Julius
*And my brother's always gonna be six years wiser / i keep on getting older / and the bar keeps getting higher / my exes and friends all just seem so successful / i'm not sure six years will be enough.*

His shoulders drop as he returns from the outside world - his complexion has paled since winter started, and his grief - his frustration - is all too great. To have the weight of the world on your shoulders, to have the entirety of the community looking at you like you are an outsider ... He knows what he has done. He would do it all over again, if only it meant that his family was safe. He thinks back to when he was thirteen, as he removes his wool coat, hangs it up on the rack - a cyclical routine that feels more like ritual these days, as if doing all of these things in this order ensured his safety for another day, and in failing, he would expect punishment from the powers that be. His briefcase is set down on the coffee table, polished wood seeming to sheen all-too-perfectly.

And yet, there was a hole in the wall. During the daytime, it wasn't too bad - so long as the fire was going and everyone was bundled up. With all of the thermal long-johns he's got under his clothes, he looks like he's put on a couple of pounds, and in the interim imagines what it would be like to be soft. To be domesticated.

He doesn't know why he's hung up on these feelings, but he knows it has something to do with the incoming interview with the S&C representative. Valerian Barca is not a man of instinct but instead strategy - so why, instead of placating the powers that are, did he speak from the heart? He rubs his hand down his face, pushing his glasses up onto his head for a moment to rub at his eyes. Regret seems to trickle around the surface of his mouth, and against his better judgement, he leaves the suitcase - and the contraband inside - on the couch in favor of going into the kitchen to prepare something small to eat.

_ _
He'll feel better once he's had a bath - he'll need water from the well - and some food, and a brief indulgence of the suspicious substances in his suitcase. A nightcap, so to speak - he may even sleep in his own bed tonight, depending. It was nowhere near the full moon, so there was time. There was time to prepare. 

He has one silver bullet left, and he doesn't know if he needs to make it count, or if he needs to pause until Rhett Sterling returns the other. Do they have any silver? Did their mother keep jewelry? He can't remember - or, more importantly, he doesn't care. He did his due diligence in telling them what he knows, if only so they can protect his family in his absence, and so he doesn't care about the rest of it. If they make silver bullets, fine; if they find themselves unable to do such a thing, also fine. There is nothing and no one he cannot best - he just needs the tools to do it.

He goes to find the oil lamp of the kitchen already lit, a brow arched as he comes around the corner to see his brother sitting at the table, sketching something on his notepad. "Ah," Valerian speaks. (He stands a little taller, a little stiffer, like he's got something to prove. Shouldn't he have the most walls down around his family? Why is he trying so hard?) "Burning the midnight oil, then, 'Rian?" A chuckle - he moves to the ice box, shuffing the ice around until he finds the buried bottle of scotch. He pours himself a glass, and then grabs a plate of the ham and vegetables Olivia must have cooked tonight. He peers over his brother's shoulder, looking with interest as to what masterpiece was being created. He sits down at the dining room table not long after, sipping the alcohol.

"You shouldn't be up so late," Valerian notes - it isn't a chide so much as a piece of advice. "I don't feel like any of us are morning people, really."
Margaret
It's absolutely 100% alright, I shall reply ASAP, probably in a day or so!!
Jack
Florian looked up from his sketchbook when he heard the door open. He's positioned himself in the kitchen, around the corner so the draft from that blasted hole won't bother him. A smile creeps on his face when he hears Valerian step into the kitchen. "Indeed, indeed." He says, responding to the midnight oil comment. "I couldn't sleep, so I thought I might as well wait up for you." _I wanted to know for sure that you were safe._ 

His notebook was lay open, revealing a page on which Florian had started sketching some ways of incorporating the hole into the rest of the Barca estate decor. One of the designs featured a roster of metal overtaken by vines, the one below simply had a tiny door wedged between the broken planks. The last version saw two clawed hands prying at the planks, jagged cuts made to the as of now intact walls. He tried to cover up this version with his arm. "Home decorating does not seem to be my calling." He said, gently closing the notebook and sliding the pencil in the accompanying holder as Valerian took a seat at the table.

