#( dh ft. luke morgan: 001 )

[saltedearths]

The dark of the night at least half-conceals the fact that Dante looks at him as if the man sprouted a second head. He writes horror, but hasn't read a lick of Stephen King—that's fucking novel. He sees the distance, the stretch of road as the Blue Moon Diner appears in view, thankfully present as the conversation peters out with a whimper and not a bang. He wonders, though, if the next time he sees Luke, it would be for the better or for the worse.

"It's a story about demons and grief, but—I don't know," he says, shrugging as they get caught by a red light. "I mean, if you want, next time, I can send it over to you, how's that sound?" He might not even be a horror fan, but the pleasantries should be maintained, even if decorum between the both of them was strained at best. The man's a children's book author; what's he going to do with a King novel?

Luke glances over, a little taken aback. He was at least expecting Dante to doubt his confession, or even excuse it as a trick of the imagination, but no such response came. It was either a great sign or a terrible one: maybe it's not the craziest thing Dante's ever heard, or maybe it's such a stupid suggestion he can't even grace it with a response.

He moves on: if Dante's content to do so, Luke will just leave it, a little relieved that at least he was able to get it off his chest. It's not something he often tells people. "Pet Semetary?" Luke asks, recognizing the title as a horror staple but, admittedly, unfamiliar with it past there. "That's the one with the, uh... zombies, right?"

[saltedearths]

There's a eerie coldness as Luke starts to talk, and Dante's all but seen it before. The profound sadness as he starts to talk about the case—the man could make bank acting in a drama. Dante all but feels horrible for talking to him, and he simply doesn't know how long it's been in the car, worrying that the man'll need at the very least, a stiff drink when he walks in to the Blue Moon by himself. I know cases go cold. It all but chills him to the core, as if Antioch, the town itself, was simply a bad horror movie they couldn't escape.

Luke rambles on, and Dante simply nods, trying to agree that the town itself seems alive, but he's seen too many town consume too many people, and the rot in them? If people needed to see the soul of a town, they could simply look to the people themselves; but even he's hard-pressed to disagree with him. "Honestly, with the amount of shit that happens in your town, I'm not going to be surprised if it starts to plague dreams," he says, sighing exhaustedly. "Or pulls a Pet Sematary."

Luke can't help but deflate a bit at Dante's response - cool, calculated, professional, like their whole conversation had been up to this point. A little bit like Luke is being that crazy dad again, demanding that the investigation team isn't doing their job well enough. He sighs, swings his tired eyes from Dante back to the road. "I know you're trying, Mr. Hernandez," Luke says. "You shouldn't exhaust yourself. It's been five years. I know cases go cold." He glances down, subconsciously rubs the smooth place where his wedding ring used to sit and his finger is still hairless. "I don't think Antioch wants us to find any answers. It keeps itself entertained that way."

Another beat of silence and Luke rubs at his knees. "I don't write horror stories. I'm a children's book author." He really is treating this car like a confessional booth after all. "I hate horror, I'd never write it, but it just happens. Like, I set the paper down, and then something comes in along behind me and changes it when I'm not looking. And I think, maybe... it's Antioch."

[saltedearths]

Even with his specialty and his experience, he has no answers for Luke. Sometimes, the town rots. Not from economic starvation, or horrible policy, but simply like a gangrenous onset of something foul, it rots from the heart to the head. He's seen enough towns in his life, plagued by some bullshit or other, keeping people in its jaws as if it were a pitcher plant. It's almost painful to see, if he hadn't already been desensitized to it—let himself grow numb to the suffering.

"I don't know." It's the honest truth that he can give him. He doesn't know, and he won't. Not until he finds another body, not until the warrants give him something to go on. For now, he'll cook his half-baked ideas and try to string some red string together, to make everything click at least. To give them something to latch onto. "I can't keep saying I'm trying, but I am," he says, keeping his eyes on the road. "I haven't lived here long enough, but—well, if it makes you feel any better, I've been doing double time on the autopsy reports to see if anything's been missed."

