badgestay

[badgestay]

caspiians‌:

     the syren has the decency to look sheepish, listening intently, head tilted down slightly with his lips pursed. to be frank, he barely got his license, since driving under the water wasn’t something he could do in the first place. and when he came to the surface, it hadn’t taken long for him to realize it wasn’t easy to do things on foot — so, with his botched up credentials and fake ids, he managed to get a license a few weeks ago. as such, he isn’t a good driver in the first place — and not wanting to get into further trouble ( or get more questions ), he is on his best behavior. 

     “i’m terribly sorry i — hadn’t noticed.” caspian repeats, nodding as the man asks for his documents. he has been warned about this before, that he needs to carry those documents all the time, besides the identification cards in his wallet at all times. human etiquette is… different from what he’s used to, but he can see the need for it easily. a nod follows as a response as he leans to the side to open the glovebox. there is a file that contains all the necessary documents, hopefully so — since the rental office had assured him he wouldn’t need anything else. 

      once he fishes that out, he holds it out from the opened window; end of his lips upturned in a polite smile. the question doesn’t surprise him the slightest, but a part of himself wants to grin at the reply. and he would, after all, if it was any other situation. “i’m from overseas, actually… iceland.” it’s not completely a lie, it is very close to nehallennia, then again, it would be a huge stretch to call it the truth.

      “it’s a rental car. i’m planning on staying for a while but — didn’t want to make a commitment just yet.” he points out with a small nod, one hand going up to his hair to push it back into its place. “i hope everything is there, and my passport is…” the syren digs through his backpack as he speaks, taking it out to hand it as well. “… here.”

for a moment he takes a look at the documents. appraising. thank god it's not dark enough where he has to get out a flashlight in order to read everything, but it will be soon enough. this should be his last stop before he goes home, as long as nothing happens on his way there. the minute the thought even passes through his mind, garrett's fully aware that something else is going to happen. either this stop'll be overly long, or there's something he hasn't even thought up yet.

garrett can't help but raise an eyebrow, looking up from the insurance documents. "didn't notice going that far over the speed limit?" it's the cop thing. skepticism just fits so easily into his tone, considering all the ways that people try to get out of traffic stops. this late in his career, he's seen people do it all, ranging from being belligerent to outright flirtation. "don't worry, i'm just being a little hard on you. i've pulled guys over going close to a hundred and had them tell me that they didn't see that either, somehow." the joke around the department is whether people try harder to get out of a traffic stop or jury duty. depends on the person, maybe, but people will make up any lie they can.

the location brings him up short. "jesus," he says, and he sounds genuinely interested. "that's a long way to travel to get here. never seen anyone from iceland in town before, and we've had quite a few new people here over the past few months. why're you here? business?" it's a genuine question and also just something to note if they have a run-in later. garrett remembers most people who pass through deadwood, mostly as a matter of professional integrity. sometimes the little things that you remember are what pay off later.

"not a bad rental car," garrett says easily. there's a loosening in his stature, something a little more relaxed, if still on guard as he should be. he's more prone to let people off of tickets if it's their first time in town. there are a few known speed traps around deadwood, after all, and he's more interested in catching locals and repeat offenders who should know better. still, he takes the passport and flicks through it. "well, i'm just going to let you know that about a hundred feet back there, it goes from a forty-five to a thirty-five zone. you were over that, but it's trying to catch everyone in town off guard."

#caspiians

[badgestay]

parliansyren‌:

humans do that, switch energies so quickly that it sometimes makes gatsby feel dizzy.  when deep in the water he’s found syrens cling to their feelings for as long as they can manage.  bitterness, lust, or a passive sense of peace are all worthy of days upon weeks upon months or years until the memory is considered ancient enough to release that aura.  admirable and terrifying all at once.  gatsby has done such, has lived there in the long years now forgotten before the land became accessible to indigo and himself.  without the water it is difficult to keep himself there.  more human, now.  almost at a perfect in between  built by the years.  

like now, that curiosity is still there as it has been all day, as it always will be in some form.  but something like humor licks at gatsby’s bones as he dips his head.  shakes it slightly in dismissal.  “don’t doubt yourself.”  he says soft as anything, stepping into the hidden room and to the side.  plenty of room if the other man has a will to enter – plenty of space between them if that’s what he prefers.  “the signs aren’t to terribly hidden.  you’re just far too reeling to have looked right.”

gatsby doesn’t mean it as an insult, just a statement of fact.  even as he speaks he starts peering through all of the displays in an unnecessary show of searching.  he placed them, after all.  no fathomable way for him to be unaware of where a single item within metronome is unless moved and twisted by a cruel hearted guest.  as it is, few people choose to spend time in here unless for photographs and media.  within moments, he has a few options held in his hands.  turns to the man with them offered.  

    “jack nicholson, boris karloff.  this on the left is done by a local woman but i can’t recall her name – it’s undoubtedly on the back.”  gatsby offers him something of a small smile.  brief and fleeting, almost nonexistent.  “they’re good for children.  all ages… but children especially.  what voice would yours prefer?”

is the audiobook lazy? he debated it with himself on the walk over here, half of his brain running through the checklist (crosswalks, stopping, starting, checking who's around him), and the other half debating the merits of what he wanted to buy. the idea of audiobook sometimes feels like a replacement for the nights that he couldn't do the things other parents could do. when he was out too late and couldn't read the boys bedtime stories. when winona and then a babysister had to do it instead. garrett tried to fit it in at least once per week, consistently.

but he couldn't do it every week. sometimes things got bad. sometimes he had to leave town, and he would talk to the boys on the phone every night. because that was all that he could do, in the end, distance and time and energy all valuable commodities that he had to portion out.

"i wasn't expecting this place to have things like this," he admits, stepping into the room to examine the shelves. "thought it'd be more straightforward. i like it, though. if i wasn't under duress, then i'd probably be a lot happier to look around. i - well, it's a nice setup, this whole place." duress. that's what this is. he loves his sons, but it can be stressful when everything finally starts to compound and build on each other. sometimes it all builds up to something that he can hardly handle - like this.

but he does have a plan, and it seems to be a functioning one. he blinks at all the choices, considering this. "he's not that picky about that kind of thing," garrett admits slowly. "the local woman thing might be kind of good for him, though. not just the same few people he likes to listen to. have you listened to it?" basically asking for any opinion on the quality of the whole recording. something local could be innovative and something interesting, or the quality could be poor. it's worth asking without being quite so rude to the woman in question.