Florian used art as a means of organizing his thoughts. Emotions, feelings, memories, dreams, both those crushed and those still afloat, it could feel so overwhelming. Allowing his hands to take some of the mental load of his heart and head helped. If one were to flip through the pages they'd find drawings of his siblings, portraits of them smiling, portraits they had never posed for. One would see the view from his bedroom window, the forest during all of its seasons, of concepts of improvement to his chair. They'd see how spiders weaved their webs on the shrubs near their house during fall, smiling faces he saw on gentle summer eves, of himself at times running, but more often than not, seated in his chair. Scribbled in handwriting detailed dates and other things he found worthy of noting. It was in this book that he allowed himself to just *Do*, it didn't need to be perfect, it didn't need to be pretty and it didn't need to make sense to anyone but him. 

"You could say that." He smiled, God protect anyone who gets between Olivia and her much earned rest. "The sun simply sleeps too early in winter. I can't wait for it to be spring again." He eyes the scotch. "Long day at work, I take it?"
Julius
Valerian is lost to the idea that Florian is waiting up to make sure he's safe. Instead, Valerian is the one who should be ensuring the family's safety, and so he takes the almost-lie at face value. "Say what you want, they're really not that bad." Around his brother, there is no such thing as his 'work voice'. His drawl is loud and long, taking seconds to sound out some syllables and milliseconds to sound out others. Normally, he'd speak quickly in tandem with the accent, but he's too tired to keep his mouth up with his mind. "There's sort of, like, a lattice number going on over there— ah, don't put your arm on that, you'll get charcoal everywhere." That, however, *Is* A chide. It's not that Valerian cares what's underneath it or not (he wouldn't be surprised if Florian depicted explicit imagery once or twice, most artists did), but instead more of that he wants Florian to appear somewhat put together.

He lifts the glass of scotch, taking a sip. Sure, it's illegal everywhere but here, but Briar Ridge keeps alcohol as it's worst-kept secret. So long as it doesn't leave the borders of the town, he knows no one will be getting in trouble. ~~Deputy~~ Sheriff Guerrero only ever tagged someone if they were belligerent or disturbing the peace, and Valerian is exclusively using this as a nightcap. "More than you know," He sighs, resting his elbow on the table (bad manners!) and his cheek in his hand. "I've gone and gotten myself in trouble, I think."

_ _
A pause, a sip, and Valerian continues to explain:

"It's no secret anymore that the coal company sent me that gun. The pistol. So, in some ways, they know about the hullabaloo goin' on down here. And not only that, but they *Gave me this assignment-* (Incorrect. He fought for the assignment. Spat and gnawed through inferior coworkers to be assigned here, to be the case manager, to be the account manager, to be the minor god of Briar Ridge.) "-without so much as tellin' me what was goin' on. That's going to be a problem from here on out, especially if those *Things* Are going to keep trying to blow a hole in the wall. Papa built that wall. Hell, he built most of the extensions. I don't want any more of this place broken down."

Rambling, Val. "Anyways, my letter to them wasn't very nice. Lots of demands, lots of stern words. If I get what I want, one of my supervisors will come down here at some point to talk to me about all of this. I have half a mind to make sure they get a good look at the collapsed mines and the *Goddamn scorch marks* From those haints. I'm just glad they're gone."

He sighs, leaning his head back. So tired. (No matter, the package in his bag is going to fix that problem. He can keep going - he won't sputter out. His hand moves now to be under his glasses, rubbing at his eyes to pair with a yawn. "Not enough time in the day, not really. 'Liv asleep?"
Jack
His brother sounded so different at home when nobody who was not kin was there to hear him. It was like there was a second version inhabiting his brother, a persona that he could summon when needed, one that spoke words with purpose and force, that stood up straight and proud, that knew exactly how to weave sentences that ensnared those who heard. It had brought him far, selfishly Florian cared most about the fact that it had brought Valerian back to Briar Ridge. Perhaps that was why he did not dare look into that persona deep enough to see the trail of damage it left in its wake. Or maybe it was because he had looked so deeply into it that he failed to look beyond it, his field of vision barred by the pedestal he had hoisted his brother onto. There were times where cracks threatened to shatter that pedestal, hell, at times great holes had been blown into it, but they always seemed to fill back up again. Maybe one day the forces of time would see it crumble, but for now, it stood firm, an unchanging marble block carved just for Valerian, an invisible force only visible to Florian. 

