[Emmeline Lowe]

[attr="class","bg_posttemp"][TW: mentions of alcoholism.]

At 4:45 PM on a bright and warm Sunday afternoon, most folks from these parts (parts being the rural and suburban outskirts of Los Eurosia) were home doing perfectly respectable Sunday things. Having dinner with their families. Catching the last innings of the Dodgers game on TV. Tending to the horses, watering the garden. Finishing the edging on the lawn before the rain moved in.

Most folks. But not Hank Lowe.

All he was tending to were the last dregs of whiskey in yet another glass, in yet another dive bar on the outskirts of the city. Maybe, if you squinted real hard in an effort to extend some pity, you could say he was tending to the fissures of a broken heart.

Back home on the ranch, there was nothing much left to tend. And maybe that was just it. Sitting back home, amidst the dilapidated remains of his once-thriving ranch, made him feel like he was rotting right along with it. Maybe that was what had driven him here, to The Cozy Cat, a rundown joint which was not at all cozy. Even compared to the old ranch house, it was a sad alternative.

In the last hour, Emmy had searched every bar between here and the Lowe ranch twice over looking for him. In the six months she’d been home, she’d learned her daddy had his favorite haunts, each one just a stone’s throw from home, each one worse than the one before it.

The Cozy Cat was a new one – at least, to Emmeline – but easily lumped in with all the rest of them. Cheap beer, dusty tables, walls stained with decades of nicotine. The whole place had a reek of fried-food grease and spilled beer so stubborn that no amount of scrubbing would ever erase it – not that anybody probably tried. Place like this, it seemed like everybody had that in common, from the bartender to the men haunting the bar stools. They’d long since quit trying.

Hank Lowe was no exception.

Emmy found him hunched over the bar, bathed in the half-light of neon beer signs. He had a vice-grip on a glass that was all but empty, head hung so low he looked half-asleep, long hanks of salt-and-pepper hair obscuring his vision.

“Come on, daddy. Time to go,” she said, tugging at his elbow. Hank swung his heavy-lidded gaze on her, and it took a few beats too long to ignite that spark of recognition. For him to register: Emmeline.

It was a kick to her gut. No matter how many times Emmy’d shown up to drag him out of a bar lately, it was that vacant look – that blank confusion – that always got to her. Like he’d been aiming to wipe out everything with the whiskey, and once again, he’d done it. Everything. Even his only daughter.

“I ain’t done yet,” Hank finally slurred, earning a few smirks from nearby patrons, and a condescending chuckle from the bartender.

“Yeah, you are, cowboy.” The man plucked away Hank’s empty glass; aimed a pointed look at Emmy. “He’s been in here since I opened up this morning.”

Emmy’s lips thinned as she frowned at the bartender, but she didn’t answer. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. He served liquor to people in a shithole like this for a living and here he was, trying to make a fool out of her father? Not that Hank needed any help in that matter. He’d been doing a fine job of it himself lately. She was here to get him out quickly and quietly, not to add to the damage he’d already done. Didn’t matter if it was his pride taking the hit, not hers. To be honest, for Emmy, these days they were one in the same.

She looped an arm around Hank’s shoulders, trying to coax him away from the bar. He was much bigger than she was, and lanky. Thankfully, he was also a sloppy drunk, not an angry one – usually. More likely to be wallowing in his own sorrows than taking them out on anyone else, which was his only redeeming trait right about now as he let Emmy ease him up off the barstool. Thank god for that, because they both knew he wasn't going anywhere he didn't want to go, and if he decided he didn't want out of here, it'd take more than just Emmy to move him. Not that she was celebrating yet, but getting him to his feet was half the battle.

He didn’t notice when she fished his wallet right out of his jeans – where it left a decades-old faded imprint on his back pocket – and peeled off a few bills to cover his tab. She got stuck rummaging for a twenty of her own when it wasn’t enough, and by the time she caught up with Hank, he’d already made it to the exit, doing the drunk-shuffle across sticky floorboards, bleary-eyed and breathing heavy. Despite looking like his legs were about to give out, he had managed to locate his car keys, though managing not to drop them was a different story. She heard the jangle of them hitting the pavement just before the door swung shut behind him.

Seconds later, Emmy pushed through, wincing at the burst of bright daylight. From the way Hank was shading his eyes and grumbling, that was what had stopped him, too.

Emmy spotted his keys on the ground and kicked them out of his reach. They skittered into the shadows. Hank swayed, the swivel of his head a few drunk seconds too late to track them.

“Gimme my goddamn keys, Emmy Lou,” he ground out, his voice like a warning.

She sidestepped to pick them up. “No way in hell you're driving. Come on. I'll bring you back tomorrow morning to pick up your truck, alright? First thing.”

But much like his daughter, Hank really did not like to be told what to do.

He made a grab for the keys, throwing himself off balance. One hand flung back, grasping for purchase on something – anything – to stop his ass tumbling into the dirt. He righted himself, but not before stumbling into the side view mirror on a nearby car, setting it askew. He glared at Emmy.

She pocketed his keys.

“My car’s right there,” she said, gesturing to the ‘94 Ford Ranger. Same one she'd had since she was seventeen. “Let’s go. Before we make even more of a scene.”

We, as if trying to soften the blow of the mess he’d made all by himself.

“Ain’t leavin’ til I get my keys.” He made as if to light the Marlboro he’d poked between his teeth, but couldn’t find his lighter. His hand trembled as he patted down his breast pocket. Emmy hated that tremble. Around his cigarette, he mumbled: “You stole my lighter, too, din’tya?”

Emmy couldn't even drum up the energy to roll her eyes. She was sick of this already; didn’t have the patience for any more gentle convincing. She grabbed for his arm, swallowing down her frustration and hellbent on getting him out of here, but Hank thrashed away. The clumsy force of it sent Emmy stumbling. Once she regained balance, she glared at him, blinking back the hot prickle of angry tears. Her eyes were sheened over with sadness and accusation – not that he had enough wits about him to notice it.

Emmy raked her hair out of her face and spat, “Fine! That’s how you want it? Then I’m takin’ your keys, and I'm takin’ my truck, and I’m leavin’ your ass stranded here!”

---

Tag: Michael Vael
Sorry, this got soooo long. Lol, but please lemme know if something doesn't work or if it needs any changes. Feel free to move Emmy around and Hank, too!

