multiversallogs | check twice

Entry tags:

check twice

Who: Deacon Frost and Hamilton Fish
What: An application of logic and a sword frees Fish from captivity, and then more stuff happens.
Where: The Undercity
When: Late Ged, early Haneden.
Notes: Backdated to a couple of weeks ago, and onwards. CO-WRITTEN POST ALSO. Yes.
Warnings: Gore beneath the cut.

So it turns out Fish was only half kidding when he called it a dungeon.

This practitioner of medicine, or whatever you want to call it, his dwelling is mundane enough, occupying a small lot in what passes for topside in the Undercity. Even the cellar beneath the cellar is not unheard of by the standards of this neighbourhood. The way the door is just sort of...there, in the floor, so obvious, a heavy slab of wooden planks with a grimy metal ring for a handle. The way the stairs snake down into the earth, narrow and dank for two flights, as though it's perfectly natural the world should swallow you up and that its guts should be lined with dirty stones, weeping moisture and filth.

The door at the bottom is heavy with iron fixtures, usually bolted shut. Usually.

Conveniently enough, this door slams off its hinges while the doctor is in. Somewhat less conveniently, he is not unprepared for it.

When you start imagining that everything will go smoothly, that's when the world is stolen out from under you. It's probably not good for Baedal that Deacon learned lessons from his homeworld, but that's also a matter of perspective. Anyway, he doesn't underestimate any creature that lives beneath the surface. That he has only brought a sword, of all things, is not an underestimation, but an attempt at discretion. Guns are loud.

The fight is quick, at least in the grand scheme of fights, but no less brutal for it—by the end of the affair the doctor lies headless, his withering undead body now twice its natural size, mutated by some concoction from the shelves. The steel that took his life is also cleaned off on his lab coat, leaving a greasy streak of tainted blood behind. Most of the laboratory glassware is shattered. A foul greenish haze rises from puddles on the floor, smelling not nearly so pleasant as it looks. Chemicals never meant to mingle flow together, sizzling on—and slowly through—the operating table.

"Finally," Fish says, at last, once he's stood up from behind the overturned gurney. His reward is a pair of pants to the face.

Once he's pulled off the shitty scrubs and stained bandages and dressed in a way that makes him feel more like a person, Fish makes good on his big talk from earlier by throwing butane around like he's blessing the place and setting it alight from the doorway. He takes the stairs on all fours, dizzy as hell, wild with giddy fear, while they hurry their dead asses out of there. Out of that cellar, that house, that neighbourhood, Fish insisting he's good, it's fine, staggering around and catching his wrists or elbows on nearly every edge he passes. Deacon spends most of it watching out the corner of his eye the list and imbalance of Fish's steps, at one stage grasping a rough fistful of jacket when Fish straight up falls on the way into Gutters. It's a casual sort of support, but one as strong as the cords that hold up bridges, a hand gripping his elbow as they round a corner.

With help, Fish arrives in a side room, where he falls once more, this time on something soft, and does not bother to rise again.

Days pass. Meals come in bags or bodies. The deepest beats and the loudest voices filter through the walls. Gutters is beginning to rebuild itself although it seems every day that business dwindles in direct correlation to death toll, but that never lasts. There is always a market for blood, one way or another. Deacon is an occasional presence, but sometimes he gets other people, employees, to deliver meals on legs or in bags or in heat-conserving ceramic to Fish's bedside.

The door is never locked or anything, but it looks like it could, from the outside. It grinds open when Deacon shoulders it aside, finds a lean against the steel frame. "Hey." Above them, through concrete and metal and empty space, the sun has set, although only those with a natural internal clock or access to an artificial one can really tell. He is in black today, not overly formal without actually being casual.

"What's the prognosis?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The lights are low inside, the room littered with necessities (in Fish's opinion) retrieved from the attic apartment by grudgingly obedient employees. It's not messy, not really, but he hasn't been shy about living in here for as long as he's been allowed to stay. The spook himself is dressed in his own clothes and seated comfortably in a low, upholstered chair, which he may or may not have dragged in here at some point. Or made someone else do it, probably. He hasn't been shy about his requests, either—polite, yes, but not shy.

"Dead on arrival," he says, his voice fully restored, and brushes eraser shavings from the surface of his sketchbook with a few loose-wristed swipes. When he looks up from the page, his eyelids don't seem so heavy as before, and he is definitely looking at Deacon rather than in his general direction. How about that.

And now how about this: "Check it out, though, I think my hair's back to normal." He paws at it to show off the regrowth, pencil between his fingers. "Or is it still uneven? I can't tell."

At the event that Fish is indeed bright eyed and bushy tailed, Frost lets himself in, letting the door partially shut and finding a place to lean against one of the always chilly concrete walls. His presence kind of introduces new elements, like fresh cigarette smoke, slightly old cologne, and always that undercurrent, if you want to get into detail, of blood that isn't his, coppery and earthy.

"What, it wasn't always like that?" is automatic, a silvery glance down at whatever it is Fish is doing, zigzag attention back to his face.

