[Sparkling, who Vicious hasn't spoken with since he found him broken and bloody in the break room. Tonight would be Sparkling's first shift back after the changes began, but right now it's still early morning. Their next shift wouldn't be for some hours yet.]
A nervous pang shoots through him at the thought of who it could be --considering the events of the last few days-- but is almost instantly quelled once he reads the message itself. Thank god.
It's been a few days but he recalls offering his services to Sparkling as well, outside of the repair of his clothing, that if he needed help with anything as far as his recovery was concerned, that he simply need call him or Spike and they would be on their way. Perhaps their services were further required? ]
Good morning, Sparkling.
I'm free, yes. Is everything alright?
[He remembers the state Sparkling was in when he'd helped him clean up, and has had him on his mind quite a few times since then, hoping for a quick recovery (both physically and emotionally) for his colleague. The look on Sparkling's face is what stays with him, though, that distant and hollow stare that was alien to the warm, soft features Vicious had become accustomed to.
[He remembers the state of his hands, he wondered if he would actually recover enough to return to work. Vicious couldn't imagine working in a state like that, but who knows, maybe Sparkling is a tougher cookie than he. Still, he wouldn't want to make it more difficult on the poor man.]
I do for you. Would you rather talk in person? We're finished with your repairs, so I could bring them to you, if you'd like.
Edited (i left out whole sentences soRRY) Date: 2022-03-13 05:31 am (UTC)
[It's not that Spike is upset they're not in Felfri anymore. It really isn't. It's not even the part where he's a monster again— Spike's gotten over that and he knows viscerally that beinga nymph is nowhere near as bad as returning to being a shade.
What has Spike grouching and groaning around the apartment again?]
Shit. Shit!
They all taste like fucking— shit!
[It may just be the pack of cigarettes that Spike has just beaned out the window at light speed.]
[Vicious might be a touch grumpy from losing his body for the umpteenth time, and Spike's whinging certainly isn't helping, but he's happy to utilize some of this power again. He's floating throughout the apartment, phasing in and out of the walls, and just in time to watch Spike's little tantrum.]
Wh-- hey! What the fuck? I bought those, you shit!
You literally loved them yesterday, I don't want to hear it.
[He grumbles and floats, pointedly, towards the window to peer out and check where they've ended up. It would be easy to float down and grab them, and honestly he's going to, just to make a point.
He turns his back to the window with a smirk and holds up a hand-- a hand that is flipping Spike off. Enthusiastically-- as he floats backwards through the window and disappears. He's going to get his cigarettes, damn it.
It takes about half a minute, but he returns, tossing the pack through the window with the intent to bean his partner square in the face.]
[Wrapped in a light green cloth, the present contains an obnoxiously bright blue and yellow floral-patterned Hawaiian shirt, to match the one he gave to Spike.
There's also a smaller box, and it contains a reasonably nice metal pocket watch, probably bought from the Night Market. Good for telling time when you're intangible and don't have wrists, though Hinata didn't really account for the potential lack of pockets.]
If there is only one thing Spike is certain of in this moment, it's that he is a fucking idiot. Perhaps the biggest fucking idiot there is.
Most people would have taken a lot more time to practice with their strange new powers before going into attempting something like this. They would have done more than just gently encouraged things that were already growing, would have put some attempts into trying to understand what they're doing— perhaps even would have asked other nymphs for help.
But Spike is not most people, and right now, he is regretting being a person at all.
As with most of the problems he deals with alone, Spike is completely silent about this particular fuckup.
He is seated on the couch now, watching the golden sunset drift in through the open window— no, not open. It's not open on purpose, anyway. A shard of broken glass falls to the floor, jiggled free from the mostly-bare windowframe by the movement of a flowering branch in the breeze.
A whole ass tree of a bush has grown, its roots a tangled mess on the apartment floor, out the window, in pursuit of the sun. Its pale branches peek into the evening air, fluttering with thick green leaves and beautiful blossoms in a white-fuschia ombre.
Lovely as they are, they are not what was intended, nor are they growing as intended, nor are they growing where intended.
