multiversallogs | creeping up the backstairs, mother's nightmare

Entry tags:

creeping up the backstairs, mother's nightmare

Who: Hamilton Fish esq. and Balthazar
What: RELEASE THE HOUND. JUST THE ONE HOUND.
Where: the Valhalla Inn arrival room
When: well, night...
Notes: oh hi friend
Warnings: ~~Bugs Bunny style face smooching~~ look I can't that's so hideous

Still not entirely certain this isn't some kind of bizarre scenario designed to make him further incriminate himself for Hell's entertainment, leading to even more hilarious torture, Balthazar stands quite still, very near to the door. With all the protective... whatever is going on in or on it or intrinsic to the material, he can't really feel outside the room with his creepy pseudo-psychic senses. He doesn't know if there's anybody waiting, or who might answer the door, or if the person that does open it will have any significance. He thinks, though doubt creeps in from time to time, that he just knows Hell's little quirks after so many years — it's a part of him, how can he not? — but the possibility lingers and nags. If he were younger, he might straighten his tie. As it is, he knows full well that his entire appearance can no more be disheveled than a Ken doll (Constantine tossing him around aside). The tightening occurs entirely in his mind, pulling his appearance and aura together so bad vibes aren't continuously leaking through the way he usually allows them to.

He knocks. It's polite, because there's not much smarm you can inject into that kind of thing.

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As luck and/or coincidence and/or contrivance would have it, someone is within earshot of such a knock. This someone hasn't been waiting, really... in fact, he's just finished releasing another arrival from another cell, and when this mysterious so-and-so comes rapping at the chamber door, he rolls his eyes and mutters Jesus Christ well under his breath. "Just a second," then, sounding more charitable. It's not whoever's fault that they've showed up here, after all. He's just destined never to get back to the front desk. Ever.

Now closer to the door: "If I open this, are you gonna rip my face off?"

"Quite the opposite," he says with his slight, customary drawl of amused self-satisfaction, as if he isn't tense and straining to get a feel for whoever's out there. "What about you? You don't have a fire hose, do you?"

That's what he's always imagined going to Heaven would be like. A high pressure face full of holy, to wash away all the sin. In his case, of course, that would leave nothing left. It's like that in Hell too except first they drained out your sin-drenched insides and that's what hit your face at the speed of absolute shame. This being neither here nor there... well, it was always worth checking.

Fish is still pondering what the opposite of ripping his face off would entail, exactly, when he touches his hand to the latch. Is this guy going to put Fish's face on his...face? Even more? Is Fish going to rip his face off? He should stop taking everything so literally, probably.

"Not today." You never have a fire hose, Fish, stop it. "Seriously, though, you gotta promise you'll be nice. I've let way too many assholes outta this thing lately." Argh, no. "Uh, not that I'm calling you an asshole or anything..."

Though he refrains from actually pressing up against the door, it kind of sounds like he is. Like if a cat could actually use a cajoling voice instead of meowing or sitting on you until it gets its way, this would be it. There's a trace of self-mockery in it, though, too. Or maybe just plain old mockery.

"I'll be as nice as I know how," he promises, sly and meek. It doesn't even occur to him to try using his powers — not through this door, anyway, but voice has always been the primary medium for influencing others. "No, seriously, I'll be good. Maybe not really good but reasonably good. How's that sound."

It sounds like he's being set up to have his face ripped off, that's how. He taps his fingers on the handle briefly, the touch feathery-light, so it doesn't quite rattle beneath them. Sucks the slick lining of his cheek between his teeth.

"Okay." And yet, the door remains locked. "...What's your name?"

"Blake." He backs away from the door a little, but leaves the fingertips of one hand touching the surface. "What happens if you don't let me out, do I stay here and rot. Or maybe you press a button and the room fills with gas and then you call someone to remove my body?" His voice is casual and chatty. "That seems a bit harsh given how welcoming the pamphlets are. Probably it's just sleeping gas, and then I wake up in a smaller room, tied to a chair. What's your name?"

What the. Fish jerks his head back just a little, although he's more entertained than perplexed by this, honestly. It's like buddy behind the door is attempting to communicate in his mother tongue, being that of what are you even talking about right now. It is an ancient, hallowed dialect.

"Uh... I dunno, I've never...not let anyone out. But I heard one guy tried to trash the place and was locked in for like a week." And still the door does not open. It is possible our humble night clerk has picked up some habits from Smt Savitri. Also, he is hesitating, but does cave after not so long: "I'm Fish."

