Entry tags:
it's all the same, only the names will change.
Luke Glanton did not become old school by choice but by circumstance. After a near death experience, he found himself living in the future. A future where the price of gasoline and cigarettes had skyrocketed while electronics continued to get smaller and smaller. Long ago, he had been with the times. His bike was always kept up to the latest mechanical standards and he knew how to operate a VCR. But in Darrow, he has had to learn decades worth of advancements in vehicle technology in the space of a couple of years in order to stay in work. It's left him with little time to tackle advances made in other fields. So no, Luke does not own an MP3 player. Back in '94, he was only just learning how to operate a CD player. He doesn't know everyone else does it, keeping all their shit in a fucking cloud or whatever it's called, but he likes to have physical copies of his music.
They call the record store a relic of the past. Luke weirdly identifies with that. Sometimes, for all that he appreciates what life in Darrow has done for him, he still feels insanely out of place. Out of time. He likes that there's somewhere he can go that feels like fighting back against the changing times. Phoenix Records doesn't look anything like the record stores Luke used to frequent — it's clean and organized, and despite the fact that most people seem to buy their music on their computers these days, they seem to do good business. But it doesn't have to be a shabby little hole in the wall for Luke to appreciate it.
He spends his first ten minutes in the store just looking around. There's been a hell of a lot of music released since 1994 and he has some catching up to do. After those first ten minutes, though, he begins to wonder if this is the best approach. He has no idea what he's looking for or where to find it. It just happens that when he looks around for an employee who might help him out, the first person he spots is someone he recognizes.
"Hey," he says, almost grinning. "We've met. Didn't I save you from some punk kid you were on a date with?"
They call the record store a relic of the past. Luke weirdly identifies with that. Sometimes, for all that he appreciates what life in Darrow has done for him, he still feels insanely out of place. Out of time. He likes that there's somewhere he can go that feels like fighting back against the changing times. Phoenix Records doesn't look anything like the record stores Luke used to frequent — it's clean and organized, and despite the fact that most people seem to buy their music on their computers these days, they seem to do good business. But it doesn't have to be a shabby little hole in the wall for Luke to appreciate it.
He spends his first ten minutes in the store just looking around. There's been a hell of a lot of music released since 1994 and he has some catching up to do. After those first ten minutes, though, he begins to wonder if this is the best approach. He has no idea what he's looking for or where to find it. It just happens that when he looks around for an employee who might help him out, the first person he spots is someone he recognizes.
"Hey," he says, almost grinning. "We've met. Didn't I save you from some punk kid you were on a date with?"
Entry tags:
thanksgiving.
Luke Glanton has never had a real Thanksgiving. He never cared for the holiday. Or he never let himself care. The distinction isn't important. What is important is that he finally has every reason for this day to matter. He has a family.
Last year, it kind of crept up on him, and he realized too late to do anything that the last Thursday in November had come. It was probably the first time in Jason's life that he didn't have that traditional feast, the first time he was away from his family for it, too, and Luke felt like a real piece of shit for not at least trying to make up for it in some way. One year later, he hasn't forgotten that feeling of having utterly failed. And he is determined that it won't happen again.
That fierce determination gets him as far as planning and shopping and hoarding recipes. But it doesn't guarantee that he'll be any good in the kitchen when the time comes. Still, he doesn't let that get to him. He can follow instructions just as well as anyone else. How hard could it be?
Really fucking hard, it turns out. He and Jason have between them a nearly negative level of skill in the culinary arts. By the time Eden knocks on the door, they have been at it for a couple of hours and have little to show for it, having had to scrap almost every attempted dish in its early stages of preparation. Fortunately, Luke had the foresight to buy multiples of everything, thinking it best to leave some room for error. But he never imagined it would be quite this disastrous. He takes one look at the state of the kitchen and wishes he and Jason had at least picked up after themselves a little better. There's little that can be done now, though.
"I'll get it," he mutters to Jason. He considers taking off his apron — it had looked plain black in the clear packaging, and only later did he discover that it must have been folded wrong, the white print hidden from sight — but figures he might as well get it over with. At least if Eden gets a laugh out of it, his mortification will have been for a good cause.
"Happy Thanksgiving," he says when he pulls the door open.
Last year, it kind of crept up on him, and he realized too late to do anything that the last Thursday in November had come. It was probably the first time in Jason's life that he didn't have that traditional feast, the first time he was away from his family for it, too, and Luke felt like a real piece of shit for not at least trying to make up for it in some way. One year later, he hasn't forgotten that feeling of having utterly failed. And he is determined that it won't happen again.
