11thstreet | saltburnt

( dean joins the fray too late to be of any help. by the time he uses the feed to find buffy, she and angel tumble through the window into the pool. and then he has to find them all over again, which means doubling back and finding the stairs.

by the time he finds the pool area, the deed is done.

fuck.

some time in the afternoon, chris receives a few raps on the door. he leans against the doorframe, tired. he has an ipod dock in hand and a six pack under his shoulder. )

[the first thing that chris thinks when a rap on his door jolts him awake is that maybe he's getting too old for this shit. his entire body hurts, like he's run three marathons, just from drinking all night, and — fuck. even just opening his eyes is enough to give him another fucking headache.

but there's another rap. and another. it's not in the annoying way that adrian typically does, so that's at least one headache saved. that's enough to pull him out of bed and reach for the clothes he'd thrown onto the floor the night before and slowly amble across the room.

he opens the door to a face that's definitely familiar, from what he can remember of last night. the problem is that the face is about all he remembers — well, along with the fact that he'd finally met someone in this fucking place who actually has some fucking decent taste in music. but he can't remember his name.]

Hey, uh — music guy. [he rubs at the back of his neck.] What's goin' on, man?

Dean. ( disheveled. did he just wake him up? he does a quick glance behind him at the rumpled bed. well, they did go into nearly dawn. dean had enough to drink about. not that they talked about anything real. ) You uh - slept through all the commotion. Can I come in?

( He lifts his shoulder to indicate - beer as reason for saying yes, before absently looking behind him.

It's not that there's anything inherently weird about this, it's just, things have been different in this house and he's from 2020 and 'no homo' is pretty strict. And he's not sure he's 'no homo' anymore. So, he awkwardly doesn't acknowledge hitting it off with another dude, save for the music. )

Brought an iPod and everything.

Oh, yeah. Dean!

[he says that, brightly, like something has jogged his memory. to be completely honest? last night is still kind of a blur, so it kind of hasn't, but —

dean is his best friend here now, no contest, and that's what matters. beer and music? there's nothing more that a hungover guy could ask for.

chris opens the door wider, and steps out of the doorway a little, gesturing with his hand.]

Yeah, come in, dude. Let me, uh —

[move some chairs? move some stuff off of chairs? he'll get to that once dean is inside.]

( He smiles, taking the recognition at face value.

He steps through giving the disheveled room a onceover. But, with what they drank, Dean's would be in the same shape if he weren't already a pretty organized guy. There is still a pile of clothing leading to the bed. He at least got his clothes off. )

Take your time. I know I kind of did the unannounced thing. Thought you might like some hair of the dog.

( And he really needs it. )

[the kind of mess that's on the floor now never would've been acceptable when he was in the military, or, come to think of it, when he was a kid — and some fucking therapist probably would've said he's compensating for something. or whatever the fuck; this is why he hasn't bothered with therapy. still, it's kind of not the best for, like, actual company, so as dean makes his way through the door, chris works on gathering the rest of the clothes from the floor and putting them away.

not folding them neatly or anything, obviously, but putting them away.]

Fuck yeah, I would. [a smile, as he finishes that, and starts to drag a chair over.] You've got the right idea, man. Unlike the lady on the other side of the wall over there.

[he jerks his head to the side, and over his shoulder a little, to indicate.]

British chick. Hot, but seriously uptight about, like, fucking everything.

[a judgment made from all of (2) interactions that they've had.]

( dean doesn't judge the mess, just waits while he tidies up.

oh, a chair, he will take that, sitting his beer down. for a second, he finds a surface for the iPod and iPod dock, scrolling through options. )

Sounds like British chicks.

( he chooses a song, turning the volume down modestly, sitting back. pulling up a beer, he holds it out, before grabbing his own. )

Maybe she just doesn't like mess. Maybe she's Marie Kondo, but in a British chick's body.

[he considers this as he pulls up another chair, takes the beer that's offered to him, and sits down.]

Isn't Marie Kondo the one that talks about things that make her happy or whatever? I don't think anything's ever made this chick happy in her life.

[like, that's his educated guess. he flips the cap off the bottle, then tips it up to his mouth for a swig.]