Fish makes no attempt to hide the contents of his sketchbook, and neither does he show it off, just setting it on the arm of the chair with the pencil and eraser on top. A mermaid may be visible. A mermaid with an armoured bodice and a black fringe, joyfully wielding a hammer.

"Iiii think you can go fly a kite." So polite. He's grinning now, in a lazy sort of crooked way, and an especially observant eye may note that his previously missing teeth—his left eye tooth, not-quite-a-fang that it is, and those on either side—seem to have finished growing in. "What's up, you wanna sit?"

And for the record, this room smells mostly of blood; there's no trace of the faint odour of decay that accompanies Fish on occasion. Eating regularly seems to have taken care of that.

A chair is dragged around, first by his ankle then righted by his hand. "Me? Just checking that everything's growing in like it's meant to," Deacon says, sitting, folding a leg over the other in that way guys seem to, ankle balanced to knee, otherwise relaxed in customary feline assumption of space. "It would bite if I put in all that fucking chivalry for nothing."

He has a quota.

"Yeah."

That would bite, wouldn't it. Asking about the aforementioned chivalry has occurred to him more than once during his stay, and he might, if it didn't seem like a step toward having a door closed in his face. Or maybe it isn't, he doesn't know. He's still feeling Deacon out.

"I don't think anything's missing." He's touching his hair again, still thinking about it, or fidgeting, or both. "My eye's kinda fucked up, but it's kind of amazing that it grew back at all, so... oh hey, check this out." Now leaning way over the arm of the chair, stretching out with his arm until his fingers just catch a bit of black string or something draped over his shoulder bag on the floor, revealed as a patch once he's snatched it up. He's got it fastened around his head by the time he settles back down, and briefly fusses with it until it's just so.

Look at him, Deacon. Look at him and his amazing eyepatch.

This expression of bemusement is one that Fish must be becoming increasingly familiar with from Deacon; Deacon, in turn, is familiar with presenting it, and in fairness, not just with Fish. Just pretty often with Fish.

It stays for a moment before the straight face is broken with a glimmer of a smile, and big fucking canines kind of mean those are difficult to disguise. The sound gives him away, too, a breath of laughter at Fish and his amazing eyepatch. "No, it looks great," he says, before any accusations of being made fun of can rise up, but it's not as if Deacon actually knows how to sound sincere.

Even if it does come off wry, in Fish's experience Deacon tends to be more upfront about his ridicule, so this has pretty much made his day. It may be kind of a silly thing to be delighted about, but he's been worrying that he'd have to make the whole patch thing into a huge joke to avoid feeling self-conscious about it. Therefore: dimples. Rather, just the one.

"It makes me feel kinda like a Mad Max character or something."

He removes the patch again, and in the process tucks some hair behind one of his ears without thinking, revealing the pointed tip. It's not likely this particular detail of his anatomy could have remained hidden all this time, considering the nature of his injuries, but still. Getting over the need to keep it hidden is a work in progress.

"How is it out there? Anything amazing happen while I was taking, like, eighty naps?"

"Clean up."

But not much, as evidenced by the fact that the music from the club can be heard from down here. Flesh-eating demons had been the worst thing they'd faced, and they'd cut them down with some carefully applied gunfire from whatever small stock that Deacon's been keeping, that he will have to build back up. Ammunition is precious enough, here, whereas in Los Angeles, it had seemed as free as coin.

And other thoughts attached to the two worded response. Deacon sets a heel against an angle of furniture, relaxed. "If the cruorvore population takes another hit, I'm gonna have to downsize to a fucking lemonade stand. Are you going up soon?"

It is a credit to Fish's self-restraint that he does not laugh suddenly at the mental image of this particular gentleman manning an actual lemonade stand...sitting there in a suit, contemptuous yet resigned to his fate. It's a close call, but he holds it in.

"I should, I guess." Not that he's whining, or anything, but clearly he is feeling reluctant about it. He lets his gaze wander from Deacon momentarily, tilts his head, starts off casually wringing his hands, and ends up rubbing slowly at the wrist that was seared over and over during that whole cave-in predicament. "I've never spent this long underground before... it's nice, it's pretty comfortable." Unlike squinting his face off on a nigh daily basis. "I could get used to it, easy."

It's pretty necessary, for others, but it's been long enough for Deacon not to feel like he's missing out on much for being a permanent resident of the Undercity. It reminds him a little of the old countries, the legacy of old tunnels underground, whereas America was a little too new to support a vampiric population beyond new innovations. The corner of his mouth turns up fractionally at hinting commentary, and he tips his head.

"If you're not leaving anything that matters behind, don't go back."

Despite the ever-so-subtle suggestion back there, it seems like this answer is an unexpected one. He'd assumed this to be the inevitable conversation wherein he'd be told to get back up there and fend for himself—he's been kind of dreading it since his mind was up to wandering again, actually.

Is this real advice? Perhaps if he pokes it with a stick its true form will be revealed. And so: "Well...I've got a job and everything... or, like. Had one."