That fierce determination gets him as far as planning and shopping and hoarding recipes. But it doesn't guarantee that he'll be any good in the kitchen when the time comes. Still, he doesn't let that get to him. He can follow instructions just as well as anyone else. How hard could it be?
Really fucking hard, it turns out. He and Jason have between them a nearly negative level of skill in the culinary arts. By the time Eden knocks on the door, they have been at it for a couple of hours and have little to show for it, having had to scrap almost every attempted dish in its early stages of preparation. Fortunately, Luke had the foresight to buy multiples of everything, thinking it best to leave some room for error. But he never imagined it would be quite this disastrous. He takes one look at the state of the kitchen and wishes he and Jason had at least picked up after themselves a little better. There's little that can be done now, though.
"I'll get it," he mutters to Jason. He considers taking off his apron — it had looked plain black in the clear packaging, and only later did he discover that it must have been folded wrong, the white print hidden from sight — but figures he might as well get it over with. At least if Eden gets a laugh out of it, his mortification will have been for a good cause.
"Happy Thanksgiving," he says when he pulls the door open.
Entry tags:
this is a place where I feel at home.
He spends a long time agonizing over this, the anxiety building as the weeks pass and the date nears. He wants to get it right. He needs to get it right.
There is no making up for everything that he missed, for all of the birthdays he wasn't there for. Luke knows that. Short of crossing the universe and going back in time, there is nothing he can do to rectify past mistakes. He can only look ahead, make sure that all of his fuck ups are all in the past. And that's exactly what he's trying to do.
In the morning, when he first hears Jason stumbling around in his bedroom, presumably charting a sleepy trail for the bathroom, Luke has already been awake for a couple of hours. He is sitting at the dining table that he bought shortly after Jason moved in. He thought that having a place to eat together would make them feel more like a normal family. Tied around the back of the chair Jason favors are a few shiny balloons offering best wishes. The table is set around two plates of pancakes, eggs, and bacon from a nearby diner. Jason's gifts — professional wrapped in a store, of course — are stacked at the center. In one box, a state-of-the-art two-coil tattoo machine. In another, a set of needles. The third box contains several vials of black ink, and the in the fourth is a power supply, the clip and power cords, and a foot pedal.
When he hears the door from Jason's room open, he stands up. There's a slight, hopeful smile across his face. He can't help that anymore than he can help how fucking nervous he feels. "Morning," he says. Then, after clearing his throat, he adds, "Happy birthday."
There is no making up for everything that he missed, for all of the birthdays he wasn't there for. Luke knows that. Short of crossing the universe and going back in time, there is nothing he can do to rectify past mistakes. He can only look ahead, make sure that all of his fuck ups are all in the past. And that's exactly what he's trying to do.
In the morning, when he first hears Jason stumbling around in his bedroom, presumably charting a sleepy trail for the bathroom, Luke has already been awake for a couple of hours. He is sitting at the dining table that he bought shortly after Jason moved in. He thought that having a place to eat together would make them feel more like a normal family. Tied around the back of the chair Jason favors are a few shiny balloons offering best wishes. The table is set around two plates of pancakes, eggs, and bacon from a nearby diner. Jason's gifts — professional wrapped in a store, of course — are stacked at the center. In one box, a state-of-the-art two-coil tattoo machine. In another, a set of needles. The third box contains several vials of black ink, and the in the fourth is a power supply, the clip and power cords, and a foot pedal.
When he hears the door from Jason's room open, he stands up. There's a slight, hopeful smile across his face. He can't help that anymore than he can help how fucking nervous he feels. "Morning," he says. Then, after clearing his throat, he adds, "Happy birthday."
Entry tags:
the night starts here.
He feels like a fucking idiot. A lifetime of experience with that — with being an idiot and doing dumb shit, with saying stupid things and having terrible timing — should make it easier. But the fact that he is used to fucking up doesn't make it any less devastating when he does. And this time, he worries that he really has.
Luke didn't even realize it until it was too late, until he heard his own voice, the word already slipped from his lips. He doesn't know when it happened, that he began to think of Eden as his girlfriend. It isn't a word that he's ever used for her before, even in his own thoughts. He's always been content to leave what they have undefined. And since she never pushed for more, he's assumed the same to be true for her.