#parliansyren

[badgestay]

goldendichotomy‌:

     “i hate to ask, but is that lucky for you?  with all your family and your complaints, well – the pay is probably good.  but i can’t imagine the rest is really worth it unless you’re trying to dedicate your entire soul to this town.”  he only says it like a half joke, the sincerity that has to be there a cold effect that alec never intended.  it’s unfortunate, how much he sees it as true.  garrett doesn’t belong to his family as much as he belongs to his job – not out of original choice he thinks.  more out of incident.  there was supposed to be someone else there, and now they’re gone.  

people do that, alec thinks.  leaving when you need them is a natural human instinct that’s left him preferring to be alone throughout philomene’s life.  he couldn’t get used to someone to rely on if there was never anyone.  neither could she.  

cheap, maybe.  they’re both alive and happy though, so he considers that a win.  

     “forensics.  or maybe i’m using the wrong word, but.  i mean again, new york, we saw so many unsolved murders that it’s hard to bat an eye at now.”  alec reaches over to squeeze garrett’s arm.  a comfort there, a faint pressure for a few moments before he draws back to himself.  “people are awful, but at least you haven’t had a regular series of serial killers.  try to remember that the people judging you have never seen real horror until right now.”

with the tupperware taken and his hands free, alec busies himself with coffee.  waking up his machine doesn’t take too long, ground beans and water into their sections as he reaches towards the nearest cabinet for mugs.  they don’t match – of course not – messily hand made and multicolored and likely far too expensive, though alec can only remember his ridiculous joy to see such misshapen creations for sale.  suits them, he thinks, grinning a little as he slips them under the coffee machine and hits the right button.

a whirring, grinding sound starts.  faint but present enough for alec’s brain to itch.  “you can’t say no to coffee from me especially.”  alec says with a soft, dry humor to his voice.  “what do you want in it?  creamer, sugar, vodka, methamphetamine…”  when he can’t help it, alec starts laughing.  offers up a grin over at garrett as his arms cross loosely, waiting.  “i promise only one of those is fake.  pity is it’s probably the one you really want, since it’d make even your bad cop coffee taste good.”

"i mean, the part about good deputies is lucky. having good deputies makes my life easier. i know that sounds unlikely, considering all the shit i've said about deadwood in general in this conversation, but it would be so, so much worse without them. don't tell them i said anything like that. they need to think that they're constantly on thin ice." as if garrett can really treat his deputies that poorly. it's more of a joke than anything. garrett is mostly a polite and nice guy. he's raised his voice perhaps four times in the time that he's been sheriff, and it's more been about having to yell at a citizen than at his department.

there has been a meeting or two, though. sometimes you have to make sure things fall into line.

despite himself, garrett blinks when alec reaches over to pat his arm. he doesn't draw back; it's not a bad thing. it's just a surprising thing. he's supposed to have a handle on all of it, as sheriff. he's not the kind of person who looks for comfort because of that, even to his own detriment.

he pauses. doesn't talk about the history of deadwood, which is long and bloody, even though it's tempting. it's the instinct of a local resident, he assumes. the automatic urge to share the history that you know, especially to someone new. like passing on some kind of knowledge that you don't know what to do with it, in the hope that someone else can make more sense of it. "fair enough," he says instead. "deadwood's always been... odd. has been for as long as i can remember, so maybe it was just a matter of time for us to get here."

a sort of cynical look at it - that eventually they were going to have a spree killer or something similar - but it makes sense. as a cop, you expect the worst and are pleasantly surprised by the best.

he catches sight of the vast variety of mugs alec apparently owns. there is no such thing as a matching set of dishes and cups in this house. everything seems to be haphazard, dissonance kept together until it just begins to work.

still, though, the joke gets a genuine laugh from garrett. it's soft, and maybe doesn't quite fit the sheriff, but it's more genuine for how soft it is. "god, that's about the only thing that would fix the office coffee. jesus. just sugar for me, though, thank you." a part of him itches to get up and help, but he can tell just from the nature of the conversation alone that alec will tell him to sit back down immediately.

#goldendichotomy

[badgestay]

goldendichotomy‌:

     “there are always going to be never ending crises.  that’s why bosses like you need to have employees that you can trust, right?  so you can take some time off and know that your slice of the world won’t fall apart.”  he grins a little at garrett over his shoulder, the buckets tipping dangerously when he stumbles over the rock path towards his porch.  laughter spills from alec as he takes a step up, padding across the wood and moving both buckets onto one arm.  “that’s why you need to train them up – they’re cops, aren’t they?  better make them smart before they try to usurp you as sheriff and take the role themselves.”

he can’t help but find it funny how garrett stumbles over his own words to be polite as possible.  like alec of all people is easy to offend; with all of the titles life has given him he may as well be made of rock and steel on the outside.  almost wants to grab garrett’s face in his hands.  say, i’m a gay person and a single father from louisiana who works as an artist.  i’m fine with whatever you say.  as it is he instead just grins in garrett’s direction as he pries his front door open.  leaves it as such for the other man to enter and close behind him, moving to the kitchen to set both buckets on the counter.  

wiping his hands on his pants, alec flicks the sink faucet to hot water and dips his dirt sticky hands beneath the rushing heat.  “i think you’re doing alright at that.  people die all the time, and the idea of one person stopping it– if i’m honest i can’t imagine being in your role.  you’re good at it, garrett, but no one can protect the world no matter how much we appreciate that you’re trying.”

with his arms free and hands clean, alec begins to shuffle through his cabinets.  eventually a few pieces of tupperware coming out in his hands.  quickly, alec begins to fill them with muffins.  still warm from the oven with thick crystals of sugar glistening upon the top.  “well i can’t have you chased out quite yet.  these have blueberries in them for the record, if anyone’s allergic they might not want to eat them.  otherwise the ingredients are regular.”  smirking a little bit, alec closes the lid and offers both plastic containers out to garrett.  “but maybe later we can have you chased out.  onto vacation, right?  that’ll be your send off.”

patting the top of their lids, alec lets the edge of playful hopefulness fall into his mouth.  “you can stay for some coffee if you’d like.  otherwise, bring these back with a date and time to come work on your garden, okay?”

