards the minibar.
The light on the phone on a nearby table was blinking and for the second time in twelve hours the flesh of Oliver's sack prickled. Fuck. It was like a smell, as if he had some psychic ability to already know whose voice he was going to hear if he listened to that message. He chewed his lower lip, grabbed a pack of smokes and lit one with his new lighter.
Decided not to postpone the inevitable.
( Mommy Dearest )
Oliver closed his eyes at the sound of the phone being put down hard in his ear. He finished his drink, put the glass down on the bar, then removed the still-burning cigarette from between his lips and put it out on the soft flesh just above his elbow. Because that was the only way he was going to keep from calling her back and screaming at her incoherently.
"Its almost November, Corrinne," he said aloud, speaking to the empty room as he looked at the angry new burn mark on his arm. "And I've been thinking about visiting Saul's grave this year. Whaddya say we make it a mother-son event? Try me. Do your worst. I dare you."
The NPC of Corrinne Desmond was written by E.
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| Encounters With The Lunatic Fringe |
[23 Oct 2006|08:52am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 confused |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Strange Little Girl - Tori Amos |
] |
The keys jingled in Connor's hand as he finished the locking up process, looking up at the night sky once the door was securely locked. There was a moon and he focused on it when he was finished. He liked it here. There was a certain off quality to the place, sure, but otherwise it was quiet. He felt like he might be able to cope with things here, get stable again.
Whatever stable actually meant.
There was a tickle on the back of his neck or maybe just a scent on the breeze and the young man began to turn around very slowly. If that was Spike sneaking up on him, he was going to stake first and sweep up the ashes without concern.
It wasn't Spike.
"Um..." Connor shifted again, putting his back more firmly towards the building, keeping the brunette in his line of vision. Vampire. He could smell it on her. "We're closed. You oughta come back in the morning."
( Another Fork in the Family Tree )
Startled, Connor looked at Drusilla as she wandered away, then dropped his gaze back to the wilted flower. Strange. And discomfiting.
Suddenly, it crossed his mind that maybe Spike was crazy, too, at least a little. If he was Angel's son to the point that the bleached blond could read it on him, how far did Spike's apple fall from Drusilla's strange and twisted tree?
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| Requiem |
[23 Oct 2006|01:25pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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indescribable |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
No Ordinary Love - Sade |
] |
Grace ended up taking the Plymouth to a car detailer just outside of Vegas to have the final cleanup done, and when traces of blood were found on the backseat she gave the attendant the flat stare of a psychopath and said it was animal blood. That and two hundred extra dollars got the job done, and soon she was parking the vehicle in its customary slot in the covered deck of her hotel. Hauling herself out from behind the wheel, she lit a cigarette and patted the wide hood as if the automobile were a diesel powered kitten.
She'd run inside and check her messages, then hit the Strip and see what was going on. The blankness still lingered, but other than that she was maintaining.
Maybe after she ate, she'd feel better. There had to be a slow-moving tourist out there with her name on them.
Since securing Brian, Matthew had been much like a man on a mission.
He'd already dropped off a letter for Julie where she worked because she hadn't been at home when he'd called by, it explained about his disappearance and a few other things. It was enough to ensure she knew what had happened to him, it wasn't fair of him to just vanish without some form of explanation.
His next stop was Grace's hotel and he'd taken up a seat in the lobby, relaxing back into the leather of the couch and flicking aimlessly through some trash of a magazine.
Matthew looked up every time the lobby door opened then looked away when it wasn't who he needed to see until finally it was and Matthew rose to his feet. The magazine was tossed onto the table and the Watcher maneuvered his way over to slide in beside her, his mouth dropping to her ear. "Can I talk to you?"
( Fancy Meeting You Here )
( Leavin' On A Jet Plane )
( A Mention of Forever )
Matthew's lips twitched, "No I can't imagine anyone who would want something like that." He exhaled a shaky breath and backed up the last couple steps until his back met with the elevator door.
"Goodbye Grace," the last words Matthew spoke before the elevator doors closed and the lift itself descended the floors.