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[Michael Vael]

[nospaces]

[attr="class","post-elmwhisker-o"]

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SOME THINGS JUST AIN'T MEANT

to stay at home; one day they're here, the next they're gone

"Yes, I'll be sure to give them my love for you, Ms. Ryan," Michael reassured (for what felt like the eleventh time) as he moved toward the grocery shop's exit. The smile across his mouth — which had grown thinner and more difficult to maintain the longer Debra Ryan (who was ancient; she'd been working the store's singular check-out lane since he was kid) chatted at him — slipped completely from his countenance as he stepped onto the sidewalk. [break][break]

Before the door could finish shutting behind him, he unwrapped the Tootsie Pop she'd given him for Abigail and popped it in his mouth. The little brat certainly didn't deserve it. Not today. Debra could consider herself lucky she'd never seen the absolute nightmare she was hellbent on being this weekend. Besides, the red ones were always the best and Ms. Ryan had never, ever given him a sucker twenty years ago. Why shouldn't he?[break][break]

Starting down the street toward the truck he'd parked along the opposite curb, Michael straightened the wrapper between his fingers to look for the Indian with his bow and star. No luck. Figured. He dropped the wrapper in the paper sack he held to his chest, hoping Abigail would find it (looking for and no doubt expecting a sucker) and get even more pissy. It'd serve her right.[break][break]

Just as he lifted his chin and began digging the keys from his pocket, his eyes landed on a familiar figure as it slipped through a door not even thirty yards in front of him. It'd been just a glimpse. A cascade of dark, not-quite-tidy waves down a thin back, made more auburn than brown in the bright sunlight. But the sight stopped him completely and, for a too-long moment, he only stared at the space she'd disappeared. Then he swished the sucker to his other cheek, raised his gaze to the bar sign over the door, and crossed the street. [break][break]

He moved with decision, keeping his mind carefully blank. But as he climbed in his truck and set aside the sack of groceries, he immediately reached for his rearview mirror; positioning the bar door in its reflection as he settled back. And his mind couldn't stay quiet. [break][break]

He could think of one or two reasons Emmeline might duck into a place like 'the Cozy Cat' so early. As far as he knew, she hadn't picked up her old job of waitressing. Not that he'd readily admit to scanning bar parking lots for her truck whenever he pulled into one (telling himself he was only trying to avoid her but never truly certain what he'd do if he did see that Ranger). [break][break]

Maybe... he could think of three reasons. [break]
Well... four... okay, fuck, five. [break][break]

Fortunately, he didn't have too long to come up with many more — not when Hank Lowe stumbled through the door, slacked face pinched against the sudden sun. Unfortunately, the sight was hardly relieving. Not when the state of ruin about him was so glaringly obvious, even with the four or five car-lengths between them, and not when Emmy followed him a couple beats later, looking as unfamiliar as she did familiar in the mirror's reflection.[break][break]

Michael fingered the keys in his lap, willing himself to start the truck up and pull away. Doing anything else was stupid. Asking for trouble. He shifted in his seat... but his gaze only sifted from his rearview mirror to his passenger side mirror to watch their exchange. He'd call it "arguing" but... that had always looked a little different for them. This looked mostly tired. If it was an argument, it was an old one; a back-and-forth that'd exhausted itself in its repetition. [break][break]

A little over six months ago, it might have been him making sure Hank Lowe got home. But then, they'd hardly argued about it. Michael never looked for the old man. It was usually later — much later — when some exasperated bartender (or an equally-drunk coot) called him from his bed to come and "retrieve" him. Always past closing, so late that the alternatives were calling the cops, leaving him on the sidewalk to be picked over, or tossing the man in his truck and hoping he couldn't manage to get his key in the ignition. [break][break]

Hank had usually been too far gone to be anything but compliant. His muttering was always so quiet and so slurred, that Michael could only ever pick out a fraction of what he said. Then he'd been too pitifully wrecked that he couldn't rightly argue with him when he didn't like what he could pick out. If he were being completely honest, most of what Hank had to say about him these days sounded a little more true than they had years ago. And Michael wasn't certain what he'd argue if Hank had been up to it. Maybe it was a bit of a blessing doing so had never seemed worth the effort.[break][break]

Most of the time, Michael had left the man sleeping in his truck while he started the trek home on foot. Once, when he heard Hank hit the ground after popping open his door, he'd turned back to make sure he was alright. Shortly before Emmy had come home, things had graduated to a point where Michael typically dragged him inside. [break][break]

The last time he'd taken a call... and after depositing Hank's deadweight in a ratty, well-worn recliner... he'd sat himself on her porch steps for a long while; listening to the creaks and groans — the death rattles — of her home, ignoring the stars in the sky, and watching the lights of his own ranch, small in the distance. [break][break]

Then Emmeline's truck had reappeared in the Lowe drive. And anyone who'd called him since, he'd told to stop. She was back now and he couldn't be any part of it.[break][break]

Which was why he should leave.[break][break]

In his mirror, he watched the patience slip from her as she grabbed at her father's arm and he tossed her off. She skittered sidelong and Michael worked his mouth silently, worrying at the sucker stick between his teeth. He could feel his chest rise and fall a little harder, his fingers twitching toward the door handle beside him. He didn't have to be any closer, didn't have to be looking directly at her, to see the glare on her face — he could picture it just fine with the snap of her head, the angry hike to her shoulders, and the way she pulled her fingers through her hair.[break][break]

With a sigh, he plucked the paper sack of groceries back under one arm, abandoned his Tootsie Pop in the truck ashtray, popped open his door, and stepped out. He started across the street, mind carefully blank again, and — almost immediately — Emmeline nearly stopped him once more with the words she hissed. But he only slowed for a brief beat. [break][break]

"Good at that," he announced himself, watching her back. The words were spoken low and quiet, his tone not exactly accusing... not quite insinuating... not quite anything, but somehow still a little loaded.[break][break]

Probably not the best way to start. But maybe the only way, too. No matter what they said, no matter how long they danced around it, he supposed it'd get there eventually. If it got anywhere at all. [break][break]

As he spoke, and when she turned at the sound, Michael realized — quite abruptly — that there was an enormous amount of uncertainty in that split-second before her gaze landed on him. He almost wanted to look away. To not meet it. But, of course, he recognized the cowardice in it and — his eyes remained still when hers found them. He could feel them steel of their own accord and his brow gave a little leap, as if he expected a retort or an acknowledgment. As if his "greeting" was a barb he wanted to allow a moment to sink. [break][break]

But he didn't. It had been a statement and not a question. Not exactly a goad. And, despite the words and the way he stood there, he wasn't wanting to present her with a fight on two fronts; to pin her between two men who'd have her raking her hair from the roots. So, after a moment — satisfying that inner bit of himself that had to prove he wasn't so hesitant that he couldn't look at her — he let his gaze shift to Hank beyond her. He pretended — silently told himself — he hadn't noticed the threatening glisten above her dark lash-lines. [break][break]

"I can take one of the trucks. And I can light that cigarette."

steal your breath, take your wind[break]
leave a cloud of dust behind

Tag: Emmeline Lowe [break]
Give me a nudge for any changes![break]Or if he needs to say more omg dsfjhkh

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[Emmeline Lowe]

[attr="class","bg_posttemp"]She didn’t hear him coming. Not with the scuffle of Hank’s and her own boots in the gravel as they worked through – or failed to work through – their little spat. Him tossing her off, Emmy skidding sideways, taking a moment to right herself as Hank lurched off in the opposite direction. Toward his truck, to which he still had no keys.

Stubborn asshole.

Hank spotted Michael before she did, mouth going slack around his unlit cigarette, followed by a little curl of his upper lip as his eyes settled on something over Emmy’s shoulder. She knew that look, the type of person it was reserved for (answer: the Vael type). But more than that, she knew the voice that came next, as quiet as it was. The low timbre of it – or maybe just the realization of who it belonged to – sent a fast prickle up the back of her neck.

Of all the nights. Of all the times. If her shameless streak of avoiding Michael at all costs had to end sometime, why’d it have to be now? Here? Like this?

Emmy stilled, staring straight ahead for a beat. Trying to get a handle on herself, no doubt – not that it worked. That it ever really worked. If there was something she didn’t want him to see when she glanced over her shoulder at him, it was probably there anyway.

Her hair whipped over one shoulder as she looked back, the moody blue flash of her irises catching in the fading sunlight. It took her a second to register what he’d said. The tone of it didn’t quite fit whatever she was expecting. It was too gentle, too quiet. A divot nested between her brows, the only hint of (hurt? confusion?) anything remotely soft before irritation took hold again, still with that threat of tears shimmering at her lashes. In fact, even more so now.

