Madelyn Cline as Sarah Cameron OUTER BANKS — 1.05 'Midsummers'
fabletown is a small pond and faye thinks herself a fish too big for it ━━ so it's no surprise that every time the fibres of their being are laced with a kind of boredom too overwhelming to ignore, people around feel the shock wave of it ( and more often than not, the aftermath is less than good for a couple of unfortunate souls ━━ it's a wrong place, wrong time sort of situation and with something enticing enough for faye to do something about it ). peter, even with all the history that they share, might become a victim just like anyone else. to be fair, he approaches her. "and you are far too dramatic, peverell." a name foreign on her tongue, even with all the decades of use ━━ he is peter pan, the boy who refused to grow up and she his trusted companion. that is how the story goes, isn't it? "please. we see each other every damn day." a chuckle, a head shake and a sip of a beer that warms with each second.
every word exchanged still feels heavier than it used to be. an abandon of their home and company left behind... faye knows better than to believe all is well. as much as she hates it, actions have consequences. "i have my hobbies and i can guarantee none of them will ever be knitting. have you tried it?" eyebrows raise and mischief paints itself on faye's lips as their blue eyes meet peter's. then, the offer of a sip of her beer. "genius is right." a jest, even if there is no lie to be found. "the day has just begun. don't cheer just yet, peter. i might just take your wallet next, see what secrets you've been keeping from me and the magic mirror."
peter slows when he sees her, doesn’t stop right away — just enough for his stride to falter, for the sound of his footsteps to hush. no surprise finding her like this: sun going down, attitude rising, one foot on the edge of a bad idea and the other barely planted in whatever counted as rehabilitation. he squints down at her, cigarette tucked behind his ear, a notebook wedged under one arm. the picture of reluctant responsibility. “you wound me, darlowe.” he drawls, tone dry as the sidewalk she’s baking on. “not even a hello before you threaten to hoard your shitty beer ?” peter crouches, not to sit, never quite that relaxed, but enough to put himself just in her line of sight, forearms balanced on his knees, mirrored like mockery. his eyes skim the can in her grip before they flick up to hers.
“you know,” he says, glancing around like the scenery might surprise him, “most people at least pretend to find hobbies that don't involve sitting on the side of the road. you ever try knitting ?” followed by a little shrug, not judgmental, just peter: half amused, half weary, all blunt. “but hey, if scowling at pavement’s what’s keeping you from torching another mailbox or charming a guy out of his wallet, who am i to stop genius at work ?”
BOB'S BURGERS 3.18 — It Snakes a Village