multiversallogs | are there even goats in flag hill

Who: Antonin and Rodolphus
What: death drinkers anonymous
Where: a bar in Flag Hill (one that hasn't had its front wall ripped out by the militia)
When: evening, after Rodolphus finishes Hellsing work; after Bellatrix's arrival
Notes: MY WIIIIFE/MY LIIIIFE
Warnings: not actually anonymous in any way

Word gets around, one way or another, and Rodolphus is somewhere between indifferent and grateful. It is an intensely personal matter, but people at Hellsing are more or less accustomed to his ways, and if they understand why he's a little slower for the rest of the work day, struggling to focus on his work instead of being the dutiful machine he usually is, that is acceptable.

He tries to make up for it the next day. It helps that the Flag Hill warding job is more complicated than usual, requiring his full attention. If he's slow today, he's also very careful. Hellsing has a reputation to maintain and maybe he does too, a little bit. When he finishes that evening, he walks for a while in an attempt to clear his head instead of apparating back to an empty house that will become an echo chamber of his own obsessiveness. Rodolphus passes a bar, then slowly backtracks to consider it. Tomorrow is the weekend, and barring any emergencies, he may not be required. And people rarely talk to him at bars, for some reason. Perhaps this could work. Perhaps he could simply sit for a while, alone.

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Rodolphus doesn't want to stop to buy something for the trip only because he doesn't want to pass out on the skyrail. Antonin's tolerance far outweighs his, and he may be resigned to the whole lack of dignity thing, but he can't quite handle that.

"Good timing," he remarks as they reach the top where people are boarding, which for him is borderline chatty. "You will see what I mean about the Fog."

"I look forward to it." He finds a seat, regarding the glass at his feet with some interest, amused. "Not for the faint of heart, I see." Or at least for those who don't care for heights. "Does it go very fast, this mode of transport?"

He sounds like he is hoping for an affirmative, if not expecting one.

They have different definitions of 'fast', especially when it comes to traveling in a not entirely magical contraption some distance off the ground. Rodolphus isn't scared of heights, but they don't exhilarate him either, so to him, the skyrail is fast. For Antonin, though, he says, "No."

And it doesn't, though the glass floor can make the trip interesting all the same. He takes an aisle seat so Antonin can also have a window view, sitting in the same careful way he's been moving since leaving the bar. The car begins moving after another thirty seconds, with all the necessary automated warnings and little chimes to signal it; very shortly, they are approaching the waterfall and the sea beyond with no sign of stopping, though if one strained, it is possible to see where the track curves.

The Fog is not terribly near the tracks. There are parts of the city that are more dangerous. Yet the striking view of it, curled sullen and implacable over the dark waters, has a sense of waiting, maybe even watching — or maybe Rodolphus is still feeling paranoid from his dreams.

Antonin's habitual smile fades a bit as he watches the fog. It feels familiar, in a way - an echo of an atmosphere he breathed in and out for years. And yet it's not quite that, not entirely. It has it's own special tug, and he's not sure if he imagines it when he feels his arm ache.

"Definitely should have brought a bottle," he murmurs, but watches across the bay. "Have you gone out there?" he adds, just a bit louder. "I hear people do."

Rodolphus watches with him as the car moves closer, an idleness to his voice indicating he's not entirely focused on his own story.

"When I first came, I joined an exploratory expedition ship. One of us was nearly eaten by giant magic-parasitical eels."

He doesn't recall Balthier's name, only his manner.and general air of piracy. It would have been sort of charming, if Rodolphus were the type to be charmed.

"But yes, others often go out into the Fog to gather what can be found. It can be very profitable. You can also go mad, I believe."

The way he says it seems to imply this is just one of many options. Money, fame, mental illness, etc.

"Well, there's always that if I can't find work," he says, light but absent. His focus is still on the fog, as if he's measuring it up, in case he needs to remember later. "You weren't the one nearly eaten, and that's hopeful."

Not really.

"But not enough to tempt you back out."

"It might suit you," he says with reluctance. It's true, and he doesn't think Antonin is wholly serious about it, but Rodolphus would still prefer, in as much as he has any say over what Antonin will or won't do, that Antonin find some other employment. Looting corpses is better. It doesn't take place in the Fog.

"You know I'm not much of an adventurer." It's possible for something to be said in a drier tone than that, but only just. Even that old and familiar irony is somehow wan in the face of the subtle roiling patterns of the Fog, the suggestion here and there of faces, both human and otherwise. The suggestion, muffled by distance and the noise of the skyrail, that there is something to be heard out there.

"Never were," Antonin agrees. The Fog doesn't draw him, per se, but it's hard to look away all the same. The mind wants to forces those patterns to resolve, to confirm whether or not those are faces indeed.

Antonin is curious, but not so curious he feels the need to pursue it, at least for now.

"Do you come this way often?" he asks, finding that somehow unlikely.

"Never," he confirms. Lucius goes into the Fog repeatedly, he knows. That is how Lucius is, and Antonin is a little like that too, hence the concern. Whereas if Rodolphus went into the Fog, he simply wouldn't return, and it has little to do with his dreams. "I usually Apparate. But I don't feel like being dismembered tonight."

At length, the skyrail begins to curve away from the Fog, back to the comparatively more mundane view of the city. It too is sullen in the dark, but it's the familiar sullenness of close, crowded living, pollution, dinginess, and industry that comprise urban life.

As the view becomes less compelling, Antonin sits back. "I didn't get you that drunk. How long were you there?" It's almost like concern, except it comes out more like a light judgment on Rodolphus' tolerance. Because Antonin is the best of friends.

Rodolphus closes his eyes, feeling the swim of his head while maintaining, as ever, the same wooden exterior. Just checking.

"This is only the second time I've been drunk since Azkaban." Because they do not talk about this, and they still aren't, but so much as referencing it is a way of proving his point. Which Antonin knows, but Rodolphus felt like doing it anyway. "It does not help. But I won't dream."

Or at least, he won't remember.

Post-Azkaban dreams are, on their own, unpleasant enough that Antonin doesn't think anything of this. Instead, he says, "I know." Which is closer than they've ever come to talking about it.

Instead of expanding on that, he says, "If you come have another drink, it will be later, and if you are exhausted, this helps also." With the not dreaming, he means. It's excellent logic.

A different man might punch Antonin in the shoulder. Rodolphus has never been or wished to be that kind of man, but he feels the impulse all the same, which is strangely hilarious. He smiles very briefly to himself, eyes still shut, and then reluctantly opens them to look at Antonin, unsurprised, and comforted by it.

"Very well."

What's another bad decision, after a lifetime like theirs.

Antonin grins, a bit more broadly as they leave the fog behind. "Good. It is only because I am so concerned you get your rest, you know." He is pleased with himself, and while it isn't like old times, it's an echo of old times. That, for now, will probably do.

"How much farther to where we get off?" he adds, glancing back out the window.

are there even goats in flag hill

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