“Oh, great,” she managed on a barely-there breath. She wanted it to sound a certain way, but it had no venom to it. No bite. Michael was looking right at her and she couldn’t summon up all the fury that’d fueled her 400 miles down the highway – away from all this, and him – two years ago.

What was he doing here?

For a minute she thought he’d followed them out of the bar (her mind rewinding, wondering what he’d seen, heard, and how the hell she hadn’t noticed him in there, ‘cause she’d know him anywhere, even just the hunch of his shoulders over a table in some dark corner, the curl of his hair at the nape of his neck, the current of his voice beneath all the others) before registering the paper bag in the crook of his arm. On it, the faded logo of the grocery store that sat just a stone’s throw away – same place it had always been. Nothing much around here had changed, except… well, everything, it felt like.

Emmy couldn’t read anything in his gaze for the fleeting moment it fixed on her. Then he was looking at Hank, and Hank was edging unsteadily closer, past Emmy, reeled in by the promise of a light for his cigarette.

She followed suit, turning around fully, hands raking through her hair once more. She was clearly exasperated and had already made up her mind to turn down Michael’s offer to help with the truck, despite her father’s eager acceptance of the other half.

The refusal came almost by default. “We’re fine. I got it. I’m bringing him back in the morning.”

She’d always been shit at lying. Suddenly not knowing how to stand, she banded her arms around her middle. Not really knowing where to look, she honed in on her father, watching as he bent in to light his smoke, cupping his hand around Michael’s to shield the flame.

Then he leaned back, exhaling a rough laugh around a puff of smoke. “Last I heard you was leavin’ me here,” Hank crowed at Emmy. The look he gave Michael was almost conspiratorial. Was he laughing at her?

Emmy recoiled, blinking fast, trying to remind herself he was drunk, but that didn’t help. Something didn’t seem right here. Then again, a lot of things hadn’t been right for a long while. Her gaze flitted to Michael – was he laughing at her too? – but just as quickly skittered away.

She set her jaw; crossed her arms tighter. This time, when she looked at Hank, there was a new fury lit in her eyes. Damned if she was about to give up. She’d rather look like an idiot trying to haul his ass out of here than let him win tonight. That, and she wasn’t going to let whatever was left of her family’s reputation fall to pieces right here in front of Michael.

“Much as I’d love to leave you here, I don’t trust you not to go back inside that bar. And if you do, soon it ain’t gonna be me they call, but the cops." She searched Hank's expression to see how that sat with him. All he did was squint at her against the glare of the setting sun. "Look, I did my best to save face for you, but I can’t really help you if you’re bound and determined to make yourself look like a goddamn fool.”

---

Tag: Michael Vael
Let me know if anything doesn't work for you!

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[Michael Vael]

[nospaces]

[attr="class","post-elmwhisker-o"]

[attr="class","elmwhisker-post"]

SOME THINGS JUST AIN'T MEANT

to stay at home; one day they're here, the next they're gone

Emmeline looked back at him. [break][break]

There was a fleeting knit to her brow; the only thing Michael dared note — not the play of fading sunlight in the whip of her hair or the unreadable flash across her teary, slate-blue eyes — before his gaze pulled to Hank beyond her. [break][break]

A scoff would have been better, he still managed to think. Or an exasperated roll of her eyes as they glinted. Perhaps even a pointed settling of weight on one hip and an arched brow. But all his interruption earned was a quiet breath; so quiet that the words on them were almost inaudible. Just an exhale. [break][break]

Somehow, though Michael hadn't approached the duo with fully realized expectation, he found — it wasn't enough. And he just barely kept dissatisfaction from pulling between his own brows as Hank shuffle-swayed forward and he drew the lighter from his jeans to make good on his offer. If Emmy was going to give him so little reaction, then he damn sure wasn't going to give much back. [break][break]

But, regardless, he was still very much aware of her posture and being as, following Hank's approach, she turned more squarely toward him. She crossed her arms. And, noting it in his periphery as he focused on the task before him, he abruptly decided he hated it. Hated it simply because he didn't know what it meant anymore. Couldn't guess. And, above all, it was decidedly lacking. It wasn't openly frustrated. Or riled. She wasn't angled directly at him. She wasn't looking at him. And when she spoke (refusing his offer), there was nothing in it for him to latch on to. Nothing to wield.[break][break]

Hank laughed — a gritty, gravely noise — as he exhaled the start of his cigarette, then croaked a little dig back before drawing an almost smirky gaze to Michael. He met it steadily but didn't match its smarm. Did Hank think this was a 'them vs. her' sort of situation? That, because he wasn't on Emmeline's side, he was on his? He lifted his brow and tipped his chin, before leaning back and shifting the paper sack more securely in the tuck of his arm. [break][break]

Her father's response did seem to kindle a bit of recoil, though.[break][break]

Emmeline's gaze (accusing?) skipped quickly between them, then away just as fast. A muscle bunched in her jaw, her arms tightened more about herself, and her eyes flared. Then she was focused on Hank, retorting back with a bit more grit and bite; eyes searching for reaction in a way Michael was more than familiar with. It all looked a bit more stubborn than before. It was an improvement.[break][break]

Leaning into it, he didn't allow Hank a moment to respond. [break][break]

"Saving face," he repeated the words on an incredulous exhale; following them with a quick, quiet chuckle as he tucked his chin to his chest and grinned mirthlessly (or with just enough shallow mirth to be sardonic). "Is that what you're doing?" His smile — not truly amused and only barely veiled as such — pulled into a thin, tight line before he lifted his head to squint up at the bar sign above the door they'd exited.[break][break]

He pretended to give it a long, musing study, as if truly considering the dirty lettering. Though it wasn't yet dark enough for the lights to be turned on (if they even bothered to do so tonight), Michael knew half the neon was burned out. The dust collected on the glass could very well be older than him. It was fitting for the old, straggling outskirts of Los Eurosia and even more fitting for the majority of the bar's regular crowd. [break][break]

All of whom, it was safe to assume, knew Hank Lowe fairly well.[break][break]

Finally, he arched a brow and dropped a dubious look to Emmeline, dragging his gaze between her eyes long enough that the sentiment was clear — 'at the Cozy Cat'? [break][break]

Michael sucked noisily at his teeth, leafing his tongue leisurely across the back of them. "Not much to save here. Or at any other bar in these parts." His look swiveled to her father, eyes brightening with a bit of false cheer as he tucked his lighter in the man's breast pocket and gave it a solid pat. "Right, Hank?" He grinned — just a brief, challenging pull at both corners of his lips that fell again as soon as it appeared. [break][break]

That should make it clear he wasn't on anyone's side.[break][break]

He looked back to Emmeline, face slacking impassively (though there remained a sharp sort of affront in his eyes). "Take him home, leave him here... Em," he tipped his head side to side in a faint shake; something he tried to make look softly pitying. His mouth thinned. "It won't make a difference. Why not give him his damn keys?" He lifted a shoulder, giving the paper sack in his arm a little jump. "If you've got it under control then... I've got ice cream in the bag," (he didn't) "So... good luck."

steal your breath, take your wind[break]
leave a cloud of dust behind

Tag: Emmeline Lowe [break]
Sorry, this is messy! Still feeling him out (lmao). Plus I originally had so much internal/monologue stuff in this post that I decided to cut out to save for later aaaaah sdjkfhsdkf~ Give me a nudge if you need more or desire any changes!