Kansas? [he asks, as an aside, like he doesn't know this is obviously kansas. still:] Good taste, man.

Mess does? Because she can clean it?

( He doesn't know. He didn't read her book. )

I lived in a bunker, though, we practically hoard everything for use eventually.

( Or, don't ask too hard into that. He uses the edge of the chair to smack his cap off, taking his own sip. )

Thanks. You, too. And people who look down on hair metal are douches. Give me hair metal, some good classic rock, freakin Metallica or Zeppelin...

[after growing up with a dad who'd had a literal quantum unfolding chamber in the closet, and had definitely had preppers in his vicinity for a long time, the bunker thing is just the kind of comment that makes chris shrug, which is exactly what he does. and — honestly the marie kondo thing, too. he'd just seen a video on facebook once.

they've got more important things to talk about, anyway.

his face brightens, and even though he still feels like he'd been run over by a truck, he leans forward in his chair, totally, one-hundred percent engaged.]

Fuck yeah, dude! Exactly!

[his voice is probably loud enough to carry to the other side of the wall, but maybe room-where-joy-goes-to-die can get a little joy.]

If you're one of those fucked up music snobs that thinks you're too good for Cinderella, or Hanoi Rocks, or the Quireboys, you're just missing out on some of the best stuff ever made, and that's on you.

( It's more about hunting and research and saving the day when needed, but he's happy no elaboration is necessary as they step right past his admissions. He'll answer anything if he circles back. He's a very honest guy in this house.

Dean does smirk, looking past him at her room. )

I don't get music snobs. And I don't knock other people for their music. 'Less they're playing it in my car. Driver picks the music. Every time.

( Shotgun shuts his cakehole. )

[oh for fuck's sake. she's standing in front of her bathroom mirror, running a brush through her hair as she dials.]

A vampire—yeah, vampire—went around terrorizing the house yesterday. Two residents taken hostage. Someone had to bloody kill him, apparently. I know you were a bit pissed by then, got an early start to your day, whatever. Did you really not notice the tension?

[hot british chick from nextdoor surfaces?? to lecture him?? rude.]

Okay, well fuck me for just getting here and not knowing there were fuckin' vampires in the place. They should've made their coffins more obvious, and that's on them!

Don't think they sleep in coffins. Well, some shitty monster twins put everybody in coffins recently, down in the crypt, and there weren't any vampires had to climb out of them first.

[she yanks on a snarl in the back of her head for good measure.]

How old are you? Do you know how to work your phone?

See? There were coffins. And you're trying to tell me I'm stupid because I didn't fucking see them just because I don't go down to a fucking crypt.

Yeah, I know how to work a fucking phone. I'm not stupid.

[ignoring the age comment!]

Well, maybe you should take a look at it more than once every eight hours. I assume you had to go piss, with how much you had to drink. [she's assuming. he looked like a mountain, standing in the doorway, last she saw him.] Do you not take your phone in there with you? What's the point of having one?

You could get killed. This house is nuts.

The fuck am I gonna do with a phone while I piss? Drop it in the toilet? Is that what you think a fucking phone is for?

[his voice is starting to rise, to the point that maybe she can hear it through the wall, but you know what? if that makes his point, that makes his fucking point!]

Sounds like a phone in your hands is way more nuts than this house is.

[if the phone were not perched on the sink, on speaker, she'd have leaned away from it. as it is, the voice wafting through the plaster elicits a sidelong look, furrowed brow.]

Fine. Dropping it in the toilet is more a risk for you lot. [penises, etc.] But I've killed enough blokes who were using urinals to know you've got your head in your phones as often as women. Candy Crush. Texting your jump-offs. Stock prices and BitCoin. No?

Uh — not stock prices and fuckin' BitCoin. That shit's for lameass losers.

[he's not really beating the candy crush allegations, though, is he?]

Where were you killing them? In Lameass Loserville?

No. Various countries around the world, actually. Covert assignments from the government.

[does he not believe her? he sounds like he doesn't believe her.]

I know what I'm talking about. If you've got any other highly-trained operatives to talk to, they'll agree with me.

Yeah, I've got another highly-trained operative to talk to. Me.

