Harry
Winter is deathly silent when there's snow on the ground. The only sounds to narrate Hazel's journey are those of her huffed-out breaths and the crunch of frost beneath her boots. It's a horribly dreary day, and rather unseasonable in the context of the reason she's hauled out here today. Loathe as she is to admit it, though, there is some small comfort in how few people are out today. Briar Ridge is, after all, woefully small. 

She's heading out from her little row of commercial buildings and making her way north. In truth, Hazel doesn't really know which house is the Barcas'. It strikes her that Valerian's car may not be there as a visual cue. *He* Might not even be there, after all, maybe having been spirited away to the other side of the mountain or something.

No matter. If he's not there to help her she can figure something out on her own. The events of the last full moon lit a fire under her ass. She cannot help but replay over and over her own inadequacy. A hatpin? It hadn't been a totally stupid idea. Except, yes it had. Sure, she'd managed to find purchase in the beast's muscle, but if no one else had been there to fire a few rounds into it, Hazel might have met the same fate as Oswald Katz did in October. 

She knew why she'd done it, of course, at the time. No one would have questioned a woman for having a nonweapon – a woman's weapon. The desire to *Be* Unassuming had dwarfed the need to merely appear so. Hazel didn't like it. Her lack of control over any aspect of this situation has left her backsliding into a version of herself she'd attempted to leave in Roanoke. Unsuccessful, she's elected to honor it. The girl who'd left Roanoke isn't the same young woman who runs her own business here in Briar Ridge, but in the same breath, she hasn't really changed at all, only gotten better at softening herself. Marginally, anyway.
_ _

Under her thick coat she can feel heat generating on her back. It reminds her of the moment that Valerian's gunshot split the air. That sensation hadn't been from a wool coat, though, it'd been a button-down shirt and a pair of arms, the encircling feeling of which she was doing her best not to center in her idle moments. 

Hazel's face is uncharacteristically clouded when she arrives on the doorstep of the house she *Hopes* Is the right one. She knocks so quietly that she almost wonders if she's trying to give herself an excuse to say that no one is home. Her prepared speech dances on the tip of her tongue, and she prepares herself to force it out – unless, of course, one of Mr. Barca's siblings answers the door, or, God forbid, the nurse he'd mentioned offhand.
Teresa
Had he not been sleeping in the living room, blanket haphazardly thrown over his body in an attempt to catch twenty minutes of sleep as his house and his life and everything falls apart, he may not have heard her knock. But alas - his terrors and his fits and his nightmares have kept him here, a silent watchdog for Liam Whitaker's things as the handyman was slowly piecing back together some of the life that the Barca estate once had. Quiet, he sits forward, wiping the crust from the corners of his mouth and grabbing his glasses.

What a mess he has made of himself - in looking at himself in the living room mirror, he sees his faults. He sees his failures. The dark, violet circles under his eyes, the pallid color of his skin. Perhaps this is divine retribution; perhaps every sinner does end up punished in the order of the ferocity of their sin. Was Valerian Barca not a good man? Had he not protected enough people in his selfishness? Why did it matter who he chose to protect and who he didn't?

"*Just a moment!*" He calls out, but perhaps Hazel might be able to see him through the window, see the way he smooths down his shirt and collects his jacket and slides it on - how protected he has to be right now, as if to say *Look, I'm fine.* Everything is always fine - it must be, when you are a Barca. When you are *Valerian Barca.* 

He makes his way to the door, now, opening it up - expecting someone from the Anti-Werewolf Coalition, face alighting in shock when it's Hazel in front of him. "Haz- Miss Calhoun," He says, his voice a bit soft, a bit relieved. "Please, come in - mind the state of the house. Mr. Whitaker is working on it currently."
Harry
It's hard not to peek through the window. Hazel doesn't know what she'd expect to see there anyway – more than likely it's an attempt to see who is answering the door. At this she has to laugh at herself a little. In every avenue, no matter how small, she's wired to find a means of leveraging control. (What an exhausting quirk.) When the door swings open she's relieved to see Valerian himself standing in the threshold rather than someone to whom she might have had to further explain herself. 

"I'm sorry for bargin' in," She continues. "I just didn't know if I'd see you before the full moon, and I... Oh, wow." 

Before Hazel can arrive at the reason she's dropped by unannounced, she feels the sudden pricking-up of goosebumps on her arms, the back of her neck. Valerian is tall, and the doorway is dark; the house is darker still behind him, decidedly unwelcoming. There's a familiar fluttering in her gut as her instincts tell her not to enter. She enters anyway when she sees the shadows under his eyes. Empathy softens her face as she takes stock of the state of him, but in the face of the dread the house inspires, that softness mutes itself in favor of something harder and blunter. Under a thick scarf and layers of clothing, the weight of her crucifix is cold against her skin.

Hazel knows of the Whitakers only tangentially, but she knows enough to know they are another family on a long list of those who have had holes blown into their family tree courtesy of the Company. How and why Mr. Whitaker has come to find himself in Valerian's employ is a matter of intrigue. Hazel can't keep the mild surprise off of her face in the half-second it takes to register this information. There is a part of her that is grateful to know it, though. That there is at least one other person in Briar Ridge who is treating him with kindness. The guilt associated with that feeling is sticky and unwelcome on the soles of her shoes.
_ _

"Well, I came to ask a favor," She begins again, "But lookin' at you now, maybe it's me who should do somethin' for you," She thinks aloud, glancing nervously around as though some shadowed hand might reach out from a nearby wardrobe and yank her inside to be devoured. 

"And Hazel's fine, actually. Um, is Mr. Whitaker plannin' on blessin' the place?" She asks dryly. It's a facetious enough comment, but when she stops to find Valerian again her face is laden with genuine concern. She's aware of it in the sort of way a public speaker might be aware that they were visibly sweating – it's displeasing to know, but try as she might there doesn't seem to be much she can do about the reflex.
Teresa
Valerian knows what he is, what his home has become. He is unsurprised by her reaction, if a bit despondent as a result. Still, she is here - which means is strange bravery hadn't *Quite* Ran her off. What, with the speakeasy and then with the werewolf attack. (He still feels the embers of her body heat against him as he fired that silver bullet into that mutt-like thing. How cold he has been since.) A smile leaves him at that— that he is able to make a mistake and recover from it. He is not just being given a chance, but a second one. Maybe, if he must press his luck, a third.

"No," He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck with a chuckle. His laugh is warm and meaningful, like the embers of the fireplace that he refuses to put out. Like despite the pain, despite the punishment, he is a good man - a man who knows how to laugh and be bashful in the presence of something he considers embarrassing. He is like the other men of high repute in this town; something staining his personage cannot stay for long, else it will chew him up like a spider and spit him back out into a web carefully crafted by a weaver more skilled than he.

His eyes look now to Hazel.

"It appears I'll have to put a notice on the board to have my house cleaned *And* Cleansed. Regardless — please. Doing a favor for you gives me welcome company and a good distraction." There is a letter on the table; if keen eyes peered at it, it would be revealed to be a strongly worded letter to S&C regarding a demand for a meeting with a company representative, *Vitriol* In the words and in his demand. How shocking it is that such stern lettering comes from a man who looks at her so kindly. Without saying much, he beckons her into the kitchen proper - pours her a cup of coffee, something warm to soothe the soul. Heavens know he's had enough of it already.

"So," He says, sipping his own, black. "What can I do for you, Hazel?"
Harry
She wonders what he's written on the page there, but only for a moment. It's true that there is some comfort in not knowing what's actually on the page. Besides, her literacy is a skill in progress; the day is still far away when Hazel will be able to glance at a page for a half-second and glean everything she needs to know. Valerian is both more interesting and a more intimidating figure on which to train her eyes, but she does it with sheepishness adorning her face.

There's a twinkle in her eye as he hands her a cup of coffee. A gracious smile blooms on her face for a moment, but melts away into a matter-of-fact expression as the cup pours life back into her fingers – she hates the loss of dexterity that winter gloves cause, and shoves her hands into her pockets when she can help it. 

"I was hopin' you would teach me to shoot," She begins, looking a great deal more confident than she sounds. "I want a gun this time." There are a few reasons why she feels so strongly about it, but she's rehearsed this moment several times on the walk over here and come to the conclusion that it's best to let those explanations pop up organically.

Hazel is naive, but she's aware to at least some extent that Valerian sees a sweetness in her that she doesn't see in herself. Inevitably he'll see the jagged edge. Hazel's agency is among the most important things in her life. She's had it longer than anything else. To lose it every full moon has been making her feel powerless in a way she can't stand. She loses it again for a moment when she hears the way he says her name. She looks down at his hands on his coffee cup and lingers there, momentarily captivated by the curvature of a knuckle.