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[Emmeline Lowe]

[attr="class","bg_posttemp"]Even drunk, Hank seemed to intuit that he'd crossed some sort of invisible line. He didn’t get the reaction from Michael he’d been hoping for (though not expecting, no – they'd never had the same effortless ease between them that Vael boy and Emmeline did). Maybe it was the weeks’ worth of nights Michael had shown up to drag him home that made him feel conspiratorial, like they had a secret together. Could’ve been those unspoken, understood visits Michael made to look in on Emmy’s old horse while she was gone, how barely tolerating Michael had eased into a grudging respect he’d never readily admit. Or maybe it was only the smeared lens of booze that’d tricked him into hoping for it in the first place.

Either way, it wasn’t there, and he seemed to deflate after that. The drink was really going to his head now, paired with that hit of nicotine to sap most of his fight away and leave nothing but a drowsy half-consciousness. He seemed to sag; even his lips barely hung onto that cigarette, and the only effort he seemed to make was a stubborn refusal to look at Emmy.

He didn’t want to see her; didn’t need to see her to know her expression. He could predict the look on her face without even seeing it, not unlike the way Michael had known it, reading her body language from afar.

It wasn’t that Emmeline was predictable – not at all, really – but for those who knew her, she was readable. Certainly more than she would like to be, wearing her emotions too close to the surface, her expressive eyes and body language often betraying her.

Which was why now, despite being dead set on holding onto her anger, she mostly looked uncertain. The exchange between Hank and Michael confused her, because there was something there, something more than the sloppy ramblings of a drunk man trying to win an enemy over to his side. There was expectation there and she felt it, and her eyes darted between the two men for a beat, wild and bewildered. More than a little hurt.

Whatever it was, Michael didn’t take the bait, and Emmy was startled by the relief – fast and fleeting – that thrilled through her. She swallowed it back just in time for Michael to catch her gaze, doubtful about her claims of trying to save face. At a place like this – and so many other last-ditch kinda bars Hank frequented – that had clearly given up.

This was where people came when they were well past trying to save a damn thing. So who was Emmy kidding? Herself? Her father? Obviously not Michael, she realized, with a jolt of irritation. He wasn’t fooled, and as he tucked that lighter into Hank’s pocket he flashed the man a wry, barely-there grin, and Emmy didn’t like the look on his face. But at least it wasn’t pity.

Hank gave a noncommittal grunt – point taken, probably.

Emmeline didn’t like anything Michael said next. Not the idea that whatever she did wouldn’t make a difference, not the way her pet name – Em – rolled off his tongue with such easy familiarity (more like, she didn't like the way she'd missed that sound), and definitely not the way he suggested she should do exactly the opposite of what she’d set out to do: give Hank his keys. Like she should just give up, kinda like her daddy and this dump of a bar and half of everyone else out here already had.

Like Michael was doing, right now.

Good luck, he said. What – that was it?

Something flared in her chest – a tangle of hurt, righteous anger, bewilderment – and it gleamed in her eyes as she stared at him. Really looked at him now, properly. Because that wasn’t the Michael she knew: so detached, so cool. Sure, she’d given him the cold shoulder since she'd gotten back and enlisted every last ounce of her energy into avoiding him, so maybe he had every right to be unmoved. And if she’d really sworn him off the way she pretended to, then she should be relieved at his dismissiveness. Eager for him to make a quick exit. Quick to claim: Yeah. Got it under control. See ya.

Instead her hand went into her pocket, fingered the keys. With a metallic jangle, she held them out not to Hank, but to Michael, dangling them from one finger like a question.

“Well, daddy,” she said, the words laced with barely-contained sarcasm, “If you like Michael so much, then why don’t you just ride with him.”

Because sure as hell Emmy didn’t wanna ride with either one of them, she told herself. No matter that it was a whole lot of butthurt resentment speaking. No matter that driving Hank home was a thing Michael had done plenty of times in her absence. She didn’t know. She thought she was being clever. Thought she was somehow paying them back, evening out the balance of whatever invisible wrongs she perceived.

She searched Michael’s face for something. Annoyance, irritation. Refusal. Anything, really. “If you drive his truck, I’ll give you a ride back here.” With a sassed little twist of her lips, she added, “I mean, if you ain’t too busy with your ice cream.”

---

Tag: Michael Vael
sjghkfjgh I hope some of this crazy rambling makes sense, I'm rusty. Let me know if anything doesn't work for you!

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[Michael Vael]

[nospaces]

[attr="class","post-elmwhisker-o"]

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SOME THINGS JUST AIN'T MEANT

to stay at home; one day they're here, the next they're gone

Something in Michael quietly ached as he watched her. The way her gaze traveled between him and her father. For the barest fraction of a moment, it was a little too easy to imagine her taking a step back. The idea of it — in the blindingly-quick second it played through his mind — was almost baffling. [break][break]

And he found himself wondering, as he'd wondered for years — laid up in his bed, watching the ceiling, or in the bed of his truck under the night sky, unable to count stars for long — where had she gone? How far? How had it treated her? How had she spent her nights, how hard was it, how worth it was it, and — above all — why had she come back? Was it Hank? Cole...? Her home? None of that was there anymore. Not in their entirety. Was that what she was thinking, as she stood there, looking a little unplanted? That so much was missing and she couldn't understand it anymore? [break][break]

Or was her coming home more like a pitiful crawling back? Had something else she found out there beaten her down and turned her around? What had she hoped to come home to? A place unchanged? Did she think she could disappear for years and suddenly decide to come back and save something? What had she hoped would be waiting for her?[break][break]

It certainly hadn't been Michael. Else he might have heard from her in the six months that'd passed since he'd first noted her truck on the Lowe's property. [break][break]

He had more than enough reason not to reach out. But, after the first couple of months, the fact that she hadn't made an effort either, became the one he used to justify himself the most. Became the thought on the forefront of his mind when he hardened his stare, steeled his resolve, and swallowed down any feelings that wanted to crawl up his throat every time he drove his truck past her drive. [break][break]

And it was the reason he used now, to ignore the questions and wondering. Rather than stepping back — and Michael would have hated to see it — Emmeline leaned forward; eyes glittering as she drew Hank's keys from her pocket.[break][break]

He met her searching gaze and held it levelly, tongue teasing at the backs of his teeth as he worked his jaw. Something about the self-assured, baiting look settled something in him. Soothed a bit of that wordless (and cowardly) uncertainty he didn't want to acknowledge as he faced her. And there was an abrupt, knee-jerk want to grin in the face of it. Despite everything she was hiding... he was hiding... everything else at play... everything that flashed behind her eyes and across her face that he could just barely glimpse and could almost name... this was something he knew well. Knew how to identify and hold close.[break][break]

This was familiar. A push-and-pull they'd acquainted themselves with quite intimately. Someone had to have the last word. The best hand. Had to see who would drive who into the corner first, all while eagerly anticipating what would happen when a back hit the wall. What ludicrous thing the other would fire back when there was no actual ammunition left to load and never knowing whether the final play would win a wild, "you got me there" grin or a far-less-friendly (and usually crossing-the-line) snarl. [break][break]

