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dazlious2014-04-10 05:34 pm
phantastus) wrote in dazlious2014-04-10 05:34 pm
When the full moon turns white, that's when I'll come home.
WHO: Heather Mason and Dale Cooper
WHERE: Twin Peaks, Washington
WHEN: Tail-end of summer. Peaks/SH AU.
WHAT: There's no feeling like being forced to pack a few harmless, government-approved belongings into boxes and being shipped across the country to live with a stranger directly after a series of events so horrific and earth-shattering that your entire life as you knew it was gone.
There's also no feeling like waiting on your front porch for a teenager you've seen only pictures of but know was involved in something terrible and now is your responsibility, after living alone for years.
RATING: Probably PG, potential mild profanity and references to disturbing events.
The pines passed the windows lazily as the car-- unremarkable black, government-issued and intended to attract as little attention as possible but somehow never succeeding-- wound its way up the twisting mountain road.
There was no conversation-- hadn't been during any of the trip, whether it was the flight to the west coast or the drive up here.
That was fine with Heather. She didn't particularly want to talk to anyone involved in this.
Chin in hand, she was scrunched in the backseat with a cardboard box in her lap and the seats next to her taken up by more of the same. Her whole life-- or the pieces of it that had been deemed hers to keep-- stuffed into a car thousands of miles away from the little Daisy Villa apartment she had lived in with her father for the past three years. To think that it could all fit. It would be sad if she weren't so angry about it, and if there hadn't been so much left behind.
She puffed out a low sigh as a sign on the road approached and passed-- Dead Dog Farm, 1/4 miles.
Dead Dog Farm.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd think I was just dropped into an R.L. Stine book," she muttered under her breath, half expecting the driver to say something about how it would be nicer than it sounded (like everyone else had been saying, in that strained, I'd-rather-not-be-talking-to-you tone that most authority figures had been using with her ever since that night.) He didn't, though. Go figure.
The road below them had turned to dirt and gravel at least three miles ago, and it continued to crunch and rattle under the wheels as it continued up the narrowing path until a building became visible between the trees.
WHERE: Twin Peaks, Washington
WHEN: Tail-end of summer. Peaks/SH AU.
WHAT: There's no feeling like being forced to pack a few harmless, government-approved belongings into boxes and being shipped across the country to live with a stranger directly after a series of events so horrific and earth-shattering that your entire life as you knew it was gone.
There's also no feeling like waiting on your front porch for a teenager you've seen only pictures of but know was involved in something terrible and now is your responsibility, after living alone for years.
RATING: Probably PG, potential mild profanity and references to disturbing events.
The pines passed the windows lazily as the car-- unremarkable black, government-issued and intended to attract as little attention as possible but somehow never succeeding-- wound its way up the twisting mountain road.
There was no conversation-- hadn't been during any of the trip, whether it was the flight to the west coast or the drive up here.
That was fine with Heather. She didn't particularly want to talk to anyone involved in this.
Chin in hand, she was scrunched in the backseat with a cardboard box in her lap and the seats next to her taken up by more of the same. Her whole life-- or the pieces of it that had been deemed hers to keep-- stuffed into a car thousands of miles away from the little Daisy Villa apartment she had lived in with her father for the past three years. To think that it could all fit. It would be sad if she weren't so angry about it, and if there hadn't been so much left behind.
She puffed out a low sigh as a sign on the road approached and passed-- Dead Dog Farm, 1/4 miles.
Dead Dog Farm.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd think I was just dropped into an R.L. Stine book," she muttered under her breath, half expecting the driver to say something about how it would be nicer than it sounded (like everyone else had been saying, in that strained, I'd-rather-not-be-talking-to-you tone that most authority figures had been using with her ever since that night.) He didn't, though. Go figure.
The road below them had turned to dirt and gravel at least three miles ago, and it continued to crunch and rattle under the wheels as it continued up the narrowing path until a building became visible between the trees.
no subject
Because she really wasn't.
... But the thought of this guy picking out food without her looking at it was... well, she'd rather see it for herself.
