2019-05-17 - Midnight on Friday, May 17th

At exactly midnight... Emily is looking at her teeth in the bathroom mirror, all covered in toothpaste foam. Five sticks of gum later, she is still pretty sure she could taste bourbon. She is also pretty sure she wasn't the only one tasting it. So the toothbrush. She can see in the medicine cabinet mirror, the room is dim but not dark, and the door to the kitchen is open a crack. She's pretty sure neither of them left it open. In fact, locking doors is a thing she does without even thinking about it half the time. Swish-swish-swish goes the toothbrush, and her eyes stay fixed on the tiny crack that the door is open, rewinding through the series of motions that brought her down to the basement however long ago. She cannot really, surely, unfailingly remember closing the door; it's not a gesture she can clearly see in her mind's eye, but still. She's pretty fucking sure she closed it. Swish-swish-swish, she stands in front of the mirror, brushing her teeth, and she closes the fucking door. It makes a very satisfying if quiet thump-click, and a slightly metallic slide-grate sound when the lock turns. She spits out her toothpaste.

You know what kind of music sucks when you listen to it non-fucking-stop? Club music. Un-tss un-tss un-tss. Graham is fucking sick - un-tss un-tss un-tss - of this fucking shit - un-tss un-tss un-tss. But it's busy, and technically he knows how to mix a drink. Plus, he's making fucking bank. Turns out, being a good-looking bartender was not a bad gig. Other than the club music. Graham keeps having to say, "What?" He cups a hand behind his ear and leans across the bar a lot, then thumbs-up and throws together whatever is ordered, or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof. Most people order pretty basic. He's not really sure exactly what time it is, but he's got the feeling the night is still young for most people. Un-tss un-tss un-tss. This is why he agrees to take absolutely any other job that Felix floats his way, 'cause tending bar in a dance club is not as glamorously sexy as most people think it is. Yes, the tips are nice. And, sure, he could probably get a pile of phone numbers on any given Friday. But this fucking music. "What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I can make that." He can't, but whatever. He can fake it. This chick is druuuuunk and won't know the difference, he's betting.

At the risk of being old and boring: At midnight on Friday, Alex is asleep in his own bed. He turned out the lamp on his side of the bed - having quietly and wordlessly stolen and relocated it a few hours ago when Violet was in the bathtub. Since it's not wise to be fiddling with things like bedside lambs when you've just gotten out of the bath, the decision was made that the lamp would just have to stay on his side of the bed tonight. Right now, he's having a perfectly normal dream. He is not getting attacked by monsters. The cat is doing that thing where she kneads the bed like it requires additional softening. The fish is burbling around like... well... it's a goldfish, so probably because that's all its stupid empty fishbrain is capable of doing. It's quiet. Alex is happy to be getting a good night's rest. He could use one.

See Scene 99. 'Why Are You Here?' Attaboy, Carver.

Baylee is at home, enjoying a fine glass of whiskey and a bowl of Lucky Charms.

After having spent a riveting Friday night of lesson-planning and wine-drinking-at-home-by-herself, which is basically her typical Friday night, Felicity finishes watching some dumb RomCom and curls up in bed. Did I forget to say 'riveting'?

After scene 101, a lightly buzzed Gina is probably bicycling home, humming classic doo wop songs as she gets to her block.

The clock strikes midnight, and if Aidan's van's turned into a pumpkin, he's missing it entirely. He's made it back to his trailer, full of delicious food and not buzzed at all. Or he wasn't, anyway; he's now on his second pour of the whiskey that's replaced the part-bottle of scotch that somehow disappeared the other night, though not drinking it that fast. Instead, he's convinced his phone to play more doo-wop songs after leaving the diner, and is in the middle of a spirited and ultimately very much doomed attempt at the falsetto line of The Lion Sleeps Tonight. He doesn't have nearly the volume for it to reach the neighbours, but if it did, they'd probably be of the opinion that whatever keeps throwing his coasters and bits of shed clothing at him has the right idea, even if he's managing to dance out of the way of most of it. Frankly, it seems to only be encouraging him.