Spike's own ass is planted (ha) dead center in the middle of the couch. An herbal cigarette burns off in his hand, which is too preoccupied with rubbing his temples to bring the cigarette to his mouth.
He lets out a heavy sigh. He is going to have to figure out how to fix this.
But Vicious hasn't returned home yet, and maybe won't at all. Maybe instead of dealing with this, Spike can just... rot on the couch.
And that's what he chooses to do, finally drawing a drag from that cigarette.
This can be a fuckup to deal with in the morning.]
Vicious slips through the front door, quiet as the ghost he is. Once on the other side, he's solid again, actually walking rather than floating towards the bedroom until he's greeted by the mass of roots and flowers sprawling across his previously cleaned living room floor. At first, he's unaware of Spike's presence in the apartment-- it has been a minute since they've been home at the same time, after all.]
What the hell--
[He stops abruptly, wide white eyes blinking rapidly in confusion. He remembers what happened last year and what a nightmare that was, the way the flowers overtook everyone's bodies... is it happening again?! Spiraling, he sorts begins to sort through the possibilities and what he can do about them-- that is until he sees Spike on the couch. He jumps once he realizes he's not alone, placing a hand on his chest.]
Good lord. [Wheeze.] Hi. Christ, Fearless, you need a bell or something!
[In the moments between Vicious entering and then actually noticing Spike, the nymph gets to his feet, looks between the mess he's made and Vicious, and draws in another drag of that smoke.
His eyes may be wide, but he forces a casual sense of body language, stuffing his hands in his pocket and looking Vicious's way with the herbal cigarette still in his mouth.
Lips pressed to one side to hold it there, Spike retorts;]
You don't even open the door and I'm the one who needs a bell?
Please, you say that like you aren't naked most of the time.
[He places his hands on his hips, frowning for a moment. He wants to pretend that he's more frustrated than he is, annoyed that he was spooked so easily, but... it really is kind of nice to see him.
Something strange tugs in his chest, but he shrugs it off.]
[Whatever dream Vicious had been having, wrapped around the smaller body of the wicked little Goblin he had spent the night with, it is suddenly...interrupted.
Fire roars through the trees, melting reddened snow from gore-spattered earth. Wine grapes hang nonsensically from burning trellises. They bleed. It smells of apricots. Your stomach churns.
There is a burning in the skin of your chest. You want to rip the flesh out. You can't. Your hands are too caked with flesh and blood to find purchase. Your mouth feels unlike your own. You choke and spit out a tooth. Another has grown in, long and wicked. Your neck throbs. You can taste dozens of people on your tongue.
A building stands before you. It's half burned away. You don't know what it is, a shack, crooked and wooden and old. You can't get near it. It burns too brightly.
A young man stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the flames. He wears robes, and the ends of his long dark hair are burning. You can't make out his face, but it is full of sadness.
He points at you.
"Suntem amândoi naibii.
We are both damned."
You know the voice, but you don't. It rings painfully in your ears, like the feedback on a speaker. The sun starts to rise, and you want desperately to see it. You can hear a child screaming.
The earth reaches up and swallows you whole before you glimpse the light, enclosing you, crushing you before you can even cry out.
When Vicious wakes, he will find...he is still in bed with Kronid. He is curled up tightly against him, still naked, small body and wings trembling. His hands are crossed over his chest, over his scar, claws digging in.
He...chokes out a single, barely-stifled sob.]
Edited (What is time what are dates keeping it vague to avoid thinking too hard lmao) Date: 2023-02-22 08:53 am (UTC)
[His eyes snap open, staring straight ahead into the near-pitch darkness of the room. There's no fire, no screaming, no horror here, just the gentle light of late afternoon seeping through the curtain's slits and the soft, trembling breath of the man next to him.
What an odd dream, Vicious thinks, reaching up to wipe the sleep from his eyes. He's surprised to find that his cheeks are... wet? He blinks, wiping a little more aggressively. Was he... crying? In his sleep? Had the dream really scared him that badly? He doesn't want to focus too hard on it, though. The pitiful sound his companion makes is enough to have him redirecting his attention and concern to the other man curled up next to him.
