#lesson 2: post about that old man hard enough and eventually somebody WILL have to intervene

[rad-roche]

the cast is going to see my art! my extremely niche subgenre of art! i can't believe i've noirposted my way into this!! guys!! aaa!!

[frustratedcastingdirector]

The Times (UK) 10/16/2003

Alex O'Connell goes weak-kneed in the presence of Mark Ruffalo, the anti Hollywood star of In the Cut If there was such a thing as a textbook outsider, Mark Ruffalo would be one. Like Dostoevsky's Raskolnikov, Rilke's Malte Laurids Brigge and, well, Buffy, he is in a netherworld all of his own. Metaphorically speaking, Ruffalo sits on a park bench in the middle of an LA traffic island staring into the smog while most of Tinseltown is vrooming down the highways talking about their Japanese advertising campaigns and what happens if you smoke right after Pilates while on the Atkins. We meet in a hotel in Park Lane, in a suite which has more chintz than a Chelsea draper's. Still, Ruffalo cuts through the frills and fancy, like a pair of industrial shears. To be frank, the furnishings don't get a look-in. His face is soft and crumpled like a baby boxer, his hair is a pile of Italianate curls tousled to unstyled perfection, his eyes are the same lazy, deep brown as his pinstripes. On the soulless hotel interview circuit, Ruffalo is as refreshing as the cold shower I should be having. He doesn't try, he hasn't rehearsed answers, he doesn't care if he says something that might make his agent twitch. Give the man a part in one of the films of the year! (Oh, he's already got one.) A respected theatre actor and director in America but relatively unknown here, barring a star role in the playwright Kenneth Lonergan's film debut You Can Count on Me (2000), Ruffalo is about to ease into the mainstream. The Wisconsin boy has two movies out in the next few months, both in The Times bfi London Film Festival. The first, My Life Without Me, is a drama about a woman with a terminal illness, in which he stars alongside the Canadian actress Sarah Polley. The second, and the biggie, is Jane Campion's cop thriller, In the Cut, the festival's Opening Night Gala. Adapted from the novel by Susanna Moore, the film features Ruffalo as Malloy, a hard nut homicide detective who begins an affair with Frannie, an ethereal New York academic (Meg Ryan). While Malloy is out chasing killers, she's sticking Post-it Notes scrawled with her favourite words on the wall. Ryan is good. Ruffalo is even better as the cop whose incestuous cityscape consists of dives, crime scenes and the odd sweaty mattress. At 35, Ruffalo has taken long enough to get where he is. Partly it was bad luck, he says. Three years ago he was diagnosed with a brain tumour after he finished filming The Last Castle with Robert Redford. "It naturally slowed everything down," he says, in his old-world drawl. "It was taken out immediately and it was benign, but it was a year of being out of work and reassessing. When you're young and you start getting on as the 'hot new thing', you can lose sight of what you are doing it for, and I was starting to get a little disappointed with acting. It made me reassess. Also, they go in there and tinker and you feel like you'll never be the same and, quite frankly, I didn't know if I still had my talent after that." The script for In the Cut arrived eight months after his illness. Campion asked him to lunch and she gave him the good news between courses. Initially, he was concerned about how to make what could easily have been "just another cop role" his own. "We've seen this a thousand times, more, probably," he says, "and it's been done very well by many people." Eventually he located his point of real interest. "There is some part of Malloy that wants more from his class than just where he is at in life. There is some curiosity for fineness and beauty." Research involved trailing Manhattan's cop bars and knocking back whiskey with the guys. "It took a lot of bourbon and cigarettes to get to the point where people were actually being truthful." One of the most talked about elements in the film is the nude sex scene between him and Ryan, her first in a long career. It's erotic and integral. But, boy, wasn't that, well, a pressure? "It was never comfortable," he says, shifting in his chair. "When we had known each other for three months, it was still uncomfortable, people standing around all the time...I'm married ... "I mean, I was really nervous," he laughs, "and when you're nervous it's hard to affect, erm, confidence." Did you have a thing that you did? "A technique? Well, Jane gave me The Woman's Orgasm and a bunch of books and videotapes. At one point she tried to give me an anatomy lesson on the vagina, which frankly brings up all kinds of defensive feelings in a man: 'I know what I'm doing! Why are you telling me that? Let me show you!' And that was funny, seeing myself react like that." Did he read them? "Yes, I did read them. I definitely learnt." He admits that the film's unbalanced relationship dynamic (cop/academic) probably would not work in real life. Luckily Ruffalo has no such personal concerns, as he is married to an actress, Sunrise Coigney. It's fairytale stuff: he saw her in the street, knew she was The One, and had to figure out how to meet her. She has a small part in In the Cut. Ruffalo is unusual in that he is a Hollywood actor with a very definite life outside Hollywood. It has a lot to do with his background in theatre. After moving to San Diego at 13 he uprooted to LA at 18 to study at the Stella Adler theatre school. His big break was in Betrayed by Everyone, a chunk of This is Our Youth which was made into a one-act play at a festival in LA in 1995. There began his great friendship with its writer, Kenneth Lonergan, who later invited him to audition for This is Our Youth, his play about indulged youth in the 1980s. "Since then we've been close friends," Ruffalo says. "We were both struggling in the theatre and then we both did the film You Can Count on Me and it launched our careers." These days he runs an LA theatre company, Page 97, and has written a play and a film of his own. In fact he even turned down a bunch of big studio films, including a part in The Core, because, well, it just didn't suit. And of his considerable freezer of turkeys (he's been in 28 movies, most of them poor to dreadful) he is charmingly self-mocking. Houdini -the biopic? "That is good compared to some of them," he laughs. "I don't network, I see it as kind of crass. There is just this cliquey scene in LA. I don't think that casting directors ever discover anybody, they are just told about somebody by somebody else. I'm sure there are 1,000 people like me out there who have worked really hard and done the plays and the work that really counts, but there is a lot of hyperbole in LA and the focus is in getting to places where you can be seen and get 'famous' and then all the work follows." In fact recently he's even been working on a novel, called Him, which sounds like self-parody or The Outsider Pt 2. "It's about a man who doesn't fit into the modern world," he says with a smirk. Stage, screen, plays, novels, what's it going to be? Unless he makes his mind up, doesn't he risk turning into Ethan Hawke? He sighs, a deep Ruffalo sigh. "They're gonna throw dirt on you at the end of this game, man," he says. "And I don't think you can be too careful at the cost of your life. At the end what do you have but the life you lived?" Quite. CV: MARK RUFFALO AMERICAN HISTORY Born in Wisconsin in Nov, 1967. He moved to San Diego at 18, then to LA where he studied at Stella Adler. NEW BEST FRIEND Playwright Kenneth Lonergan. Ruffalo was in This is Our Youth. MY FAVOURITE WIFE Actress Sunrise Coigney, whom he fell for in the street. UNBEARABLE LIKENESS OF BEING Compared to Marlon Brando and James Dean -"But he had no work ethic," says Ruffalo of the latter. TOPSY TURKEYS Windtalkers (2002); A Fish in the Bathtub (1999); There Goes My Baby (1994).