A mumbled apology fell from his lips, graphite stained less, but he was not in the mood to argue about technicalities of art supplies. An eyebrow rose when Valerian admitted he might have stumbled his way into trouble. "Oh do tell, Val." He said, gently teasing his brother. The trouble turned out to be no teasing matter and he instantly regretted his words. Florian had been wondering why they had yet to call upon the services of a carpenter to patch up the damned hole, it seemed he had just found a hint of the reason why. 

His mind fixated on those next words, 'I'm just glad they're gone.' Were they? Were they truly gone? Or had they simply migrated out of the mines and into town? As much as he wanted Valerian's words to make it so, he feared that this town may not have seen the last of those ghoulish things quite yet.

"She is, poor woman had to push me through snow today, after which I apologised deeply of course. But, to get back to-" He made a vague circling hand gesture, his voice picked up in pace and some of the anger and helplessness he had bottled up inside started slipping through. "-all of that. They knew? They knew enough to have discovered a pretty major weakness of that beast, and they still sent you here entirely unaware and underprepared?" What would have happened if someone who cared less about Briar Ridge had taken on the assignment, he wondered, maybe that was exactly why Val had been given the job. He had ties to the town and would be more willing to endure its monsters if it meant he could stay. "What else aren't they telling you? Can they be made to pay for damages, can they not send more of those bullets so we can protect ourselves? This can't be-" He paused himself, he knew too little about actual jobs and companies to be making such claims and demands. It was not like Valerian had created the situation they currently found themselves in. "I'm sorry, I got ahead of myself there." He took a deep breath to steady himself, as he continued, his voice was softer, approaching a delicate matter. "Is that why the hole is still there, so you have evidence? As much as I appreciate the additional fresh air, I would be lying if I said I haven't had the urge to find myself a hammer and some nails to attempt to patch it up myself." He sighed. "I miss the times that scary stories were just stories, do you think they'll come back?" He already knew the answer, he wasn't sure why he even asked. Maybe he wanted to talk about it, to show someone just how terrified he had been that night. But he couldn't quite get himself to admit that.
Julius
Valerian Barca is not a stupid man. He has more education than most, and enough on-the-job trainign to keep him not only afloat but treading water. When Florian's temper begins to seep through his words, Valerian knows he's made a mistake in telling Florian the truth. Unfortunately, the anger that has blossomed inside of Florian is Valerian's doing - and if he is ignorant to the source (himself), then he cannot quieten it, cannot tamper it, cannot put itself away from the flame like an ever-suicidal moth. 

He has to change the topic of conversation first, and when he does so, he exhales, taking another sip of the bourbon. It's swished around in his mouth for a moment first, as if he was tasting a fine wine. (As if they were cultured enough to have tried wine; Valerian thinks it tastes like someone's mixed vinegar and rotten grape juice together. Sue him.) "Well, the wall is an unexpected side effect. Mr. Whitaker is working as quickly as he can to repair the wall, but he has to wait on materials, and then there's the labor, and he *Still* Doesn't have the glass for the window. I don't think he ever will, so I need to find someone who can install a window." He explains this casually, as if they were discussing the steps that he would need to take in order to make dinner. Valerian agrees with him, though - he doesn't *Love* The hole, either. He misses his bed, the warmth of the mattress and the cover of the pillows. He misses not freezing half-to-death due to the missing glass, and it's fucking unsightly at best, ugly at worst.

_ _
Alas - he has run out of filler text, so he must address the topic of Florian's anger: his employer's atrocious behavior, the failures of the company, and most importantly - the betrayal of Valerian Barca. He rolls his neck, here, reaching for his shoulder, letting his fingers work through a knot that has formed between his shoulderblade and the meat of his bicep, obviously created through the stress of his occupation and his employer. *They knew? They knew enough to have discovered a pretty major weakness of that beast, and still they sent you here unaware and unprepared? What else aren't they telling you?* He can hear Hazel's voice in his head echoing in tandem with Florian's: *Did you think you were the exception?*

*I am the exception,* He thinks, still; *But I don't know why they sent me here in this state.*

He rubs his hands together, putting down the glass and letting the friction of his palms create a state of grounding. "There must be an explanation," He says, rather than *I trust their judgement.* Florian doesn't need to know that Valerian stood in that office in front of his supervisor and asked - demanded - damn near *Begged* To take the infamous Briar Ridge account. He's surely not egotistical enough (yet) to think that they convinced him of his own free will. He had an employee file - surely they knew that Briar Ridge was his home, that he has siblings here, and that that was the reason Valerian was so desperate to claim the usually-unclaimable account. Perhaps sending him without a weapon, without answers, was punishment: a check to the ego, a check to the brazenness, as if to say *Do not challenge us again. Do not be so bold again.* "I intend to get one. The letter I sent was... Rather scathin'. If they don't give me an answer, they'll give me a pink slip. To be honest with you, either ending is fine with me at this point."