Vicious rolls onto his side to face him more fully, reaching up to place a hand on the goblin's shoulder, stroking down along his arm and back in an attempt at waking him gently. He notes Kronid's hand digging nails into his chest and frowns, putting two and two together. In the dream Vicious had, his own chest was burning-- is it possible they had the same dream?
Anything is possible in this place, he reminds himself. ]
Kronid. [His voice is gruff, being the first sound he's made in hours, but still soft as he calls to him. He pulls his hand away from Kronid's shoulder, slipping it between the scar and the goblin's hand, lacing their fingers together. At least like this, he can't hurt himself anymore.]
Wake up, dearest. It's just a dream...
[He squeezes the smaller man's hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.]
[When the Goblin wakes, it's with a start - eyes glowing softly as the magic some part of him was using recedes. This isn't the first time he's had this dream, all fire and blood and damnation....
But it is the first time he hasn't woken up alone.
'Dearest.'
The softly spoken word lands on him hard, echoing back from years ago, from another pair of strong arms that never got to hold him this way -
He looks at Vicious, wide-eyed, looking for a moment less like an ancient predator and more like a scared young man. (Something about that look is - how could it be familiar?)
And then...shuddering, he reaches out to wrap his arms around the Shade, burying his face against soft white hair. He has no idea what Vicious had seen. He can still hear his son screaming for him.]
My Knight.
I-
I'm-
[A knot in his throat chokes him, and he sobs again. His voice is so different when he murmurs again, so quiet.]
[Whatever dream Vicious had been having, wrapped around the smaller body of the wicked little Goblin he had spent the night with (again, again, again), it is yet again...interrupted.
Fire roars through the trees, melting reddened snow from gore-spattered earth. Wine grapes hang nonsensically from burning trellises. They bleed. It smells of apricots. Your stomach churns. He's dead. The vineyard will die too.
There is a burning in the skin of your chest. You want to rip the flesh out. You can't. Your hands are too caked with flesh and blood to find purchase. Your mouth feels unlike your own. You choke and spit out a tooth. Another has grown in, long and wicked. Your neck throbs. You can taste dozens of people on your tongue. You knew them. You can taste the tears running down your cheeks, too, where they burn at your lips. You look at your hands. Shreds of lamb's wool and tattered flesh on glassy black claws.
A building stands before you. It's half burned away. You don't know what it is, a shack, crooked and wooden and old and rotting and fading and sticking barb-like in your mind's eye. You can't get near it. It burns too brightly. The cross scorched into your chest sings with agony.
But...wait. Is it yours? Your chest, your burn, your cross to bear? You know whose it is, don't you? You know that already.
A young man stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the flames. He wears robes, and the ends of his long dark hair are burning. You can't make out his face, but it is full of sadness. He looks exhausted. The fire around him seems to bend around him, moving with him, breathing with him.
He points at you, drawing himself up to speak...but then he stops. He lowers his hand a little. It shakes.]
...You...Mă puteți auzi?
Vicious.
Can you hear me?
[Your identity reasserts itself. It isn't your pain, after all.]
[What is this.. The third time? The fourth? At first it was the sense of deja vu, the feeling he's seen this movie, but couldn't quite remember when or where. Now he knows that he's heard these screams and felt this pain before, tasted the smoke and ash and blood in his mouth. It's all the same, until this time, the man speaks to him. Utters his name. But the voice is... different. The burning pain ebbs away, along with almost every other sensation. He's the ghost again, barely extant, a silhouette amongst the flames mirroring the man before him.
He nods slowly, stepping forward. He is not afraid. There's no need to be. This is not his nightmare.]
[Vicious is able to easily step forward, away, out of the point of view. Kronid is left where he had been standing, motionless, unresponsive, glassy-eyed and filthy.
The man in the doorway, however, gasps softly as he is answered. He hovers in place for a moment, body language uncertain...before, experimentally, he walks forward, out onto the doorstep. It's easier to pick out some of the details, now. The robes look traditional, singed as they are, and a large, ceremonial crucifix hangs around his neck.
His face is hard to focus on, lit strangely by the fire, as though viewing it through a thick haze. His features are somewhat indistinct, but....
