Gerard "Gerry" Keay (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
skeletonkeay) wrote2023-11-19 01:51 pm
skeletonkeay) wrote2023-11-19 01:51 pm
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Point of contact for Pumpkin Hollow. Gerry can be reached by phone, mail, or a visit to his shop during business hours. Pinhole Printing and Binding is open from 11am to 6pm every day except Tuesday, because fuck Tuesday, or unless Gerry deigns otherwise.
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Frankly, even without the monstrous details, Gerry can't help but think it sounds a hell of a lot like one of his little expeditions. Wading through London's stinking underbelly in search of Journal of a Plague Year or taking long bus rides through the countryside trying to make contact with some Lonely avatar that didn't want to be found or trekking out into the woods after some Hunt relic his mum wanted.
"I typically don't unless I have to, but it's fine. There's worse things."
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Seeing him suddenly horror-stricken makes her laugh the kind of unrestrained, nasal laugh which comes as a surprise even to herself. To doubt its sincerity would be to question the most fundamental laws of the universe; an easier thing to do here than she's comfortable with. Fundamental law states that men and women don't typically have horns and stand on animal legs. Yet here she is, having been proven wrong.
"Sorry, couldn't help myself."
Carolina stares over his shoulder, chin resting atop her palm, looking utterly fascinated. Good pick, Gerry. This particular birthday is already one for the books.
"Like spending two days in a hallway? I wonder if your tolerance for worse things is skewed." She tips her glass back. Waves over another. "Camping can be fun, if you do it with the right person. And if there's no obligation hanging over your head. Things just feel... different, at night. Like you pressed pause for a while. Nothing moves, no one bothers you."
She meets his eye. "You know what I mean?"
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And there's that fascinated look. The green of her eyes, trained on something that catches her. It's common for the eyes of Beholding avatars, his ilk, to turn that color when taking something in. The association makes her eye color give the impression of constantly absorbing everything. Drawing the world in like a vortex. This moment only deepens that impression.
She's beautiful.
Gerry can't remember the last time he thought to feel embarrassment at being caught staring.
"I'd be open to it," Gerry offers. "Marrow Isle isn't short on places to camp. Mind you, they're all full of monsters, but if anyone's equipped to handle that, it's us. I've got the spookies under control, and you've got a gun."
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She could get used to a place like this. Drinks, music, an acquaintance on the odd weekend. The ecosystem they've walked into feels self-contained. Bawling enough to stave in her loudest thoughts and dark enough not to worry about being seen. An awful thing, then, that Gerry's so damn good at it.
She spots him in the blurred foreground of her vision staring fixedly ahead at her. A perfectly normal thing to do in conversation, however the trapped and slighted animal part of Carolina wants to turn away. Completely unseen.
The killer soldier in her traps this animal under its boot, then pursues him.
She wills Gerry back into focus. Golden nodules of light catch on his cheekbones and pitch his long, sharp nose in shadow. A human knife's edge.
Touching him in any way would mean imminent disaster.
For now, she's happy to consume him only with her eyes.
"I don't remember saying you were the right person," Carolina teases dryly. "But I can make do. I'll give you all the real important jobs like shaking the trees for sticks. You're tall enough." Very tall, actually. "I ran into something a couple weeks ago. This giant swarm of— I don't know, moths, butterflies— trying to attack this kid. It was a disaster."
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Amusement flowers across her face, 'stupid' caught on the tail-end of a laugh. "You can reach higher than I can, and I hate climbing trees. It works out perfectly. Don't worry, Gerry, I'll make it worth your while. Cook you up something awful like canned soup and crappy coffee."
Carolina angles herself toward him.
"Fae... I didn't know the word for it. But, yeah. That sounds right. I don't know how I couldn't believe in them even if I wanted to. It's hard when the thing's right in front of your face, buzzing around and being a nuisance."
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The neat wires in her brain spark a little. She chases down the rest of her drink.
"You're an idiot."
To any unsuspecting on-lookers, Carolina looks muscles-primed to kill him. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Do you dance?"
And like all threats, there's a clear right answer here.
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...Honestly, probably, now that he thinks about it. He wonders if she's ever known anything else, with her soldier crowd.
"Yeah, of course I dance." He offers a tattooed hand decked out in pewter rings.
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The answer to that question, although he doesn't ask it, is no.
She'd needed to get York dead-drunk to dance with her. That, and toy with him enough to think she'd sleep with him. (Cruel, she knows, but she loves dancing). Even then, he only swayed. As most jocky, cishet men tend to do.
His admission comes as a pleasant surprise. Carolina's eyes say as much, igniting like green fire.
Gerry offers her his hand.
She grabs his wrists and starts toward the empty patch of floor by the stage.
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Gerry's only had one beer, so his weird dance choices cannot be credited to drunkenness. No, the blame for his dance moves, which consist mainly of somewhat coordinated jumping and kicking, can be attributed to his growing up in the 80s and 90s, and his alternative taste in music. But he does so with enthusiasm, genuinely having fun and grinning surprisingly genuinely at Carolina as he tries to coordinate with her.
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Gerry's dance choices are odd. He kicks his feet in beats of two like there's a very large, very angry rat nipping at his ankles, and he does so without a care. Confidence in every kick, twist and arm circle. His hair flies wildly— he hasn't even bothered tying it back.
She loves it.
Carolina jumps right in, every bit as confident as a dance like this requires. Where his movements are weighted and unrestrained, her's are loose and graceful. Limbs like ribbons. Years spent at the barre doing pliés and Rond de Jambes form the structure and now movement of solid muscle.
Her two glasses of straight whisky on an empty stomach make her face feel hot and her feet feel weightless.
