there are far, far worse things to be than a monster

[fuckin_thirsty]

Who: Deacon Frost and Hamilton Fish
What: Just going out for a bite to eat, ha ha ha. :(
Where: Spatters, naturally.
When: Shundi, bloody Shundi, evening.
Warnings: Violence, gore, NPC death, vampiring...

The hour is late, but not so much that Deacon Frost will be cutting it too fine by the time dawn rears its ugly fucking head, nor has he eaten yet. The cigarette he has dwindled down to half its length does not, as with people, stave off his hunger; when you only require one thing to survive, it's really the only thing you particularly crave. Which isn't to say he doesn't like the sensation of smoking coursing through his lungs. It certainly isn't going to kill him.

He doesn't look like he belongs here, in his nice leather jacket, the gold band and gemstone decorating a finger, his designer watch, and that's alright. No one walks among the Spatters, investigating disappearances and murders, asking if they saw anything unusual.

At least, no one Deacon doesn't think he can't handle.

He sits on a stone stoop leading into one of the many squatters' boarding places, arms rested upon his knees and boots set against the pavement, the most movement being the run off of smoke from cigarette end as he studies the opposite sets of buildings across the street. There are more open hunting grounds, too, tent cities and shanty towns, homeless denizens cowering beneath bridges or whatever structure of shelter they can secure and claim for themselves to last out what happens to be a very cold evening. As a result, the street before him is empty, even devoid of the usual monster bait of someone hurrying home. It's too cold, too late, and too poor a neighbourhood for that sort of thing; anyone with sense is indoors.

And this is perfectly acceptable.

Comments

[fuckin_thirsty]

It's only when Deacon sees the run off of rich blood, disproportionate to how much would be going to waste if Fish had been drinking, that has him not forcibly separating one monster from the fairy full of magic blood. He watches, instead, and listens to the erratic heartbeat that will eventually give out, and palms away the rivulet of blood that had coursed down his chin.

He stands, then, other hand briefly clasping over Fish's shoulder while he's still engaging in murder; steadying for either of them, and comradely affirmation, gone again by the time he's headed for the door, mostly to check that nothing has happened to the main room and what he can see of the hallway beyond in the time it's taken to feed.

And now he is going for a cigarette, to clear his own head.

[fish]

So he's clinging to this guy, bleeding him out, and reacts to the unspoken support of a hand on his shoulder by closing his eyes in calm appreciation. But it's good that Deacon leaves. When Fish finally lifts his mouth away from the fairy's neck, he doesn't burst into tears or anything so regrettably lame, but he sure feels like it. The jolt of realization, and the lingering ache of regret, they're just augmented by whatever is going on with this...thing's insides. This beautiful, dead thing that he killed. That must be it, he decides; it really shouldn't matter.

He tells he body he's sorry and that he didn't know and leaves it laying on its side in a creeping dark halo of its own blood.

Eventually he goes in search of Deacon, emerging from his moment alone quietly and mostly cleaned up. Rusty streaks still linger around his collar, and by his one cheekbone a twist of his black hair is dried stiff. He's still picking at his fingernails when he appears.

[fuckin_thirsty]

By the time Fish is done, Deacon has nursed his cigarette into being lit, smoke unraveling, never quite as acrid to his senses than that of spilled blood. They should go, so that's what he does; briefly glance to check that Fish is ready before headed out with his attention and senses focused forward in case anyone with more power than that of a baseline human has decided to investigate.

They don't meet anyone on the way to the street. "Everything you wanted and more?" he asks, pitching for dry and pseudo-optimism. He enjoyed himself. Fish is being quiet.

[fish]

Quiet, yes, and trying to crawl out of whatever happened back there without making a fuss about it. He succeeds in detachment, mostly, and moves in Deacon's shadow as if through a dream, all the edges gone fuzzy. This is where he prefers to be, he reminds himself. It's been a long time since anything hit him this hard, though... and the further they get from the rooms, the easier it is to get comfortable feeling this way.

He's finally pushing the hair back from his face when Deacon asks. "Yeah, actually." Smoking suddenly sounds (and smells) like the best idea in history, so he starts feeling around his jacket for the necessities, his hand moving slow and lazy—until another thought interrupts that one, and he lifts his other hand to see the wrist past the cuff of his jacket. That gash still there, still oozing slowly. Blackish blood painting a smooth line to the tips of two fingers, stark against his skin. He can barely feel it. "I wonder if that was poison or anything."