Did she think she had him? Toed him back? Judging by the familiar — but God, it'd been so long since he'd seen it — curl of her mouth, she did. So soon? That easy? Maybe she'd assumed he'd only offered his help expecting that she'd refuse. That he'd walked his bow-legged ass across the street for the simple excuse to hurl stones and now she was one-upping, inconveniencing, or at the very least surprising him, by caging him with acceptance instead of sending him slinking back.[break][break]

He watched her for a long moment, eyes brighter than before, and finally one corner of his mouth edged awry. He stepped forward and took the keys she dangled before him like a worm on a hook, making certain he held her gaze still as he finally spoke, his voice light and simple. "Alright, then. Sound plan. Wish I woulda thought of it myself." He stepped back and let his gaze drag finally to Hank, almost as an afterthought. Now, with this particular brand of communication established, the drunk man could be there or not. His being there was suddenly a moot point. Ignoring the fact he was the entire point at all. [break][break]

Also ignoring the man's dejection — his withdrawing away and shutting up — Michael clapped a hand to his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. A much less loaded gesture than before. Or loaded, perhaps, in a much different way. Loaded, but no longer directed at him. "Though, we really should make Em drive the truck back," even as he spoke it, he stepped around to the driver's side, dropping his chin to his chest with a whistle. "Clutch's become a real son of a bitch." [break][break]

Popping open the door, he deposited his paper bag in the middle of the bench seat, then straightened to look at her with his hand on the truck's frame. "No need to drive me back. Kind of you to offer, but... I can hop a fence just fine." Someone else could bring him back. Later in the evening. Or tomorrow. "And, if the ice cream melts, hell..." he tipped his head, pursing his lips as he squinted sidelong and pretended to muse. "Guess we'll just drink it." He grinned, too wide and too pleased.

steal your breath, take your wind[break]
leave a cloud of dust behind

Tag: Emmeline Lowe [break]
This a big ole mess, so just lemme know for any tweaks/changes! c:

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[Emmeline Lowe]

[attr="class","bg_posttemp"]The truth was: looking at Michael, hearing his voice, seeing his face after two long years, made Emmy's chest feel like it might cave in.

Who knew that an emptiness could be so heavy? The weight of his absence had seemed, some nights, nearly enough to smother her. Seeing him now, feeling the measure of distance that remained between them even when they weren't hundreds of miles apart, made it worse. Impossibly heavier, somehow.

Nothing felt the same, and this, among so many reasons, was why Emmy had been avoiding him. Because maybe she had been clinging to the ridiculous hope that, out of all the things that had changed, this (Michael, the way it had been) hadn’t.

She watched him watching her, stirred by the bright gleam that lit in his eyes. There it was. Whatever it was – hard to predict, with Michael – it was something. Emmy expected him to be annoyed, to give himself away with a fast flash of irritation. Instead his mouth hitched into some unreadable semblance of a half-grin and he, simple as pie, agreed to her plan.

He was giving nothing away, holding his cards close to his chest, or else, he just really wasn’t fussed about any of this. Emmeline didn’t want to even think the latter was a possibility, but what did she expect? That after two years she’d come back and find that time had suspended? She’d come home to find that everything around her (the ranch; the Lowes themselves, especially) had succumbed to the slow erosion of time and neglect, so why would this – between her and Michael – be any different? Just because she hadn’t been around to watch it deteriorate (the whole point, really) didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. In any case, she couldn’t ignore the signs or hang onto some naive silver lining like she had, hundreds of miles away on the road. Here, it was right in her face, in every empty room and around every corner.

Michael snagged the keys and Emmy’s hand dropped to her side, fingers curled into her palm against the aftershock of contact that hadn’t even really been there. No warmth, no brush of skin at all. Avoidant and impersonal.

“Great,” she said, thin and unconvincing. Hank seemed even less convinced, blinking out of his drowse as Michael clapped his shoulder with unexpected vigor.

“The hell d’you know,” he mumbled about the clutch. “Works fine.” Which was a lie, and Emmy knew it, though she couldn’t seem to puzzle out how Michael did, too. Nor why he had even come over here, beckoned across the street to a scene outside the bar he could’ve just as easily ignored.

That – above his smug commentary about the clutch or this bewildering thing between him and Hank she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around – was the question taking up all her headspace. Why was he here? Why had he come over here? To prove something? Show her he was doing fine, doing just great without her? That he could still pull off that high-beam grin, that boyish flash of teeth even after she’d left him in the dust for two years? Emmy wanted him to be annoyed, wanted to turn down his offer of any help but just as much, she wanted to call his bluff, cash in on (what she suspected was) his fake offer. Inconvenience him. Punish him, really – silly as it was. For staying behind, giving up, not going with her when she left this place like he always said he would.

He lied and he bluffed now just as he had back then, she figured. He hadn't come over here to help; he wanted a dismissal or a quick escape. Didn’t want a ride back into town; would rather hop the fence and figure it out later.

“Great,” she repeated, mirroring Michael's cheery and unaffected tone as she herded Hank toward the truck in a slow shuffle. “That works best for me, anyhow. I got things to do.” But her voice was pitched just a little too high, as if teetering on the edge of frustrated tears; the same ones biting at the backs of her eyes. “Seeing as Cole didn't have it in his heart to stick around for this whole mess. Can't say I blame him.”

It was meant more as a dig against her father than a sentiment to evoke pity, though she half-regretted saying it the second it was out. Hank heaved himself up into the passenger seat and seemed unaffected for a beat, like maybe he was too far gone to make sense of what she’d said, or just hadn’t heard her.

Then: “You left first, girl,” Hank slurred, and Emmy couldn't tell if that was supposed to be an observation or an argument. She stared, stunned, and then Hank flicked his cigarette out the window, which narrowly missed Emmy’s leg before hitting the asphalt in a scatter of embers.

She slammed the door on him and rounded the front of the truck, back toward Michael. That grin still lingered at his lips and the corners of his eyes and Emmy stayed back, arms crossed, jaw fixed in a stubborn clench. Because damned if she was gonna cry. Or let any part of Michael get to her. Lord knew she had enough else to worry about right now.

“You heard anything from my brother?” While she had him here, it needed asking. “I know he isn’t on the best of terms with anybody lately, but… if he got desperate, maybe he called. If he ran out of money, needed a fix or somethin’.” She could use just a small win, and a hopeful note colored her voice as she added: “Maybe he called Daniel?”

---

Tag: Michael Vael
A big ole mess of thoughts, lolol. Let me know if anything doesn't work for you!