Those eyes.
Those eyes cut through, wide and afraid and sad and so very blue.]
...It worked. It finally worked. It's been so long, I-
[But he knows the time is short. He grimaces, then continues.]
You can remember this time, yes? That you've seen this before?
[immediately after he sends his last message, Jim writes out his letter, then leaves, putting on a cap and sunglasses. he takes a walk around the block, stopping at the pizza parlor for a slice - trying the human sausage topping out of curiosity (not bad, he thinks, and decides to add peppers and onions next time). He goes down to the rec room and fiddles around on its piano for half an hour, long enough for someone to feasibly take a cab, bus, or the subway to the 38-8, or even a modest walk by foot.
Then he walks back up toward Vicious' floor, taking his shoes off at the landing halfway between the fifth and sixth floors. He adjusts his gait to be heavier, shorter, and slips the letter beneath the door. Then he leaves down the steps, the same way he had come, and ducks under the shelter of the stairwell to put his shoes back on. Conveniently, he has an excuse to be on the fifth floor, and knocks on Dee's door, knowing full well she's at Paddy's]
Dee? H'lo, Ms. Reynolds? ... You t' home? I wanted to go over some ideas about Act Two ...
[it's just that scrawny little actor human. no one big enough to have made those footsteps, if Vicious cares to check. with a sigh of frustration, he heads back up to his own room. and waits. his handwriting is erratic, artistic, but legible...]
Vicious, What a good surprise to make your acquaintance on the network today! I believe we are going to, professionally, be a very smart match for one another. My business is still in its infancy, but depending upon how this first request is handled, you could do quite well.
Please go to Paddy's Bar this evening at 9 PM and keep your eyes on a Mr. Arvid Forsberg. He wears a brown leather vest and orders pale ale with a wedge of lemon, and tends to meet with a small group of morally questionable men. I wish to know what they are planning, and then I want you to tail the weakest of the lot when they are through. Observe him. His mannerisms, his habits, if he has family, how he dresses. Every single detail is important.
Forsberg himself is inconsequential. His criminal network is far less so. From them I intend to build a profile of the sort of criminal aptitude I will be contending with. I will pay you fifty solars an hour for this service. Enclosed is the first hour's pay for any expenses you may incur in the doing of the job. When you have finished, please send a detailed report to box 221 of the Bavan Post Office, and your payment will be left secured beneath the lid of the piano in the apartments' recreation room.
Happy haunting, S. Moran
P.S: Destroy this thoroughly when you've finished reading it. I should think I don't have to explain.
Edited (fuck shades can't burn things probably, sorry, LAST EDIT I SWEAR, go ahead now) Date: 2023-08-26 05:41 pm (UTC)
[Ah, just like he'd said. A prompt correspondence.
After rummaging about the apartment for a notepad and pen, he takes a few coded notes along the edge of the paper to memorize for later, rips the edge off and folds it into a thin square to slip in the fold of his tie.
The rest of the letter gets shredded by hand as a cooking pot floats from the cabinet to the stove, followed by a bottle of lighter fluid and a matchbook. Vicious dumps all the paper pieces into the pot, the bottle dumping out just enough fuel to start the fire once the match is lit. Thanks to Fog-God-given gift of telekinesis, he can take care of the more dangerous part from across the room, outside the range of the blaze's light. The contents of the pot burn for a few long seconds (surely long enough to turn the paper to ash...) before it floats up off the eye and over into the sink, the water cutting on with a hiss as smoke billows towards the ceiling. It's not that much, not even enough to set off any alarms, so he's going to consider this a job-- well, maybe not "well done", but at least done.
The shade moves to the window and slides it open to clear the air, deciding to take this opportunity to light himself a cigarette while the rest of the smoke clears out. He knows he's going to have to leave in a while to make it to this bar, but he's... got time. For now. A few hours. Plenty of time to put away anything suspicious before Spike comes home.]
[It would be nice if things ever really worked out the way Vicious wanted to. Unfortunately for him, the narrative has never been that kind to him, and we certainly aren't about to change that.