"And I trust you," She adds, because it feels like it matters. "Or I wouldn't have come."

There is some convincing of the self here, mostly because he's a man and she's a woman and Hazel is nothing if not prim and a little stunted. She's doing her best, though.
Teresa
Is it that perhaps he does not already see the jagged edge, see how it forms against his own, as if they are two pieces of a poorly-made puzzle meant to slot against one-another as they are right now? He listens to her as if he is a preacher and the mouthpiece of some God who has long since turned his back on people like Valerian Barca and Hazel Calhoun. He watches her speak, eyes trained on her lips and how they curve around each syllable. Had he been any more tired, he may have been transfixed on the slope of her lips rather than the words he was saying, but he does not. Instead, he listens, nodding. It is well within her right to want a more powerful weapon.

"I'll teach you," He agrees, and perhaps he may have needed some convincing had it been anyone else, but this is Hazel. Hazel, who despite his frustrations and his... *Valerian-ness*, has returned to the Barca estate every time. Hazel, who despite seeming complacent with everything that Briar Ridge has given her, shares a sparkle that exists in his own eye, a drive for something more. He wonders what in particular has pushed her to this point, and yet... He feels like he already knows. *Control.* To be in control of one's own life despite the circumstances, to be practiced and poised and... Authentic. To know that there is some aspect of your creation not puppeteered by another force.

_ _
His eyes look back at the letter on the table.

"I'll be keeping the pistol," He says matter of factly. He doesn't know what S&C may have planned for this pistol, and for anything that may come of it, but if there is any foul play, Valerian knows he cannot let Hazel be caught in the crossfire. This is his cross to bear. "But I have a hunting rifle. My father taught me how to shoot on it. It's quite the nice gun - unless you're fumbling through trying to reload it while someone else is sticking a pair of scissors into a beast's shoulder."

A tilt of his head. In another life, he's Briar Ridge's friendly accountant.

"When would you like to get started?"
Harry
She hadn't expected it to be quite so easy. Hazel's surprise registers only in the momentary stilling of her cup as she brings it to her mouth. She'd been almost certain there would be some pushback. She almost wishes there had been, as though selfishly she wanted to be told that she was too *Something* To be taught, something womanly and delicate and gentle. In spite of her ribbon and muslin and penchant for neutrals, she is hardly so delicate as she makes herself out to be. 

Then again... She's only come to Valerian because she *Knew* He wouldn't refuse her. And he hasn't. He must know on some level, then, and see that she's tough. It's silly to think otherwise – he has, after all, seen her twice launch herself right at the beast. The first time, he'd replaced her scissors when she'd ruined them. The second time, he'd grabbed her and yanked her out of proximity. She recalls the moment and suddenly it feels a little improper to have come over here by herself. Hazel has no desire to explore whether she has actually flushed or if it's just warm in here under her layers. His question yanks her out of that fluttering feeling – calling it *Dread* Doesn't feel right, but there is the sensation of standing on a precipice. 

"Now," She answers quickly. "If you have the time. I know you weren't expectin' me for another week." Hazel wears an apology on her face when she looks up at him. He looks so *Tired.* It doesn't feel quite so brazen to be seen acknowledging this, now that she knows a little more about what he sees in her. Perhaps it isn't quite so humiliating to be seen as she's been anticipating. 
_ _

"If you're up to it now. I can come back. Just didn't want to leave it much longer," She explains, feeling thoroughly embarrassed to have caught him in a state of metaphorical undress, despite not really minding a wrinkle or a shadowed eye. These last few months she doesn't think she's seen a day without either. She knows enough about Valerian, though, to know that this is not the way he would want to present himself to her. As if to acknowledge this, she averts her eyes for a moment.
Teresa
The way that Valerian Barca views Hazel Calhoun is like a kaleidoscope. He knows she is brave and ruthless - she must be to be a Briar Ridge woman, to be everything and nothing whenever she wanted to be. He knows she plays him like a fiddle, works her way into his ribcage like a thorny rosebush and plucks at his heart until he gives her whatever she wants. And yet - oh, and yet, he does not mind the sting. If he bleeds for her, at least he has purpose - at least then, he is finding some semblance of repentance in a graveyard filled with bodies he put there.

"I always have time for you," He tells her, and if she were to search deeper for any semblance of a lie, there would not be one. Loyalty breeds loyalty - and if she can give him clientele, company, good conversation, he can give her the resources she needs to feel safe. That is the duty of a man, isn't it? That's what he's been fighting for all this time? That's what he's betrayed all of Briar Ridge for, isn't it? Safety? "Come along to the back of the house with me. The rifle is with the car in the shed." 

A distraction - yes, he thinks he could do with one of those. A tender little thing to nurse an otherwise hemmoraging wound. It will not be like this forever, of this he knows, and yet ... Why does it feel like this will be his state of mind for eternity? He has to just survive the next full moon. Once he does this, he knows he'll be safe. He knows he will have defended himself appropriately from the powers that be. Once that is done, and he knows there is peace, he knows he will be safe. He knows that everything he's bled for over the last few weeks will have meant something.

_ _


"Have you ever fired a gun before, Hazel?" He asks as they step outside, the aforementioned shed in the distance.
Harry
Because of who she is, she does search deeper in that statement. It catches her by surprise to hear expressed aloud the idea that her faith in him wouldn't have been ill-placed, even for something so relatively small as a day of shooting lessons. Hazel studies him carefully and with unabashed eyes. She can all but smell his surety. 

It's a funny thing, to find oneself reliant on another person when one has only ever relied on oneself. It is both much tricker and much easier than she might have expected. Valerian is a smooth talker. He is, as it happens, just the sort of man she wouldn't dare trust if she'd met him somewhere else. In the context of this new world, this warped and crumbling limbo, it doesn't really matter whether he has been the devil in anyone's book. To Hazel, for whom tenderness exists almost chiefly in concept, his hand has only ever been gentle and generous. 

*'The rifle is with the car in the shed.'* At this Hazel nods, feeling newly assured. Obediently she follows, analyzing the size of the kitchen as they pass through it. *Not too hard to clean,* Her brain chirps on autopilot. Someone she recognizes as *My brother Florian* Says a hello she's not meant to stop and indulge, but Hazel stops for a half a second anyway, mouth set into a tiny *O* Before she continues. The idea that she's been a topic of conversation under this roof is newly flustering, and Hazel is grateful for the wintry air as they step outside. She tugs her scarf looser, and the flush on her neck begins to recede.

It strikes her that she will not know why he'd been talking about her unless she asks. She won't ask, of course. He tacks her name onto the end of his question and he might as well need to repeat the whole thing.

"Well. No," She begins, "But it can't be much harder than it looks, can it?"

It probably can. Unused to having to practice a skill from the position of a true beginner, she's doing her best to wrestle her pride.
Teresa
"Not really," He laughs, "At least, once you get past the recoil."

He admires her surety, her pride in picking up a new talent. They are cut from the same cloth, dug from the same earth, despite not knowing one-another before now. Valerian is many things, including a liar, but he does not lie to Hazel as they enter the shed, where Valerian's used-yet-well-maintained Model T sits underneath one of many, many tarps that have become a fixture at the Barca Estate, and the shooting rifle hangs on the wall, accompanied by the ammunition it shoots and a pair of antlers. There is proof, here, that Valerian was a boy once - that perhaps this had been the haven that he and his father took up when the world was all but too loud, long before Valerian's abscond from Briar Ridge turned him into the monster that rivaled the wolves.

There is proof, here, as Valerian picks up one of the tall benches with ease, bringing it out into the yard and pointing it away from the house, that he was once a young man who, had his father not died, may have ended up one of many blue collar men with callused hands that knew how to gently touch a wife and children at the end of a long day. Perhaps, in some ways, in other lives, Valerian may have worked the same mines he rules over now - but as he turns back to Hazel, and warms his bare hands in adherence to the cold, there is evidence that perhaps Valerian Barca may have ended up a banker, an accountant. Someone that the people of Briar Ridge could trust with their money. Someone who, educated, could stand up and bite back against S&C and anyone else who may encroach on the style of living his home had.

But these are not those lives. And Valerian Barca, like it or not, is a slave to S&C in exchange for his safety. For his siblings' safety.