Article corrections: Ruffalo’s family moved to Virginia Beach, VA when he was 13;Lonergan did not invite Ruffalo to audition for “This is Our Youth,” Ruffalo had to nag him into letting him audition for it; The LA theatre company is called Page 93 not 97; and it was Marlon Brando with no work ethic.

[sailorsaigas]

“Substitute Guardian” (a Morgan Lives AU) Chapter 2

Author's Note: Chapter is after the Read More, so as not to clutter folks' dashboards.

A year ago, I wrote the first chapter of an AU fic about Morgan surviving the events of Turn Coat. Well, I know it's been a long time in coming, but here is Chapter Two of that AU, the title of which has been settled on. I only hope you will find this entertaining, and that it might help some of you stave off the boredom of having to continue to wait for Jim to finish Peace Talks. Enjoy. ^_^

Being in Chicago again was...odd.

I wasn't entirely certain how I should feel about my return to the states, having spent the better portion of the last year under house arrest in Edinburgh. The early months saw me hospitalized, recovering in an infirmary bed after pushing my already wounded body too hard apprehending the man who'd framed me for murder. A grueling process of rehabilitation eventually began when my mandatory bed rest order was lifted, though after regaining my previous strength, I continued with physical training as a means of self-improvement and killing time. One might be surprised how utterly boring being confined to a centuries-old castle can be. So I trained - trained and studied like a newly minted apprentice one-hundred and fifty years younger. I had no intention of being bested again by my enemies.

Over the course of my time under lock and key, I had a few brief but important conversations with Harry Dresden, who made it a point not to interact with the Council more than absolutely necessary. I understood that mentality far more easily, now, after having my eyes opened during the events of that last year. We discussed where we stood as associates, swallowed what we could of our pride, and made something of a halfhearted but honest attempt at reconciliation. There was a lot of bad blood there, and neither of us could really get over some twenty years of animosity overnight, but it helped that I'd been made aware of the unfortunate truth. The Black Council, a hidden force seeking to tear apart the wizarding community from within, was real...and it was high time somebody did something about it. And so, despite some reluctance from Ebenezar McCoy, I was brought into the fold of the Gray Council, a nearly treasonous body of our own that sought to prevent the enemy from gaining the upper hand in our shadow war.

Stuck as I had been in Edinburgh, I didn't have much to offer of my previous talent as a Council enforcer, but my copious free time gave me opportunity to put my experience to good use in other ways. I was permitted supervised free range of the hallowed halls, and since the only individuals experienced enough to be trusted to watch me were Wardens I'd had a hand in training, they'd rarely challenge me regarding what I did or where I went. Thus I made my primary purpose one of study and documentation, becoming something of a writer for Dresden’s project, the Paranet. The idea of networking the minor talents of the world so that they'd be educated enough to protect one another had been risky in many ways, but had so far been more than worth the risk. However, their information had been limited primarily to what Dresden and a few of his friends were capable of offering, so I made it my goal to expand upon that.

Such was how it became my job to transcribe my personal knowledge, alongside those of Edinburgh's ancient libraries, to create tools for use by the Paranet. To speak plainly, they were mainly pamphlets with a few illustrations, but Dresden and Anastasia said so earnestly that they could prove invaluable to the lesser talents of the world that I started taking pride in the work. It helped that there was little else to do, of course.

Now I stood back on the streets of Chicago, a free man of a sort, though the Doom still hung above my head. These were my old stomping grounds long before they had been Dresden's, and they'd been my area of responsibility as a Warden up until the war with the Red Court of Vampires. I'd hounded Dresden through these streets as I observed his own probation beneath the Doom, and now the shoe was on the other foot. Dresden, if he yet lived, was a Warden of the Council, while I was the one with a single mistake keeping me from summary decapitation. I'm certain there was a lesson in that, and it was one reason I strived to put aside the more petty and miserable aspects of myself.

Shaking off my reminiscences, I examined the building where I'd be staying for the duration of my time as a mentor to Dresden's young apprentice, Molly Carpenter. I knew the building, of course. Only a few blocks away from the ruins of Dresden's own home, the address on my note had directed me to what had once been a boarding house that had been converted into apartments. During our time trying to prove my innocence, a mortal private investigator had set up an observation post in this very building to stake out Dresden. I don't know when the Council had found the time or money to empty the building and remodel it, but they'd done so. It looked pristine, at least from outside, and I knew nobody lived here anymore from a notation on Ana's scrap of paper. The Council didn't want to risk more collateral damage after whatever destroyed Dresden's place nearly killed several mortal bystanders.

I headed into the building and opened the door to the ground floor apartment, though I had keys to all of them. I wondered if they expected me to house Miss Carpenter here while I trained her? That would be practical, but Ana had mentioned the girl would be at her parent's house, and I imagined she'd be more comfortable there. Undoubtedly so, considering what had apparently transpired over the past 48 hours or so.

The apartment was sparsely furnished, though it had necessary amenities like an ice box and a wood-burning stove. There was one bedroom with a bare twin mattress against a wall, connected to a small bathroom with a standing glass-door shower. A single recliner occupied one corner of the living room near the fireplace, and a small dining table that had no accompanying chairs filled space in the kitchen. On it rested a plain white envelope labeled 'Donald.' Inside the envelope was a crisp stack of bills, the first installment of my new monthly stipend. I noted with a small smirk that it was the same monthly amount I'd be making if I were still serving as a Warden. Though I wasn't a Warden anymore, and likely never would be again, I supposed that my time in-service had earned me something. I'd have preferred my blade to the money. Warden or not, Ana made the sword for me. Practically speaking, nobody else would be remotely capable of wielding it effectively. Sentimentally speaking, it was probably my dearest possession.

Placing the envelope of cash in the pocket of the overcoat I wore with today's ensemble of a well-tailored, tan three-piece suit (why couldn't Dresden see the obvious social benefits of not dressing like a hoodlum?), I decided to set aside all other thoughts in favor of the most immediate concern. I couldn't put it off any longer. It was time to pay a visit to my new apprentice. I stepped outside, hailed a cab, and was shortly on my way.

-----

The house I arrived at looked like something out of a Hallmark card, something I wouldn't have thought possible in this part of Chicago. Complete with finely manicured lawn and white picket fence, it was the absolute model of idealized American suburbia. I could feel a kind of power emanating from within the borders of the property, and I knew immediately that this was indeed the correct residence. Michael Carpenter, Molly's father, was the only living retired Knight of the Sword, an ancient group of warriors who served to maintain the balance between Good and Evil on behalf of God. I could only imagine a retirement package from such an occupation would be graced with ample benefits from the Lord.

I was cautious as I approached the front door of the home, being careful not to offend whatever sort of divine bodyguards might watch over the place. I knocked politely, three times, and awaited a response from within. A woman promptly answered, and I could recognize in her face that this must be Molly's mother, Charity. I could also see in her general stance and demeanor, a woman of fierce physical and mental fortitude. I'd hazard to guess she'd once served as the sparring partner for her husband, and Ana had mentioned to me before my departure that the woman was an accomplished smith, likely as a means of indicating someone from whom I could commission a sword. I bowed my head politely, and introduced myself.

"Mrs. Carpenter, I am Donald Morgan," I spoke. "I am a wizard of the White Council. I am here on the Council's behalf to speak with your daughter, Molly, regarding the disappearance of her mentor, Harry Dresden. And, if necessary, continue her training in our arts in his absence."

Mrs. Carpenter looked at me, her right eyebrow arched upward.

"Morgan?" she asked. "The Warden? Harry spoke of you before. Not nicely, either, I should say."

I sighed. I should have known one of Dresden's friends would know my name and my reputation, colored though it might have been by his own perceptions. I could believe she did not think very highly of the man I once was.

"Former Warden," I explained. "I am no longer a Warden of the White Council, Mrs. Carpenter. After a political incident about a year ago, I was removed from my position and consigned to the Doom of Damocles, much like Molly and Dresden before her. That being the case, Dresden has gone missing, and is presumed dead. The Council has but two options regarding your daughter's future: execute her under the order of the Doom, or send me to mentor her in Dresden's stead. I shall see her through to her graduation into a full wizard of the Council, or merely until Dresden returns."

I held my arms out to the side, palms up in a non-threatening gesture of sincerity. I don't do those much, so I doubt it looked very convincing.

"I'm not here to hurt Molly, Mrs. Carpenter," I said, plainly.

Charity continued to stare at me for a moment, sizing me up, gauging my honesty.

Then, her voice firm, she said, "I won't invite you in. Prove to me that you mean no harm."

I understood her meaning immediately. Wizards, and other supernatural entities, cannot pass through a threshold (the magical barrier that separates a home from the outside world) without giving up a significant portion of their power. Certain creatures, like the Vampires of the Red and Black Courts, cannot pass through a threshold at all without first being invited. The threshold of this home was one of enormous potency, and stepping through it would mean leaving nearly all of my magic at the door, making me incredibly vulnerable. It was a common and reliable practice among those who were 'in-the-know' supernaturally, and I applauded her in my mind for thinking ahead. She was clearly a sharp-minded and no-nonsense woman, and having apprenticed under Anastasia Luccio, that was something I could most certainly respect.

"Very well," I replied, and stepped across through the doorway.

It was an odd sensation, leaving my magic behind me. Stepping through the Carpenter threshold was like stepping through a wall of gelatin and coming out the other side disrobed. I felt diminished and exhausted, as if I'd dived into a pool of ice water. I bowed my head politely in her direction after crossing, and she nodded at me. Had I been one of the few harmful supernatural entities that might have crossed a threshold uninvited without trouble, I'd likely have been pulverized by whatever security force watched over the household if I'd intended harm.

Charity motioned to the staircase with a wave of her hand.

"Molly's sleeping upstairs," she explained. "She was wounded when she went to help Harry at Chichen Itza."

I didn't have many of the facts, but if Dresden had been at Chichen Itza, he'd been at one of the most powerful domains of the Red Court. I could only assume it bore some connection to his supposed demise.

"Would it be a problem if I woke her?" I asked. "It's important we get this settled as soon as possible."

"It won't be a problem, but she's not in any condition to talk for very long," Charity stated, matter-of-factly. "She's heavily medicated, patched up on a helicopter and brought here by some of Dresden's associates afterward."

"Field medicine? Why not a hospital?"

"Her wound wasn't severe, she'd mostly overexerted herself after being wounded on the battlefield."

"Well, I am relieved to hear that she is alright, but I will need to speak with her right away so that she understands what is to be done."

"Alright, then. This way."

Inside a room cramped with sewing equipment, Molly slept soundly in a small bed, an IV in her arm.

Charity gently shook her awake as we entered, saying, "Molly, Morgan from the White Council is here to see you."

I didn't miss how Molly's eyes shot open with fear at the mention of my name. Once again, my old reputation preceded me. Swiftly, Mr's. Carpenter calmed her daughter with soft, gentle words explaining that I wasn't there to hurt her, and that I just needed to inform her of some changes regarding her apprenticeship since Harry was missing. Molly was still groggy from sleep and pain medication, but the initial adrenaline rush had cleared her head enough that she acknowledged her mother's words and nodded at me to proceed.

"Hello again, Miss Carpenter," I began. "Your mother is correct that I'm not here to do you any harm. I can only assume the medicine is to blame for you forgetting I'm no longer a Warden."

I tried to smile to show I was being lighthearted, but I was long out of practice, and Molly got a somewhat sour look on her face. I awkwardly tried to recover momentum.

"Ahem, anyway, I have just been released from house arrest. I'm here because Dresden has gone missing, and is presumed dead. Whatever Dresden and the rest of you did at Chichen Itza has thrown the supernatural world into a frenzy. I couldn't begin to tell you even half the things I've heard, and my situation left me fairly out of the loop to begin with. Whatever it is, the Council is preoccupied with damage control, and wasn't sure what to do with you. After much deliberation, rather than have you executed under the Doom, I was chosen to act as your mentor until such a time as you graduate or Dresden returns. I was already under the Doom, myself, so it is no great loss to the Council, and it spares any needless bloodshed."

I paused to let Molly absorb what I had said, and then continued.

"It will only be a temporary arrangement, of course. Under my tutelage, barring Dresden's return, I imagine it would not take longer than a year or two to get you to full wizard status, in which case you would no longer need a mentor. And, of course, should Harry come back, he will be granted the opportunity to once again take over your training. As it stands, however, none of us has any idea what has become of him."

I looked at Molly sternly, though not bluntly intimidating, trying to put a kind of gentle, grandfatherly rebuke into my demeanor.

"What in the world was Dresden doing on the vampire's boat at the time of his presumed death?" I asked.

Molly let out a huff of indignation. "I should have known the first thing you'd do is be suspicious of Thomas."

"Why shouldn't I be? He is a member of the White Court--"

"He's more than just a White Court vampire," she interrupted. "There's a reason Harry was on the boat, and Thomas' offer to let him use it was made in good faith."

"You're the second person today to tell me that," I responded. I tried giving the girl a small smile. "I guess I'll take your word for it, for now."

"Thomas isn't responsible for Harry's murder," Molly said. "I know that for certain."

"You do?" I asked, arching an eyebrow at the remark. "That implies a great deal. If you know for certain that Thomas Raith isn't involved, do you know who is responsible?"

Molly sighed and shook her head. "No. But whoever did it didn't use magic."

"Captain Luccio was able to confirm as much to me before I came out here. Regardless, such discussion has no bearing on my purpose here. I won't trouble you with more questions. Get some rest, and I'll be back tomorrow so we can go over the details of your training."

Molly nodded, and promptly returned to sleep.

Afterward, Charity saw me to the door and wished me luck getting situated in town. She gave me the number for the house, as well as their cell phones, and told me that if I intended to continue investigating Harry's disappearance it would be good to get in touch with Harry's associates in town. A good place to begin would be with their mutual acquaintance Father Forthill at Saint Mary of the Angels, and Karrin Murphy of the Chicago Police Department, in particular. I thanked her, and made my way out the door.

No sooner had I closed the gate to the front yard behind me than I was very nearly run over by an emerald green stretch limousine that sped up to the curb in front of the Carpenter home. Immediately after parking, the driver walked around to passenger side rear door, opened it, and gestured for me to enter. I knew him for what he was the moment I set eyes upon him, and the voice that beckoned to me from within the limo only confirmed my suspicions.

"La! Mortal magi, always so paranoid," called a beautiful singsong from the dark interior of the vehicle. "You have my word of safe passage for the duration of a conversation, Wizard Morgan. On behalf of my Queen, I must needs speak with thee regarding the matter of Harry Dresden."

I looked from the driver holding open the door, and back to the waiting interior of the car. Stepping into the vehicle would be stupid, even with word of safe passage from one of the Fae. Then again, it was about Dresden. Considering that, I thought to myself: what would Harry Dresden do in this situation? The town, after all, needed someone to fill his boots for a time.

I got into the car.

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

King And Queen Of The Weekend, Chapter 2: Time We Danced With The Truth

Peyton x Blaine, post-“Some Like It Hot Mess.” Part angsty fix-it-fic, part smut, with just a dash of songfic along the way for flavor. A plot bunny that would not be denied, this was heavily inspired by Lorde’s Melodrama, especially “Sober.” 

Summary: Blaine’s turn. What happens when you and your ex both decide to drown your feelings rather than facing them...in the same bar, with an unoccupied piano? "No matter what can be said about the wasted potential that is Blaine Debeers, he is not and will never be exactly like his father, because the old man would never sidle up to a piano in a dive bar and start playing quietly for his own entertainment.”

Cross-posted on AO3; fun with tags + more notes can be found there.

“So even if I faked losing my memory, you wouldn’t be a little mad?”

“I don’t know. I’m just–I’m so happy right now.”

“I have good news. Major is going to get his memory back…and the good news doesn’t stop there. This is me. This version of me, small business owner, amateur lounge singer, guy that feels lucky every time you walk through that door.”

—-

Blaine keeps moving, on autopilot. What other choice does he have? The show must go on, right? He quits playing piano, though, when the customers complain. They want more upbeat music and he just…doesn’t care. He’s tired of faking it. Hello irony, oldest of friends.

It’s the brain biz instead, again. Scheming and clawing his way back to being king of the hill is what comes naturally, so that’s what he does, burying his feelings.

He’s a villain; they’re not supposed to have feelings anyway. Idiotic to have let himself believe otherwise.

Branching out suppliers while he tests the blue juice leads him south to a small town for the weekend. He could’ve sent Don E., but he wanted the distance. The time. Once business is concluded, he heads straight for a bottle.

The town’s only bar was easier to find than a solitary bottle of Jack, so he settles in a corner, sulking over his whiskey while the entire place seems to be filled with couples.

They kiss, they cuddle, they share shots like the world might end tomorrow–little do they know–and they’re everywhere, physical reminders that against all odds, he actually got the girl, only to lose her again.

Technically, he remembers, he’s lost her twice now. That’s when he decides this particular establishment isn’t doing him any favors and gets up to leave…until he sees the piano.

Much like a beautiful woman, he’s always had a hard time resisting the lure of a piano. His father disapproved of such a sentimental pastime, but his mother–and then grandfather–encouraged the lessons, and eventually, every session of putting his fingers to the keys felt like fighting back.

It still does, bringing solace along with the bittersweet memories of his mother’s hands on his and his grandfather teaching him old Irish ballads. No matter what can be said about the wasted potential that is Blaine Debeers, he is not and will never be exactly like his father, because the old man would never sidle up to a piano in a dive bar and start playing quietly for his own entertainment.

“Love and other moments are just chemical reactions in your brain, in your brain...and feelings of aggression are the absence of the love drug in your veins, in your veins...”

As song choices go, it’s a bit on the nose, but he’s half-drunk and moping over Peyton, much as he wishes he wasn’t, and it’s what comes to mind. Along with it comes more moping, because he came here to forget–but he can't.

She sparkled.

That was the thing about Peyton that had first tugged at him. From the beginning, underneath her professional demeanor and through all the dark, dismal events to follow, she glowed in a way that made him want to be near her.

If he simply wanted sex and conversation he could find a beautiful woman in a bar somewhere, without getting mixed up with the ADA whose help was crucial to his plan. Slipping her his card was as practical as it was invitational, given how well he knew Mr. Boss and the danger she was courting. Against his own interests, he cared that she might get hurt because of her involvement in this scheme of his.

He never thought she'd invite him to stick around after work, as it were, to get a little sloppy on fine whiskey and do very little talking. All he’d really wanted was a little flirtation and to get rid of Mr. Boss. But when he laid out the map for her and connected the dots, she just lit up at him and took his breath away.

That was unexpected.

She made him a little tongue-tied, awkward, slightly off his game. He had better lines, smoother moves, but facing her, he was more the teenage loser of his youth than the suave king he’d remade himself to be.

The worst part was, he liked it.

“Love come quickly, because I feel my self-esteem is caving in, it’s on the brink...”

Had anybody ever come so close to sweeping him off his feet? It was a silly thought for someone who’d made a name for himself as a killer and drug dealer, but Peyton just had this way about her, part warrior queen, part soft and warm and vulnerable. The way she entered an interrogation room and demanded his release, as though anyone she came into contact with should be expected to do nothing less than exactly what she commanded.

Maybe it was a lawyer thing; he wouldn’t know. But it was hot.

And though he’d never admit it to anyone, she tunneled right into his weak spot. All he’d managed to make of himself, out of his personal hell growing up, was a cliche. The poor little rich boy, the failed entrepreneur…the thief who barely managed to graduate to drug dealer on somebody else’s turf. Once his grandfather was locked up, long after his own mother didn’t think he was worth living for, Blaine just didn’t see the point. Survival he was good at, but believing he was worth something? He'd left that behind as soon as he was old enough to understand how much his own father hated him.

Peyton was the first person to try and protect him, to stand up for him, since he was a child. It was the strangest feeling, but not unwelcome. Instead it was terrifying, because he wanted to lean into it, accept it. Her hand on his back as she ordered his father to leave, snapping at Ravi and choosing him over Major, welcoming him into their home when she knew Liv wouldn’t.

Not to mention, how she exuded cool with her shields up, so different from the woman he’d parted ways with who’d still been flush and warm and relaxed from their spontaneous encounter in her office. It should have been awkward, when they pulled back and tugged their clothes into place and she smoothed down her couch cushions, but it wasn’t.

She had grinned at him, seeming totally at ease, possibly the most confidently sexy woman he’d ever met, and asked flippantly, “Catch you later?”

Her grin was contagious. “Well,” he’d replied, “I do have a previously scheduled appointment to go over evidence with this smokin’ hot attorney. Maybe we could hook up after that?”

“Sounds good.” She linked her arms behind his neck, leaning in for a long, slow kiss. “Tell me more about this attorney.”

“Hmm…” He let his gaze wander down her body and back up to her deep hazel eyes. “Well, she’s gorgeous, and smart, and brave...”

Peyton interrupted him. “Brave?”

“Definitely. Not just anybody would take on Mr. Boss, let alone face him solo in her office without caving in to the fear. He threatened you,” Blaine reminded her gently. “And you stuck.”

She shrugged. “It’s my job. I’m good at it.”

“That’s kinda my point. But it’s more than that. You’re in it for more than the title and salary. I can tell. You really want to get him–just for what he does to this fair city of ours. That’s an admirable quality.”

“Well, we share it.” She gestured at her outfit. “So. Do I look like someone who just had sex on government property?”

“Huh. Presuming I know what that looks like,” Blaine replied, “no. I think you’re good to go.”

Nodding, Peyton stepped back toward him for one last kiss. “Then I’ll see you around.”

“Love come quickly, because I don’t think I can keep this monster in, it’s in my skin...”

He almost went for it that night on the couch. He almost couldn’t help himself, his hands full of Peyton and everything he secretly wanted most beneath his new persona. He couldn’t do it, of course–what if she regretted it? he knew he would regret it–but he almost did before he managed to pull back.

He wasn’t exactly known for his impulse control, before her. But he really did want to be better. Worthy of her company, let alone her affection. Worth that smile she shot his way that warmed the darker parts of his soul.

She made him feel poetic.

There was nothing he could do about how damaged he was long before they ever met, or what he did before and after becoming a zombie. But he was just a man now, and he wanted a real chance with her. So he stopped it.

He spent the night tossing and turning on the couch, cold without her, and wishing he’d never lied in the first place.

“Love and other socially acceptable emotions are morphine, they’re morphine, cleverly concealing primal urges often felt but rarely seen, rarely seen...”

When she took his hand the next morning, and led him to her room, he couldn’t believe it. And he didn’t try to stop it. She chose him, knowing his past, knowing the new man he was trying so hard to be–her hands were in his hair, her lips were parted against his, and they were kissing in the muted daylight where it felt like a dream.

He didn’t ever want to wake up.

His old life and the new one where she treated him like a decent guy who she was interested in were worlds apart. Despite her best friend being a zombie, Peyton had managed to stay surprisingly untouched by the violence surrounding her. She fought the seedy underbelly of the city…and he belonged in it.

But not anymore. He’d gotten his second chance, and he was determined to keep earning it, every day with her. Standing in her sunny bedroom, he lifted her shirt up, letting his fingers trace her skin as it was exposed. She stretched into his touch and he wondered if she did yoga, then refused to get distracted by how sexy the idea of her doing yoga was.

He was such a lost cause when it comes to Peyton Charles, it was ridiculous.

Unlike the last time, Blaine didn’t ask if she was sure, because he knew her well enough to know that this wouldn’t be happening if she weren’t. Instead, he indulged, the way they didn’t during their fateful one-night stand, when things were too new and frantic and fueled by the risk of getting caught at any moment.

Now, he could take full advantage of the light warming her bronze skin, drinking in his fill of how she looked in her bra and soft cotton pjs, before he slid those down her endlessly long legs and followed them with kisses.

“God, you’re gorgeous.”

She was so beautifully responsive, angling toward his every touch, humming her appreciation. It made him want to stay with her for days, finding every sensitive spot and claiming it for himself.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she breathed back.

Peyton was already exploring him in return, dispatching his t-shirt and running her hands over his chest, leaning in toward him as her hands drifted lower.

Their lips met with excruciating slowness, neither of them rushing toward the bed. He traced her lips with his tongue, and when they parted she sighed. Then their tongues met eagerly while his fingers roamed down her back to caress her ass.

Her hand grazed him through his boxers and he jolted, growling against her mouth, their kisses growing more passionate. With an easy flick of his fingers, Blaine opened the front clasp of her bra and slid the straps off each shoulder.

They finally began inching toward the bed, still linked at the lips, her hands in his hair as the full length of her pressed against him. He kneeled next to her when they landed, running his hands over her chest and following his fingertips with his mouth.

Peyton moaned when he tugged lightly on one nipple and circled it with his tongue. He was stroking the other with his fingertips, shifting his legs so that one was between her knees and pressing against her. She rocked against him a little as their lips met and parted, breath growing thick and more desperate.

Her hands gripped his back, digging in as he continued to explore her, running his tongue along the crease of soft skin beneath her breast, then blowing lightly on her nipple before taking it back into his mouth.

Her hands moved up to his neck, running through his hair until he ceded control of the kiss to her, and she left him panting for breath. Then she was gripping his shoulders as his mouth found the curve of her neck and lingered there, leaving behind the faintest of marks.

She arched up toward him, nails digging into his skin, and he moved over, making room to slide down and let his mouth journey south. His lips left a heated trail down her taut stomach and over to her hip, where he planted a firm kiss that made her shiver.

Peyton released her grip on him and reached out to run her fingers along the waistline of his shorts. With her eyes closed, she waited until he leveraged himself up and then she tugged them off. He kicked them away, sucking in air as her hands found him and caressed the sensitive skin beneath his balls.

Blaine teased his fingers along the edge of her satin thong, then slid it aside to circle her clit with his fingers. Peyton started to shift along with his movements, quaking against the sheets.

“Oh, God. Blaine,” she murmured, taking him in her hand and stroking. His fingers kept moving against her until he was hard and ready, and their mouths clashed as he lifted himself.

She was wet and hot when he slid into her, and he found himself whispering endearments in her ear, just like the last time.

They moved together with an easy familiarity that didn’t make sense for only their second time, but he didn’t question it, straining with her toward their lush, convulsive peak. To Blaine, she felt like coming home.

“Love I beg you, lift me up into that privileged point of view, the world of two...”

Nothing she said was wrong. He was selfish, and greedy…and sad, most of all. He was angry at her for the way she tricked him into confessing–lied to him, led him into a trap–but he couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm for it, because he'd done far worse. And she was right.

He hadn’t been thinking about her friends, or making a fool of her, when his memories came back and he pretended they hadn’t. He’d been thinking about himself, which, once he had his memories back, he knew was what he always did. How he’d always been, before.

It took everything he had not to chase after her. Not to go looking, to make his case, the way he might with anybody else. But this was Peyton, who won arguments for a living, and he knew it would just make things worse. So he covered up the wound with jokes and business and liquor and tried to move on.

“Love don’t leave me, because I console myself that Hallmark cards are true, I really do...”

The liquor isn’t helping much. It never really does. Must be the Irish in him; drinking just makes him maudlin.

He sips again anyway, because he’s here and has nothing better to do, closing his eyes and remembering the way Peyton leaned back that first night, her skirt shifting and catching his attention when she crossed her legs. Her voice was sultry between sips, inviting--more intoxicating than the alcohol.

He’s not sure which is more of a tragedy, the fact that getting his memories back means he lost her, or the fact that having them means he remembers so clearly what he’s lost.

Putting his own flourish on the melody with one hand and sipping with the other, he catches movement in his peripheral vision that makes him dizzy.

He must be more drunk than he realizes, Blaine thinks, if he’s starting to hallucinate. This one isn’t exactly the way he would’ve imagined it, if he had a choice in hallucinations…which is how he knows he’s not that drunk.

Peyton’s come back to him, in all her fierce and shining glory–but she doesn’t look happy to see him. In fact, she seems just as stunned as he is, striding toward him with an accusatory finger outstretched.

He can’t help leaning into the chorus as their eyes meet, as she approaches without hesitation and all he can feel is the dull ache of missing her.

“I’m gunning down romance…it never did a thing for me, but heartache and misery—ain’t nothing but a tragedy.”

She carries herself like a fighter ready for the next round, despite her slightly glassy eyes and the tequila on her breath. If this is Peyton Charles on tequila, no wonder she wouldn’t tell him about it that first night.

She raises her voice over the piano he’s still playing, heedless of the heads that turn their way.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”