[fuckin_thirsty]

Deacon deals a glance at the little injury, having not quite thought that way; for someone who can die via garlic, most other toxins aren't so much a concern. "I guess you'll find out," isn't very helpful, as breezy as the smoke he exhaled just before. More helpful; "Ask around Mafaton. Doctors for the dead."

He's never felt dead, though. It may be a species thing. His kind of vampire are more animals, certainly more alive than he was when he was a human, and the infectious nature of turning speaks more of leveling up than dying and resurrection. It's a glimmer of a thought as he considers Fish.

It doesn't really matter. It certainly doesn't make a difference to the three dead bodies left behind. "How long will that last you?"

[fish]

Although he doesn't comment on the suggestion, Fish does make a face. A stink-face, if you will, with a little crinkle of his nose and all. Doctors for the dead. It's not like he's a zombie, none of his parts are rotting off. And he does vaguely possess a heartbeat... sort of... but there's another question to answer now and this alone prevents a little argument about his corporeal state. Because he is easily distracted.

"A couple days, maybe?" He's still fussing with his wrist, squeezing the skin around the wound's edges, dabbing at the oozing ichor with his middle finger. "I can go a lot longer, though... but I can't sleep unless I really, like, actually eat somebody. Until they're gone. I mean, I can nap, but it doesn't do shit— ow." Fish. Stop picking. "It sucks major balls."

[fuckin_thirsty]

Deacon isn't about to trade stories about what happens when one doesn't eat, because the point of being a vampire means that that is never a pleasant consequence, but he does listen in the same way people might assume their cat is listening when they absently mutter at it. He picks up the info he wants, smoking, teeth set against his filter before he draws it away again to flick ash.

"Then sweet dreams, sport," he says, dry forever, twisting away to regard the direction he'll be headed. "You know where to find me."

[fish]

What? No. A complaining urge rises at once, and while he can't kill it, he can smother it slowly down, which he does, because he's sure it would come off as whining. And that's the last thing he wants to convey.

So he says, "Yeah," and in his head tells himself to shut up. Just shut up and go home. You're gonna say something idiotic, so just leave it. That's it, keep walking.

"—Wait."

Great! That's great. Damn it, Hamilton.

[fuckin_thirsty]

Hanging up on a given interaction he is done with is a lot easier over the network, Deacon reflects, but this irritation a sort of idle glimmer orbiting by; he is actually slightly too stoned to mind beyond principle. He stops walking, anyway, a half step taken to turn back and ask what? with a look, cigarette held loose at his side, hand turning in support of this query.

[fish]

If Deacon's interrupted indulgence left him feeling it, imagine what is going on with Fish right now. Just imagine.

Rather, observe: by the time the vampire turns, his reluctant shadow has moved to follow, and now approaches with light but purposeful steps. His eyeliner's a bit messed up, there's still blood behind his ear (how did it even get there), and he's got a funny little look on his face, sort of shy and giddy but fundamentally at ease, and wow his pupils are actually enormous right now, and how does Deacon actually feel about hugs, because he's getting one.

[fuckin_thirsty]

... oh--

Deacon's retreat from whatever is happening right now manifests as the tiniest step backwards, but Fish is already right there and folding him into a hug. Going very still and instinctively adjusting his hand so his cigarette doesn't get knocked away, Deacon takes a stab at patience by not immediately throwing Fish into the wall.

He waits, then a hand pointedly closes on a Fish elbow. An eyebrow raised, he queries; "You done?"

[fish]

Yeah, yeah. Fish grins against the leather collar before his retreat; it's gone by the time his face is again visible. He doesn't linger there any longer than would be considered friendly—this isn't a suggestive move, only a whim—but does feather his hand down the length of one sleeve on its way toward a try at stealing the cigarette from Deacon's hand. His fingers are still cool, their touch light.

Whether or not he comes away with a reward, Fish steps backward into the beginning of a turn, either lifts his hand for an easy drag or doesn't, and maybe breathes smoke as he says, "Thanks." And then drifts off down the street, clearing the next curb with a little hop.

[fuckin_thirsty]

Deacon sort of tilts a cynical look down the length of his arm as Fish's hand creeps, and-- now he doesn't have a cigarette. His fingers splay in a sort of wry resignation, standing side on and watching as Fish takes his leave, smoke trailing after him. There's no you're welcome, mostly because it seems unnecessary.

Christ, is the sentiment behind a shake of his head. He turns, once more, to go.