It's midnight, and the basement door is open just a tiny crack because Logan's in the kitchen while Emily's down there brushing the bourbon off her teeth. He can still taste it, just the ghost of drink's past, tainting the tastebuds there in the very back of his tongue. It's made him restless, wanting, just a sip, had she meant to come home smelling like that? Tasting like that? He pours himself a glass of water and hears a faint tickle of laughter in the back of his head, and he flinches his eyes closed. "Go away," he snaps, takes a mouthful of water and swishes it through his teeth, around his tongue, spitting it back out into the sink. The laughter gets louder, dances around him, and there's sunshine in an otherwise darkened room sitting there at his kitchen table. The bourbon taste on his tongue isn't going away; it burns there, pulling him to the pantry.

"It's just one drink," the sunshine and laughter at the kitchen table says. "Besides..." The door to the basement swings shut on its own accord, the metallic slide-grate sound of a lock turning. "She doesn't want you down there anyway."

It's going to be a long night.

It's midnight, and Alexander is sitting on his threadbare couch, opening a shoebox he bought from the estate sale of a retired cop. It does not contain shoes. Instead, he spills a heap of black and white crime scene photos out on the table, a treasure in monochrome. He starts to sort them, meticulously checking the back for dates, times, names involved. Dead faces and splayed limbs unwind before his eyes, and an occasional burst of remembered sorrow, disgust, or - in one interesting case - savage joy pulse against his fingers. He puts the joyful photo aside; that's worth looking into. Otherwise, it's all very pedestrian, until a flurry of wings is heard, and a green-cheeked conure drops onto his neat stacks with a cry of delight. Photos scatter, aided by a couple of strong beats from the bird's wings, and it looks up at Alexander with pride.

"You know you're not supposed to do that," Alexander tells him, but the bird just chuckles throatily, and starts grabbing photos with its beak, tossing them here and there on the table, strutting over them and waggling its tail in that 'you know I'm going to poop on this thing you like' sort of way. Alexander points his fingers at the bird, a phantom gun, and says, tonelessly, "Bang." It immediately rolls over on its back, feet sticking comically up in the air. He sighs, scoops it up in his hands, and takes it back to the cage, fingers tickling neck and crest feathers until the bird's eyes close in avian ecstasy. He puts it gently back in the cage, and locks it before any clever ideas can be had. He turns back to the small disaster area around his coffee table.

"It'll still be there in the morning," he tells himself. He's usually right, so he goes to bed, and hopes, probably in vain, for sleep.

It's midnight and beside her, Alex is sleeping. The moonlight reflects off the glass balcony doors and bounces off the lamp that was stolen from her side of the bed. It would make her smile, this whole silly war with the Tiffany glass lamp, if she wasn't so upset. <<Alice, please>>. It's been a quiet pleading for the past hour, ever since Alex drifted off. <<Just talk to me. I miss you>>. It's been several days of nothing, of silence. This wasn't the familiar quiet of a drug-induced state of being, she was intertwined enough with Alice to feel her even from this distance and Violet knew that Alice was sharp. More so than she's ever been. No, this was purposeful silence. Alice was ignoring her.

<<Alice, please. I'm sorry. Just say something, anything. I.. I don't know what to do. I've never felt this way. You've always been better at this, at people, than me. Alice, we can trust him. Alice, I love him.>> Violet's mind doesn't stutter the way that her words would've; it's far harder to hide a thought. Words unspoken become thoughts revealed, but there's silence on the other end. Nothing. Violet casts a glance to Alex's sleeping face and the moonlight that reflects on his olive skin. She breathes out, slow and steady, and wipes the tears from her cheeks. He was here, he was real. He was something. He is..

She shifts, curls up into him, something solid and warm and real. The tears still fall, but she feels safe here, safer than she's ever felt. And it's a soul-deep hurt that Alice won't answer her, that Alice won't talk. But right now at midnight there was something more than Alice, something more than Violet. And that something was enough. She sleeps.