_ _
He tilts his head to the side; it's evident now that Valerian has a contingency plan of sorts. If Mayor Cooper was otherwise predisposed in the town jail, there would be need for a politician. He could vy for the role of a politician, so long as he can convince the people of Briar Ridge that being in this position would make him a servant, not a leader - earning back their inevitable trust once S&C cut ties with him. He also has a penchant for organization and numbers - this would make him a good banker, a good advisor. In his education, others could call on him to ensure that they are not being swindled. The idea of the latter makes him smirk; if S&C ditched him for his insubordinance, for his brazen nature, he could make sure every person in Briar Ridge knew what their rights were, what the contracts said. They could never take anymore land- Valerian would kneecap them and remind them that no one - not even the influential, near-immortal coal companies that had him under their thumb.

When Florian asks him if they'll come back, Valerian's eyes darken. There is an exhale, a sigh - "Yes," He says, finally. "I do think they'll come back this month, and every month after. Just because one was killed don't mean there aren't others. They move in packs, I'm sure, like real wolves. That's why, Florian, I want you at someone else's safehouse this month, you and Olivia both. I can't trust the estate to uphold proper protections until that wall is fixed, and if we have another incident like *Beaux-fucking-Leblanc* Luring that beast over here, you cannot be here. You *Cannot *Be involved. I only have one silver bullet left. If I fire it, and it doesn't fell the beast, there's a high chance you could be hurt, or killed. I cannot - *I cannot* - let that happen."

If one listened closely, he might sound... Desperate.
Jack
Brown eyes moved to the artist's hands, he rubbed his right middle finger against the callous on the opposing palm, resting between the thumb and index finger, right where his pushrims met his hands. The movement helped calm him. He guessed it made sense, no materials for repairs meant the hole was here to stay for now. But it wasn't the hole he was really emotional about, the hole was just a symptom, an easy, physical, target at which to aim his anger and fear. A much more convenient target than the true culprit, which were his own insecurities and inability to be of much use when it came to fighting off werewolves.

He nodded, more waiting. But this time for the coal company. He hoped they'd have answers. Surely there had to be a reasonable explanation for why his brother hadn't been informed. Doubt still lingered inside Florian, he wasn't sure they'd get satisfactory answers. And Valerian was fine with being fired? What kind of tricks did this man have up his well-kept sleeves? Florian fully believed that his brother would pull through and find new ventures if the need arose, he'd shown his cunning and spirit countless times before, but it was still odd to hear him say it. What if he had to leave again? _Stop being selfish Florian._ 
.

His stomach sank when Valerian confirmed what the younger Barca already feared, the wolves would be back. (And there were more.) It sunk further still as the words continued spilling into the kitchen air, which suddenly felt much colder. Just as his anger had slowed, it came back and with a vengeance this time. It cloaked his true feelings of helplessness and fear about as well as Briar Ridge cloaked its stance on the prohibition of alcohol: entirely inadequately for those who'd been around for longer than a few weeks.

"And leave you here to die!?" His voice was firmly above the volume that was acceptable at this hour. But he couldn't be bothered, to hell with social rules, to hell with what was proper and polite, his brother was planning his own death for God's sake. Disbelief and powerlessness flooded his mind. What on earth did he mean _Florian_ could get hurt, he wasn't the one planning on facing a potential pack of wolves with one measly bullet in a house unfit for defending. "Valerian if you fire that bullet and it doesn't kill the beast, those things will kill _you_! Need I remind you what just *One* Of those things did to our walls, now imagine your skull in its place! You can't-" His voice broke, it was all too much. He looked away, down at his legs. ~~His stupid, broken legs.~~ He didn't want to risk Valerian seeing the tears that were threatening to form in his eyes. Imagining Val's death at the hands of those things was exactly what he'd been doing, wholly against his will.
.