He sets up the cans on boxes, the bench just high enough for it to be good practice for Hazel - if a bit short for himself. Alas, this isn't about him, and there is divinity in selflessness as he returns, claiming the rifle off of the wall. It's a standard practice hunting rifle, but in the wall of the butt of the gun, there is a small metal plate affixed to the side, engraving on it in an uneducated but determined hand: *Happy birthday, Valerian. - Dad"*

"This is a Savage 1920 bolt action rifle," He says, educated on the topic as he looks it over, "A very nice hunting rifle, mainly used for hunting deer, but in the right hands, it serves well against the wolves because it can hold multiple bullets before needing to reload." Sitting now against the bench, he lays the gun in his lap, beginning to load the bolt-action chamber with .300 Savage ammunition. Nine rounds was all one had before needing the critical time to reload - he would know. He fired several shots into the wolf before needing to reload; that mistake cost them time, a pair of scissors, and Oswald Katz. His current handgun only takes six bullets - but he only needs to fire one shot. "Every nine times you pull the trigger, you'll need to reload. So make them count." 

He rises, gesturing to the several cans-and-crates he's let out, and brings Hazel back a bit, handing her the rifle. "May I touch you?" He asks, ever the gentleman. "To help show you how to hold it, of course."
Harry
*The recoil?* It's a word she's heard used tangentially in relation to guns, only ever in passing. She doesn't know a thing about what it might mean. Valerian can't know this, and so she smiles like she gets the joke. 

Hazel listens obediently as he explains the gun's mechanics. *Nine bullets. Nine bullets. Nine bullets,* She thinks, committing it to memory and all the while reflecting on the ease with which he recalled the information. *Hazel! Nine bullets.*

She feels herself still as he places the gun in her hands. It's unexpectedly solid, and heavier than it looks. The wood and metal are cold against the palms of her hands. The knowledge settles into Hazel that a weapon like this rarely allows its wielder to forget what they are holding. Shame flutters in her belly as she notices that she's not uncomfortable with the weapon itself, it's the fact that it's such an intentional choice. Fire is such an easy way to destroy something in that it only takes a moment of ill-timed contact for an entire house to go up in flames. A gun is decisive, exacting. A gun in the wielder's hand is an assumption of intent. Woe become her, it's thrilling.

Now that the gun is hers to hold, Hazel is afraid to take her eyes off of it, like it's going to discharge and splatter her insides across the side of the garage. 

He asks to touch her. The question takes her by surprise; even paired with its fairly innocuous explanation, Hazel is unused to touch. When she doles it out there is significance attached. When she allows it, there is more still. She knows she can put her trust into Valerian Barca because she sees in him the same duality which torments her. Valerian, labeled as ill-intentioned in spite of his honor and written off as selfish in spite of his generosity. Hazel sees these things. Because she does not want to be another person to dismiss his goodness, and because she would want someone to see her own, she nods her consent. 
_ _

"Uh-huh. Am I holdin' it right?" She asks, finding suddenly that the barrel of the rifle is infinitely more interesting to look at than anything else.
James
With permission now, Valerian leans in to adjust her. His hands are cold against her covered flesh, but not terribly so - this is instead just the gentle touch of someone who naturally runs cool for one reason or another. He pulls her shoulders straight, settling the rifle in her right arm properly. "Right arm holds the grip," He tells her, speaking quietly now that they are closer together. He touches her like she's fragile, like she'll break, if he gets too close. He adjusts her wrist so that the grip doesn't hurt in her hand, and now he turns her elbow out to give it a rest to settle in, "Elbow out, but not overtly so. When you fire the rifle, you'll get some pushback - recoil - so having the gun here keeps you from dropping it. Or worse, it hurts you. Be sure this is snug."

And now, he moves behind her, his head next to hers as his arms wrap around her, guiding her to settle in, showing her how to distribute her weight by distributing his own. "It may be tempting to close one eye to shoot the rifle, but don't - it only will make you miss. Both eyes open, straight ahead, and only put your finger on the trigger when you're ready to fire. I'll stand behind you the first time so that the recoil doesn't knock you off your feet."

He chuckles - being so close, his laugh feels warm, real, like the embers of a fireplace ready to roar with something he's not so sure he can put a name to yet. He smiles, here, and settles in behind her. "When I was a boy, my father thought it would be funny not to tell me about the recoil. I ended up covered in mud. Stumbled backwards into a creekbank, if you can imagine." He doesn't meet her gaze, here, but instead focuses down the cans in front of her. "I won't let you fall, though. Whenever you're ready, point the tip of the gun towards one of the cans, and pull the trigger. It's easier than you think."
Harry
At seven years old, Hazel entered the workforce and from then on, physical contact was a rarity. When it did happen it was usually brief and unwarranted, or meant to correct. The first gentle touch she could remember (whose face she could remember) was Mr. Bergman, her mentor, whose wrinkled hands were dotted with liver spots and whose most violent act was likely the repeated impalement of his favorite pincushion. The last gentle touch she could remember had come from Mrs. Bigby, who upon meeting Hazel on her first day in Briar Ridge, had patted her hands and wished her very good luck. The elderly, it seemed, had a soft spot for her. Fat lot of good it had done her back then.

It just isn't something she knows how to approach. Hazel craves touch, in theory. In practice it seems an entirely daunting task, a sentiment which proves correct in the ensuing moments. There's nothing improper whatsoever about the way Valerian touches her. She still feels like she's misstepping, somehow. He moves behind her and she starts to kick herself inwardly. Her brow furrows as she focuses in, hard, on the targets in front of her. In the same awkward moment he's doing the same thing. There's something human about that that leaves her feeling grateful, but the moment passes into mild dread at his story about falling into the mud. 


She digs her heels into the ground and braces herself as best she can. She's banking hard on beginner's luck not to send her hurtling backwards, mostly because she has no idea what the strength of this recoil actually is and the idea that she may really be knocked over is genuinely disconcerting. That, and if she *Does* Get yoinked backwards, it's only going to overwhelm her. The embarrassment she knows would follow is just a little too much for her to handle right now, and it's certainly not why she came here today.
_ _

The weight of the gun is a cold, steely reminder of why she's come here, and Hazel takes her time lining up her shot. Her first target is a short, stout can, mostly because a square seems easier to hit than a rectangle.

Slowly, her finger hooks its way around the trigger and rests there, feather-light. When she thinks she's got it, she fires. The bullet disappears. Almost immediately it's evident that it's made a home in the bark of the oak tree behind the fence, too far for Hazel's preference but too close for her to grant herself any sympathy. In the same moment, she jerks backwards. The butt of the gun manages to slip just enough out of her grip to bump her diaphragm, hard. It knocks the wind out of her and she gasps. Embarrassed, she sets her mouth into a line. 

"Bullshit." It's probably the first time she's sworn in front of him. "Again. What did I do wrong?" She asks, squinting straight ahead as though she can will him out of being able to see her.
James
She misses - it's to be expected - and yet Valerian smiles empathetically at such a thing. He pulls away, the embers of her body heat warming him better than his winter coat. "Everyone misses their first time," He chuckles, laughing at how taken aback he was by her cursing. Certainly, she's got the aptitude for it, but for some reason to him, it was unexpected. As if sometimes he forgets Hazel is equal parts lady and woman, and the terms can be conflated if he needed them to. "Don't beat yourself up over it. Now that you're used to the recoil, try it again. Try aiming for a bigger target - one of the taller cans, for example. The bigger the surface area, the easier to hit. You can do it, Hazel."

Her name fits so weirdly in his mouth, like he's taken too big of a bite of something and can't swallow it down. He doesn't know what his problem is, or why he feels compelled to tack her name on to the end of the sentences, but perhaps it's like stretching a muscle. Maybe it's working some automatic reflex, like saying *Hazel* Will be as easy as saying *Miss Calhoun,* Or perhaps he's practicing to have it next to other names, to add it to a roster - *Valerian and Hazel and Olivia and Florian.*

He shakes his head, and he stands a reasonable distance away so as to not fall victim to acrid gunpowder being splattered against his winter coat, but he watches from behind her, staring down one of the taller cans in tandem with her, as if more eyes on the same target will create a higher chance to hit. Unfortunately, the world didn't work that way, and instead, Valerian finds himself in the ghost steps of someone who came before him. *You can do it, Val.* A hand reaches to the back of his neck, as if looking for hair that he had grown out as a teenager and cut off when interviewing for jobs. Finding none of it here, he explores again the idea that someone else exists in this body. He shakes his head.

He closes his eyes when Hazel pulls the trigger.
Harry
Hazel could really give less of a shit that everyone misses their first time. *She* Doesn't like to mess up. More specifically, there is a pathway in her brain far too embedded to reroute which is wired not to make mistakes, not to do things wrong. There's a reason why Hazel is neat as a pin, and why she panics when she's in danger of missing a deadline. 

Yeah, yeah. Bigger is easier. She knows this, of course, but hadn't even considered it until she'd heard it spoken aloud, which is further embarrassing. Hazel's neck flushes red. Her brow furrows into a frown as she stares hard ahead of her.