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[Michael Vael]

[nospaces]

[attr="class","post-elmwhisker-o"]

[attr="class","elmwhisker-post"]

SOME THINGS JUST AIN'T MEANT

to stay at home; one day they're here, the next they're gone

Though Emmeline's voice was pitched with the same frivolous cheer Michael had doused his own with... and her words were (more than a little) vaguely dismissive (quid pro quo, perhaps)... he could hear the feign in it. The thin, reediness of her tone as she moseyed Hank to his truck. It was subtle. And years ago — back when they'd been all fun and wild highs and he hadn't yet recognized the quiet that'd existed beneath it all — Michael might not have heard it. Or, rather, might not have understood it enough to truly realize it for what it was. [break][break]

But, at some point, he'd developed an ear trained to her. And they'd shared enough, seen enough of one another, and learned enough of one another in the time they'd been together, that it'd become easier to assign meaning to her tells. Hell, she'd taught him how. [break][break]

He wondered if she'd take back those teachings now, if she could — ungive him the legend and vocabulary needed to read beneath the words. If she regretted that he could. Kicked herself now for wasting the effort... for compromising the capacity to keep herself — those more vulnerable parts of her — hidden from him. What had he done with that knowledge, anyway? In the end?[break][break]

Time had passed — arguably, a lot of time — and opened a chasm between them that Michael couldn't see the bottom of. Didn't know how to even begin to guess the depth of. He didn't know where the footholds were, if the walls would bear any weight, or if the climb/descent was even worth the sweat. But familiarity — even if she made it clear, at some point, that it was an outgrown familiarity — was still a bridge across that chasm. [break][break]

She'd written herself out of the book — removed herself from the narrative of his life, of her home, and of this place. As far as Michael knew, she'd started new chapters on fresh, clean pages. Washed her hands of that old ink blotting her fingers and leafed forward enough so she couldn't see any impressions from the hard pen-presses of before. Perhaps she'd discovered new ways to write... learned unfamiliar and trickier words... changed the narrative and summed up everything before as simple 'Prologue'... [break][break]

But she was still Emmeline. Still penned in the same language. Written on so many pages of his own previous chapters that he couldn't claim illiteracy as he watched her and her father's exchange. He couldn't not read. [break][break]

She was, perhaps, a little thinner and more fragile than he wanted her to be right now. He'd never once thought of her as fragile — and she wasn't, not really — but the tears concealed in her voice... that he'd ignored in her lashes when he first crossed the street... it wasn't what he wanted to see. Michael wanted some fight. Some of the Emmeline that'd been there before those long months pressed and weighed on her as her family and ranch, and her life and her dreams, wilted around her. [break][break]

He wanted to see that Emmeline she'd been the night she'd left. Uncaged, fiery, and geared to run; having finally decided to snatch up what she had left and bolt. Decided to do instead of only dream, sing, and long about doing. That'd been the last time he'd seen her (before he'd fanned that hungry flame into a furiously stung and wounded outrage). And it was how he liked to imagine she'd remained after she left everything, and him, behind — dauntless and unstoppable. [break][break]

Hell, he'd take the wounded outrage right now over this, too. They could pick right up where they'd left off. If just to convince him that that Emmeline was still there. That those two years (that he didn't know the faintest thing about) hadn't just stolen more from her. That she'd found something in it. Fed herself through it. Came back with more than she left with. That that low of hers, that he'd been with her through, had been a low before a high. And she wasn't there, lying at the bottom of that chasm with its (now unknown) depth. [break][break]

She'd never been the one for lying at the bottom of anything. For staying down. For not rising up to the goad. But he didn't know now, did he? And he had to acknowledge, too... that everything that'd chased her from home... kept her middle-distance gazed and wistful in those last months she'd lingered, always on the precipice of leaving... well, none of it had gotten any better, had it? [break][break]

She'd returned to a home more broken than she'd left it. A mess no one had learned to clean, or even tried to, in her absence. More missing than what'd been missing before. [break][break]

Michael shifted his weight, fingers curling beneath the palm he held pressed to the truck's frame. Chewing on his inner cheek, he tried to reconsider. Tried to puzzle another manner to be. Surrendering the smug, low-caliber antagonism in favor of... well, anything else... would be difficult. But it had always been possible with her. Half the time, at least. And he'd gotten much better at it in that particularly-strained bit of time before her leaving. [break][break]

Then Cole's name fell from her mouth. [break]
And everything in him stalled. Skipped.[break][break]

It was a forbidden utterance in the Vael home; a single syllable full of impossible weight, with the capacity to silence and still. It darkened faces. Vacated eyes. Made the air in any room unbreathable with thick, stricken tension. For a time — back when everyone could still "smell the blood" — Michael had been persistent in hissing it vehemently in his father's ear. In his brother's ear. Always too quiet or rooms removed from his mother, Marianne, and his niece so they couldn't hear. But... when no one wanted to listen to him... wanted to avoid it and pretend, the best they could, that they hadn't done what they'd done... he'd eventually stopped saying it, too.[break][break]

Now it was him stricken, insides gone abruptly cold; ice knifed through his limbs and to his fingers with no warning. And, even though there was no rush to Emmeline's movements... no demand in what she'd said or threat of confrontation... when she slammed the door on her father and made her way around the truck, Michael felt like it was a bit too quick. [break][break]

He'd so rarely in his life been a man someone could make take a step back, but damn, the want was there. [break][break]

She hung back, stopping with a bit of intentional distance between them. Her arms came to cross in front of her and a muscle worked in her jaw. And while he might have felt differently about the telling posture just moments prior, now he was almost grateful for it. [break][break]

Because, when she asked after her brother, it was a wonder how he kept his grin from slipping at the corners. With a couple of (painfully-hopeful) questions, she cut short whatever familiar game he'd (naively) imagined they might play. It was his back against the wall. It hadn't been a slow and anticipatory toe-back either, but a shove — shoulders hitting first, hard, and the force of it threatening at his lungs. And she hadn't even known she'd done it. Couldn't know.[break][break]

His gaze pulled from her face to look into the street. He hoped it appeared more like simple thinking than what it was — him fighting the struggle that was facing her with any sort of answer. Finally, he dragged his gaze back to her, and he shook his head; one slow, apologetic side-to-side that he had to be careful to keep from looking as aching and fucking sorry as he knew it should be. As knowing as it was. [break][break]

"No... no, I don't think so. Least, if he has, Daniel hasn't said nothing. Maybe he wouldn't though," he answered, not proud of the quiet, assured, and musing way the lie left him or the way he kept his gaze steady on hers. He swallowed, feeling his eyelids want to flutter and the effort he made to keep them stilled. "I saw him a couple times. In the usual spots. Long while since last, though." He lifted a shoulder. [break][break]

That was the truth, at least. He'd caught glimpses of Cole, in that first year. Across a bar, usually with a bit of ruin about him. Occasionally, their eyes had met. But neither of them had felt obligated to even muster a nod. "He.. didn't look good." All Michael could think sometimes... when he saw her brother through the smoke... was that he hoped like hell she wasn't somewhere, some hundreds miles from home and who knew where, looking the same kind of lost.[break][break]

The breath he pulled from his lungs felt measured. Like he was too conscious of it. And he huffed it out a bit like a sigh as he shifted again, turning to face her a little more square. "And I'm sorry, Em, but we never talked."

steal your breath, take your wind[break]
leave a cloud of dust behind

Tag: Emmeline Lowe [break]
Yikes, this got so unnecessarily long and is a wreck of a dozen different stitched-together thought processes lmaooo. Let me know if I'm missing the vibe, if something doesn't work, or if you need more (b/c after all this, I realize Michael didn't actually say/do a whole lot lmsdfjhsdkjf.)

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[Emmeline Lowe]

[attr="class","bg_posttemp"]She was giving it her best shot, trying to find traction and that old familiar version of herself, that spitfire attitude and the bright, burning spirit like a flame that never seemed to go out. She was spinning her wheels, trying to find traction here — in anything. In that comfortable back-and-forth with Michael, the fiery flash of her eyes, the defiant lift to her chin, but she couldn’t quite get it right. She could feel herself doing it — like flicking the wheel of a lighter and watching it spark, spark, spark but never ignite. It felt thin and unconvincing; lacking in all the spark and conviction that made up the fabric of Emmeline Lowe.