He'd felt like everything she'd ever wanted, the answer to a question she'd never really asked. She watched the doors close, his face disappearing from view, and her hand lifted in a wave just before the elevator began its journey downward.
"Goodbye, sweet prince."
With nothing left to see, she turned and walked back into her room. Empty room, empty arms, empty heart. And eternity.
She wished she remembered how to cry.
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| Job Opportunities |
[23 Oct 2006|01:59pm] |
Jo picked up the phone in the office of the Lighthouse and dialed the number Nyx had left for her, though he hadn't left much else in the way of information.
They missed each other too often these days, but what could really be done about it? She listened to it ring through to Chloe's line and waited for a pick up.
Chloe was on her laptop playing some online poker. She wasn't really into it, but a part of her figured it couldn't hurt to practice. Online wasn't real. Bluffing wasn't real. Still...it kept her mind occupied a little.
When the phone rang she muted the stereo, set the laptop aside, and glanced at the Caller I.D. She saw it was the Lighthouse and wondered if it was Nyx or perhaps the woman, Jo, that he'd mentioned. "Hello?"
( First Contact )
( Slightly Awkward, But Nice )
( Look And See, Agree )
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| To Have Loved and Lost |
[23 Oct 2006|09:11pm] |
Joseph’s apartment was still a mess, a wreck of a previously lived in space, but he’d just spent his time putting what he could into one bag and picking splinters out from under his skin. He’d pay whatever needed to be paid for the damage, including that broken window.
He tossed aside the tweezers and ran the pad of his thumb across his knuckles before simply shaking away the pain. One hand picked up his rapidly emptying packet of cigarettes and a single cigarette was withdrawn and lit. The smoke was inhaled and pushed back out through Joseph’s nose.
Joseph closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose and just focused on breathing. He hadn’t slept since he’d gotten the news and he didn’t know when he would; there was a lot to be done. Funeral arrangements first of all; his mother had to be paid the proper kind of respect.
Fuck, he hadn’t even called her sister yet.
At least he’s alive.
Though she wouldn’t say it out loud, Joseph’s voicemail had set that thought loose like a runaway train. Until Rhiannon knew he was okay, she didn’t realize how convinced she’d been that he wasn‘t.
And now the truth was here.
Behind the door.
A knock away.
So why wouldn’t her fingers touch it?
Because you know.
( Mama )
( Release )
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| Reunited. |
[23 Oct 2006|10:30pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 bouncy |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Elton John - I'm Still Standing |
] |
"How about slime drinks?" Russell suggested to Lorne as he stood behind the GreenRoom's bar holding up a bottle of green melon liqueur. "Mix this stuff with, I dunno, some form of gelatin or just crushed ice.. we could get some of those plastic fake spiders to put on top?" He was grasping for straws. The bar was yet to open and the two men stood facing each other, a long line of various coloured liquor bottles between them.
Lorne made a face of disgust and rolled his eyes. "Honey, half the customers who belly up to my bar aren't going to want fake slime. Dagratto beasts want it real, freshly scraped off the backs of Slug Demons by little aging Mongolian farmers, and if you give them anything out of a bottle of Midori there's bound to be an uproar."
The demon reached forward and snatched the bottle of green liqueur and examined the label, then he smiled at Russell. "Although, I didn't say that I would be personally opposed to anything you make out of this. What else you got?"
The bartender shrugged. "Someone suggested pumpkin flavored Hot Toddies, and then there's the ever favorite Bloody Mary."
The Pylean rubbed at his clefted chin with his thumb and forefinger. "Good, good, I like that," he said with a nod. He then lowered his hand and clapped it loudly with the other and rubbed them both together eagerly. "Sounds like we're on a roll, Slick. I have full confidence that this entire shebang is going to go off without a hitch. I even have the greatest costume idea ever. It's going to knock your socks off, Honey. I guarantee it."
Russell rolled his eyes. "Please don't tell me you're doing the Elton John thing again," he groaned, "Are you going to at least be subtle about it?"
"That would be like asking the Pope not to pray," interjected a voice from behind them.
( She's home for good. )
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stressed