Her attempt to refocus is temporarily thwarted by the realization that she doesn't mind the circumstances, and then the thought that even though it's only a first name, *Hazel* Is really as close as he can get to the real thing. There is no Miss Calhoun, really. Or there is, but she lives in Chattanooga, probably married to some financier-type. Miss Calhoun has never taken tobacco or scrubbed a floor. She's most *Definitely* Never fired a gun. It's the first time in a long while that the differences between Hazel and Miss Calhoun inspire any feeling in her besides hame. At this moment, she's grateful for her own grit.

There's a little tinge of embarrassment when she realizes no one is coming back up behind her. Hazel relaxes a little – one new thing at a time is more than enough for now. Christ alive. Why is it so distracting to know she's being watched? She knows, logically, that she's not being judged. When she decided to hold his opinion of her in such high value is as much of a revelation as it is a mystery. Hazel inhales deeply and lets the air sit in her lungs for a good few moments before she exhales in a *Whoosh,* Ice crystals streaming out in front of her.
_ _

When the fog of her breath clears away, she lines up her shot. She takes a hearty moment to make sure she feels good about it. *Don't shut your eyes. Don't shut your eyes.* She's pinned the remainder of her confidence on this shot – 

*Bang!*

– And it lands. There's a high, metallic *Zwing!* Noise as the bullet pierces the empty can and it goes flying somewhere. Hazel's not looking where. There's a thrill in hitting her target that she's never experienced before, and when she turns around to look at Valerian, she's grinning like a madman. 

"Va-*Ler*-ian," She whispers, eyes wide. "Oh, this is *Fun.*"
James
When Valerian was younger, he had been a bit of a bookworm; that much was evident from the way he carried himself. His hands were callused from housework and yardwork and all of the little things he had broken over the years, but the rough skin at the tips of his fingers was due to the many papercuts obtained from turning page after page - history, of course, had been his favorite subject, as it had been with many young men like him. In his studies, he had learned of the Opium Wars — and he laughed and he laughed over such a thing, taunting the losing party, curious as to how anyone would give up their livelihoods for something that got them *High.*

But, God, if he didn't understand now, with the way Hazel Calhoun says his name. Valerian. Va-*Ler*-ian. Va-le-ri-an. It's as if she took every syllable and wrapped it in a neat bow, nice and tight with skiled tailor's hands. His eyes scan her face in the instance she looks at him, and his own smile blooms to match her own. Enraptured in this moment by her eyes, her smile - (*Saymynameagainsaymynameagainsaymynameagain-*) he can't help but chuckle, enthusiastic, and return to be behind her, warm hands squeezing her shoulders encouragingly.

_ _
"Attagirl," He tells her, pleased, his own smile blooming into mania as he is swept away by the beauty of her face, the harmony of her voice. He keeps it together quite well, despite the overabundance of something disgustingly saccharine in his stomach. He swallows it down, maintaining a cool excitement - he remembers asking her to dinner. Coming on too strong. He can't make that mistake again; Hazel Calhoun must trust him. He's distracted, however, by something reaching up into his ribcage, tightening around hollow bones... What, dare he ask, is this feeling? *Pride?* In another person?

No - it was more than that. Pride in a woman, an ambitious woman, a woman who knows what she wants and will stop at nothing to get it. *Pride* In a *Friend,* Someone he trusts and cares about - pride in someone that he so desperately wants to be closer to, wants to celebrate all of the achievements of. *Pride,* *Pride!* He can't bring himself to let go of her, just yet, that warm squeeze sustained like a *Fermata.* "Now, go get that can that showed you up before." He lets go of her, the unwilling conductor. "You can do it."
Harry
*Boy,* Is it pathetic how easily Hazel melts at praise. She preens every time, regardless of its source; even coming from Kinsley King at their very first meeting, she'd been inspired to offer the ink-covered woman a discount, in no small part thanks to the woman's doling out of flattery. When Valerian does it there's something genuinely arresting about it. She's grateful for having been out in the cold; the wintry air ruddies her skin enough to keep her from total humiliation. 



Hazel relocates her nemesis, the can who betrays her imperfection. It's shorter and squatter and decidedly harder to hit, but it's personal now. Before she fires, though, she takes her eyes off of the can, glances back in her periphery at Valerian.



Rather than wait for an answer, she sets her sights back on her can and tries her best to replicate the feeling she had last time. She's mostly successful – when the gun goes off the can certainly flies off of the fence, but the bullet has only just grazed the top rim and the can spirals through the air at an absurd speed before it lands in the snow. It's a victory she'll take. 
_ _

"Suppose that's not bad," She admits begrudgingly. "Real target's a helluva lot bigger." Without waiting, she aims again at the next can on the fence, just to the right. When it falls, she can tell it's another lucky hit; the hole, visible from here, is decidedly on the lefthand side of the cylinder. *You did fine. You did good,* She tells herself. *You hit it. That's all you were supposed to do. You've never done this before.* It's less fun now that she has an eye for her mistakes.
James
*Where did you get those bullets?*

Valerian has a moment of pause, and he has to make a choice. He can either lie to Hazel, and the foundation of their relationship can be built on a lie, or he can tell her the truth and pray, *Pray* To a God he barely believed in that she wouldn't put him on the stake to burn. He watches her shoot the can; he does not flinch. This time, both eyes are open, hiding behind his glasses, and he smiles, nodding approvingly at the display. It doesn't matter that it was a lucky shot from an inexperienced shooter - a win is a win, no matter the cost. *A win is a win,* He reminds himself, *No matter the cost.*

His hands burn black with coal dust. 

"Exactly," He says, obvious in the way he is intending to delay the conversation even further by praising her. That's what she wants, isn't it? To be praised, rightfully so, for all the things she can do? Valerian reads her like an open book in the way he reads himself staring at the mirror. He wants to be praised, to be known, to be in power, in control. The Barcas aren't just people - they're legends in the making, and if Valerian just works a bit harder, fights a bit stronger, screams a bit louder, he will not be without himself or anyone else. (He hopes Hazel comes with him in his ascent.) "Besides, these are your first shots with a weapon, ever. If this is the baseline, you'll only get better. Which would be appreciated and welcomed, given the fact that the pack seems to have a penchant for puttin' themselves through my front door." 

Another crack in the armor - in the syllables that follow, Valerian's accent slips out, and he burns slightly red at it. Hiding this accent has taken years of training, unintentionally or otherwise, and to have it just *On display* In front of Hazel embarrasses him. It seems they've both had their moment of weakness today, if only borne of frustration or fatigue. 

He takes a breath in; he seems to fail to let it out. "Hazel, can you keep a secret?"
Harry
Hazel doesn't know what to do with the gun, and so just bears its weight awkwardly, a house cat who didn't really intend to catch the mouse in its jaws but got too caught up in the chase. She turns around like that and there's something missing from her face when she turns around. She doesn't like way he says *Exactly.* Valerian is a terrific charm, in part because it's in his job description, but they've spoken enough now that she can smell the syrup on his words when he applies it versus when he doesn't. She puts a pin in that and watches him with an unabashedly intense expression. Recalling their chance meeting at the speakeasy, she remembers that when he wants to get to the point, Valerian is entirely capable. 

She's already bracing herself for whatever he's going to say when, as is his nature, he disarms her without meaning to do it. She's indulging in the honey-slow sound of his vowels in the same moment that he suddenly blushes – faintly, but he blushes – and of its own accord her mouth opens in surprise, the corners quirking up almost imperceptibly in an expression of astonished amusement. It's gentle and brief; she regains control of her face, nevermind the nervous butterflies in her stomach.

Can she keep a secret? Of course she can; she's a vise with information. It's not a matter of whether she *Can* Keep a secret, it's whether she *Will:* Hazel is as trustworthy as they come, and she trusts Valerian in kind, but there's still that nagging thought at the back of her mind. He's a coalman, after all, and not the kind who works for the mines. The same gut instinct which has likely saved her life countless times under other circumstances works now to keep her from learning something she's not sure she wants to know.

She doesn't stop to think about why she's willing to burden herself with that knowledge, or why the decision takes so little time to make. She only nods. 
_ _

"I can," She says, slowly, evenly. Dread pricks at the soles of her feet and oozes up onto her calves.
James
He trusts her; he takes the plunge. 

His body hurts in all the worst ways when he composes himself, as if he is but a child retreating behind the long legs of his father, but this time he has no spine to hide behind. He closes his eyes and sighs, shaking his head as if he's disappointed in himself - but not for telling her, no, not for telling her. Perhaps in some way he's trying to protect her from the skeletons that S&C has in his closet and how quickly they are to put them there. Perhaps there is silence like a hangman's noose; perhaps there is silence like a cemetery road. Either way, Valerian Barca exposes himself and his sin to Hazel Calhoun, and it feels, in some way, like confessional.