He must have been right. The evidence is in her non-response, her quick exit, her radio silence throughout the day. If she wanted to be his girlfriend, she would have said something. And maybe it's for the best that she didn't. He doesn't know the first thing about being in a relationship. She probably realizes that.
Fuck.
The worst thing is, it's too late. He already has the suit, the flowers, the dinner reservation. As much as he wishes that he could, he won't call it off now, won't be the asshole who stands her up on her birthday. He styles his hair and sprays on cologne, and rides over in a taxi because it's been raining. In the elevator, he wipes a smudge of dirt off of his shiny black shoes. Finally, he knocks at her door, takes a step back and holds the bouquet before him.
Luke didn't even realize it until it was too late, until he heard his own voice, the word already slipped from his lips. He doesn't know when it happened, that he began to think of Eden as his girlfriend. It isn't a word that he's ever used for her before, even in his own thoughts. He's always been content to leave what they have undefined. And since she never pushed for more, he's assumed the same to be true for her.
He must have been right. The evidence is in her non-response, her quick exit, her radio silence throughout the day. If she wanted to be his girlfriend, she would have said something. And maybe it's for the best that she didn't. He doesn't know the first thing about being in a relationship. She probably realizes that.
Fuck.
The worst thing is, it's too late. He already has the suit, the flowers, the dinner reservation. As much as he wishes that he could, he won't call it off now, won't be the asshole who stands her up on her birthday. He styles his hair and sprays on cologne, and rides over in a taxi because it's been raining. In the elevator, he wipes a smudge of dirt off of his shiny black shoes. Finally, he knocks at her door, takes a step back and holds the bouquet before him.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Inflation is a bitch. Back in '94, Luke could have survived off of the money from that last bank job for a good long while. Not so anymore. That money is worth about half as much these days, and he's got a teenager to feed now. A teenager who, he had to learn the hard way, doesn't like to ask for anything.
Technically, Luke doesn't have to get a job just yet. Thanks to the stipend he receives from the generous city of Darrow, he's been able to stretch that bank cash a long way. He's glad for that; those first few months here, still recovering from a bullet in his side, he couldn't have worked if he wanted to. But enough is enough; he isn't content to just get by anymore. When Jason was a baby, Luke wanted to provide, to go above and beyond, give his son everything he deserved and more. That hasn't changed.
The problem is, neither has his skill set. When it comes to finding work, he doesn't have that many options. And as much as he enjoyed being Handsome Luke, even if he could start up a solo act, it wouldn't be the responsible thing to do. Back then, it didn't matter if he got injured or worse; he had only himself to think about. Now, he has to think about the potential consequences of every little thing he does. He has no intention of getting himself killed again, not when he finally has so much to live for.
He stopped by this garage once, heard about the owner from Jax. It wasn't exactly surprising; by then, he'd run into a couple of people claiming to know others with his face. It still strikes him as crazy, but after so many months in Darrow, he's learned to roll with it. Hell, maybe it'll all work in his favor when he walks in there and asks for a job.
Luke parks on the street outside the garage, heads into the office, and asks to see the owner. He taps his fingers against his thigh as he waits. He doesn't feel nervous very often, but this place could be his only shot at gainful employment, and he doesn't want to think about what might happen if he doesn't get hired.
Technically, Luke doesn't have to get a job just yet. Thanks to the stipend he receives from the generous city of Darrow, he's been able to stretch that bank cash a long way. He's glad for that; those first few months here, still recovering from a bullet in his side, he couldn't have worked if he wanted to. But enough is enough; he isn't content to just get by anymore. When Jason was a baby, Luke wanted to provide, to go above and beyond, give his son everything he deserved and more. That hasn't changed.
The problem is, neither has his skill set. When it comes to finding work, he doesn't have that many options. And as much as he enjoyed being Handsome Luke, even if he could start up a solo act, it wouldn't be the responsible thing to do. Back then, it didn't matter if he got injured or worse; he had only himself to think about. Now, he has to think about the potential consequences of every little thing he does. He has no intention of getting himself killed again, not when he finally has so much to live for.
He stopped by this garage once, heard about the owner from Jax. It wasn't exactly surprising; by then, he'd run into a couple of people claiming to know others with his face. It still strikes him as crazy, but after so many months in Darrow, he's learned to roll with it. Hell, maybe it'll all work in his favor when he walks in there and asks for a job.
Luke parks on the street outside the garage, heads into the office, and asks to see the owner. He taps his fingers against his thigh as he waits. He doesn't feel nervous very often, but this place could be his only shot at gainful employment, and he doesn't want to think about what might happen if he doesn't get hired.