Because Spike is not psychic and is quite unaware that Vicious might not want him back at a certain time, it just so happens that Spike gets home right at the wrong moment.
No sooner has Vicious lit his cigarette than the door opens. That all too familiar voice calls out;]
[Glancing over to the lump of dog-man curled up on the bed across from him.]
well i suppose he's a shiba inu? right now? why? what's going on?
[Should he be concerned? Did he accidentally crawl into bed with a shape-changer or something? He frowns now at the fuzzy lump, suspicious as he awaits his reply.]
No, he definitely redirected to this username when he typed in 'thirteen' followed by 'bloodstone.' Javert frowns, earrings jangling with the subtle dip of his head.]
The Pup bumped you off, then, really? No. You would still be dead if that were the case.
Well, out with it, then. What is keeping you? I am speaking to the handsome white-haired fellow I've grown fond of, am I not?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
transilience
From:
Backdated to a few days after changes started, let's sayyy 3/8
Are you busy?
[Sparkling, who Vicious hasn't spoken with since he found him broken and bloody in the break room. Tonight would be Sparkling's first shift back after the changes began, but right now it's still early morning. Their next shift wouldn't be for some hours yet.]
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A nervous pang shoots through him at the thought of who it could be --considering the events of the last few days-- but is almost instantly quelled once he reads the message itself. Thank god.
It's been a few days but he recalls offering his services to Sparkling as well, outside of the repair of his clothing, that if he needed help with anything as far as his recovery was concerned, that he simply need call him or Spike and they would be on their way. Perhaps their services were further required? ]
Good morning, Sparkling.
I'm free, yes. Is everything alright?
[He remembers the state Sparkling was in when he'd helped him clean up, and has had him on his mind quite a few times since then, hoping for a quick recovery (both physically and emotionally) for his colleague. The look on Sparkling's face is what stays with him, though, that distant and hollow stare that was alien to the warm, soft features Vicious had become accustomed to.
Haunting.]
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[Him and so many others, but he isn't going to discredit what Vicious has done for him.]
Everything is fine. I just wanted to talk for a bit, if you happened to have the time.
[He isn't going to mention how he can't type, wanting to save his strength for work. How he has to tell the computer what words to write.]
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[He remembers the state of his hands, he wondered if he would actually recover enough to return to work. Vicious couldn't imagine working in a state like that, but who knows, maybe Sparkling is a tougher cookie than he. Still, he wouldn't want to make it more difficult on the poor man.]
I do for you. Would you rather talk in person? We're finished with your repairs, so I could bring them to you, if you'd like.
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pre Nov 4
What has Spike grouching and groaning around the apartment again?]
Shit. Shit!
They all taste like fucking— shit!
[It may just be the pack of cigarettes that Spike has just beaned out the window at light speed.]
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Wh-- hey! What the fuck? I bought those, you shit!
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[look. they're both grumpy. And what do they do when they're grumpy?
they take it out of each other.]
And would you— cut that shit out? Use a door.
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[He grumbles and floats, pointedly, towards the window to peer out and check where they've ended up. It would be easy to float down and grab them, and honestly he's going to, just to make a point.
He turns his back to the window with a smirk and holds up a hand-- a hand that is flipping Spike off. Enthusiastically-- as he floats backwards through the window and disappears. He's going to get his cigarettes, damn it.
It takes about half a minute, but he returns, tossing the pack through the window with the intent to bean his partner square in the face.]
Now, why would I do that, when I could do this?
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Nattensfest
There's also a smaller box, and it contains a reasonably nice metal pocket watch, probably bought from the Night Market. Good for telling time when you're intangible and don't have wrists, though Hinata didn't really account for the potential lack of pockets.]
From:
February 14th... And 14th.. and 14th--
[This was a stupid idea.
If there is only one thing Spike is certain of in this moment, it's that he is a fucking idiot. Perhaps the biggest fucking idiot there is.
Most people would have taken a lot more time to practice with their strange new powers before going into attempting something like this. They would have done more than just gently encouraged things that were already growing, would have put some attempts into trying to understand what they're doing— perhaps even would have asked other nymphs for help.