"My... Employer sent me that weapon," He says, earnestly, "I don't know how they know about the happenings of this town - I didn't tell them, and I don't believe my predecessors would have, either. I don't know why they sent it now, instead of telling me what my home had become. I don't know... I don't know whether or not I should trust them at present. I've penned a letter demanding an in-person explanation... And I can't bring myself to send it just yet. Every time I turn around, I feel like I need to write a new draft, and none of them feel right."

_ _
Every draft he has written is too poised, too polished, too bootlicking, as if Valerian Barca, who can go before the people he knew and loved once and say *I am the devil now* Is afraid of angering the beast that signs his checks. Regardless, he moves his lips in a way that makes it look like he's taken a single chew, as if trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth, and he pockets his hands. In time, he will come to find his final draft is angry, and passionate, and in defense of his friends and family - but there is so much about himself that he's yet to come to terms with. It will unlock, in time, but for now, it sits with that little boy who shot the gun Hazel was holding twenty years ago.

Gently, he takes the rifle from her - not pulling, but guiding it out of her hand and into his. He sets it onto his shoulder with practiced precision, and in a matter of moments, he is back in his house, fumbling through reloading the lever-action cartridge, while Hazel jabs her scissors into a beast's shoulder. A beast that killed a man on his property.

Why does Oswald Katz's death affect him so?

Silent, he pulls the trigger. The bullet just barely misses. He sets the rifle down.
Harry
For a moment, pain pulls taut the muscles in his face. Hazel doesn't know what it is exactly that's changed between the two of them over the last handful of weeks, but it's certainly occupied her mind as much as the pages of her diary. It has taken her some time to really understand that the side of Valerian to which she's typically exposed is decidedly gentler and more genuine than the face he presents to the rest of the world. With this in mind, she knows she's right to feel dread.

She realizes that she all but knows what he's going to say before he says it, but to have verbal confirmation is a little like the moments after receiving a less-than-optimal medical prognosis. He keeps talking and, equal parts intrigued and incredulous, Hazel gleans every detail. *'I don't know whether or not I should trust them,* He says, and it takes the lion's share of her willpower not to interrupt him to tell him no. His hands are in his pockets. He looks small – she wants to reach out but her hands are full.

All of a sudden Hazel is making a heavy decision, the weight of which inspires a wave of nausea. On an empty stomach there's no real danger here, but Hazel still feels like she might topple if she speaks too quickly. As if he can see this, Valerian moves to unburden her of the gun. Hazel's own hands come together almost immediately, clasped tightly with her fingers interlocked.

Despite expecting the sound of gunfire as he shoots, Hazel still jumps a little. Were she not watching his face, she might have seen his finger squeeze the trigger.

"They know about the wolves, they know how to *Hurt* Them, and they *Still* Sent you here," Hazel repeats, adopting an expression of bemused urgency. "And you don't know if you can trust 'em? You *Know* You can't." 
_ _

She doesn't mean to get so frustrated. She wants to protect him, something she learns for the first time as she thinks it. It gives her pause, an awkward punctuation where she didn't want one. Hazel is the less educated of the two of them, and less eloquent with her words. It's been a source of insecurity since their first meeting. 

She had a boss once that she thought she could trust. If she could have, she would never have had to haul it up these hills and into this holler anyway. That's the tip of the iceberg, really, but there is no room in her mind or her heart to talk about Roanoke today. To her surprise, the sole focus of her concern has a gun on his shoulder and sleep-mussed hair. She notices only as he places the gun down that he's missed his shot; she was watching his jawline. The realization colors her cheeks. She can't help it; there is some distance in his eyes, there, but it's gone the next moment.

When it's safe, the gun decidedly *Away* From him, Hazel wants to reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder. She doesn't quite know how to do it without looking ungainly or awkward. The gesture seems important: Valerian, whose father taught him to do this probably twenty-odd years ago, has missed his shot. It's not lost on Hazel that he must be more off-kilter than even she can see.

She takes a few tentative steps forward. 

"I shouldn't've come this morning," She begins, voice gentle and from a place she doesn't recognize. "I should've asked. You're so tired." The sigh Hazel lets out is a soft one, but it betrays her worry nonetheless. 

"Can we take a break and go inside?" She asks, in a tone which suggests that she's not really asking on her own behalf. Hazel reaches out with one arm; halfway through the gesture, she gets nervous and pulls away. Her fingers graze the edge of his coat sleeve and snag the material there for a half-second.
James
In his failures, he pushes her away - makes her feel like she is a burden, a problem. But she isn't, no - he can handle it, anything he asks of her. He's not sure why, perhaps compelled by the first ounce of kindness he's received in three years, or perhaps the ambition in the corners of his lips that are attuned to her own - when she succeeds, he succeeds. He knows it is not the other way around, for his success comes at the cost of others, other's lives, livelihoods, families, and deaths. His mind drifts to Charlie Cooper, here - who once was a good friend, now an enemy, the line between them drawn in Charlie's flesh in coal dust.

"No," He whispers, shaking his head, "Please. I'm... Glad you came. It's nice to have company that isn't either of my siblings. Your presence here, invited or otherwise, is always welcomed." He can't let her distance herself from him, not like this, but he's not so frail as to miss the worry in her voice. She... Worries for him? That's new - hidden behind her perfectionism and practiced procedures. He worries for her, too- perhaps that's why he held her to his chest and cupped the back of her head, so that she didn't have to see the gore as he shot the wolf with the silver bullet. So that she didn't have to be haunted by the smell of burning flesh as he did.

_ _
She says something, but he's too transfixed on the idea that she might touch him, too (out of choice rather than her profession), to listen to her words instead of only hearing them. He watches her, enraptured like one might look at a painting at a museum in Richmond, and when she only gently graces him with a wisp of her presence, he smiles. It's enough for him - for now. He's a hungry beast, reminiscent of the wolves in his own way, and Hazel Calhoun, against her will, is the lamb that sits in his maw. He wonders, in some selfish way, if she put herself there on purpose, or if she refuses to wiggle out because she cares for him.

"Good idea," He tells her, and he nods, stepping briefly away to put the gun away, a mental note to clean it later so it was anything other than accurate for Hazel on the night of the full moon. "It's around lunchtime, if you'd like something to eat. We have the fixin's - " (There it is again. He doesn't seem to burn as red here, her touch cracking the walls he's putting up.) " - for sandwiches, or I could put together a soup. If you're hungry, I mean."
Harry
As her arm falls, Hazel dares to catch Valerian's eye, hoping to find some further truths etched there. What she finds instead is something as gentle as it is urgent, as apprehensive as it is affectionate. To anyone watching, it's probably obvious, but to someone who's never seen that sort of adoration on anyone's face, it's another on a long list of confusing instances.

It isn't easy for Hazel to be selfless. Shortly after arriving in Briar Ridge, she came to the realization that had she had another, softer life, she might have been quite the generous person. And she is, still, in little ways – but all that which she's unlearned has come back to rear its ugly head in the months since the attacks have begun. When Hazel lacks security, lacks *Peace,* She defaults to self-preservation. To dole out acts of selfless kindness starts to feel like an unnecessary risk. There are very few people for whom she might still do it. 

Alright, maybe just the one. She isn't sure what it is about Valerian Barca that inspires empathy. Perhaps it's tucked away in those little moments wherein the coal dust clears and the man peeks through, or perhaps it's the way he seems to see more of her personhood than she has the energy to explain. Hazel is getting tired again and when she gets tired, she fends for herself, but at some point, she has decided without realizing it that she cannot abandon Valerian. 
_ _

He wouldn't do it to her. She knows that, too. He is like her, ambitious and shrewd and a quick study of people. His willingness to achieve the ends regardless of the means is reflected in the gleam of his spectacles, the taut stitching and fresh fabric of his suit and his coat. In spite of all of it, he's chosen to protect her. She's never entrusted that job to anyone before. She wouldn't have, if he hadn't taken it upon himself, held her tight, snatched her back out of the way. He sees her strength but does not expect it from her. He sees her fragility but does not reduce her to it.

To be seen is a frightening thing and terribly new. 

*'I could put together a soup.'* He can cook? 

The truth is, the living area above Hazel's shop has a sorry excuse for a kitchen. The stove is small and sparingly used. She eats a lot of easily prepared, easily preserved things – breads and cheeses and miscellaneous apple dishes – and patronizes the diner when she can. The idea of a real, substantial lunch sounds great, but also like something a little mountainous. 