[if he were, like, twelve, and not a man in his 40s, this would come in the tone of so suck it. maybe it still does.

belatedly, he wonders if he should've said that. they're all done with ARGUS now, but harcourt still might have his head? well, too late for that now.]

And what I'm telling you is that not every dude is so lame to be looking at fuckin' stock prices and BitCoin all the time.

[a beat]

Maybe I'll give you Candy Crush.

Edited 2026-01-20 13:16 (UTC)

Well, maybe, you can just periodically monitor sitrep on your phone, so you don't wind up texting something tactless to a woman whose partner was just murdered by a psychopathic livestreamer yesterday.

[it actually sounds more like, well, MAYbe you can just PERiOdically monitor SITREP on your PHONE so you don't wind up TEXTING something TACTLESS to a WOman whose partner was MURDERED by a PSYCHOPATHic LIVEstreamer YESterday. she lays down her hairbrush.]

I think you can get notifications while playing Candy Crush. That'd work.

[that actually makes him take pause. oh, he thinks. oh, he says, out loud — not directly into the phone, but maybe the receiver picks it up.

lifting his free hand, he rubs at the back of his head, thinking.]

Okay, you're right, that was fucked up, and I'm gonna apologize to her. And I'll keep a closer eye on my phone in the future.

[another pause.]

Happy now?

Ecstatic.

[and then, not as sharply,]

You're all right, Chris.

Yeah?

[there's an audible shift in his voice, too. something softer; maybe a hint of the smile he's wearing now.]

You know, you're not so bad yourself. Thanks for the kick in the ass.

[after he'd just said to dean, like, fucking yesterday afternoon that he's not sure anything ever made her happy, but details!]

Yeah.

[to be fair, when he's not sneaking around performing wet ops ambushes, chris walking around the room sounds like a percussion band. and he laughs like a bullhorn. well before you add in the absolutely deafening music.

(she's started to like the music. a little.)]

You're welcome.

( doom scrolling doesn't even begin to cover the current state of saltburnt's network. it's what she expects, flicking through the debris of angelus' fuckery and fallout: murder splashed across the headlines, the head-turns and whispers that follow a tragedy. crack-cocaine injected into the attention spans of the morbidly curious.

hers snags on something else, midway through cataloging max's post for posterity. probably plenty of guys who name their cock peacemaker, like it'll solve her problems and take a stab at world peace while it's at work. probably less of a chance it's not adrian's peacemaker. so — not an imaginary friend, then. not a lie you pass around locker rooms at puberty for popularity points. this is my buddy, peacemaker. we totally fuck hot chicks together, but you can't meet him. he goes to another school. he's real, you guys have to believe me.

christ. imagine that. )

yo
is this who adrian's microchipped to

[in between one thing and nothing at all (look, he's still working off getting really fucked up and apparently missing some freddy krueger come to life bullshit in the process because he's not twenty-five anymore), chris squints this text. he turns his phone to the side and does it again. and again.

finally:]

Are you Bob?

Just wondering, because I'm still not convinced he's actually a real person

[maybe he'd think that someone named bob wouldn't make their name a fucking butterfly emoji, but maybe it's not his place to judge that, is it? butterfly emojis can belong to anyone. see, that's growth.]

( kindergarten teachers will tell you there's no such thing as a stupid ass question. men keep working overtime to disprove that theory to her. nicotine clogs her lungs on the next inhale, windpipe choked around cigarette smoke. )

holy shit. bob????
be so fucking for real. do i look like i bottom

( context clues point to no. )

ok
do a mental ranking of the hottest strangers you clocked at the breakfast
review the top bitch
that's who you're talking to

Edited (oops forgot two words) 2026-01-19 03:22 (UTC)

I wanna say no?
That's kind of what I'm getting that you want me to lean toward

[did he get that right? he's gonna assume he got that right.

and now he's going to rotate faces in his head, just like he's been asked to. it's not as easy as butterfly emoji makes it sound, because there are a lot of hot people here, he's just saying.]

Are you telling me you're a hot chick?
A hot chick who knows Adrian?

[a hot chick who spoke to adrian without his presence? jesus fucking christ what is the world coming to]

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