( AN OPEN POST #2 )

[charmlessness]

 
 
 

you know the drill. pick your poison (not entirely limited to those listed). reply with a prompt in the form of a post, photo, song, text, voicemail, whatever your heart desires & receive a response. simple, right? right.

 
 
 

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( lydia )

[prescription]

[shesimmune]

( After the events of the last motel the supernatural gang of Beacon Hills stayed at, it'll come as a shock that they are, once again, at a motel. Granted, this one isn't known for its suicide numbers, so that's already refreshing.

They needed to get away after Allison's passing. Being in town felt too much like living in a city-sized graveyard, the ghosts of their friends following them wherever they went, so Lydia suggested that they get out of there for a while. Scott and Stiles were keen on the idea, and the next day they had packed their bags for a long weekend getaway.

The mountains felt like a bad choice — whatever lurked in the trees is something that none of them felt up for, so instead, they went south. And then east. Where they wound up was a small town on the border of California and Mexico (while still in the United States, of course, as none of them felt like going over the border), where it was hot, but not too dry, and if they wanted to go to a beach, it was only an hour's drive.

To make a long story short, they wound up finding a motel that was within their price range for Lydia to have her own bedroom, as there's no way in Hell she was rooming with both Scott and Stiles. Boys are heathens and she would rather chew her own leg off before sleeping in the same room as them.

She's lugged her bag up the stairs to the room she was assigned and locks the door behind her as she steps inside, bag set on a chair by the door. All but throwing herself on the bed, she rolls over to open the bedside dresser's drawer, hoping to find a remote to attempt to find something to watch while the boys are out grabbing food for the three of them. Instead, she finds a wallet and a handgun sitting next to the token bible; her immediate reaction is to slam the drawer shut again, eyes wide.

And in a moment that leaves her heart in the pit of her stomach, somebody then steps out of the bathroom. Lydia stands abruptly, stumbling over her feet back towards the door. )

... I think they gave me the wrong room key.

[prescription]

[ all of this is temporary — if what seth wants is to go off and pull his own job, so be it. he's told him, time and time again, not to make it personal. if they're in this, they can't cloud their thinking with past events. that's what distracts, keeps you from your goal. it's an idea that's never sat well with his brother. he wears his heart on his sleeve, after all, and who's goddamn fault is that? ( some tattoo artist's in new orleans, if we're being literal. )

so, he goes it alone. he goes it alone and he's told seth that he'll wait it out. he won't be a part of this. what happens without him isn't his responsibility. this isn't something guilt can sway. it's seth's choice and it's richie's to stay behind. he's set up at some rinky dink motel in san diego, but he isn't looking for luxury. right now, all he's looking for is a place to rethink, recuperate.

he doesn't realize how sore he is until he's stepped out of the shower. there's a small miracle, in the way the water kneads across his shoulders and back. everything he does is a method, from the way he steps out to the bathmat, to the product he slides through his hair. the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to his elbows, each button clasped to the top. he forgoes the shoes, reaching for the doorknob looking renewed, baptized.

there's something out of place, he senses it before he turns the off-brand gold. richie slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the image of a young girl on his bed coming clear into focus. he doesn't hesitate. as she makes for the door, his hands reach to the suit jacket, a gun withdrawn quickly and cocked in her direction.

he stares at her, jaw clenched. ]

You wanna tell me what you're really doing in here?

[shesimmune]

( Lydia's life has been at the hands of many people — werewolves, psychotic serial killing lizard ex-boyfriends, whatever the hell it was that Jennifer Blake actually turned out to be, but none of those are as terrifying as the gun that's currently pointed in her direction.

There's nothing she can possibly do to defend herself from a gun, and she knows that. One pull of this stranger's finger and she'd be dead on the ground before anybody even knew what was happening behind the closed door.

She could scream. After all, she is a banshee. She could scream and everyone within a mile radius would hear her; everyone in the motel would come running, but something tells her that the trigger would be pulled the second she took in a deep breath.