They shouldn't have to worry about werewolves. They shouldn't have to worry about coal company higher-ups willingly sending their employees into danger. They shouldn't have to worry about fellow Briar Ridge citizens luring killer beasts to their doorsteps. 

Florian wanted to scream, he wanted to find those beasts and kill every single one of them. He wanted vengeance. He wanted to go back to how it was before. If he could walk, if he could run... He could help fight those things... 

But most of all he wanted to break open Valerian Barca's head to find the rotten, poisonous barb that had wedged itself in there and infected him with these self-sacrificial ideals and pry it out with his bare hands. 

"I understand you feel responsible for Olivia and me but-" He looked up again, so what if Val saw that Florian was emotional when faced with the possibility of his brother dying. His voice was void of anger, only a deep sadness remained in its wake. "-_fuck_, Valerian." A shaky breath. "Don't get yourself killed f-." ~~for us~~ He swallowed. "We can rebuild the house. We **Cannot** Rebuild _you_."

It seemed Valerian thought himself an Atlas, albeit one who proudly carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders. Life thought him a Sisyphus, forever doomed to push the boulder that was his own ambition and drive to protect those few close to him against a seemingly undefeatable enemy, one misstep away from it all crumbling down. In the end, he was merely man, not Titan and not King. And Florian? Florian supposed he was the boulder and weight in both of Valerian's myths.

"Please, come with us. I can't lose you." Not you too, not again.

Florian's voice was frail, he was coming undone. He'd always experienced emotions larger than he suspected many others did. Some would lean into cliche and say that that was common amongst artists. Florian wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of much in that moment. But he knew with earthshaking certainty that he would never forgive himself if his brother died because he wasn't able to protect himself. What he wouldn't give to be the protector for once. To be shield, or weapon, whatever was needed. _I want to help. **Tell me how I can help.**_ His thoughts were so loud, he almost believed Valerian would be able to hear them.
Julius
Florian's yell back at him was not of a pair of brothers; it was, to Valerian, a child in defiance of the individual who was making the rules. Valerian's stance on all of this was clear- Florian would not be in attendance at the Barca Estate during the full moon, and nor would their sister. Valerian, who seemed to care little for the outburst at first, listened to his kin with a stoic expression, even going so far as to take a sip while Florian was still talking. 

That was, of course, until Florian started to cry.

There were few sights in this world that Valerian couldn't handle. After all, he was the man responsible for sending boys and men down into the mines, the one responsible for signing off when they inevitably died due to the conditions. He could handle missing arms, bloodied stumps, thrown out organs. He watched Oswald Katz die in front of him and did not throw up at the smell; instead, he scrubbed and scrubbed the carpet of his living room until the stench was gone, until the sin of murder had been baptized from this place. He cannot, however, handle the sight of Florian crying, big tears in his eyes like they were at the funeral. (Valerian hadn't gotten the opportunity to cry; it wasn't until much later, when he sat next to the wood in the shed, forehead against the metal of the helmet his father used down in the mines, that Valerian was allowed to cry, unfound by his kin.

_ _
He looks at his glass, at the ambery liquid inside, and sets it down on the table, looking up at Florian. "*This is not up for debate,* Florian," He emphasized, looking straight through his brother, pupil-to-pupil. "You will be going to someone else's house - perhaps I can ask Marianne to take you both in, given that she has somewhat of an accessible home. And I'll be here, with the bullet I have, and the people who are... *Stupid* Enough to come stay in a place like this for the moon. I won't be *Killed.* Those idiot bastards know I have this weapon, know that Briar Ridge has been *Equipped* With things that *I* Provided for them. To try this house again would be nothing other than an early grave - and I know plenty who would be happy to sign a death warrant."

A little chuckle, another lip against the glass, as if he's going to take another sip but stopping. "This house is important to me, Florian," He says, looking daggers past his brother and into the absess of the wall, the one that Mr. Whitaker was working on. Time was a fickle mistress, one that meant that as the winter closed in, the Barcas would be dealing with the same discomforts that some beloved citizens of Briar Ridge already did- a punishment, perhaps, for Valerian's folly. (He somehow expects those fucking fire-catching ghosts to not be interested in warming parts of the house by now.) "It's all I have left of our father. Sure, the house can be rebuilt, but how much of this house is allowed to be before it stops bein' the house our grandfather built? The house our father expanded on, to give us a better life?"