But Spike is not most people, and right now, he is regretting being a person at all.
As with most of the problems he deals with alone, Spike is completely silent about this particular fuckup.
He is seated on the couch now, watching the golden sunset drift in through the open window— no, not open. It's not open on purpose, anyway. A shard of broken glass falls to the floor, jiggled free from the mostly-bare windowframe by the movement of a flowering branch in the breeze.
A whole ass tree of a bush has grown, its roots a tangled mess on the apartment floor, out the window, in pursuit of the sun. Its pale branches peek into the evening air, fluttering with thick green leaves and beautiful blossoms in a white-fuschia ombre.
Lovely as they are, they are not what was intended, nor are they growing as intended, nor are they growing where intended.
Spike's own ass is planted (ha) dead center in the middle of the couch. An herbal cigarette burns off in his hand, which is too preoccupied with rubbing his temples to bring the cigarette to his mouth.
He lets out a heavy sigh. He is going to have to figure out how to fix this.
But Vicious hasn't returned home yet, and maybe won't at all. Maybe instead of dealing with this, Spike can just... rot on the couch.
And that's what he chooses to do, finally drawing a drag from that cigarette.
This can be a fuckup to deal with in the morning.]
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no subject
Vicious slips through the front door, quiet as the ghost he is. Once on the other side, he's solid again, actually walking rather than floating towards the bedroom until he's greeted by the mass of roots and flowers sprawling across his previously cleaned living room floor. At first, he's unaware of Spike's presence in the apartment-- it has been a minute since they've been home at the same time, after all.]
What the hell--
[He stops abruptly, wide white eyes blinking rapidly in confusion. He remembers what happened last year and what a nightmare that was, the way the flowers overtook everyone's bodies... is it happening again?! Spiraling, he sorts begins to sort through the possibilities and what he can do about them-- that is until he sees Spike on the couch. He jumps once he realizes he's not alone, placing a hand on his chest.]
Good lord. [Wheeze.] Hi. Christ, Fearless, you need a bell or something!
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His eyes may be wide, but he forces a casual sense of body language, stuffing his hands in his pocket and looking Vicious's way with the herbal cigarette still in his mouth.
Lips pressed to one side to hold it there, Spike retorts;]
You don't even open the door and I'm the one who needs a bell?
I coulda been naked.
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[He places his hands on his hips, frowning for a moment. He wants to pretend that he's more frustrated than he is, annoyed that he was spooked so easily, but... it really is kind of nice to see him.
Something strange tugs in his chest, but he shrugs it off.]
...So, what's going on? When did you get home?
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Event - Action - February Time Loop- cw: gore, burning, claustrophobia, eventual groundhog murder
Fire roars through the trees, melting reddened snow from gore-spattered earth. Wine grapes hang nonsensically from burning trellises. They bleed. It smells of apricots. Your stomach churns.
There is a burning in the skin of your chest. You want to rip the flesh out. You can't. Your hands are too caked with flesh and blood to find purchase. Your mouth feels unlike your own. You choke and spit out a tooth. Another has grown in, long and wicked. Your neck throbs. You can taste dozens of people on your tongue.
A building stands before you. It's half burned away. You don't know what it is, a shack, crooked and wooden and old. You can't get near it. It burns too brightly.
A young man stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the flames. He wears robes, and the ends of his long dark hair are burning. You can't make out his face, but it is full of sadness.
He points at you.
"Suntem amândoi naibii.
We are both damned."
You know the voice, but you don't. It rings painfully in your ears, like the feedback on a speaker. The sun starts to rise, and you want desperately to see it. You can hear a child screaming.
The earth reaches up and swallows you whole before you glimpse the light, enclosing you, crushing you before you can even cry out.
When Vicious wakes, he will find...he is still in bed with Kronid. He is curled up tightly against him, still naked, small body and wings trembling. His hands are crossed over his chest, over his scar, claws digging in.
He...chokes out a single, barely-stifled sob.]