Maybe Emmy just wasn’t good at this game anymore. Maybe it had been too long, or maybe she was just too tired. Maybe chasing her dreams had wrung it all out of her, left nothing but scattered wreckage when she’d crash-landed back ranchside. And while she gathered up the pieces, maybe she was pretending. She hoped Michael couldn’t see it, but hell, he’d been the only one who’d ever really seen her. Who’d ever outlasted all her push-pull bullshit, dished it all right back, made her crazy, made her want to let him see her.

The truth was that, in the end, it hadn’t taken much to call Emmy back home. After the first year, her hopes had dimmed significantly. By the second, her dreams had been worn down by the harsh realities of living in a city with too many people, too many lights; not enough road and wide open sky.

If she were honest with herself — which she wasn’t, on this point — she’d been dying for a reason to come back home. For a long time. But her pride wouldn’t allow her to just come crawling back, admitting she was wrong, that it just hadn’t worked out, that she should’ve listened to what everyone told her when they said she couldn’t just survive on dreams and a tank of gasoline. If she came home like that, with nothing but the guitar-string calluses on her fingertips and her dreams in tatters, then she’d be proving them right. She was never going to admit that.

Just like she was never going to admit that one phone call from Michael — on just the right night when she was down on her luck, all burned out of hope — might’ve beckoned her back home in an instant. But it had never come, and now it was too late, and she desperately wanted to blame him, ‘cause the guilt that lived inside her now was almost unbearable.

(She was the one that left. She was the one who’d left him — and all of this — behind to fall apart while she wasted away the years, her songs, her voice on dead-end stages and roads to nowhere.)

He hadn’t given her that: no phone call, no inkling through the wide chasm of two years that he’d been thinking of her, but maybe he could give her this one thing, now. Just this one little thing – a phone call from Cole, a word or a sign, just one small shred to sustain her. A tiny hook to hang her hopes on.

She watched him, eyes scouring his expression like maybe she could hunt down what she wanted, there. But he gazed off into the distance like he had to think about it and then, her hope was dispelled with that slow, side-to-side shake of his head.

“Oh,” she said, exhaling the breath she’d been holding. And honestly, she wanted to ask more: How long? What bar? Looked bad how? And even more: Why didn’t you talk to him?

But she hadn’t talked to him either. Hadn’t picked up the phone and called. Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t point the finger. At herself? Yeah. At Hank? Hell yeah. But not at Michael.

Nothing much had come of the missing persons report she’d filed and in fact, she was pretty damn sure the cops had decided Cole wasn’t even a case at all but a lost cause, just a waste of paper, and she was due to go down there one of these days and rattle them around a bit. Right now, though, all she felt was deflated.

“Okay, well…” Her shoulders rose with another deep inhale, mouth plucked to the side in disappointment. She felt Michael’s eyes on her, steady, and couldn’t bring herself to meet him. Her gaze tracked up and to the side, back to the half-lit bar sign in a feeble attempt to disguise the devastation in her expression.

All of a sudden the Cozy Cat sounded a lot more inviting than it should. No wonder her daddy hid inside, really. Maybe she ought to try a dose of whatever Hank prescribed himself on those endless bar stools: the remedy for forgetting. For not caring at all. Maybe somebody would come looking for her, drag her ass out for once. Would they? Because Emmy was so tired of all this — keeping things together that seemed hellbent on falling apart already. That were already too far gone.

Finally she looked at him, chin lifted in whatever half-hearted determination she managed to scrape together. “Alright. I guess… well, I guess we should just get on the road then.”

Not that it was that simple. In the softness, the momentary give of Michael’s I’m sorry, Em was caught off guard by a devastating trickle of longing. In those long months before she left, overcome with the loss of her mother and so many troubles, he was the one she'd seek out to bury her hurts in. Michael, this unrelenting force to lean into, to push up against, tried and tested and true, knowing he'd never break beneath the weight of whatever crushing woes she asked him to carry, to share, to distract her from, until…

One day he'd just stepped aside. Out of the way, and let her go.

Honestly, it ached just to look at him.

---

Tag: Michael Vael
skdjfhsdkh I realize Em said almost NOTHING, oop, so much internal stuff going on, but if you need more to work with just give me a poke!

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[Michael Vael]

[nospaces]

[attr="class","post-elmwhisker-o"]

[attr="class","elmwhisker-post"]

SOME THINGS JUST AIN'T MEANT

to stay at home; one day they're here, the next they're gone

Just as he'd heard the hope buried in her questions, Michael could almost feel it in her gaze; the way it bored into him, even as he looked purposely away from her and answered. Similarly, he could see the vacating of it when he looked back. How swiftly it left her, slipped from figurative fingers like the simple 'oh' and the heavy breath slipped from her lips. It was a dimming light. One that he'd seen flicker too dangerously close to going out in the months before she left home. The look of it drew something tight in his chest; a secondhand ache he'd almost forgotten the feel of in her absence.[break][break]

Obviously, what he had to say wasn't what she wanted to hear. Her mouth swished to one side of her face, lips pinched small with regret, and she looked away. Michael pulled a slow, steady breath, waiting a long beat for her to look back — but she didn't. Her eyes wandered close to his, then away. And, with the seconds that ticked by, in which she studied the bar-front she and Hank had come from, he reached for something more to say.[break][break]

Something reassuring. Or comforting. Anything to stoke that light a little brighter and keep it flickering a little longer. Things she already knew. That people had probably already told her. That Cole was a flight risk and these disappearances — though not typically so lengthy — weren't altogether uncommon. He'd blow back through, just like she had. And she could beat him silly for making them all worry. Maybe, if she beat hard enough, she could straighten him out this time. [break][break]

And hell... she was only stood a pace away from him. Her posture was decidedly not inviting and... she'd left some distance between them... but it'd take only a step and a single, seized moment of stupid courage to close it. She could have kept the truck between them. Maybe — though certainly too stubborn to acknowledge it herself — she'd brought herself closer to him in hopes he'd be the one to be bolder. One step... a harsh, conceding breath through his nose... fingers circled gently about her wrist... and he could pull her against him. [break][break]

He wondered what would happen. If she'd stiffen and want to fight. Tug herself away and light ablaze with accusation. Declare he'd surrendered that right. That wouldn't be so bad, would it? They'd done that dance plenty of times before and it would be a sign of life. A distraction from this unbearable ache. But... alternatively... might she stiffen and then slack? Close her eyes and, after a moment, let her arms come up around him, too? Would she let him be there for her like that? Could he? Would she still fit that same way against him?[break][break]

But, as he watched her and searched for the words, he couldn't make himself say or do anything. Even half-formed in his mouth, the comforts tasted foul. The lie in them would turn his stomach. Make him sick. Even considering them threatened a roil somewhere deep. It'd be wrong. Like a person refusing to put down their old, decrepit horse; keeping the meager light in it just barely alive... out of love... and making it only suffer more and longer for it.[break][break]

Cole was her brother. Not a pet. Not a stranger. But her sibling. Someone she knew almost as intimately as she knew herself. Who'd grown up alongside her... loved the same mother they'd lost together... shared secrets and heartaches and fights and everything else in their lives that no one could quite understand as well or as entirely. She'd never known a world that existed with him gone from it. [break][break]

Michael could only imagine the sick of not knowing. How difficult it might be to battle back the dreadful, stomach-twisting possibility of never seeing him again. Let alone battling it back with only hope. Hope was such a fragile and thin thing. He'd never known a hurt like that. He'd lost grandparents. Aunts, uncles, and distant cousins. Reckless friends who'd never quite known when to hang it up. [break][break]