_ _
He smiles, and the boulder collapses atop Valerian's head once more. "I promise you that I'll be fine. You'll come back the morning after, and I'll even go so far as to make us a breakfast, yeah? Have some eggs, and sausage- a family celebration of another month survived. Might convince Hazel to stay, too; I want you both to like her terribly. I— *God,* I only hope she likes the two of you, too. But. I digress, Florian. Please, just listen to me — just this one thing. And then I'll never ask you to do anything of this magnitude ever again."

He extends his pinky for the promise. A bond shared between brothers - the penultimate form of swears immemorial.
Jack
_This is not up for debate_ The anger inside him was almost tempted to remind Valerian that he was not his father, but Florian wouldn't dare stoop that low. Nor did he want to. For better or for worse Valerian was the closest thing he had to a father, he had been so young when he died. They both had been. Florian could barely remember the face of Octavian Barca and had since lost all memory of the way his voice sounded. At times he wasn't even sure if he missed his dad or just the version of him that he'd created for himself; the concept of a father.

At least Valerian wouldn't be alone, there would be others. Fools, each and every one of them, but they would make a stand together. The thought of that provided him with some semblance of trust that all three of them would pull through. And really, how likely was it that the wolves would hit the same house four times? Unless they had a vendetta against the estate itself, or one of its inhabitants. Florian didn't want to think about the possibility that werewolves were capable of targeting specific individuals or places. It felt much better to think of them as indiscriminate. He knew of course that there was pretty damning evidence to suggest the contrary. But he was not part of that evidence. The wolves didn't seem to consider him a target.

The house was important to him too, and he understood the additional value it held for his brother, who he suspected had many more active memories of their dad. But a house would never be more important than his siblings. Nevertheless he remained quiet, he wouldn't be able to convince Valerian, once that man had made up his mind it would take more force than Florian possessed to shift it. Especially on the current topic. 
_ _

He realised the house served as a physical reminder of the Barcas before them, the hands of their father and his before him had worked on it, shaped and extended it. They had built a life here, worked hard to ensure the following generations would live in comfort. Furthered the existing legacy and improved upon it. And all the three of them had managed to do was get it torn down. It was as if the wolf had killed off a piece of their father, and by patching it they were stomping all over his grave. By replacing the torn apart wood with new planks they were spitting on the love and care Octavian had put into the newer rooms of the house. Even in death, no Briar Ridge citizen was safe from the impact of its monsters.

He wiped away the tears that had started rolling down his face. *Pull yourself together* "I believe that at its core it will always remain the same house, no matter what happens to it." Just like us, at our cores. "But I understand it doesn't feel like that to you, and I respect that you want to fight to protect it. I didn't mean to imply that you should let it be turned into ruins, I'm sorry." His voice remained soft, he turned away from the piercing gaze of Valerian. Even though it hadn't been aimed at him this time. A small part of him was grateful Valerian had stood his ground, if for whatever reason the house was destroyed further than it already was, they'd likely have to find a different place to live, at least temporarily. He really did not want to leave the Barca estate behind. He felt safe here, even with the hole. 

His eyes met his brother's. "If you die I swear your ghost will never hear the end of it Val." And then fingers interlocked: a promise made. He held on to the physical touch perhaps a second longer than was strictly necessary, still reeling from the exchange that just occurred. He just hoped he hadn't damaged their relationship.
_ _

Eggs and sausage, something to look forward to. "I can be charming if I need to be." It felt good to joke around again, but it wasn't with ease that he jested, his body still held on to tension. It would continue clinging onto it until after the full moon. Only during the promised meal, where all three—four now he supposed, were safe and in one piece would he be fully at peace. A peace he knew wouldn't last, the moon always grew fuller; a celestial hourglass brightly shining down upon Briar Ridge. "I'd love to meet Hazel properly. She seems to mean a great deal to you, I'm happy for you." His eyes reflected their natural state again, kindness slowly returned to his features.

He hesitated for a second before committing to a question that had been on his mind for a while. He was afraid of being rejected or denied again, but now was as good a time as any. Yet he still felt bad for shifting the mood in a decidedly darker direction again.

"Can you teach me how to shoot?"