"people say a lot of shit about small town police departments. and most of it's right. but i will say i got lucky here. only people who really want to do the work end up out here as deputies. anyone who's out for power over people doesn't really have a good time with it. it's too dangerous." there's something rueful in garrett's voice. he's had a few deputies like that, and they really do never last. it works in small towns with no real crime. you can get plenty of irresponsible employees. but deadwood has so many issues that it takes willpower to want to stay in the job. in a strange way, he's grateful. it means he has mostly good employees, even if a few of them can be a little lazy. "lucky for me no one else wants this job, though."

there's a good chance he might be unopposed in the next election, just because no one else wants it. that's a thought that comes off as both comforting and funny.

in some ways, garrett hasn't really left the campaign mode. he's gotten rid of most of it, but he still tries to watch what he says around everyday citizens - especially the newer ones. he can get cynical with the veterans of the town. but with the newer ones, he really doesn't want to scare them off. the goal is to be reassuring. the word _reassuring_ rattles around in his brain in a couple ways as he trails into the house.

it's nice. a space that is incredibly lived in.

still, though, alec's insight brings him up short. he blinks. then he laughs. "i think you're the first person to say that to me," he admits. "most people just want to know why i'm not working at catching the killer. there's only so much i can do at one time, though, and with limited evidence... well. then there's even less." a killing both messy in its details and clean in what the killer left behind. he'd almost hazard to call it practice, if it wasn't so new.

he tries to shake himself out of those thoughts to focus on the present. yes. the muffins. they look wonderful. the deputies will definitely love them. he chuckles a little. "thanks for helping ensure i keep my position for the twenty minutes it takes those to disappear." more than one deputy will probably take two and keep one at their desk to eat in a few hours. win used to say that every  single cop she ever met needed to eat more than they did, and pastries seemed to be the best way to make that happened.

the mention of coffee brings him to a halt. he should say no. but he also can't say no to a cup of coffee, especially one not from the department's shitty coffeemaker. "i've never said no to a cup of coffee from anyone," he admits. "and i'd really love to avoid whatever the department pretends is in the coffeemaker, because it's damn well not coffee."

#me loudly: DAMN FINE CUP OF COFFEE #goldendichotomy

[badgestay]

parliansyren‌:

WHERE: metronome, rapid hills WHEN: 6:40 pm WHO: @badgestay SONG: sky full of song, florence + the machine 

gatsby has always hated the more frantic energy from some customers.  they are the ones who do not stop with wonder or joy to enter metronome, nor do they take a moment to touch and breathe and live in the space he has created with his mind and hands.  instead they rush in.  desperate hands reaching for things so brutally that packaging is ripped and corners are often bent beyond repair, complaints focused only at gatsby once they realize what has happened and refuse to admit to fault.  some, he knows, would be angry at them.

all he can do is pity them.  try to sing a little louder, a little clearer, even remove the gum from his mouth so that there’s nothing to slur on.  sing and hope the sound is enough to soothe their wild hearts and frantic minds into a state of clean joy, even if only for a moment.

he does so for this man.  an officer still in uniform, though more well dressed than gatsby is used to.  there was a conference wasn’t there – a meeting of police officers or higher men regarding the murders?  gatsby can’t recall.  those parts of the news belong to his sister rather than himself, but it was in a neighboring sister city.  frantic for something to listen to then, he decides.  mind whirling as he watches the officer make larger circles into smaller ones through each display with wild eyes that never quite pause on a single album.

gatsby sings, and leans on his arms.  hunched over his counter until the man mutters a name that he can hear through his own singing, through the hidden stereos.  kipling.  more like a curse than a time honored human, and both these things bring gatsby’s mind to pause.  

a book then, not an album.  he slides back from his counter, words to humming as he moves through metronome towards the for once paused police officer.  fingers on his shoulder, brief and digging as gatsby continues to walk past him.  speaks without looking back.

    “hear and attend and listen; for this befell and behappened and became and was: o my best beloved, when the tame animals were wild.”  with a faint smile on his mouth, there and then gone before truly noticeable, gatsby stops at one of few bookshelf like displays against the walls.  “you’re here for an audio book, yes?  kipling?  here–”

and with a push, the bookcase slides open.  a small, warm light room with rug and chairs and more shelves full of the same media options with different covers and titles suddenly displayed.  gatsby steps back.  nods towards the space.  

    “we have the jungle book too.  but i think you want the just so stories, yes?”

it's hard to say what's to blame any more. is it the divorce, or is it his job at sheriff? either way, garrett used to be better at dates. he'd always remember when the birthdays were, when each holiday came down the line, when everything was supposed to be, every little event all mapped out in his brain like one of those mind maps they teach kids to use to take notes now. now it's not like that. now everything slips his mind, and suddenly an event is pushing up against the next few hours.

like his sons' shared birthday, an event that should be one of the most present and pleasant things in the world to him. and it is. every year, a blessing. but the problem is sometimes the year passes too fast and he isn't ready. he's at a conference the day before. and everything's a goddamned crisis, of course it is, and halfway through the first meeting of the morning he remembers. and he curses to himself, too low for the other assembled officers to hear.

fuck. he has to try to improvise a gift. during lunch he's on his phone, searching for stores in the area, skimming through every detail he can remember from the last year. he likes to get things that are from the past year, some result of some new interest. it's an object to push his kids in whatever direction interests them at the time. the younger one's easier - some new game that he wants, a cost that makes garrett wince but something that he doesn't have much of a choice on. not this late.

the older one, though, is the struggle.

maybe an audiobook is old-fashioned, but the older one's like that. he likes oddly old-fashioned things, cds and things that he can hold in his hands. sometimes garrett appreciates it. he appreciates it very much now, singling out a music store two streets over from his hotel. he can walk there, grab dinner at the chinese place on the corner, and be back in his hotel room at a reasonable time.

so he gets to the store - metronome, fitting - and then realizes that he can't fucking find the audiobooks.

it takes a while for the guy behind the counter to pick up on his distress, or maybe he's letting him work it out on his own. either way garrett stops at the quote, and then sort of laughs a little, rubbing at the back of his neck. "jesus. that's - i never would've figured that out. yeah. the just so stories. my kid loves them."

#parliansyren

[badgestay]

whoiswillowbyrne‌:

Willow usually avoided the Deadwood Sheriff’s Department. Really, she avoided all buildings related to law enforcement. But there were things in Deadwood especially that she couldn’t be seen doing. She usually walked through the town at night, but with the curfew and her waitressing job, that had become increasingly difficult. 