"You're telling me you plan to be working the desk at the fucking Valhalla Inn 'til the end of days?" is an easy enough scoff; his investment in the matter is relatively light, because people come and go for all that Deacon's own line in the sand is pretty rigid.

"No, but..." Come to him, words. Help him out, here. Make him sound like he knows what he's doing even slightly. "It, uh, wasn't my idea to work there in the first place."

This is probably the wrong can of worms to open in front of someone like Deacon, but he's sort of been dying to tell someone about it. Maybe he won't end up taking the whole lid off. Maybe it'll be just a single worm. That's okay, right?

"I'm not...actually a member of your cohort, I got assigned to you guys because I fucked up."

The can of worms analogy doesn't work that way, particularly, or else it would be. A different analogy. Already, too, there is a flicker of interest of new information, bright behind his usual mask. A beat, before Frost says; "Really. What'd you do? Eat someone important?"

Wry, yes, but hell, it could be true.

Fish ducks his head slightly, lifts his shoulders, and shows his teeth in a somewhat cartoonish expression of insecurity. You know the kind. Hands folded in his lap, his stocking feet pivoting on their heels to meet in the middle, his toes flexing and then curling.

"Not...really? I dunno how important they were, since I got let off the hook. It was kind of an accident... I mean, the eating part wasn't, I meant to do that. But I didn't like, plan it, it just happened." There isn't much guilt going on here; he seems more sheepish than anything. "So, yeah, instead of cutting my head off or something they sent me over here. I guess it's not the first time they've dealt with this kinda thing."

Edited (my kingdom for a thesaurus) 2012-04-21 05:07 (UTC)

Ding ding ding, give the man a toaster.

Blunt nails coming up to scratch against the five o'clock grain at his jaw. "I guess if they start putting down every monster that steps out of line, they'd be the Candlelighters. Whether you want to keep doing your time is up to you, champ; Undercity's not going anywhere."

"Yeah. That's what I like about it."

Here he spends not too long a time in thought while sinking back into the chair, not really picking at his thumbnail, but pushing another nail underneath it just because it's there. As his slouch increases, the downward angle of his chin forces his lips into a slight pout, giving this eventual question more of a sulky effect than he actually feels: "Could I stay here?"

His gaze flicks up to meet the other dead man's face not a moment after. Look at him, he knows he's being slightly ridiculous; he wouldn't be playing up this expression otherwise. These big ol' eyes of his may in fact have been a contributing factor to having got off so easy back in Badside. (Granted, he employed them while outright begging for his life, but still.)

Edited (no i still don't like it. EDITS FOREVER) 2012-04-21 17:24 (UTC)

That gets an eyebrow raise. For all that he is aware of what he considers to be Fish consistency edging at the boundaries of-- whatever it is this happens to be (friendship not being a concept that Deacon is famously good at), that's an unexpected request. There's an almost sarcastic flicker of a glance about the room, including the token efforts to make it comfortable.

"Really?"

Deacon's doubtful scanning prompts Fish to glance around the place, too, like it's only just occurred to him how this might seem like an unusual request. Trust a fresh perspective to trip him up a little.

"Yeah... well, maybe. I guess it is kinda weird to live in a nightclub." Kinda. "I mean, I wouldn't wanna stay in here forever, but it's better than an attic. And I kinda like knowing someone's around, y'know?"

"You can do better than some hole in the wall attached to a nightclub," Deacon says, barely half a syllable's pause on the back of the last thing Fish says. His gaze narrows, like he's trying to puzzle something out.

He jolts a shrug. "I can put you up 'til you find something. Undercity's as big as Mafaton. Bigger, in some ways, if you consider which direction we're digging. Or else I'll start thinking--" There's no break in his words, but he smiles suddenly here, tone taking on a mocking edge. "--that all this big talk about moving to the dark side's dependent on hiding behind your new knight in shining armour, Deacon Frost."

Damn, his entire master plan, revealed!!

Actually, while Fish does pull a little scrunchy-nosed face at the suggestion that he needs to hide behind anyone, it's basically the truth. One may recall, for example, that time he dove behind Seoraj's manly skirts when he thought Deacon might come after him for making a big deal about their fight over that unfortunate Justin fellow—although he would rather think of it as strategic positioning, thank you very much. In his opinion, it's a wise move to acknowledge his relative weakness so that he may continue to, you know, live. Or whatever you call what he's doing now.

Of course, there's always room for being mouthy. "Whatever. If I hid behind you I'd have to crouch the whole time." Short guys can make fun of each other for being short, right? Heh heh. Behold this saucy grin while you can, sir, because it fades as he goes on to say, "But, um, thanks. Not just for letting me stay, I mean... for like, everything. Just generally saving my ass."

The lack of protest or argument gets a fangy grin from Deacon, which may also be a reflexive reminder as to sharp teeth when his stature is mentioned. Dims again at sincerity, and there's a gesture like he could wave away Hamilton's thank yous for all that he would probably be pissed off if he got absolutely no gratitude at all.

"Just don't forget it in a hurry," he says. "Worst thing about always being right all the time is constantly reminding people about it."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

check twice

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject