[ it'sa me, your local asexual, back at it again with a SMUT WARNING
and i asked earlier and decided on feedback that Mark is gonna have two nicknames for Indy — 'honey' when he's blissed out and in love and obsessed with her and then 'darling' when she's being her chaotic self and hindering his investigation and is getting frustrated at her but still wants her to know he cares.
also, if you don't hate spoilers, i just posted a threat — i mean treat — for you to check out :) ]
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OH, NO, YOU HAVE TO BE, LIKE, A LEVEL-FIVE FRIEND TO UNLOCK MY FAVORITE SCARY MOVIE.
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☆︎ MAY, 1999 ☆︎
Mark Kincaid wasn't an alcoholic but he sure loved living on the same block as a bar. It wasn't like he was even off duty enough to enjoy a drink that often, but he was given a rare three days off from his job as a detective and was enjoying it as best he could.
He was a regular at Red's even if he didn't drink much, always wanting to be alert in case he was called on duty for an emergency. The dive bar was a good place to spend time, and most nights, they booked bands to play rather than just put music on over the radio.
The stool he was on at the bar had a good enough look at the stage — he didn't want to bother grabbing one of the tables closer to it. There was already a big crowd, which was a bit surprising to him. Red's wasn't known for hiring popular bands. The owner liked to stick to small groups that were still growing.
Since the stage lights weren't on, the detective couldn't make out the details of the people that were hastily setting up drums and guitars, getting ready to go on once it hit nine.
"Another beer?" the bartender Joey asked, coming over to check on Mark.
"Make it a scotch," he told him, leaning his elbow on the bar. "More crowded than normal for you guys."
"Yeah," he said, grinning as he started to fix Mark's drink. "Old Red pulled a few strings with some girl he knew in college. Her son's the bass player. Never had Grammy winners in here."
Mark's eyes went wide and he almost laughed. "Grammy winners? No way."
"It's true," Joey said while snatching a flyer from behind the bar. They'd been hanging up all week all over the block. He slid the brightly colored sheet over to Mark along with his scotch. "I think they're some indie rock group. You know me though — big thing for easier listening."
Mark looked down at the flyer, his jaw going slack as he read the band's name in disbelief. The Woodsboro Killers.
Everyone in law enforcement on this side of the west coast knew who the band was, and not because of their music. It was because the younger girl standing front and center with a bright yellow guitar in her hands was a survivor of two brutal serial killer attacks. And the drummer nearly died the first time around.