Entry tags:
blame it upon a rush of blood to the head.
For the first time in his life, everything was going well. He should have known that it wouldn't last, but he was dumb and hopeful. Life had fucked him over from start to finish, and maybe he thought that it made sense, to finally find peace here. Maybe he thought that the universe was finally giving him his due. But he realized now that the universe didn't work that way. It didn't give without also taking, and Luke had been given everything. Which meant that he stood to lose it all.
He can't remember ever feeling so shaken. Somehow, even dying was easier. He had nothing then, and no expectation of things getting better. But against all odds, they did. Only he didn't want to admit how fragile it all was, his quiet existence here, his normal life. It's almost funny, how one man could bring it all crashing down.
Luke doesn't know what it means for him, that Cross is here in the city. He didn't stick around long enough to find out. Every second he spent in that asshole's presence was a gamble, bringing him closer to the edge of control. He forced himself to walk away before he could do any damage. And he should be proud of that; it's more than he's ever managed before. In another life, he would have killed the son-of-a-bitch, on that crowded street in broad daylight, witnesses and all. He wouldn't have thought the consequences through before pounding Cross's skull into the pavement. If only taking the high road felt half as satisfying as the crack of bone under his knuckles.
After, he doesn't know what to do with himself. He rides out past the city limits, where the road seems to stretch on forever, and he drives for hours and hours. By sundown, the bike is running on empty, and he reluctantly heads back to civilization. But instead of stopping for gas, he speeds past every station, weaving through traffic until he reaches High Gate Terrace. He hesitates at her door, hand hovering in the air, and he almost turns around. He hasn't thought this through, doesn't know what he'll say. But he knocks anyway, because the alternative is returning home to Jason, and he isn't ready for that yet.
He can't remember ever feeling so shaken. Somehow, even dying was easier. He had nothing then, and no expectation of things getting better. But against all odds, they did. Only he didn't want to admit how fragile it all was, his quiet existence here, his normal life. It's almost funny, how one man could bring it all crashing down.
Luke doesn't know what it means for him, that Cross is here in the city. He didn't stick around long enough to find out. Every second he spent in that asshole's presence was a gamble, bringing him closer to the edge of control. He forced himself to walk away before he could do any damage. And he should be proud of that; it's more than he's ever managed before. In another life, he would have killed the son-of-a-bitch, on that crowded street in broad daylight, witnesses and all. He wouldn't have thought the consequences through before pounding Cross's skull into the pavement. If only taking the high road felt half as satisfying as the crack of bone under his knuckles.
After, he doesn't know what to do with himself. He rides out past the city limits, where the road seems to stretch on forever, and he drives for hours and hours. By sundown, the bike is running on empty, and he reluctantly heads back to civilization. But instead of stopping for gas, he speeds past every station, weaving through traffic until he reaches High Gate Terrace. He hesitates at her door, hand hovering in the air, and he almost turns around. He hasn't thought this through, doesn't know what he'll say. But he knocks anyway, because the alternative is returning home to Jason, and he isn't ready for that yet.
Entry tags:
song of the shepherd's dog.
While out buying cigarettes, Luke Glanton is intercepted. He was on his way back to his building already, smoking the first from the pack as he walked, when a big ass dog came out of nowhere and started scratching at his feet. He always liked dogs, and would have killed for one of his own as a kid. If he was lucky, the foster family he was staying with at the time would already have one, but otherwise, he was shit out of luck. Then he got older, joined a traveling carnival, and hauling a dog across state lines just didn't seem fair, especially when the dog wouldn't be allowed out at nights when Luke was performing and carnival goers filled every last square inch of the grounds. Now, he smirks down at the one that just ran up to him, holding the cigarette up over his head as he kneels down to pet it. He — definitely a he, Luke confirms — looks taken care of, and curiously, Luke looks around for the owner.
Entry tags:
Law man has put an end to my running and I'm so far from my home.
If he expected to wake up at all, it was in a hospital bed, clinging to life while strapped to a bunch of shit creating a soundtrack of high-pitched beeping that would threaten to send him over the edge, making him even crazier than that trapeze artist who once tricked him into break-up sex only to try to squeeze the breath from him between her impressively toned thighs. Such was his reward for selflessly offering to take the first turn.