As the Sheriff’s Department came into view, she went on high alert. She could hear rustling in the trees and the sputtering of a lighter. Out of the corner of her eye, Willow spotted the man whose breath was thick with the scent of tobacco. It was the sheriff himself. She had made a point to know who he was. Willow kept walking, intent on minding her own business. But as she heard the man sigh, she couldn’t help but turn her head to look at him.

His eyes were shut, and even without the coffee cup in his had Willow would have guessed he was tired. As he spoke, she smiled. For a moment she stood there, unsure if she was welcome. Willow knew it would be unwise to speak to him, and that he was surely speaking to himself, but something made her want to talk, despite her usual shyness, and before she could stop herself, her mouth was open.

“Who’s a bastard?” she asked.

at the question, garrett startles a little. he's been focused on the cigarette and the lighter more than anything, on the coffee and the little things that help keep him stable. the little anchors. it's not particularly healthy, he knows, but he believes he can allow himself those kinds of anchors in times of stress. and being sheriff at this point, murder and fear everywhere, is nothing if not a time of stress,

he blinks at her. doesn't recognize her off the top of his head, but that's something common now in deadwood. there are plenty of people passing through, making his job harder. shit. no. this isn't the time for bitterness. this is the time to seem like the sheriff that he actually is, in the end, when things aren't getting to him.

"the mayor," he admits, inhaling hard on the cigarette and exhaling smoke. he glances up at the sky as if looking for something there for a moment. "should barely call him that. it implies that he deserves the job. he's just... a bastard. thinks he knows exactly what he's doing and won't listen to anyone else." he shrugs idly. "so, in the end, like anyone's boss, i guess. just one with a lot more power than on average, and a stranglehold on my department's funding."

#whoiswillowbyrne

[badgestay]

carafuror‌:

“ It’s…more of a title than an actual management position. “  there was a hesitation in the beginning, as though unsure of what was spoken and instead of a statement sounded like a question was leaving her lips. “ a puppet almost, as for who is controlling his strings… “ the shrug made another appearance along with a flash of teeth in her smile. “…but I’m just a civilian what do I know. “ planting a seed had been easy, hopefully without suspicion from the other could it grow to fruition.  politics were messy she concluded and the subject was one she didn’t think about often for it would just make the hunter frustrated, more and more did the desire rise to just show threaten the lovely mayor that he needed to act, to get off his ass but knowing fully well such bloody means would not go over well and scrutiny would be upon her and her own. “ It’s no matter, I’m a listener, always lending an ear. mother said I was good with that. “ the lie was honey coated. she couldn’t remember her mother having said such a thing.

"that's kind of the problem," garrett mumbles. "bastard wants to have the title and doesn't want to do anything about it. and it's hard to beat an incumbent. wish someone else would just... i don't know. he knows enough people to get funding, i guess. puppet's not a bad word when it comes to that." of course. the idiot has to get campaign funding from somewhere, and they obviously have deep enough pockets to ensure that the man's going to be a nuisance for the rest of garrett's career. even if he loses, he'll probably hang around and make trouble regardless.

still, though. it makes him wonder from where. rapid city, maybe? plenty of political maneuvering there. a few old families in deadwood. hard to look into, but he can harmlessly speculate.

garrett chuckles. "i wish there was more to say. it's just one guy. don't know why people voted for him. i can tell you i damn well didn't, and i don't think he voted for me either." there's a wryness to him. to have a mayor and a sheriff at odds isn't good for any town, but neither of them have topics on which they are willing to concede.

at least, not yet. maybe the murders and the curfew'll make them friendlier.

#carafuror

[badgestay]

femmeannabelle‌:

“Oh, I know. You’ve gotta keep people safe. Doesn’t make it any less hard on my wallet,” she says sweetly, turning the charm down just a notch to make her seem more genuine. Sometimes semi-normal Annabelle was needed, and she sat back in her seat. When he asked where she worked, her face turned red. But that was strange, wasn’t it? She’d never been ashamed of her job before, not for a single moment. So why was she embarrassed about telling this police officer what she did for a living? It’s not like it was prostitution. Should she lie? Nah…not over this.

“I work over at The Lusty Lady, I’m a dancer there,” she said, almost choking on it. “We do most of our business at night there, so I was working the overnight shifts before all the murders happened. My best friend works there too, but she’s been working the early shift so she’s already home,” she offered, waiting for the sky to fall down on her.

“I send money home to my mom in New York.” Now was the time to lie, well…albeit partially. “She’s got lung cancer, so she’s been struggling,” that was completely the truth. “She’s…well, she’s always had a problem with drinking too much and she refuses to get on any kind of assistance. So…then there’s me. I just got the news a few days ago that it’s more than likely fatal.” Again, totally the truth. “We’ve never had the best relationship, so I guess I’m trying to make up for that. But it leaves me with less money for my own life. Thankfully my roommate understands, she’s helping out as much as she can.”

"yeah," he admits. there's no argument there. tickets aren't exactly meant to be easy on the wallet. they're about consequences, to scare people out of doing anything worse. he doesn't even know how effective they really are. plenty of repeat offenders when it comes to speeding or running a light, but maybe it's the principle of the thing that counts. the law trying to regulate as much as it can, in the only way that it can do so. still, though, leaning there against the window, checking through her paperwork. the answer says enough. but garrett isn't the type to judge. he knew some officers in rapid city who would be hard on people because of their occupations.

never much liked that attitude himself. all it did was piss people off and make them angrier on the next stop, if there was going to be one. "shit," he says, quiet and casual. "the curfew would get in the way of that. we're trying to get everything resolved. i don't like cutting into anyone's livelihood any more than i'd like them cutting into mine."

sometimes his wife said that he had too much empathy. that it made him too good and too bad of a cop at once. he's never really disagreed. he goes quiet for a minute at the news, shuffling some paperwork aloud. considering. it's quite obvious. "sorry about that," he finally says. means it, as detached of a statement as it seems in terms of its construction. "things like that are tough. sick parents, especially. you do what you can, but it never seems like there's enough money to go around, or they'll just refuse to take your advice."

#femmeannabelle

[badgestay]

goldendichotomy‌:

     “i think a vacation would be good for you, it’s certainly something that someone in your position and with your stresses deserves to have once in awhile.  if you have the time, take one.”  alec says it sincerely, more like advice than a request or a demand.  “think about it like this, science says we need to take breaks from our work or we perform sub par.  plus you can take your kids with you, and doesn’t that sound nice?  besides if you do move – as impossible as that sounds – it lets you all test out new locations before taking the plunge.”

he’s gentle about it.  the idea of garrett leaving is next to unimaginable in alec’s mind, but he won’t cut into that dream.  painfully, he knows the reason.  a safer world.  a better place for your child.  but he knows most places, the danger that exists within them and through this world is all but universal.  there will always be danger.  there will always be death and destruction and terrible human beings who want to tear the world apart, and there will always be men like garrett who want to stop it as much as they no doubt want to run away from it.  

twisting a handful of peas into the new bucket, he exhales and shakes the thought from his mind.  nothing to do but that.

     “not to flex my own abilities, but there’s no doubt if i made a few phone calls and tucked a few pieces out of rapid city’s gallery i could get your fundraiser going wild.”  alec says and then pauses, a laugh breaking from his throat as he shakes his head.  “look at me trying to take over your life.  i’m sorry, philo says i’m too helpful and it seems like this afternoon i’m proving it.”  he means it, a small flush staining his cheeks like the kiss of heat more than that wild twisting of embarrassment that coils in his chest.  a smile helps cover it, silent thanks as garrett picks up a pea that missed the bucket and sets it down with surprising care.  

so maybe that’s an influence, when he meets garrett’s eyes and speaks sincerely.

     “i trust you, sheriff.  all the naysayers can hardly claim to doing anything to help you or help the situation; who else is there to keep us safe?”  he figures that’s a weight, something unavoidable and crushing no matter how many times you hear it.  that doesn’t change the fact that it’s a good thing to tell him though.  that he needs to hear, because there’s a confidence that should come with it.  of course alec trusts him – who the fuck else can he trust?  who the fuck else gives a damn other than garrett, who looks at this town and considers everyone there his family in one way or another.  

whether he realizes that about himself or not doesn’t matter – everyone else does.

alec smiles and picks up the filled bucket, resting it on his hip as he grabs the one filled with strawberries with his free hand.  they’re a good weight, a promise of how incredible his garden has become in just a few years.  sometimes philomene offers to submit it into magazines for the chance to win being represented; each time he shoos her off.  laughs about it until she rolls her eyes and abandons the idea just as she should.  gardens aren’t for attention – not his, not the one he’ll build for garrett, not any of them.  they should exist for the joy of it.  let neighbors take love from what he’s built, not the people that will never see it face to face.  

     “good, you can think about it while heading inside with me.”  alec says now as a proper demand, taking the meandering stone path towards the steps of his porch.  “i have to clean these off – not that it matters to you – and then i have muffins that should be done baking.  you’re busy, so if you need to go i understand, but at least take one or two with you.  a snack for yourself and the deputies will win you brownie points at the office won’t it?”  

"once the neverending crises are over, i'll take it under consideration. i really mean it. if whoever's to blame for these murders doesn't kill me first, then the stress of it probably will." and if that isn't a joke, then he doesn't know what is. deadwood is just a town with a truly unending succession of problems, and not all of them are simply police-related. small towns everywhere are dying out, crushed by the modernization of the rest of the world, and the government is nothing but one idiot who cares more about being able to call himself mayor than any effective policies. "i'd manage to leave for about twelve hours and then something would go wrong and i'd end up back in town. so we at least need to fix a few things first."

really, he means catching the killer terrorizing deadwood. but he can only do so much at a time. he isn't a mind reader or the absolute best detective in the world. being sheriff is more about paperwork, but now everyone's dedicated to one thing: this killer and what it means for the town, and he can hardly dissuade them. it haunts him too. sometimes he checks his boys' rooms at night, just to be absolutely certain.

paranoia. but more warranted than the word itself implies.

"oh, god, i wouldn't ask you to do that. i mean, if we get desperate enough and the mayor starts actively cutting funding, then sure, that would be an option. we're not desperate, though." even though he's spent the last few minutes complaining about funding, garrett's heard some worse stories. he's met a few officers at departments who are woefully and actively underfunded. deadwood's struggling, sure, but it's tenable, in the way all things are at least somewhat tenable. "no, no. don't worry about it. one of the deputies said i don't accept enough help, so it's fine." both of them hastily trying to be as polite as possible. they're both probably laying it on too thick, but that's fine. he would rather be too polite than not polite enough.

garrett laughs a little and rubs at the back of his neck, directing his gaze down at the ground. "i'm trying to keep everyone safe. that's the best i can say." he doesn't really like to take too much credit. he always tries to diffuse compliments out towards the deputies. he never does any of this alone, or without the support of the rest of the sheriff's department. to pretend otherwise is an outright lie. "i guess that's all most of us are trying to do, in one way or another."

he watches as alec balances the buckets. garrett almost tips forward on instinct, as if to take one of the buckets away and carry it, or even both. it's an old endeavor, but he guesses that alec probably won't let him help out. if he notices even a twinge of something being too much, though, he'll use it as an excuse to intervene. so he lingers and then follows alec instead. "i can take a few minutes for something like that. besides, you're acting like it's a gift for my deputies and not a requirement," he points out with a chuckle. "if i come back and don't have anything to share with them, they'll chase me out of the office with pitchforks and torches. no election required to oust me then." with his tone, it's implied he's somehow failed his deputies in this regard before.

there are little ways that deadwood's police department is like every other police department despite the town. some of the dynamics persist.

#goldendichotomy

[badgestay]

irelianight‌:

Irelia switched out her pair of gloves for a new, fresh pair as the Sheriff wandered into her office.

“Everytime you walk into my office I can’t help but be impressed by the fact that you aren’t dead yet.” Irelia quipped. The wytch was attuned to the pain of others, always had been. Odd-quirk, she suspected, of the way she’d bonded to her deity of choice. Whenever she was in the vicinity of Sheriff Riegel, she felt the worn down pain - a dull, steady ache. And it always put her in a good mood. Irelia smirked now, impish, and her lips quirked upwards.

Irelia beckoned for the Sheriff to follow. 

She’d rolled the victim out from the cooling chamber and they sat ready for them in the autopsy suite for viewing. She gestured to the other side of the gurney before grabbing the clipboard for herself.

“We still need your help ID-ing him. He died in good health. Looks like he was out hiking for quite a bit - if the samples from his boots are anything to go off of. Oh and I guess we should talk about that -”

Irelia said and she poked the man in the chest. Or rather, she poked him where his chest should have been. There was a hole about the size of a football, torn clear through his torso. His heart? Gone.

But Irelia found that part rather obvious and made itself clear without saying. The Sheriff, as much as she doubted him, wasn’t completely blind.

“Heart-attack.” Irelia deadpanned. “Literally.”

The victim was a relatively new inmate at the morgue and so Irelia hadn’t quite had a chance to sit with him and her mediumship just yet. But even now he seemed… well, like death had come too him to swiftly for him to leave behind any sorts of regrets or a spirit. A barren spiritual wasteland of a body. 

Stange. 

She left the sheriff to take a closer look then, handing over the clipboard. The wytch followed this up with leaning against the wall, wondering how much he would mind if she smoked in here. Deciding that there was really only one way to find out, she pulled out a cigarette and waited for Garrett’s verdict of the victim. 

he doesn't realize how tired he might seem. it's just normal for him. you get used to a certain kind of melancholy, and then it becomes your life. still, though, garrett manages a smile. it's the small and genuine one, not the one that he uses when he's dealing with someone being an asshole. "yeah, well, if that prediction ever comes true, which you and half the town seem convinced is inevitable, i guess i'm heading here anyway, aren't i?"

it's not like he would die anywhere else. deadwood forever, it seems, even in the grave. he knows how many people seem to be aware that he's underneath stress, but he also doesn't know what else they expected. being the sheriff of deadwood has never been a job that invokes joy in those that take on the responsibility.

"alright. hiker, or the type that spends a lot of time out in the woods. that could mean a lot of things. if we can't id him from someone in town, there's a few guys who like to live out in the woods. weird bastards, but they all know each other, so i can drive out and talk to a few of them. see if they knew him." garrett knows that it doesn't really matter to irelia what he does or doesn't do, but it's the principle of talking out the strategy.

for a moment, he merely observes the man's face, still and stiff with rigor mortis, and tries to determine if he's seen him before. deadwood's been busier than usual lately. a few years ago, he might have been able to identify this guy without a second thought. but now traffic through and around town comes so frequently that he's lost that ease of memory.

frustrating, to not know.

still, he takes the clipboard and flips through it, checking things over. out of the corner of his eye, he sees irelia rummaging and then taking out a cigarette. "you can smoke, by the way," he says, noting the pause. "i still smoke every once in a while." he turns over another page on the clipboard. "been thinking about what could do this," he says. "i'd say a knife, but there's blunt trauma around here. it's an odd wound, excluding the whole missing organ. a lot of force, and something sharp."

#irelianight

[badgestay]

fave guys

I have to believe there is still love in the world. Love, integrity and trust. Because in the end, that’s all we’ve got, we’ve got each other.

#A VISCERAL KIND OF MELANCHOLY / * self. #leaving the quote because yeah

[badgestay]

carafuror‌:

“ Sounds as if you are already having a bad day and it’s just begun. “ Words weaved themselves with a sweet sympathy when they exited her lips, though the emotion didn’t seem to rightfully fit her features—the dark glassy eyes couldn’t uphold it, bordering on apathy. Helaine had just been passing by, it’s what spying was called nowadays, while her gaze devoured anything it could and committing it to her enhanced memory.  “ Did someone rile you up? “ The question was for someone deeply concerned with the wellbeing of others, not her with false interest if only to gain connections for exploitation; plus the fact that she too needed to make her way back to work since her lunch break was near ending instead of idling by—but the hospital had her number and she had time. meddlesome.

"that's an understatement."

that's all that garrett can manage to summon up, a weak response that is at least almost unbearably honest. there are so many hours left in this god awful day, minutes that he has to struggle through until he can get home, take care of the kids, and then shut his eyes and wait for the day to finally move onto the next. and then something else happens, something somehow worse, and the cycle begins all over again.

such is life and work, or so he likes to tell himself. it's a way of consoling himself when dealing with the unbearable.

"someone. yeah. the mayor. sometimes i think that's his actual job, rather than running the damn town." garrett huffs out a long breath. "sorry. not something a civilian should be worrying about. just the same politics as always. can’t avoid it, no matter how much i try. my fault for going for an elected position."

#carafuror #i.... love helaine so much

[badgestay]

goldendichotomy‌:

     “if i’m honest, i don’t pay much attention to politics.  that’s not a good thing to say in this day and age but i find it as overwhelming as pressuring.  everyone expects an artist to say something with their art about the current world state, so the more distant i am from it all… the less they can hound me.”  alec still feels empathy for garrett’s struggle though – how can he not?  the man has children and instead of thinking of them in his day it’s things like this crowding his mind.  alec would want to pull his brain out of his skull and torch it if that was his curse.   “but if funding is an issue… i’ve heard of police fundraisers.  do they often help?”

despite himself his mind is whirring.  poor planning and bad offers have no doubt made the fundraisers deadwood has done before beyond terrible, next to no money gained if alec had to guess.  but with a proper person behind the concept and execution, well.  and he knows those kinds of people, he has to with the places he goes and the things his job makes him do.  alec hums to himself.  forces a grin down as he stands, brushing his jeans off and picks up the bucket to tuck into his arm.  

as alec walks back to his porch, he glances at garrett over his shoulder and trusts his instincts for most of the walk.

     “doesn’t have to be your thing if you don’t want it to be.  though i imagine there aren’t many landscapers in deadwood, more for the other cities no?”  the bucket is set on his railing, another pulled down as alec returns back to the garden.  this time on garrett’s other side where he sits, legs crossing and fingers working to pluck peas away from their tendrils.  “i find it therapeutic when i’m stressed.  there’s not much as simple as taking care of a garden, but it’s also a constant battle of life or death.  you’re fighting half of the bugs on the damn planet, weather, dirt, and other pests including children.  my daughter has friends who call gardening metal.”  alec adds with a laugh.  

carefully, alec plucks a ladybug away from the pea in his hand.  cradles it for a moment, watching as it crawls over his fingers with small, ticklish legs.  “the curfew has uprooted plenty of issues in this part of the state.  but with philo, yes, we’re in constant contact.  the girl worries for me as much as i worry for her, and i can’t even argue.”  he shrugs a shoulder.  turns his hand over to trace that red beetle’s path, other hand still sluggishly collecting.  slower, now.  his mind chugging away with more and more, heavier and heavier thoughts.

eventually he shakes his head to clear it as best as he’s able.  looks up at garrett, eyes to eyes as long as the other man seems comfortable.