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What an odd dream, Vicious thinks, reaching up to wipe the sleep from his eyes. He's surprised to find that his cheeks are... wet? He blinks, wiping a little more aggressively. Was he... crying? In his sleep? Had the dream really scared him that badly? He doesn't want to focus too hard on it, though. The pitiful sound his companion makes is enough to have him redirecting his attention and concern to the other man curled up next to him.
Vicious rolls onto his side to face him more fully, reaching up to place a hand on the goblin's shoulder, stroking down along his arm and back in an attempt at waking him gently. He notes Kronid's hand digging nails into his chest and frowns, putting two and two together. In the dream Vicious had, his own chest was burning-- is it possible they had the same dream?
Anything is possible in this place, he reminds himself. ]
Kronid. [His voice is gruff, being the first sound he's made in hours, but still soft as he calls to him. He pulls his hand away from Kronid's shoulder, slipping it between the scar and the goblin's hand, lacing their fingers together. At least like this, he can't hurt himself anymore.]
Wake up, dearest. It's just a dream...
[He squeezes the smaller man's hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.]
From:
no subject
But it is the first time he hasn't woken up alone.
'Dearest.'
The softly spoken word lands on him hard, echoing back from years ago, from another pair of strong arms that never got to hold him this way -
He looks at Vicious, wide-eyed, looking for a moment less like an ancient predator and more like a scared young man. (Something about that look is - how could it be familiar?)
And then...shuddering, he reaches out to wrap his arms around the Shade, burying his face against soft white hair. He has no idea what Vicious had seen. He can still hear his son screaming for him.]
My Knight.
I-
I'm-
[A knot in his throat chokes him, and he sobs again. His voice is so different when he murmurs again, so quiet.]
...You stayed.
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Action - February Time Loop, a few loops in - cws: burning, gore, blood, religious trauma, etcetcetc
Fire roars through the trees, melting reddened snow from gore-spattered earth. Wine grapes hang nonsensically from burning trellises. They bleed. It smells of apricots. Your stomach churns. He's dead. The vineyard will die too.
There is a burning in the skin of your chest. You want to rip the flesh out. You can't. Your hands are too caked with flesh and blood to find purchase. Your mouth feels unlike your own. You choke and spit out a tooth. Another has grown in, long and wicked. Your neck throbs. You can taste dozens of people on your tongue. You knew them. You can taste the tears running down your cheeks, too, where they burn at your lips. You look at your hands. Shreds of lamb's wool and tattered flesh on glassy black claws.
A building stands before you. It's half burned away. You don't know what it is, a shack, crooked and wooden and old and rotting and fading and sticking barb-like in your mind's eye. You can't get near it. It burns too brightly. The cross scorched into your chest sings with agony.
But...wait. Is it yours? Your chest, your burn, your cross to bear? You know whose it is, don't you? You know that already.
A young man stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the flames. He wears robes, and the ends of his long dark hair are burning. You can't make out his face, but it is full of sadness. He looks exhausted. The fire around him seems to bend around him, moving with him, breathing with him.
He points at you, drawing himself up to speak...but then he stops. He lowers his hand a little. It shakes.]
...You... Mă puteți auzi?
Vicious.
Can you hear me?
[Your identity reasserts itself. It isn't your pain, after all.]
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He nods slowly, stepping forward. He is not afraid. There's no need to be. This is not his nightmare.]
I-- I can.
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The man in the doorway, however, gasps softly as he is answered. He hovers in place for a moment, body language uncertain...before, experimentally, he walks forward, out onto the doorstep. It's easier to pick out some of the details, now. The robes look traditional, singed as they are, and a large, ceremonial crucifix hangs around his neck.
His face is hard to focus on, lit strangely by the fire, as though viewing it through a thick haze. His features are somewhat indistinct, but....
Those eyes.
Those eyes cut through, wide and afraid and sad and so very blue.]
...It worked. It finally worked. It's been so long, I-
[But he knows the time is short. He grimaces, then continues.]
You can remember this time, yes? That you've seen this before?
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Post-Network Convo
Then he walks back up toward Vicious' floor, taking his shoes off at the landing halfway between the fifth and sixth floors. He adjusts his gait to be heavier, shorter, and slips the letter beneath the door. Then he leaves down the steps, the same way he had come, and ducks under the shelter of the stairwell to put his shoes back on. Conveniently, he has an excuse to be on the fifth floor, and knocks on Dee's door, knowing full well she's at Paddy's]
Dee? H'lo, Ms. Reynolds? ... You t' home? I wanted to go over some ideas about Act Two ...
[it's just that scrawny little actor human. no one big enough to have made those footsteps, if Vicious cares to check. with a sigh of frustration, he heads back up to his own room. and waits. his handwriting is erratic, artistic, but legible...]
Vicious,
What a good surprise to make your acquaintance on the network today! I believe we are going to, professionally, be a very smart match for one another. My business is still in its infancy, but depending upon how this first request is handled, you could do quite well.
Please go to Paddy's Bar this evening at 9 PM and keep your eyes on a Mr. Arvid Forsberg. He wears a brown leather vest and orders pale ale with a wedge of lemon, and tends to meet with a small group of morally questionable men. I wish to know what they are planning, and then I want you to tail the weakest of the lot when they are through. Observe him. His mannerisms, his habits, if he has family, how he dresses. Every single detail is important.
Forsberg himself is inconsequential. His criminal network is far less so. From them I intend to build a profile of the sort of criminal aptitude I will be contending with. I will pay you fifty solars an hour for this service. Enclosed is the first hour's pay for any expenses you may incur in the doing of the job. When you have finished, please send a detailed report to box 221 of the Bavan Post Office, and your payment will be left secured beneath the lid of the piano in the apartments' recreation room.
Happy haunting,
S. Moran
P.S: Destroy this thoroughly when you've finished reading it. I should think I don't have to explain.
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[Action for Spike, same night]
After rummaging about the apartment for a notepad and pen, he takes a few coded notes along the edge of the paper to memorize for later, rips the edge off and folds it into a thin square to slip in the fold of his tie.
The rest of the letter gets shredded by hand as a cooking pot floats from the cabinet to the stove, followed by a bottle of lighter fluid and a matchbook. Vicious dumps all the paper pieces into the pot, the bottle dumping out just enough fuel to start the fire once the match is lit. Thanks to Fog-God-given gift of telekinesis, he can take care of the more dangerous part from across the room, outside the range of the blaze's light. The contents of the pot burn for a few long seconds (surely long enough to turn the paper to ash...) before it floats up off the eye and over into the sink, the water cutting on with a hiss as smoke billows towards the ceiling. It's not that much, not even enough to set off any alarms, so he's going to consider this a job-- well, maybe not "well done", but at least done.
The shade moves to the window and slides it open to clear the air, deciding to take this opportunity to light himself a cigarette while the rest of the smoke clears out. He knows he's going to have to leave in a while to make it to this bar, but he's... got time. For now. A few hours. Plenty of time to put away anything suspicious before Spike comes home.]
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Because Spike is not psychic and is quite unaware that Vicious might not want him back at a certain time, it just so happens that Spike gets home right at the wrong moment.
No sooner has Vicious lit his cigarette than the door opens. That all too familiar voice calls out;]
Hey. You in here?
[and then, immediately;]
What's burning?
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<PasUnGadjo> Dated Tuesday, September 19th, 8:17 AM, AU
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< archreaper >
[Glancing over to the lump of dog-man curled up on the bed across from him.]
well i suppose he's
a shiba inu? right now?
why?
what's going on?
[Should he be concerned? Did he accidentally crawl into bed with a shape-changer or something? He frowns now at the fuzzy lump, suspicious as he awaits his reply.]
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<PasUnGadjo>
No, he definitely redirected to this username when he typed in 'thirteen' followed by 'bloodstone.' Javert frowns, earrings jangling with the subtle dip of his head.]
The Pup bumped you off, then, really? No. You would still be dead if that were the case.
Well, out with it, then. What is keeping you? I am speaking to the handsome white-haired fellow I've grown fond of, am I not?
< archreaper >
From:<PasUnGadjo>
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From:<PasUnGadjo> Up to you whether we handwave it lol, pretty easy to surmise what happens from here
From:2/2 actually let's schmooze
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From:CW: Suggestive
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