Instead, he comes to slumped in the window seat in a fancy train car the likes of which he's only seen in very old movies. He wasn't even sure these things ran anymore except from coast to coast, and sure as hell not departing from anywhere near Schenectady. His best theory is that Robin found him somehow, dragged his ass onto the first train out and they're on the run now, headed away from his son and Ro at fuck-all miles per hour. And if that's the case, he just might shoot Robin this time, 'cause that wasn't his choice to make and it definitely wasn't the one Luke would have made for himself. He almost thinks that looking at the same three walls and sixteen vertical bars in that jail cell for the next however many years might be worth the occasional visit from his son. With his kid in the rearview, there's nothing the west could offer him now. He makes to get up and find that son of a bitch Robin, to see if he can finally drill that into his fucking head, but trying to sit up sends a sharp wave of agony through his right side, reaching deep down someplace where he's never felt more than the occasional pang of hunger. He grunts and collapses back into the seat, gagging and panting like he's just run a 5K.
It takes him what feels like at least half an hour to lift himself onto his feet, then another ten minutes to haul himself the few feet down the aisle to wait by the door. Between then and the time it takes for the train to reach whatever station it finally rolls into, he guesses it's been an hour since he first woke, and he's feeling lightheaded and weak as he stumbles onto the platform, reluctantly beginning to accept that his only option now is to find an emergency room. The front of his coveralls are soaked through with more blood than he knew he had. He starts walking toward the information kiosk at a snail's pace, each step exerting him more than every weight-lifting session he's ever endured, and after only five measly steps he's falling forward onto the ground, wheezing. He realizes, vaguely, how strange it is that the train car was entirely empty, and that there not be another soul on the platform in what looks like the middle of the afternoon. He doesn't know how he got away from that cop and that house, from the whole damn town, but if he makes it through this injury, he might just be home free. The cop couldn't have had any time to make his face, it all happened to fast; if he survives, he could sneak back into town without anyone the wiser. Suddenly, there's nothing else for him to do but to make it out of this alive and get back to Jason and Ro, 'cause if he's getting this second chance, it must be for a reason. For that reason.
Fighting through the blinding pain, Luke makes yet another attempt to climb back onto his feet, grunting as loud as he will since no one's around to hear either way. And if someone is, shit, even he's not pigheaded enough to deny that he could use their help right now.
Instead, he comes to slumped in the window seat in a fancy train car the likes of which he's only seen in very old movies. He wasn't even sure these things ran anymore except from coast to coast, and sure as hell not departing from anywhere near Schenectady. His best theory is that Robin found him somehow, dragged his ass onto the first train out and they're on the run now, headed away from his son and Ro at fuck-all miles per hour. And if that's the case, he just might shoot Robin this time, 'cause that wasn't his choice to make and it definitely wasn't the one Luke would have made for himself. He almost thinks that looking at the same three walls and sixteen vertical bars in that jail cell for the next however many years might be worth the occasional visit from his son. With his kid in the rearview, there's nothing the west could offer him now. He makes to get up and find that son of a bitch Robin, to see if he can finally drill that into his fucking head, but trying to sit up sends a sharp wave of agony through his right side, reaching deep down someplace where he's never felt more than the occasional pang of hunger. He grunts and collapses back into the seat, gagging and panting like he's just run a 5K.
It takes him what feels like at least half an hour to lift himself onto his feet, then another ten minutes to haul himself the few feet down the aisle to wait by the door. Between then and the time it takes for the train to reach whatever station it finally rolls into, he guesses it's been an hour since he first woke, and he's feeling lightheaded and weak as he stumbles onto the platform, reluctantly beginning to accept that his only option now is to find an emergency room. The front of his coveralls are soaked through with more blood than he knew he had. He starts walking toward the information kiosk at a snail's pace, each step exerting him more than every weight-lifting session he's ever endured, and after only five measly steps he's falling forward onto the ground, wheezing. He realizes, vaguely, how strange it is that the train car was entirely empty, and that there not be another soul on the platform in what looks like the middle of the afternoon. He doesn't know how he got away from that cop and that house, from the whole damn town, but if he makes it through this injury, he might just be home free. The cop couldn't have had any time to make his face, it all happened to fast; if he survives, he could sneak back into town without anyone the wiser. Suddenly, there's nothing else for him to do but to make it out of this alive and get back to Jason and Ro, 'cause if he's getting this second chance, it must be for a reason. For that reason.
Fighting through the blinding pain, Luke makes yet another attempt to climb back onto his feet, grunting as loud as he will since no one's around to hear either way. And if someone is, shit, even he's not pigheaded enough to deny that he could use their help right now.