But Marianne? Daniel? [break][break]

The betrayal he'd feel, knowing someone lied about them... to his face... like a parent gently explaining to their too-young and too-stupid-to-know-better child that the family dog had run off to live on some other ranch. The murderous, unforgivable rage he'd feel, toe to toe with someone who'd grievously hurt them...[break][break]

Fuck... what was he doing here? In front of her? Flirting with some brief, imaginative hope that they could still be something to one another? That he could be anything to her now? Did he truly think, for even a moment, that he might reach for her? Comfort her? Smooth a hand over her hair while he folded her into him, tucked a chin to the top of her head, and repeated his 'sorry's? [break][break]

She'd never bitched much about dirty, calloused hands. But she couldn't know the filth on them now. And he reckoned they'd tremble with guilt, were he to touch her. Even if they didn't, he would know that they ought to.[break][break]

When Emmeline spoke again, dragging her eyes back to him and tipping her chin, she sounded a little more pieced together. But Michael was unsettled now. Hotter under his clothes than he'd been before. Almost caught off-guard and by surprise as her voice brought him back. His gaze, which had gradually dropped, snapped to hers and — unbiddenly — he thought of how he'd have to explain to his family... when he asked someone for a ride... just how he'd come about leaving his truck in town. He pictured their wide eyes. Their horror-stricken, speechless stares. The way their mouths would gape open and closed for a bewildered moment before they hissed (and quite deservedly) — 'Are you fucking stupid, Mike?'[break][break]

He latched onto the imagining. Let it sharpen his gaze as he refocused on her before him, somehow still looking painfully uncertain. One corner of his mouth threaded up, his fingers curled under his palm, and he knocked a fist against the truck's frame before he huffed a quiet, sarcastic breath. "Yeah. Suppose it'll always come down to that, won't it?" [break][break]

Hit the road. Time to go. It's what she did best, right? Run away?[break][break]

He let the thoughts filter through his mind. Though none of them were stocked with much genuine feeling, he repeated them. Let them insinuate in the low, subtly-accusing way he spoke. He wanted them to sound petty. To sound stark. Not to invite a squabble or game this time, but to simply give him any other reason why he couldn't reach for her than the truth. [break][break]

It was a dramatic turn-heel, and not what he really wanted, but what else was there for it? He couldn't muster it in himself to find something to be angry with her about. But he was mad at himself now and didn't that just have a way of bleeding into everything? Most of the time, it was without his trying. This time, it was purposeful and calculated. He sucked his lips against his teeth and grinned more fully at her, then gave the faintest roll of his eyes and dropped himself in the driver's seat. "Let's go."

steal your breath, take your wind[break]
leave a cloud of dust behind

Tag: Emmeline Lowe [break]
Give me a nudge for any changes! Or if you're not f'cking with this sudden, unexpected vibe (lmao)~

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[Emmeline Lowe]

[attr="class","bg_posttemp"]Emmeline really just should have let him go. Waved him back across the street from whence he’d come, paper bag tucked in one arm, with his (supposed) ice cream half-melting and his blue eyes squinted against the glare of the sun. Turned down his offer of help and let him get on with it, back to his life the way he’d been doing for the past two years.

No doubt he had things to do back at the ranch. The usual seasonal chores and upkeep, veterinary patients to tend to. Hell, maybe he even had a girl somewhere waiting for him. Someone new and restless for his attention, craving a hit of him to hold her over the same way Emmy used to.

Maybe that — more than the span of time between them — was what kept him so distant. Why she couldn’t seem to find a glimmer of softness (rare but always somewhere there, reserved for her) in his eyes. Because he'd found someone new. Or maybe it was because she could hardly bring herself to look at him, too afraid she might not find it, or what she might find instead.

He had moved on. That was the easy answer. There had never been any shortage of women willing, drawn to Michael for any number of reckless or naively hopeful reasons. It would only make sense that he had found a replacement — or two or three — in her stead; that someone was keeping his bed warm in her absence, that she had forsaken any right she had to that space beside him and whoever was there now was probably someone his family liked a whole lot better than the dumpster-fire flight-risk that was Emmy.

Thinking about his family led her, inevitably and as always, to Marianne, and all the unresolved heartsickness of her first, and (once) best, and oldest friend. Coming back, some small part of her had hoped some things would still be the same, especially since she hadn’t been around to watch them deteriorate even further. But she wasn’t naive. She knew that Cole was gone. That the ranch was bringing in close to zero money. Thanks to the Christmas card she received at the one (temporarily) permanent address she’d had in Vegas, she knew that Marianne’s baby girl had grown up a little older, too. That she looked so incomprehensibly similar to her mama at that age that Emmy had to tuck it away in a drawer just to ease the ache in her chest.

She thought about that, and the defeat in her eyes burned away, replaced by a stubbornness as familiar as a worn-in favorite pair of jeans. In all of it — the stubborn regret of all she’d missed and let go, the determination to prove it was still hers… because in all her wandering, the only certainty she’d found was that those things were the only things that meant anything to her — her eyes finally came to rest on Michael. She scraped together whatever tired defiance she had left, no matter how thin.

Whatever softness she might’ve imagined she heard in his voice when he spoke of Cole was gone; a new sharpness in his eyes, a smirk hitched sideways on his lips. His voice laced with sarcasm as he dropped into the truck with a grin and a roll of his eyes that might as well have been an invitation. A challenge that Emmy could not, and never had been able to, resist. And his words, like a punch to the gut, churned up the fight in her that’d fizzled out somewhere between here and Nevada.

She took a step closer, boots crushing gravel, and then one more. Braced her hand against the truck and leaned in just close enough to the rolled-down window. Not the same way she used to (hiking herself up last-minute and pitching herself so far forward to catch a flash of his eyes, a laugh, a kiss — that she’d nearly topple over into his lap), but keeping her distance. Blue eyes drilled into him.

“Down to what? What’s that supposed to mean?” Then, without waiting for an answer (maybe because she didn’t want to hear it; because she already knew it): “You know what, Michael? I don’t even know why the hell you came over here. You sure you’re not gonna change your mind halfway down the road and leave me to do it myself? Because last I remember, you ain’t so good at keepin’ promises.”

This wasn’t even what she wanted to do, pushing him in a way that might backfire on her, but she could still hope, like old times, that it’d pull him in. That despite his level nonchalance he’d take the bait, snap back at her, and she’d know she had him. That she still mattered enough to make him lose his cool.

She wasn’t thinking far ahead enough, though, or letting herself remember that this was exactly why she had avoided him, keeping herself safely in the bubble of not knowing how he felt. How he’d be, who he was now. And if it backfired, she’d regret this.

Because what she didn’t want was to go back to that decrepit house — with all its dusty rooms and echoes; far too much emptiness — alone. She dreaded it. Anything was better than that, including the Whispering Pines with its seedy rooms and long midnight hours. Including staying here, bickering and going in pointless circles with Michael, just so she could avoid the moment they got back to the ranch and he crossed over to his own side of the fence again. Didn’t come inside. Didn’t plant himself on the porch step beside her, didn’t look at her with those eyes in that certain conspiratorial way with that devil-may-care grin and lure her out for the night — to a bar, to the bed of his truck, to anywhere they could see the stars or at least exist, together, beneath them.

---

Tag: Michael Vael
Let me know if anything doesn't work for you/if I ever assume too much + always feel free to move Em, have at it, etc.!

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