"You're probably hungry," She comments boldly. "Since you were lyin' down when I came up." She knows he isn't upset about that. She knows that he's being genuine when he says her presence is welcomed. It's just the first time she's heard that from anyone other than the elderly man who taught her to hem a skirt. It carries different weight – she's not so naive as to miss this – but it's not a weight that *She* Has ever carried before. Ungainly, awkward and suddenly a little too aware of her circumstances, she struggles to find her next words. 

Soup takes time. How will they occupy it? Is he suggesting that he doesn't mind how long she stays? 
_ _

It seems there's an opportunity here for another one of her litmus tests. Without other experiences to interpolate here, she relies on what she can learn from basic deduction.

"I can help you with the soup," She continues, tentative, visibly shy and also visibly indignant about it.
James
He's never been a fisherman, not really, but he knows how to, for the most part. He's aware of the shiny baubles and the delectable treats that go on the end of the hook, and he's aware that some fish still bite even in their absence - he is failing to find the litmus test that she is giving him. He doesn't mind how long she stays; there's room for her to stay the night, but he knows she won't. He's fine with that - her reputation, too, is important to him. He knows what and who she wants to be - a right proper lady, someone who deserves to be far away from this place. Now that he's back, he doesn't know if he wants to leave again, but he would follow her anywhere. She could say to go into the woods with him, and he would, even if she split him open to showcase the raw, shriveled heart he had between his ribcage where she has placed her roots.

"I'd like that," He smiles, earnest, "I have a bit of vegetables - a nice warm broth would deal with the cold just fine." *Stay,* He says without saying it, *Let me protect you.*

They make their way into the kitchen, and Valerian opens the door for her. By now, Florian is out of the kitchen, scooting away to find some sort of muse somewhere, and Valerian is grateful. He doesn't have to mask in front of his brother tonight - the coal dust settles on his shoulders, shrouding the man only about halfway.

_ _
He retrieves the vegetables, the stock - setting them down on the counter, he prepares the cutting board, the knife, giving her her space at his de facto battle station. He washes his hands with soap and water, brought in from the well by Olivia this morning, and sighs, rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows.

"...I don't know if I *Should* Trust them." He says, beginning to put wood in the stove, grabbing the flint and tinder from above it. When he stands, he selfishly stands in front of the stove for a bit, warming his hands and legs to combat the cold. A pause, and then he sighs. "I dodged your question earlier. I don't know if I *Should* Trust them, but I have thrown everything I have loved away for this. It's the highest paying job I'll have, and I have family to care for. This... Glamorous lifestyle, sure, it's quite nice, but I don't think anyone truly understands what it's like to sin for survival. All they know is the coal man - and *No,* I'm not a good person. I spit on my father's grave when I took this job, I abandoned my siblings for rapport, and I work as an overseer for men who risk their lives, and die, so that I might line my pockets."

_ _
For all intents and purposes, Valerian Barca is the Lucifer of this town - having enjoyed a life in ignorant bliss, unaware of the evil that hurt his father, that slaughtered his peers, that kept him away from the deep, dark coal mines that howled into the night sky. (He keeps feeling compelled to go down there, to be the aforementioned canary, to *See* If there is something down there that would take all of this away. So that he could survive.) He is *Satanas,* Fallen from grace, landed, burning like lit coals onto the Richmond populace, now returning to the place where it all began - and for what? *Atonement?* Or because Briar Ridge was easy to manipulate, with the impoverished and uneducated?

A shake of his head. He goes to grab the dutch oven, setting it on the top of the stove. "I don't regret any moment of it," He replies, adjusting his glasses. "And if I had to, I would do it all over again. But this... Betrayal? It doesn't seem too right a word, *Betrayal.* From my peers and supervisors... I don't know. I have this sick feeling in my stomach that they're *Involved,* Somehow. That my house has been destroyed, that people have died, and at the root of it is my employer. Is *Me.*"

He looks at his warbled reflection in the soup stock he's filled the iron pot with. "I'm a lot of things. But not someone who could stand by and let someone get away with this plague on our town."
Harry
This is where shared experience ends and empathy begins: in the exposure of motivations. Hazel is shrewd, and the art of balancing keen listening with busywork is like flexing an old muscle. 

*'I have thrown everything I have loved away for this,'* He says, and the line is drawn. Hazel has never loved anything enough for it to really hurt when she lost it. She is contemplating what this kind of sacrifice might feel like when he says, *'I don't think anyone truly understands what it's like to sin for survival,'* And in spite of herself, she exhales sharply through her nose. Of course she knows what it's like. She cannot fault him for not knowing something she'd be insane to bring up in casual conversation. But Hazel never intended to have blood on her hands. The more she gets to know the man, the more visible his stains become; they are deeper and more permanent than even coal dust, and Hazel isn't sure she bears those stains herself. 

She's ambitious, sure, but not like that. It's probably because she's not a local that Hazel has only recently come to understand the impact of S&C on Briar Ridge. By now, she's sold too many burial suits for boys no more than sixteen – when there was enough of them left to bury. Maybe it's because she doesn't have her family anymore (she has *A* Family, about this she is adamant), but she cannot imagine the volume of that sacrifice. Even moreso, she cannot imagine having all of that blood on her hands and still being willing to do it again. It's enough to still her hand and get her to look at him, really look. She has the good sense to still her face while she watches him, in spite of the way something in her stomach has twisted and not for the better.

She's silent for a long time. Eventually, she starts to shake her head.
_ _

"I don't know, Valerian," She says finally. "I don't know how you can stand there'n act surprised when the evil people you work for turn out to be evil. I mean – did you think you were the exception?" She asks, at once incredulous and very sad. "Don't you know little people are *Never* Special?"

If it sounds meaner than she intended, that's only because she's talking to herself, too. But how could he be so foolish? He has a nicer cage and enjoys delicious perks, but he's chattel all the same. The only difference is that his contract has an end date. This plague on their town? He might as well have tracked it in on his shoes, and to take care of his family, he had done so willingly. Why? What could have made a person feel so strongly that they would take such a job? Betray their entire community? What is stronger, the human's empathy or the animal's survival instinct? 

Upon first having heard his words, her first reaction was one of concern. *Disgust* Is a strong word – but then, she's just taken aback. Is it fair, though, to pass judgment on him? When she herself is guilty? Does it matter if a person has taken one life or a hundred? Does intent have any merit here?

In the next moment she decides that maybe it doesn't matter. Hazel is weary with the weight of her own secrets. She's weary with the weight of so many other things. Without knowing anything about where she's come from or what she has done, Valerian seems to see past what is otherwise a very carefully constructed, lacy veneer of embroidery and innocence. In spite of having no context provided to him, he seems to have caught and recognized in her eyes a glowing ambition, the same one she sees mirrored in his own face.
_ _

She'd always thought of the light in her eyes as something reflective – the glint of some faraway planet where she might find respite. Maybe Valerian, made of ash and stained black with coal dust, is the sulfur in the belly of the mine, and maybe this whole time Hazel herself has been pyrite, glittering beneath the earth and waiting all the while to react. Maybe the warmth of the fire they create when they ignite one another is worth the risk involved.

And, with so much suffering behind her and more still guaranteed to come, would it be so terrible to have someone with whom she can be... What is the word? Gentle? Vulnerable? Just human, maybe? And in God's eyes, isn't she just as doomed as he is, anyway? Aren't they sinners in equal measure, selfish and ambitious and horribly tender underneath it all?

Of course S&C is involved here. The more he says, the more obvious it becomes, but Hazel has neither the patience nor the eloquence to dwell on that right now; her opinion is already clear, anyway. She's focused on how she wants to approach her next words, tip-toeing over them as she goes.

"I came up the holler from Roanoke," She begins. "I was a fugitive. I don't know what the laws are for that kinda thing, so maybe I'm still a fugitive. Anyway, I burnt down the house where I was livin', and workin', because... Because I had to. And I didn't know it at the time, but my boss's wife, she was home." If this is painful for Hazel to recall, it doesn't manifest on her face, mostly because she's preoccupied with trying to surmount her own anxiety surrounding saying any of this aloud. 
_ _

"She died, n' that was my fault. But I knew what I was doin' when I did all that. And if I hadn't done it, she'd still be alive, and I'd still be somebody's scullery maid." Hazel stops what she's doing. She's kept on her winter coat this entire time, and between thawing in front of the stove and her own charged emotions, she has to pause to remove it; it lays gingerly over the back of the nearest chair.

Hazel doesn't commit to things unless they benefit her. It's why she has trouble making friends, and why she's got a natural aptitude for business. She can commit to this, though. If what she gets in return is empathy and understanding, she can give them out in kind. If what she gets in return is a soft place to land, she can provide one, too. He will hear about her dreams for her life, she realizes, because he might be the only person in the world who will care about them. Not today, but he will hear about her dreams.