"I grew up here. Lived here my whole life." Luke starts with a slow shake of his head, absently thumbing his stubble. "Just seems like when I was a kid, it was so...sunny. I have all these memories of good music and playing outside and it's just...bright, y'know?" He shrugs as if he's at a loss. "And then you grow up and it just gets all bleak and cold. And it's not just becoming an adult, it's like stepping into a horror movie."

He's talking faster, louder now, like he's finally starting to grow frustrated at the awkward silence between them. "Like, we're talking about murders here. People, local people, going missing, being found later with their... fucking blood sucked out." He cusses quiet, like he'll need to confess it later. Luke looks over at Dante, a little desperate. "That didn't happen when I was a kid, y'know? What changed?"

[saltedearths]

Lie. Either he's stepped in it or Luke suddenly had a craving for theatrics. Judging by his demeanor and prior conversation, he assumes the former, and simply resolves to try to not ask any more questions—Ari had the charm of the two of them, and that was saying a lot. He hates reading the man like this, as if he were an open book, or a fucking poster sign, but short of violating several traffic laws, he just has to grit his teeth and bear it.

"Born in Austin, Texas. Lost the accent, kept the cowboy hat." He tries for a joke, to lighten the mood, but curiosity gets the better of him, and that resolve crumbles underfoot. "But what do you mean this town didn't seem creepy when you were a kid?"

Jesus, the last thing Luke wants Dante to do is give him notes on the forensics, or notes on any of the abysmal material that ends up on his pages... It's bad enough he has to read it, he doesn't need to discuss it. "Oh, kinda like a consultation. I'd like that," Luke lies, and it's pretty obvious by the synthetic brightness that pulls his tone up. "Bet you've seen some pretty, uh...pretty bad stuff."

Luke nods as Dante speaks, leaning on the window with a hand absently scratching at his stubble. "Yeah," he says with a bit of a scoff. "Y'know, when I was a kid, this town didn't seem so creepy. Creepy people, that sorta thing, but not so dangerous. You grow up here, doc?" Wait... was he about to say 'inspiration'...?

[saltedearths]

"I could give you some notes on the forensics," he starts, with a neutral tone that all but says that he has opinions he wants to voice, but won't right now. "But honestly? It's a good bedside table read." That says a lot about him, perhaps, that graphic descriptions of murders and horror wouldn't put him off his sleep, but Dante doesn't exactly fit the regular townie profile. Honestly, he thinks he barely classifies as a person after all this time. What happens to a man when he runs on spite and coffee?

He looks beside him, the obvious uncomfortable silence piled on as he tries to forge onward. "Antioch must give you a lot of—" God. Don't say inspiration. "Drive, at least. You seem like a driven man, given all that's, uh, happened."

The fact that Dante brings up his work is somehow more humiliating than how Luke ended up in this situation in the first place. He'd met several people familiar with his books and even some who owned them, but they weren't usually the accomplished medical professional, crime scene consultant type. "If I end up writing one, I'll give you a heads up," Luke answers with a laugh, if only to stop himself from creating any more awkwardness. "My writing kinda has a mind of its own. It's uh... well. Anyway, 'ppreciate you picking some up. I hope you enjoy them?"

[saltedearths]

He drives, letting the road take them where they need to. Dante hesitates, at least for a second, letting himself fall silent for a couple of minutes as he tries to gather the words to ask Luke something. Being poked for answers gets tiring, it's more fun to turn the tables on the people that want something from him. "You already know my name, I'm not going to tell you to keep calling me Doctor after office hours." He turns to the road and sighs, "Just tell me this isn't going to show up on a book. I've got a couple of yours, and if I see anything resembling a gruff doctor in your work, I'll have half a mind to go and send you some scathing e-mails."

The Blue Moon Diner is certainly an appropriate spot to land for Luke; the place often sees him at his worst, rain-soaked to the bone, feathers ruffled, dazed from flying headlong into windows. The graveyard shift staff are so used to seeing him that they'll likely have his coffee ready before he can choose a booth. He nods, unwilling to glance over and see if Dante recognized his name past Jessica's case. "More than fair, Dr. Hernandez."

[saltedearths]

Christ. Kicking this man out of the car feels like fake throwing a ball ot a stray dog, and having it look at you with those sad little betrayed eyes. There's no incentive to let this continue, but there's all but a raise of his eyebrow as he finally catches the man's name. Luke Morgan. Well, smash up a leg and call him Misery—Dante all but snorts as the realization dawns on him. No wonder the man's horror stories were... intense. Living in Antioch must wear people down. "Listen. Mister... Morgan," he says, trying to at least remember some bedside manner when dealing with grief-stricken people. "I'll drop you off at the Blue Moon. God knows you can get a cup of coffee while you wait, and I won't worry about your ass getting held up at night. Sound fair?"

The shoulder pats, however stringent, go a long way for a sensitive guy like Luke, and he finds himself really appreciating the gesture as he attempts to recover from this humbling situation. "Yeah, you should definitely do that, bet you're runnin' on fumes... Just pitch me off anywhere, I'll get an Uber." Not that he really knows how to do that - Jessica had attempted to teach him once, but was unsuccessful - but he wants Dante to be unburdened from him as soon as possible. Luke isn't even entirely opposed to walking, figuring a bit of fresh air might do him some good. He takes his weathered paper off the dash and it nearly folds itself. "I'm Luke. Morgan."

[saltedearths]

Ah. The red light gives him enough of a pause to pat his shoulder twice. Pat, pat. Sometimes he doesn't know what else to do when giving people the fact of the case—it's either Genesis' sleuthing or someone breaking down in his car as he tries to have a nice, uneventful night. A second set of pats hit the man's shoulder. Pat, pat. And thankfully, the light turns green as he drives off somewhere far from his nice little apartment. "The killer is smart. We're trying to corner him as best as we can."

But even he can see the benefits of a placebo as he sighs into the night. "No, no. Dinner's unnecessary. I just want to go home and sleep with the lights off, it's been a grueling..." Day? Week? Month? Life? "Evening." He tries to pin down this man's features as much as he can, and realizes something crucial. "I'll try to pin down whatever you might want me to do. A second look wouldn't hurt, I guess. Though, I'll need a name to forward it to, and sadly, I don't have yours."

Dante's sterile response is so rooted in reality that it manages to still Luke's buzzing, and he sobers in a few moments of semi-uncomfortable silence: it's a valid question. Even if he found out the contents of the note or what the killer did with the blood or the motive, what could someone like Luke do with that information? At this point, he's as general-public as you can get, regardless of Jessica's fate. This guy is being nothing but professional, but he deserves to go home and relax... then here's Luke, in his goddamn car, wasting his time with half-baked questions.

He communicates all this thought in a single sigh, letting his head bump back against the headrest. "Honestly, I don't know," Luke answers, and the rough edge to his voice betrays the sleepless nights leading up to this conversation. He takes off his glasses, rubs a hand over his eyes. "Just feels like to sit there and wait is gonna drive me crazy." He looks over at Dante with an apologetic wince. "Ah man, I'm sorry, let me, uh...let me get your dinner or something."

[saltedearths]

"Sir." The crackpot detectives want to always make the case or break it wide open—sometimes those detectives are simply grieving people unable to move on from a tragedy, letting it consume them day in and day out. He couldn't blame them, or get angry, but he does have to at least follow some laws. At least if he gets tired of the conversation, he can let him out somewhere nice. Dante tries to choose his next few words carefully, just so he doesn't come across as a dickhead. Or at least too mean. The man was still grieving, and even he has some sort of decorum about that sort of thing.

Eyes on the road, hands at ten and two. "I'm legally only allowed to give out any public information released by the detectives, in case another killing happens," he responds. "Can I ask, though—aside from gumption, how are you going to figure out what happens?"

Into a car? No problem. Luke gets into the passenger seat with or without invitation and buckles in purely on muscle memory alone, his mind gnawing on the bones Dante threw him. He sets his paper haphazardly on the dash and produces a pen, making a note in surprisingly-legible cursive. "It's police details and all, I get it, but I'm Jessica Morgan's dad. Not that that makes me entitled to this information or anything, but...I'm kinda grasping at straws here, y'know? Just trying to figure out what might've happened." He falters. "For her." A beat. "For all of 'em, I guess."