     “the truth is, garrett, i wouldn’t offer something if i didn’t want to do it.  according to some i don’t leave the home enough beyond necessity for work, and it’s been years since i was around small children.  i miss that energy.  i miss creating a garden from start.  and you clearly need help, which i’m offering.  like – okay, give me your hand.”  

when the other man does, alec catches it.  fingers around his wrist to turn his palm up, as he carefully deposits the ladybug onto garrett’s palm.  then lets go of him to cradle the small, curious bug in his own grip.

     “see?  you’re infected with the urge now.  she’s passed it on for me and you can’t say no or try to self guilt your way out of it.”  alec smiles so wide that his face aches with every word.  “that’s the power of ladybugs i’m afraid.”

"not a good thing?" garrett repeats. "sounds like the best possible choice at this point. i would love to get away from it. it's not like i can take a vacation. not enough cops here to begin with, and i'd rather have my deputies taking a vacation than me." he says selfless things without thinking - doesn't even call them selfless. "well. maybe it'll happen eventually. or if i lose the next election, then i'm definitely taking a vacation. might move altogether." he doesn't sound that sure of it, though. he can't imagine himself without deadwood, in some ways. it's been miserable, but it's also been purely his.

he knows this place better than anywhere else on earth. who is he without it? he can't really imagine it.

he shrugs at the mention of fundraisers. "works better somewhere like rapid city," he admits. "bigger population. here, it helps, but there's just not enough people, really. if it gets bad enough, though, i might have to go for that kind of solution. costs money to organize a fundraiser, though, paradoxically. and the mayor would probably complain about the _optics_ of a police department having to beg for money, hypocrite that he is."

then garrett laughs a little to himself, watching as alec puts down the bucket and moves to his other side. a pea tumbles close to his boots, shaken loose by alec's careful ministrations, and garrett leans down to pick up the stray pea and toss it into the bucket with the rest of them. "no. not many landscapers. most small towns expect that you have enough spare time to tend to your own lawn, i suppose." he leans back up and sighs, rolling his shoulders. a dozen little aches and pains persist, ones that didn't seem to exist when he was younger. "i'd call it intense. sounds like the kids are calling a lot of things metal nowadays."

garrett doesn't really get it. but he's content with not getting it. he knows certain things just aren't for him.

"hopefully you all won't have to worry about that for too much longer. we're working on it, despite what people say." he sounds tired even having to give that kind of statement. it sounds like the same one he's been giving to everyone he meets, on the street or at the grocery store or just anywhere.

then alec blinks up at him, focused and aware and almost strikingly genuine. he doesn't even get a chance to respond - just holds out his hand on command, more out of a kind of quiet curiosity than anything, and watches as a ladybug crawls dangerously close to the cuff of his uniform. despite himself, though, garrett smiles just a little. he watches it crawl around on his hand, singularly confused by its new location, and stands there in silence for a moment. there's something incredibly gentle about this, a thing he isn't familiar with in deadwood. alec is a good man, really, for taking the time for all of this. that's undeniable at this point.

it's hard to imagine that kind of gentleness any more, that kind of regard.

"i guess you've really trapped me here," he admits, reaching down and tilting his hand so that the ladybug eventually has to crawl its way back onto a leaf. "flawless reasoning. guess i'll have to decide on a weekend here or something."

#goldendichotomy

[badgestay]

noospherica‌:

he sounds horrified, maybe more than she does.  is it that bad?  is she fucking dying?  there’s no way – it would’ve happened already.  right?  right?  or the blood would be blacker or her head would be swimming more or, or… something.  noah refuses to believe the other options no matter how numb her side feels or how sick her stomach is, or how fucking normal that sense of nausea is beginning to feel.  new normal, her mind suddenly offers and she wants to laugh, wants to hold it back.  tries both and releases a strangled sound that’s somewhere between gagging or shrieking, no humor in either.

(oh god she is dying she’s fucking crazy and nothing hurts that’s so bad, that’s so fucking bad)

the man tries to guide her through breathing.  noah’s hands are shaking so badly she can hardly move them but she forces them up, flailing, until she can grab at his wrists or the hands above them.  even the arms below just – something, something that feels like a real person and is cooler than the heat that she feels filling her own body from the core out.  noah tries to echo that breathing.  she inhales.  

feels the air shoot out of her halfway through two and gags on her terror.  “can’t,” noah bursts out of her clenched teeth.  they won’t relax, she almost sounds muffled.  can he understand her?  oh fuck, is she saying nothing at all?  “can’t, can’t.”  she tries over and over again until the word makes no sense to her.  

her grip is as tight on him as she can make it, and the words that leave her are mindless but strong.

     “please help me–”

he can almost see her panicking even more. is he making things worse? shit. he needs to calm down. needs to focus in. needs to settle in himself and find that headspace. he breathes out, steadying himself, and takes a moment to calm down. then he focuses in. the woman makes a sound that isn't really choking, which is what he's instantly concerned about, and isn't quite a snarl or a scream. it's just a primal sound, from somewhere deep inside of her, something that might be a laugh at one angle or might be something else, something more negative.

does he take her hands? no. that much contact might scare her. but if he steps too far away, that'll make her panic too.

but then garrett blinks as her fingers wrap shakily around his wrist, touching and dragging along the sleeve of his uniform. he goes still in surprise, letting her grab and pull. so he crouches down more, to put them at a more equitable level, and says, "that's okay. take your time, okay? i'm not going anywhere." she's begging for help, begging for anything, and he is trying as best he can to provide whatever she needs.

medical attention, or just emotional support. "i'm not going anywhere," garrett repeats. "i'm going to walk you through what we're going to do, okay? we're going to stay here until you can breathe, because if you were really hurt, you wouldn't be able to talk to me and wouldn't be like this. and then i'll get you into my patrol car, and depending on how hurt you are, we can either get you back to the department or to the hospital. is that okay? nod if that's okay."