"I'm just sayin' I understand," She continues. "About sinning for survival. You're not the only man in the world who's had to do it." *So how could I ever pass judgment on you?*

She softens for him. She has been unconsciously softening for him in a hundred little ways every time he sees through her, but she softens for him here of her own accord because she knows that if she expects the same from him, she must deliver it. 

"We'll come out the other side of this," She intones. "Have you been going to those meetings?"

She means the Coalition meetings, of course, but she's only read the word, not heard it spelled aloud; her own awareness about why she refrains from pronouncing it sends a pink tinge over her cheeks and nose.
James
*I AM THE EXCEPTION!* He wants to scream at her, just as he has screamed at himself in the mirror — he cannot remember the boy in the photos he's taken down, hair down to his shoulders and glasses much rounder and strumming through a guitar with the sweetest voice anyone had ever known. There are calluses on his hands from playing, but they too are hidden under the shell he has created for him. *I am the exception,* He wants to tell her, voice desperate, because he knows he has signed a contract with the devil. He knows he know is Death, Destroyer of Worlds — he knows that he is the rot that Briar Ridge isn't trying to spray out because they're too busy tending to the wolves.

His contract does have an end date; it shares it with his death certificate. As soon as they solve the werewolf problem, Valerian Barca returns to his station as the rot of Briar Ridge — and who's to say they will not be inspired by the mania of their hunts and their cages? Who's to say he is not next?

His features are hardened, the silhouette of a wolf on the door — he is not lycan, no; instead, he is the reaper, the hungry maw, the blind hunter who has known hunger. He who has felt his stomach gnaw and gnaw and has decided that he will never know such things about it. He knows he is a *Bad man,* But he still believes is the exception. The Judas Iscariot, who can kiss the teeth and tongue of the city he once loved and apologize for crucifying it.

Better to live a villain than die forgotten.

Hazel starts speaking again — he knows, because his face softens when she does so. He puts that hunting dog away to turn and face the lamb, with her gentle fleece. People do not hurt lambs; they instead shear them, peel them down to their basics, and then let them regrow. People shoot down wolves. Perhaps that is where the difference is.

His eyes follow her silhouette as she takes off her coat.

_ _
Hazel talks, and Valerian listens, the chopping of his knife in tandem with the beating of his heart— an archaic metronome that suits well to the way she weaves her story, the way she bares herself to him so easily. The way these confessionals have tilted each other back and forth — an eye for an eye, a secret for a secret. 

They cannot walk away from this anymore, or from each other.

*How can you pass judgement on me?* He thinks, but his lips are a smile. *How can anyone pass judgement on me, when we are a town of sinners and murderers and corrupt lawmen?*

" ... Thank you, for sharing your story. I won't pry — if there were any more details, you'd have told me — but the thought that you trust me enough to tell me ... Well, that means a great deal to me, Hazel. I trust you all the same." 

He finishes the carrot, biting off the head and chewing the part where the greens would have grown, all too bitter yet never soliciting a look of discomfort from eating the worst parts of a meal — as if he was used to that, as if he'd done so for years, as if he gave away the better parts of meals to younger siblings.

_ _

"Mm," He nods, mouth full. Once he swallows, he puts whatever is left in the stockpot, watching it float around for a moment before heating up the frozen broth alongside it. "The Coalition meetings. I'm not welcome at them, I guarantee, but... I have intentions of making myself known. Silver bullets can kill werewolves — the people of this town need to know they die faster this way. Not that anyone in this bloody town can afford silver — I think the only people who can would be Mr. Estep and Miss Lefevre." Curious, how he doesn't affix his name to the list. "Short answer — no, but I plan to. Please, stay home that night, so I know that you're alright if anything boils over."

He rolls his neck. There is an audible pop. Quietly, he takes her coat from the chair, and hangs it next to his on the coat rack in the living room — so that when she is ready to leave, she doesn't have to trek backwards into the house. It looks quite nice up there next to his own.

"Yes," He nods, as if he'd been chewing on her words for some time. He smiles at her — this one has the thespian's mask removed; this one is right, and bright, and genuine. In a way, it's almost ... Optimistic. "I think we will come out of this alright, you and I."
Harry
Hazel has always been one to tighten the reins on herself when she feels she can't live up to the moment. The way she navigates emotion becomes more obviously self-taught as she ages. As such, when recounting her story, it hadn't occurred to her that its telling was an indication of trust. It's so silly in hindsight – but then, the trusting him feels so natural that maybe it doesn't register so easily as new. There's something almost dizzying about the rate at which she and the world around her are both changing.

She glances at him from the corner of her eye and is immediately transfixed. There is, in the purest sense, something voyeuristic about watching him chew a raw carrot. He looks more earthy and at home here than perhaps she has ever seen him. Contrasted by the polished way with which he usually presents himself, it's almost like seeing him naked. Something liquefies in Hazel's chest. It is not lost on her that she has been collecting these little moments in a basket at the back of her mind. At night, when sleep evades her, she takes them out one by one to examine, wondering all the while why those moments have become precious to her. 

Valerian occupies a different category in her mind from the other friends she's made since moving here, but at the same time there seems to be no other place to put him. He exists in the ether – maybe this is why she's become so fascinated by him. It's just like Hazel to have her interest piqued by mystery. She simply hadn't expected to identify so much with what she found.
_ _

She internalizes the way he pronounces *Coalition* So that she can sound more intelligent the next time it comes up. What he says next really catches her attention. Hazel had a silver butter knife, but used it during the last full moon. The wind had been so thoroughly knocked out of her when she hit the ground that in her gasping, she hadn't thought to check whether it'd dropped to the ground or found permanent purchase in the beast's muscle. (It's the first time any memory has really inspired a visceral response. Discomfort crosses her face and disappears as quickly as it comes.) 

*If anything boils over.* Right – another reminder of the unfortunate truth. He is not the villain of the story right now, but to many folk he is a villain in his own right. Exhausted, stressed out and highly defensive of their own, it would be understandable for folk to get up in arms at the mere idea of Valerian's involvement. Still, the response this elicits is sour enough that Hazel's brow quirks downward as she considers this. There is a tugging in her chest she does *Not* Know what to do with. 

It's probably an overdramatic prediction. Still, folk are tight-knit in these hills. Hazel is hard pressed to think of many folk who'd stand with him against their neighbors n' kin. If they turn, they'll all turn, and he won't stand a chance. Valerian takes her coat and she stares at the back of him until he turns enough to see her. She pretends to look for the first time when he speaks as if gently calling her to turn her face in his direction. The light in his smile is unfiltered. Where have the curtains gone? More importantly, why does her stomach flip when he says *You and I?* Why do those three words sound like one when he strings them together in a drawl he's no longer concerned with hiding?
_ _

*I want to hold your hand,* She thinks suddenly, but that is far too daunting. She smiles back instead. The moment seems to stretch on. She's glad she came early in the day, with so many hours before it would have been improper to stay any longer. Behind her, there's a gentle fizzling sound as the frost melts away from the thawing broth. Feeling a little overwhelmed for her liking, Hazel uses the sound as an excuse to turn away and check the stove. 

"I'll make you a deal," She counters when she turns back around. "I'll stay home if you stop by afterwards. That way I don't have to go to the meetin' and you can stop puttin' off your last fitting." It's a lighthearted reminder and really only a deflective reference, meant only to keep her from betraying her own neediness. It's unlike Hazel to demand more of someone's time.
James
If anything important had been said to him before the moment that Hazel Calhoun turned to look at him, it would have been lost to him. She turns so gracefully, even if she doesn't think she does, that Valerian might have mistaken her for the doll on top of a music box, if only a bit more real than the picturesque girls that end up on things like that. He quite likes that about her, though - that she is rough around the edges, that she wants to shoot guns, that she has a penchant for striking those damnable wolves. Her turning to look at him is as if he, the moon, is graced with the presence of her, the sun. How intimate the moment is, in the way her light brightens his features, casting shadows behind him as a place to put away his malignant self, the self that does not seem to care, that self that would rip and tear and cave in the coal mines if it meant that he and Olivia and Florian - *And Hazel* Were alright.

_ _


He's impressed by the move she makes, even if he doesn't know that she's making it, or that he's impressed. Too laden with the way his heart is arrhythmic, too heavy in his throat, he nods. "Deal. I'll appraise you of everything that goes on - for your own knowledge, of course. It isn't that I don't think you shouldn't be around them - you can do anything you put your mind to - but I worry for you. And your proximity to me. You are a beloved member of their community, yet I'm unsure if whether or not they'll hang you out to dry alongside me. They've yet to do so with my siblings, so I suppose there is some modicum of charity among them."

He straightens his back, joining her by the soup pot, watching the frozen stock begin to melt, and melt, and melt, as if the ice melting is representation of all of the things they could be if they stopped being so damnable rigid. *I want to kiss you,* He thinks, but his mind is immediately pulled back to his invitation at the speakeasy, and how strong he came on, fueled by liquid courage. He's taking this slow on purpose; he needs to know she's safe before he puts her back into danger by being in closer proximity to him than he could even imagine.

_ _ 
"I'll even bring a gift," He smiles - one of his sly, guarded smiles -, pushing away from the stove and collecting the rest of the vegetables, pouring them in and adding to the quickly-melting stock. His hand covers, just briefly, over the flame of the stove, and he shivers a bit at the winter. Valerian has always run cold - he envies those who run warm, but he's not about to wear a coat in his own damn house, and he cannot wear one of his comfortable yet unfashionable sweaters around Hazel. He likes his suits, his dress shirts, his pants - they invoke authority. The sweaters invoke a feeling of youth, as if he would be thirteen years old again and watching his mother board the train. "I purchased something quite nice for you for Christmas, yet I never had the time to deliver it. You'll have to forgive my lack of punctuality; we happened to have... What's the sayin'?" He thinks for a moment, pointing as if he remembered, "We happened to have bigger fish to fry at the time."

Time. How it sounds like *T-ah-me* With his voice.
Harry
When he rejoins her at the stove, Hazel wonders if this is the first time she notices that his presence beside her has a real weight. It's as though she'd know who was behind her if he'd only just come in and she'd been standing here alone. That familiarity is so new in this context that she isn't quite sure how to react. It's nice that he views her as a *Beloved member of the community,* But *Necessary* Feels like a better word. She knows folk're happy she's here, but Valerian is the first person who she can tell is happy that *She* Is here. It's silly to be surprised that she cares about him. Moreover, it seems that in the time it's taken him to become important to her, she's managed to endear herself to him in kind. 

In truth, Hazel has only paused to consider her association with Valerian as far as their first meeting. After that it was as though the concern vanished from her mind's eye. To have it brought back up now is an almost embarrassing reminder of a pretty massive oversight: towns as small as Briar Ridge are run on connections, and Hazel is making soup with the coalman while they make eyes back and forth at each other. It's a fair enough point. Hazel prioritizes her own safety, and that safety lies in her financial independence, which in turn lies in the success of her business. She appreciates knowing that Valerian has considered this. This is the first time, though, that it really sours her stomach to acknowledge it. 
_ _

Hazel's often cold in her little apartment above the tailor's. It's warm enough in here for her by comparison, what with the stove being a respectable size, but she sees Valerian shiver. She's opening her mouth to ask why he doesn't put on a sweater when he mentions that he's gotten her a gift. A *Christmas* Gift. She's never gotten a Christmas gift before. Mr. Bergman was Jewish, and judging by the off-handed remarks he'd make from time to time about the arrangement of Hazel's features and what it suggested about her own ancestry, he wasn't about to celebrate a holiday which he believed applied to neither of them. The look on her face is somewhere between surprise and embarrassment, like she's been caught with her hand in the cookie jar and taken too much of him, like somehow she's manipulated her way into getting a present. Hazel bites the inside of her cheek. So many emotional firsts have occurred in the last few months, and the lion's share of them have occurred in front of Valerian. 

"You got me a gift," She repeats, in spite of it being doubly reinforced. "Thank you," She breathes, surprise evident in the way the words ghost out of her mouth. Hazel is aware of the look on her face but wouldn't have been able to do anything about it if she tried. She lets the smile form there that she's been holding back. It's not the first present she's gotten – actually, it's the second (the first was also from Valerian) – but it's a *Holiday* Present, and there is an unexpectedly delicious uncertainty about the connotation that it might carry. Even without the addition of nuance it's still a gift, and it's not because she's lost something in a monster's shoulder or because she's made him a perfect suit. Even Hazel can spot the affection there, call it like it is in spite of her disbelief.
_ _

They still have bigger fish to fry, but Hazel finds she's willing to spare an hour or two for Valerian Barca. Given the enormity of his workload since the winter began, it's just about all the time he has. The idea that he is choosing to spend it with her sends Hazel into a flurry of nervous thoughts, all of them underscored by a sweet, selfish glee. 

"When's the meeting?" She asks, having managed to mildly fluster herself. He is standing so close, and Hazel has never felt quite this much like her heart is operating at the top of her stomach. "Do I have time to finish your gift or were you plannin' on springin' this on me?" (How fast can she knit a sweater if she closes the shop for a few hours every day and stays up late? She already has his measurements, after all. Estimates can be made for a slouchy sweater.) She doesn't know exactly how, but she knows she's some kind of fucked when she's excited to lose business. 

Christmas and a gift exchange. She doesn't even mind that it's January – it's almost better that way. There are so many new things here, hanging in the air. Better to usher them in with the new year. Hazel does her best not to hide her face as she smiles.

"Big fish ain't goin' anywhere, but I think we can get away with an hour," She murmurs.
James
He sees the expression on her cheeks, something warm and innocent and tender - and he has a selfish glee that he is the one who put it there, that he's gotten to claim Hazel Calhoun's heart before anyone else could - that gives off the egotistical impression, mind, that she looks at him the way he looks at her. The way he's looking at her right now - soft and uncomfortable and malleable, with eyes gentle behind his glasses and lips pulled up in a happy, closed-lip smile. He finds himself feeling something worrying; a lack of discipline. As if he would continue to put off work so long as she stayed standing here in his kitchen. As if he would put away the dishes later. As if he would pen papers and order supplies and read reports so long as she was here. Being around Hazel Calhoun is dangerous - it takes him out of the mindset that he is a hopeless slave to the machine, a perpetrator who thinks he can wear the skin of a victim and get away with it.

Being next to Hazel Calhoun makes him... Regret. Makes him regret the things he's done with S&C, makes him regret leaving Florian behind. Makes him regret everything he's tried to dismiss under the pretense of it being *Okay* Because he is the exception. She challenged him, there: *You cannot trust them; they are bad people; you are not the exception.* And yet, here he was, still of the belief he might have been the exception. Because if he is the exception, he is not a bad man - but why does being a bad man bother him now, when he has spent months doling out the consequence of Briar Ridge's natural geography? Why does being a bad man affect him now; is it because he thinks the idea of being with Hazel Calhoun and being a bad man are mutually exclusive?

They are both murderers, after all.

_ _
"They have them periodically. I believe the next one is in a few weeks. You don't have to get me anything, Hazel; I insist." Still, it's a sentence placed under no context - he knows that even if he refutes it, she will still get him something, and he will accept it with open arms and treasure it unlike any gift he's ever received, if only because it came from *Her.* "Besides, what I have for you is... Well, it's nothing much. So *Please,*" He says with a charmingly-exasperated smile on his face, "Do not go out of your way to do something for me."

*I can get away with an hour,* She says, and he selfishly wishes she had said two, or three, but she is a woman of repute - being over at his home for too long will stain her reputation with his coal dust, and he knows it. But gods, how he wishes he could keep her here, keep her safe, keep her away from people who do not deserve her. Because *Valerian Barca* Deserves her. He could be good to her, this he knows- meals and a warm bed, a kitchen with standards, a home where there are always people, a *Well-paid* ~~partner? Boyfriend? Husband?~~ companion where she would not have to worry about keeping the tailor shop open to make ends meet.

He knows he is in trouble when he considers giving everything up yet again - he considers briefly, losing his stability for a girl who has pulled on his ribs until his lungs burst, because that must be the only explanation for his shortness of breath when she's around. They stand over the soup pot, like they are two precarious hawks watching a field mouse go trotting through the grass. Like its ears and tail, the vegetables bob up and down in the broth, and he steals one last glance at Hazel, committing every detail of her smile to memory. Refusing to not see it, whenever they are in proximity.

Does he want to give up his stability, or does he want to bring her into it?

_ _
His hand moves, gently, fingertips almost hovering over the small of her back with how gentle, how small, how tender this touch might be. It isn't the hand hold that she wants, nor is it the kiss that he wants, but it is enough for their social graces - it is the same kind of touch one would give another if they were trying to get past them. Perhaps Valerian Barca is trying to get past this moment, if only he could move on to the next one, the one where he gets to bring her into his arms and kiss her silly because of how beautiful she looks in the clothing she made with the materials he bought for her. Alas - it is a pipe dream, for now, and he has to swallow down his ambition, his drive, his desire. She is not a contract to be had or an item to be owned. She is but the lamb and he, the wolf, and she has exposed the tender meaty flesh of her throat to him. There is intimacy in that.

Gently, his thumb moves over the clothed small of her back.

His voice is a whisper. "*An hour sounds perfect.*"