He didn't own a firearm, not yet anyways, and he certainly wasn't very comfortable handling them, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He would dig into the few savings he had if it meant he'd stand any kind of chance at protecting himself and Olivia. Anything would be better than having to resort to something like stabbing a pencil into the eye socket of a werewolf in the unlikely scenario that one would get that close to Florian.
Julius
He laughs at the commentary about his ghost being throttled by his little brother— somehow, he believed it. If there was anyone who could grab some kind of occult symbol and summon his spirit back to the mortal plane just to choke him out, it was Florian. "I'm not going to die," He tells him, reassuring him as their palms pulled away from each other. "I have too much left to do to die this month. Or the next. Or the one after that."

He leans back in the chair— he goes for another drink, only to find the glass is empty. It's a good idea not to have a second, but the warmth of the alcohol in his belly kept his skin nice and warm in the face of the draft coming from the giant hole in the wall. He was careful not to balance this intake with anything else - Arthur's words rang firmly in his head. His neck rolls to the left, then to the right, and he exhales, smiling. "Oh, Flori, I'm going to make that woman my wife," He says earnestly, a boyish, goofy smile pulling against his features, his skin elastic and kind. For a moment, the Valerian in front of him is the teenager that Florian grew up alongside - longer-haired, strumming his guitar, always smiling. Bright. Happy. Intelligent. Kind. He says nothing on the fact, not wanting to speak too long on Hazel while she wasn't here, but it was obvious that every word that left his lips just now was the truth.

_ _ 
There's a pause, and then Florian spoke again: *Can you teach me how to shoot?* 

His face sobers, here, and there's something different about teaching his brother how to shoot in comparison to teaching Hazel how to shoot. Teaching Hazel to shoot was arming an independent woman with the means to defend herself; teaching Florian how to shoot is like passing a metaphorical torch - one that Octavian gave him, and now he's passing on to Florian. Dark eyes looked down at his brother, watching his expression: *Concern, fear* Written across his face. Not fear of the werewolves — fear of *Valerian.* Fear of Valerian rejecting him again, of telling him he has to stay helpless in the face of a beast.

He chuckles, again, "With as many people asking me for shooting lessons, I might as well become a marksman's instructor," He shrugs, sitting up straight. "Yes. I'll teach you. I pray you never have to use the gun, but in the case you gotta, I'll ensure you got it. We'll have to figure out something to counter the recoil in your chair - *You might go scootin' backwards, I'm not gon' lie* - but I'll teach'ya. Tomorrow alright? I got to get some sleep, or I'll be shootin' bleary-eyed, and that's not the way to go about anything. *You* Should get some sleep, too, else *You'll* Be shootin' bleary-eyed, and you might hurt yourself."
Jack
_They had much left to do, both of them. And survive they would._

Florian smiled, it warmed his very soul seeing Valerian talk about Hazel. The smile on Valerian's face was one that very few people were able to draw out, he hoped nothing more than for Hazel to feel similarly about his brother. How his brother sat in front of him now reminded him of years long gone, back when he wore that smile regularly. When they were both kids, they were never truly careless but they sure got close to it from time to time. Sitting out on the porch in the sun, how he'd listen to Val play guitar and softly sing along. It was good to see that side of Valerian again, he wished that side would be there more often. Val deserved happiness. They all did.

The mental image of their shared youths vanished, replaced by the harsh reality of their adulthoods. "I am right there with you." He didn't want to have to use a firearm, but he would if he needed to. He hadn't stopped to consider the logistics of recoil in a wheelchair, his brother was clearly ten steps ahead of him. "Maybe I can ask Noah to help fashion me some brakes, something to stop my wheels from spinnin' temporarily?" Normally he just parked himself against a wall if he needed to exert force, or asked someone to be the counterweight. "They would come in mighty handy outside of shooting too, stop me from rolling down hill if I am out on my own and need my hands." The current set-up made it so that he needed at least one hand on a wheel to stop him from moving if there was a decline, far from ideal, but he was not often in a situation where he was on his own, on an incline with a need for both hands free and whatever needed to be done could not be done a few feet further away from the angled surface.
_ _

"You're right, I should get some sleep, wouldn't want to hit something I shouldn't." He hadn't been aware of just how tired he'd been until Valerian mentioned it. "Have good dreams Val, and *Thank you*." Thank you for being there for me, thank you for all you've done for this family, thank you for agreeing to this, there was much to thank his brother for.