"I'll just come. ... If that's not an issue."
no subject
He starts making his sandwich, lettuce, tomato, cheese, quite a bit of turkey. Everything's already cut, sealed securely in zip-lock bags. (Some days he can't stand the thought of picking up a knife, he's learned to prepare for his worst days on his better ones.)
“I don't have any mayonnaise, sorry. Do you like mayonnaise?”
no subject
"Orange juice is fine."
The second question, she just answered with a shrug.
This innocuous smalltalk was infuriating. After weeks of people skirting the obvious, standing in this shack in the middle of nowhere and ignoring the elephant in the room felt like adding insult to injury.
She cut the bread a little more viciously than was necessary, stewing in silence.
no subject
He can feel her frustration spike and he takes a bite of his sandwich. Silence is fine, talking and planning can come later, absolutely. He doesn't want to overwhelm her.
She has about a week before she'll be expected at the high school. Frankly, he's positive that putting her in a foreign environment cramped with people is a horrible idea, but so is totally uprooting a traumatized teenager and sending them across the country; there's not really an alternative.
They can talk about that later.
no subject
It's not that she thinks he's actually some nut with a secret torture dungeon under his room, despite his weird smile and creepy house in the middle of nowhere. All things considered, that would be a little too much bad luck to be realistic at this point.
But just in case.
Still declining to sit, she leans against the counter as she takes the first bite of hers.
"... So..." she mumbles, not bothering to swallow everything before speaking. "What now."
no subject
(Okay the basement isn't a torture dungeon but it's still *weird* he tries not to spend too much time down there.)
"For today? I don't really have anything planned. I figured you'd want to rest. We could go into town, though, if you'd like."
no subject
Swallowing, she gestures around at the kitchen, and by extension, the house.
"I get that I won't be getting home in time to graduate from my school. So what, do I go to this one? Does this town even have a school? Can I get out of here when I turn eighteen or am I basically being put here because they can't charge me with anything yet and they wanna make sure I'm in grabbing distance for when they can? What?"
no subject
“Right. School starts next Monday.” He messes with his pinky ring while he talks, twisting it around, sliding it up his finger and back down. “Class starts at eight thirty sharp. It's on the other side of town, I'll drop you off and pick you up at a stop a bit from here.”
“When you turn eighteen you'll have full freedom to go where you like as an adult and legal access to everything your father left. You are a witness in an ongoing investigation, there's no suspicion about the nature of your involvement as far as I know. If there was, you wouldn't be here.”
no subject
She air-quoted that word with just one hand. Too disdainful to bother with two, apparently.
His explanation was honest enough, but after everything, well, Heather could muster very little but mistrust.
"So they weren't a little curious about the fact that I moved the body and ran away from the scene of the crime? That's not the impression I got back east."
no subject
He's still totally relaxed, despite her desire to be taken as a threat. Get used to it, Heather. He's had a lifetime to master the art of infuriatingly calm.
"Considering the nature of your case and others like it, those are hardly indicators of guilt."
no subject
She let out a tiny huff from her nostrils, putting her barely-eaten sandwich down on the counter behind her before folding her arms.
"If that's the case, why am I being treated like a criminal? I couldn't even pack underwear without some asshole in latex gloves fuckin' holding it up to the light to make sure I wasn't smuggling meth in it or something. If I'm just a witness, why would they need to worry about meth panties?"
HAV U GOT AN ANSWER FOR THAT MR FBI >8I
no subject
“I'm sorry. I know telling you it's a standard safety procedure won't change that your privacy has been violated. For what it's worth, I can assure you that it is and you aren't going to prison.”
no subject
Snorting, she reached behind her and picked the sandwich back up again.
"Yeah, well. Sending me this far out in the middle of nowhere might as well be prison."
no subject
He was going to say 'it's not as isolated as it looks' but really that'd be a lie.
"I'm not a prison warden, Heather."
He starts on the other half of his sandwich mechanically, sets it down, swallows.
no subject
It was hard to tell what she said, but it was probably along the lines of 'Yeah right'.
This was going to be a long year.