[saltedearths]

This is a sad display. It's all Dante can think as he sees him stumble and be led easily away from the hospital to the parking lot—these people don't have much to go on but hope, and even then, it's almost like a drought of it in this town. The urge to simply shoo him and drive off is strong, but really, he has to admire the town's persistence. Even now, in the dead of night, this man's following him to a parking lot just because he might have some information on the murders.

"I was brought in later, but public knowledge released was blood loss on evidence that at the scene, the bodies were found with an injection site and drained of blood." There were questions there, of course—did they drain them before or after? And the thought of it was distressing, since the drainage was clean. It was practiced, it was certainly something that Dante hoped happened after the victims died. But not likely. "And yes," he says, opening his car, a black, shiny thing that thankfully, hasn't died down yet. "But why should I tell you?"

Luke, being a human of semi-functioning social intelligence, recognizes the reproach in Dante's tone, but it's far from deterring him. He falls into step alongside him without hesitation, ready to take full advantage of the window he's been given - he feels like Dante's the type to swing it shut again without much warning, unafraid to crush any lingering fingers.

"So uh," he begins as they walk, unsure of where Dante is leading them but happy to follow blindly. He takes his glasses and another worn piece of paper from his pocket, slipping on the former and hurriedly unfolding the latter: his 'Dante Hernandez' Post It Note falls out in the process and skitters away across the pavement. "The blood loss, what was the evidence for that? Tooth holes, injection sites? And the note that was on the last fella, did you happen to see that?"

[saltedearths]

Jesus Christ and all his goddamned saints—can he never catch a fucking break? It's his own fault for doing his diligent duty, having to check on his residents and his interns in a way that left him here longer than he should have been. No, he understood what he was usually supposed to do. Get in. Heal. Get out. Or else, Jen or whoever this one was comes to his doorstep and turns what is supposed to be a night off into a Q and A.

"I do mind." He's blunt and to the point—niceties are a luxury that he has not afforded this man yet, and the vein in his forehead threatens to angrily grow. But still, some half-decent part of him relents, making him clench his jaw to relieve some of the tension in his body. "But you've come all this way, so come on," he says, leading him to the parking lot. "I'm not doing this on an empty fucking stomach."

Luke glances up at Dante as he answers, starting to approach but stopping first to thank the receptionist for the help. His movements are unplanned, jerking, starting and stopping as if he has a lot on his mind (he does) and is unsure how to proceed (he is), but as he steps toward the doctor his expression is creased with determination.

"Dr. Hernandez, hi," Luke begins, crumpling the Post-It Note with Dante's name scribbled on it in his fist and stuffing it into his pocket. "I know I should've called, but I hear you did some consulting on the... the murder cases." He mutters 'murder' as if it were a cuss word, careful not to alarm anyone in their vicinity. "I won't take too much of your time, I just, uh... mind if I ask you some questions?"

[saltedearths]

It's the end of the day, and after a grueling surgery where he had to actively try to be both ortho and trauma, Dante all but feels tapped out—everything was in order. His residents were corralling the interns and all of them were doing half-decent labs, and he finally, finally was heading out to sit in a dark room and not think about doing anything. And yet, God, the vicious, two-faced prick that he was, makes him see that someone looks for him, and someone at reception points at him, making his way down the hallway.

With all the patience of a starving man in front of a feast, Dante turns and sets his eye on the person asking. "I'm Doctor Hernandez," he grits out in a less than pleased tone. "And I'm supposed to be off. What ever seems to be the trouble?"

closed starter for dante / @saltedearths where: St Peters Hospital when: right when Dante should be heading out

Dante Hernandez. Dante Hernandez. Luke's lips twitched soundlessly with repetition as he pushed past the doors into Saint Peters, purpose quickening his step. He knew showing up unannounced was a risky first impression, but ever since he'd learned about Dante's consultant work on the Antioch murder cases, Luke was determined to get his foot in the door for an audience...perhaps even literally, if that's what it took.

He approached the reception desk with urgency, laying both hands on the counter and leaning onto it as if saving time would save his daughter. "Excuse me, where can I find Dr. Hernandez?" Luke asked the person sitting there, just loud enough to be overheard, praying that he caught the doctor on his shift.