"Not bad!" She calls over the thundering band.
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"Phew!" Thoroughly tossed hair sticks to sweaty skin in a few places as he laughs breathlessly. An arm is thrown over Carolina's shoulder. "You picked that up quick! That was wicked."
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She's pleasantly surprised that Gerry makes it through one song, let alone three of them. She honestly doesn't know how he keeps himself upright. It's like watching a skyscraper jump on a trampoline, its hundred stories swaying left and right to the beat of folk rock. He's unable to be stopped even by the chair he swears 'came out of nowhere', and she commends him for it— without saying, obviously.
By the end of the third song, the room teeters.
Gerry slings an arm over her shoulder. Carolina scowls, irritation surging like a flamethrower's pulse, and although she threads fingers in his shirt and begins to push him away, he's just as useful as an anchor.
"You're sweaty," She mutters, eyeing the wet sheen and black tendrils plastered across his forehead. For emphasis, Carolina draws her thumb across his skin and feels dangerous doing so. For some reason. Whatever happened to hands-off.
"Let's leave."
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She bids that they leave, and Gerry doesn't protest. It is as the lady commands. A hand extends to gesture to the door. "Back to yours, then?"
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Carolina lingers, as if testing the space. Taking advantage of proximity to gleam details that might have otherwise gone unnoticed. Then she peels away from his chest to make confidently toward the door.
"It's a long walk," She warns, intent on dragging him along anyway, and made obvious by the way she looks expectantly over one shoulder. "I live in the middle of nowhere. Farmland." Her brows rise, "You up for a hike?"
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She stops, turns around.
"Is that a challenge? I could walk five laps around this whole island wearing you like a backpack."
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Okay, maybe bridal style isn't ideal for carrying weight long distances, but there's no way she's chickening out now. Not with Gerry staring at her like he's got bees in his mouth. And anyway, she's strong enough. Even if she's a little drunk.
"Fine."
Carolina meanders her way over to him, eyes him up and down a little pointedly, then scoops him up in well-muscled arms. One hand splays across his back. Heat radiates from him. She tries not to think about it. Just walk.
"Better start rehearsing your vows now."
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Gerry’s laughter, giddy and unrestrained, grates her nerves for all the wrong reasons. Again, Carolina insists on ignoring it. No point in acknowledging nothing— and this is nothing.
She’s carried dozens of soldiers like this. All he needs now is a few bullet holes in him.
She hoists Gerry once or twice to adjust her grip, then starts the long trek home.
“You have an actual response? Mm… Sentimental, then funny. I want both.”
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"When I met you, you seemed like you were barely restraining yourself from hauling me across the counter and killing me. At first glance, you seemed like just a surly, fresh-off-the-boat fighty type who didn't wanna be here and might not even last. So when I somehow managed to annoy you into liking me, I was surprised. Moreover, I was pleased with myself, 'cause it meant I'd get to see more of you," he intones in the manner of a speech. He gazes into the distance as he thinks out his words, partially skyward.
"And now I'm here, marrying you under the sunset on our birthday. Funny how life works. But I'm not complaining. Not just 'cause you'd hit me if I did," Gerry teases, looking up at her. "Thanks for being the prettiest thing to ever want to kick my ass. Of which there have been many."
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Every new sentiment is somehow worse than its predecessor. She can't fathom how he does it. They collect like cars piling one on top of the next on a city freeway, thoughtful monologue of blaring horns, runaway tires and mass casualties. She's mortified. Feels laid out across the pavement.
Carolina thinks about dropping him flat on his ass.
She thinks about bidding him goodbye and sending him off in the opposite direction, never to see him again.
She considers the horror of him— Gerry goddamn Keay, cryptic, scrawny, shoddy dye-job, covered in tattoos and cloaked in black and so, so far from the military meat-heads who she might have entertained otherwise— in the same awful, chrome-and-glass room as her father, poorly indulging his Southern traditionalism.
And what, exactly, are your intentions Mistah Keay? He'd ask in his slack-jaw drawl, and Gerry would respond with something crass or stupid or both. Probably get himself killed.
He's looking at her again. She wishes he wouldn't do that. Her face is a clenched fist.
"That's all very sweet, Gerry," She says, indulging in his stupid game of pretend before she can tell herself not to. "I'm touched." There's a lowness to her voice, as if she'll turn on him at any moment. "We can consummate the union by never speaking about it again. How's that sound?"
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Easy to pretend it's a joke. Especially when this feels like rejection. That's fine, though. She's a friend. They're friends. Gerry is fortunate to even have those, especially in such abundance. What he had before was his mother, and Gertrude Robinson, and those fucking Hunters. Beyond that, he only ever knew monsters for more than ten minutes.
Cecil was an exception. Lightning in a bottle. A bottle Gerry let crack. He cannot be trusted with another, even if he wasn't being violently shot down dead by the look on her face.
If Gerry knew what she was thinking, he'd tell her exactly how he'd handle her father. He played the role of "polite young man who just happens to be alternative" for George Stacy flawlessly until he was given a reason not to, back during the too-brief run of the Visitor's Center. Gwen, his shop girl, like a daughter to him, deserved far better than the blame and disrespect thrust upon her by her ignorant cop father, and Gerry told him so. Politely at first, then violently. His own father, long dead, was one of the ghosts haunting that Visitor's Center as well. Gerry thinks, entirely separately, of how warmly the man might have welcomed Carolina into their family. Considering Gerry's mother murdered me, I'd say he got his taste in women from me, so you're welcome! And they'd both groan with embarrassment.
"I s'pose you've suffered my commitment to the bit long enough! You can let me down."
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