Most twenty-somethings would be out on a Friday night, but not Elise. Her shift at the hospital ended only an hour ago, and she's come home to an empty house. It was around midnight, but her head was still spinning, so she curls herself up on her sofa in her pajamas and bunny slippers, a cup of chai tea close by. On the television was 13 Going on 30, but Elise was on her phone, flipping through her matches on Tinder.

She stalls when she comes to one, snorting chai tea through her nose. His profile picture was hilarious, this incredibly over-sized black man flicking a tiny piece of Pez onto his tongue from a Hello Kitty dispenser. The bio manages to be both sweet and awful at the same time: "Andre, 39. Looking for a new best friend to get manis/pedis with." She swipes left with an amused shake of her head, sets her phone down, and continues on with her movie.

Water twinkles in the dark light behind them, but their dark eyes turn toward the city - much of it dark, but lights spark against the midnight scenery here and there. More than just lights, though, there's brightness here. It curves the smile of the one in the middle.

"Is it going to rain the whole time we're here? I hear it rains a lot - "

"Shh! She's thinking!"

"I'm just asking a ques - "

"Shh!"

A sullen sniff meets this shushing, and she leans against the still-warm hood of the car, mumbling irritably as the seconds of this midnight tic by silently. After what seems like forever, just before the clock turns over to 12:01, the one in the middle turns back from scanning the half-dark cityscape.

"You two, go to that hotel. You - " The shushing one. " - should go to church on Sunday. You - " The irritated one. " - should go to the park."

"Where will you go?" The irritation is back, the complaining whine.

"Downtown in the morning. And then the bed and breakfast."

A scoff. "Why do you always get to pick?"

"Because I can. Do you want me to tell Keene that you're whining again?"

Eyes cast downward with a visible flinch. "No."

"I didn't think so."

Sutton is tipped back in the backseat of Lyft, trying to ignore the vaguely hotdog-water smell in the interior of the car. Not enough shots on board to engage, she shifts and rests her phone in her lap, one hand atop it. She settles in and rubs her hand over her face. Something crinkles inside the top of her dress and she frowns, reaching down to pat her chest. The driver's eyes shift and he watches her in the rear view mirror when she slips a hand through the vertical slit on one side and digs around in her cleavage to come up, a moment later, with a white linen business card. She squints. "What...” 



Alistair Carver

“Fuck if I know.”

222-555-1019

“… the fuck, Carver.” Just for good measure, she brushes her hands over her torso, checking for anything else that might have been sleight-of-handed into her garment. The Lyft driver is so busy creeping Sutton, he doesn’t notice when the car starts to drift.

Midnight strikes and thus Easton finally ends his shift. The Two if by Sea is only open to midnight during the off-season, and he couldn't be more grateful. There are still plenty of things to clean and put up before he can head out but at least for now Easton pulls a bottle and sits down at the bar to pour himself a drink. He stops mid pour and sets the bottle down.

"Really? You can't even fucking let me have one drink in goddamn piece."

Banks is there sitting next to him suddenly miming holding out a cup. He can neither hold a glass or drink liquor, but that doesn't stop him from giving Easton sad puppy eyes, silently asking for one.

"Asshole. Yer dead. No breathing, no booze. AND. I don't know why yer just fucking with me. I thought coming here meant maybe I could talk with you or.. you could talk or... someone could see you. " Easton grumbles and finishes pouring himself that drink, taking a gulp before topping off the glass.

Carmen the general manager chooses that moment to pop in and check on how her newest bartender is holding up. The fact that he's seated at the bar pouring himself a full tumbler of whiskey and talking to himself doesn't seem to phase her. "Great shift tonight. I'll lock up out front!"

The voice with it's faux chipper tone breaks Easton out of his grumbling. He looks up, a bit confused, wondering how long she's been standing there and why she's not more disconcerted if she caught any of that. With a bit of wariness in his voice he calls back. "Yea, I'll have this cleaned up in a minute, don't wait." Because he might stop at one drink. But it's not too damn likely.

Hannah is slumped against the arm of her battered second-hand couch, fast asleep. Her fingers are still in place on the keyboard but the laptop screen is black.