Thinking her life more important, and hoping that the man in front of her isn't hoping to kill a teenage girl today, Lydia holds up a hand, reaching into the pocket of her shorts with the other. Inwardly, she thanks whatever God that might exist that she decided against wearing a dress on a day where she's done nothing but sit in a car all day.

When she lifts her arm back up, she's holding a key with the room number of the room they're in, B12. )

They must have double booked us. ( Lydia holds it forward, offering it to him to show that she didn't break into his room.

As if she would break into a place like this. ) I can just go get another one. We don't even have to mention .. this.

[prescription]

[ Her answer doesn't seem out of place. This isn't the goddamn Ritz Carlton — the staff's about as incompetent as they come. Still, it isn't a misguided paranoia. When you lead a life like the Gecko brothers, you have to be on your guard at all possible times. If you feel eyes on you, there are. If you see something in the corner of your vision, there is.

There's no shortage of trouble they're into. Bad blood is sure to find them, one way or the other.

It's hesitant, but Richie's arm lowers, and he places the gun back to safety. ]

Four Rooms.

[ Judging by her expression, she hasn't seen it. Richie walks to the bedside, eyes narrowing at the sight of the open drawer. Another armed pistol resides alongside the obligatory Holy Bible. He closes it. ]

Robert Rodriguez? Quentin Tarantino? Tim Roth, he's the bellhop at this hotel — the Hotel Mon Signor? He keeps getting caught up in all these — strange happenings in all the other rooms. In this one room, David Proval, he's got his wife at gunpoint. Wants her to admit she's having an affair.

[ He inclines his head, lips turning down in something like a frown. ]

Turns out, it was just some fantasy scenario to improve their sex life.

[ Richie nods at her. ]

—What's your name?

[shesimmune]

( Oh, Lydia's brain is currently screaming at her to do something about this.

If the room wasn't already sweltering due to the temperature outside, she's sure that she'd start steaming in anger. Her jaw clenches and unclenches while she stares at him in silence as he explains the plot to some movie that she's never even heard of, let alone wanted to reenact with a real gun pointed in her direction all because the receptionist at the front desk screwed up.

This guy's gotta be different, and not in a way that she's prepared to deal with. If only her legs would remember how to move so that she could get out of here, as it appears that she's now frozen in fear.

She never thought she'd see the day that she'd take supernatural danger over everything else, but at least she (sometimes) knows how to deal with that. This? Bullets, troubled men that she can only assume to be criminals? Not exactly within her area of expertise.

He lowers his gun after what feels like a lifetime, and she takes a slow, deep breath to steady herself. Scared out of her mind or not, Lydia Martin refuses to whimper in front of anybody. )

Lydia.

( It's short, to the point.

If he thinks he's going to be getting anything else after that, then he really is out of his damn mind. )

[prescription]

You shouldn't look so freaked out, you know.

[ it's less than comforting, but richie wouldn't know how to do the thing if he tried. the basis of connection is often successful based on how comfortable one is with another. considering he's not only held his gun in her direction, but questioned her intentions before ever introducing himself? well, it doesn't take a psychologist to see he'd made a mistake.

still, this doesn't concern him. in fact, the only bother, at this point, is the mishap at the front desk. sure, he hadn't given his actual name, but you didn't miss a thing like "walter kissinger." ]

If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead.

[ richie buttons his sleeve at his elbow, echoing the motion at his other arm. he doesn't have a habit of murdering young girls, and if he did, he'd at least need a reason. the gun was meant for a threat; if this — lydia had any intention of hurting him, that look in her eyes would have long since disappeared. ]

Besides, the gun's not for pretty girls. [ he grins. the intent isn't as serious as its execution. ] It's for hotel lobbyists who don't know how to do their goddamn jobs.

[ he can hear seth's shut up, richard from miles away. ]

Forget it. Bad joke.