#noospherica

[badgestay]

where: outside the deadwood sheriff’s department when:  11 a.m. who: open to anyone

another meeting with the mayor, and another furious drive back to the department. garrett doesn’t usually smoke. it’s a rare thing, and when it is it’s usually under duress. he doesn’t even buy cigarettes. instead, it’s one of the deputies who usually notices that a meeting with the mayor is on the schedule and prepares accordingly afterwards. it’s usually with a fresh cup of coffee, as good as they can force the office coffeemaker to actually produce, which doesn’t really have much to its name at all. it’s become something of a routine now.

so he finds himself standing outside the department, struggling with his deputy’s shitty lighter. the man needs a decent lighter. he grumbles a curse to himself, finally managing to light the cigarette after far too much struggling. he pockets the lighter with a sigh and a mental note to give it back, and then he leans against the side of the building, letting his eyes shut for a moment. 

it’s okay. he’s calm. he’s just fine. as much as a sheriff can be, anyway, when the mayor refuses to listen and has a stick up his ass. “stupid bastard,” he mumbles to himself, setting his coffee cup down on the low wall extending out from the front of the building. 

he isn’t really looking for company. but maybe someone willing to listen to him vent would be good right about now.

#wither.open

[badgestay]

The worst part of it all, he’s found, is the signs. 

Winona designs everything for the campaign, because it’s what she’s good at anyway. Free of charge, she tells him, elbowing him gently in the ribs, but you have to do all the heavy lifting. You and whatever deputies you’re dragging into this, anyway, because I know how you are about them. So she gets the designs done, and then it’s down to him and two deputies in their garage or their backyard to spray them down. It’s down to Garrett to do the canvassing, too, and the nuances of the ground game, and everything else he just didn’t want to touch with his bare hands. Win jokes that she’s the mastermind behind the whole campaign and he’s the one out here doing all the difficult parts.

She’s probably right about that. Garrett certainly feels it at some points more than others.

Like now, him back home far too late and his ankles aching from walking up and down rows of suburban houses. He could barely identify his own house on the way back, all of them the same, and drove about one house further than he should before he swore a blue streak and turned back around. The whole day has been blending into itself, a wash of paperwork and then driving down a few streets, booking one guy for a DUI at ten in the morning, and endless doors and lawns and doors and lawns and —

So the boys are both asleep by the time he gets home. He knows just from what lights are on and which are off in the windows, so he takes his time getting inside, opening the door softly. It doesn’t even creak, and he shuts it just as quietly, the screen door only clattering a little with the impact. He’s in the middle of working off his shoes, leaning up against the wall in order to not topple with how much he’s aching, when something creaks. His head snaps up on instinct, the sound enough to make all the worst parts of his brain, all the parts that are pure cop and not much else, light up. But he knows better. It’s just the silhouette of his wife, framed and a shadow in the light from the kitchen.

“Jesus Christ, Win,” he manages. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He can hear the fact that she’s smiling just in her voice as she moves closer. “You’re really late. Work or the campaign?” 

“Campaign.” Garrett finishes working off his shoes. Win leans back to give him space to shift past her into the kitchen. “Just canvassing. Swear to God I’m not any good at talking to people, but most of them seem pretty happy with my suggestions. We’ll see in a few months.” He glances wistfully over at the coffeemaker. It’s really his more than anyone else’s. Win doesn’t like coffee, and especially doesn’t like how much he drinks. But it is, as she calls it, a necessary evil at this point. Not enough sleep. Too much to do. 

His wife prods him in the back of the spine, something he can barely feel through the vest and the uniform. “Hey. I’ll make you tea so you aren’t tempted to drink coffee at - what, eleven o’clock? Go take off all that shit and sit down before you fall over.”

Garrett laughs a little to himself. The sound is more hoarse than it should be. He’s been talking too much, over radios and televisions and even just into the radio, competing with the engine of his patrol car. “Alright.” For just a quick moment, as he turns back, he catches her in a small kiss. She allows at least that much before pushing him back towards the doorway. “I’m going, I’m going — if you make some of that herbal tea shit without telling me I am going to dump it back down the drain.”

“You’re going to drink what I fucking give you,” Win snaps, “and you’re going to be happy about it.” There’s no real venom behind it, and her tone warps into something more amused than anything by the last few words. She’s tired too. Raising two boys is more difficult than they ever thought it would be, especially when they were mostly expecting one. But he makes just enough money for it to be viable, and he loves his boys more than anything else in the world. Knew that from the moment he was there in the hospital, in tears over his sons, and every day since then has been harder than the last. There’s good things too - wonderful things, the best days of his life - but it all just drains him like there is no tomorrow to look forward to.

He has to creep past the boys’ room, and he doesn’t even dare to open the door. Win would rightfully kill him if one of them started crying right now.

Some of the aches and pains ease once he’s out of the uniform and into anything more comfortable. People don’t realize how heavy Kevlar is until they’re wearing it. In times of duress the pressure is reassuring, but by the end of the shift, it’s just something you want to strip off as fast as possible. By the time he makes it out back to the living room, he can hear Win swearing at the kettle, managing to turn the stove off in time to keep it from whistling too loudly. The television is playing the local news station, which really isn’t local. It’s Rapid City’s news, and sometimes some bits about Deadwood.

He settles on his end of the couch as Win moves into the living room, balancing two mugs in her hands. Then he squints at the label on the teabag, trying to discern what it is, and has to watch as his wife imperiously tilts the cup towards her so it’s just out of sight. “No,” she says, like she’s talking to one of their kids. “Don’t ask questions. Just sit down and drink.”

Garrett eyes it for a moment. “You’re lucky I love you so much,” he decides.

She sits down next to him and he takes the mug closest to him. They clink the rims together like they’re drinking fucking priceless champagne. “Cheers,” she says, deadpan, and he laughs softly. 

The tea’s terrible. It’s definitely herbal, and it’s probably the worst thing she’s forced him to try yet, but he drinks it anyway. 

That night, after checking on the boys just once, gentler than he’s ever had a chance to be in his whole fucking life, he imagines patterns in the ceiling. He imagines that all of this fits together, somehow, sealed in all the right places, and that it might be able to last for the rest of his life. He imagines the rest of his life, like that, like this, terrible herbal tea and aching soles and his wife’s arm thrown across him like she’s trying to keep him from getting out of bed in a few hours to face the day.

Like this might be worth it, eventually. Like this all might be okay, in the end, whatever the end actually means.

#THE BAD STUFF KEEPS HAPPENING / * narrative.

[badgestay]

DEADWOOD’S SHERIFF ( am i doing the right thing? am i asking the right questions? what are the right questions, anyway? )

#mine. #IT'S LIKE EVERY OTHER STORY / * aesthetic. #getting Those Points hell yes