The cellphone is nearby though, and she'll wake if it rings. She can't afford not to.

"You would love it here." Byron says with that winning grin of his as he stares at his laptop's screen. It was midnight on a Friday teetering into the weekend and he was still 'working'. Dressed sharply in his business attire, seated in a comfortable leather chair within his home office, at this hour, he's most likely speaking to someone abroad rather than in the States.

The face on his screen is of a middle-aged man and by the way he speaks, he's clearly an American. Unlike Byron, he's dressed more casually, which probably means that he has more money. "The town's still in an economical slump, I heard. But, I dunno. From what you showed me, you've got some great views and the place seems quiet enough for a family getaway. I'll think on it."

"Spectacular views." Byron is quick to correct, his posture erect as he keeps to this pleasant enough expression. "It beats vacationing in Seattle, which isn't all that far a drive if you really need to head into the city on business. Stop by and take a look. Maybe you can find something to... spruce up around town. Though we all know that gentrification is a dirty word." They both laugh at this, the other man laughing much harder. "This might give you that sleepy little town atmosphere you were looking for when writing that book you've always been planning."

The man on the laptop screen continues to laugh at that, "Ah, yes. Yes. Alright, you got me there. We're leaving Paris on the 25th, might detour over to your neck of the woods before heading back to New York.."

If anything, Byron seems content by this response, "Very well, just keep me informed and I'll meet you and your family at the airport. I'll make sure to reserve a suite with a view to help convince you. See you then." That smile remains until the call is ended and he can finally relax. Obviously, this wasn't how he expected to spend his Friday night. Actually, no. This is how he often spent his Friday nights.

Shrugging out his crisp dark jacket suit, a deft hand works to first loosen, then undo his tie as he makes his way out of his office towards the bar. The jacket is discarded, landing on the back of the leather sofa, just as he reaches for a bottle of bourbon to drain into a glass. With glass in hand, he takes a much needed sip, before opening up the doors that lead out to the outside terrace of his penthouse apartment. Feeling the chill of PNW night air, he leans his frame against the threshold of the door, his tie strewn about his neck, undone, to simply enjoy his drink and these spectacular views, as he told one of his regular investors and now potential tenant, of the ocean from up here. "You're really gonna love it here."

The buzzer for the 24 hour access pawn and loan window is going off at the shop, which means it's going off inside Lilith's apartment too. She hasn't been home long, as her visit to Dad in the trailer park turned into a reacquaintance with Geoff over beers on his nearby porch. And she was just unzipping her jeans, pondering how impressed she was with herself, being open with someone like that for the first time in.... how long? Funny what old memories can do. The buzzer starts again, her jeans come back together snug on her hips with in a hard and fast snap of re-zipping to accompany her huff. The brunette woman knows it's midnight before she looks at the clock to confirm and starts for the loft's door.

Lilith calls the midnight hour the Pride Killer. It's different than selling and pawning on the open shop floor during the day. There's not a ton of overnight customers coming for an emergency loan in this small town, but it's the time when one day ends, another begins and personal decisions have to be made. It's the hour where good, struggling men and women decide to pull out their wedding ring, grandma's pearls, grandpa's antique time piece, or that rare old coin collection with silver bits, the thing they've been avoiding parting with. They trade it for cash in hand to pay for what they can't afford. They take less than the item is worth, they sign the paper that says they'll pay more than they have, and they take that cash to see themselves into the next day.

Most of them intend to return and get those items back. But often, they don't. Their loss becomes her gain. Sometimes Lilith feels a little bad about it. But mostly, tonight, as she looks at the diamond-crusted wedding ring of an old widower, she does the math. And she estimates how many times she'll have to watch someone ashamed, handing over one of the only pieces of material value they have left.

Too many times, all courtesy of Hank Winslow's criminal gambling debt. She could have stayed away and let him lose everything. But she never really considered it. Instead, she's standing here, loaning to a desperate Peter to pay a pissed off Paul.

She's keenly aware who owns her for the long haul after doing that mental math a second time.

It's not a happy thought.