"A week." Balthazar repeats, bland in his distaste. "I hope you're not going to do that to me, Fish. I haven't tried to trash anything. I don't think I've ever trashed anything, actually." Not really a lie. If and when he needs things trashed, he generally has someone else do it. "I could show you. On the device, if there aren't already cameras in here. Then you could open the door."

That would be really great, his voice hints.

"Would you?" It's not exactly apologetic, the way he says this, but he does seem to be considering the inconvenience involved. He's already pulling his own CiD free of his jacket. "That'd be really great." Har.

Thank god this guy knows how to use things—he gets so frustrated trying to teach people what buttons do.

The first thing the CiD shows is not Balthazar but a good look at the room, as promised. The view slowly pans from one corner to the opposite one, displaying a table that is perfectly undisturbed, walls that have not been punched or vandalized (any more than they already have been, anyway), pamphlets still neatly stacked... everything appears to be in order, more or less. And then Balthazar turns the CiD to himself. It's funny — after all this time, he knows he doesn't need a mirror, he never has, yet he still feels the slightest twinge of self-consciousness. Yet the face that shows is, of course, the face he projects, a businessman with a smile that evolved from piranhas, a man in his late thirties or early forties who has taken care of himself and, honestly, looks like he's doing some kind of Patrick Bateman impression.

Carefully, he places the CiD on the table and backs away from it, spreading his hands to show they're empty, and that he has no weapons.

Strictly out of habit, Fish holds his lower lip between his teeth while observing this purportedly reassuring transmission. The expression becomes...somewhat less habitual when the picture's focus changes, his eyebrows lifting just slightly and all. Hello. (If anyone walked up behind him right now he'd be gratuitously startled, let's put it that way.)

...Right, he should probably say something eventually. "kay." Uh. Gentle cough. "Okay. I'm gonna unlock it, just gimme a second to back off before you come out. Alright?"

"Of course," he says, demure in a way that is not intended to fool anybody, and approaches the table again to pick up the CiD. At closer range, the tie might be more obviously bewildering. Just weirdly tacky, considering every other aspect of his appearance.

It is, a little, but such a mild poke in the eye of fashion is forgivable. 'Blake' may not be forgiven, however, if anything truly unfortunate happens once this door is unlocked—that moment of heyyy baby aside, Fish isn't about to trust some guy based purely on an accent and a jawline.

So he attempts to unlock the door and, provided the room doesn't know any better and actually allows this, will move away to wait at an ostensibly safe distance, as promised. If need be, he can nip out of there and into the adjacent hallway right quick.

After the requested second (three of them, actually), the door opens and Balthazar steps out. The surroundings take brief precedence over Fish ever so briefly, and then he's smiling in a distinctly less toothy manner, keeping a tight rein on his creepery. By reflex, he extends a touch of manipulation toward Fish, just to see if it's still working: see, he was weird when he was inside the room but now he's not so bad! Do you like him? You like him, right?

"Thank you." His diction, now not muffled by the door, is precise and clear, but not rigid. Friendly, if scaled back now that they're face to face. He tucks the CiD inside his jacket without looking away from Fish at all, makes a calculated and obvious hesitation, then takes a one step towards Fish, halting immediately. Ostensibly it's because he's at least trying to act human and considerate right now. It's also because the sensation of what Fish is just hit him behind the eyes like a splash of cold water. He isn't disgusted or afraid because he doesn't really know what Fish is, he only knows Fish is definitely different, in a distinctly deadish way.

Huh. But he schools his expression to polite, only slightly smarmy curiosity. "Can I ask what time it is here?"

Yes. Of course Fish likes him. Of course. He likes him enough not to notice any subtleties of expression that may just have slipped, even. Man that was an awkward sentence... but we're all charmed enough by Balthazar to ignore it, right? Sure.

"Yeah." Pause. Right, he should probably look at his watch—which is affixed to his pants by a clip, in this case, rather than around his wrist, and hangs upside down from its leather fob so he can just flip it up to check the time. Which he does now. "Uh, about twenty-five after one. In the morning." When he looks up again, he seems to be hoping for some form of approval.

What exactly Fish is, by the way, is a mystery even to him—but he is indeed deadish. Mostly.

The desire for approval doesn't go without notice, but Balthazar expresses it slowly, in an attempt to make it feel more rewarding. First he pauses as if surprised, then smiles, faintly secretive.

"I haven't lost too much time, then. Just a few hours since..." Since an eternity of torture during which he had no way of telling time, just never-ending pain, unable to differentiate between screaming and silence, existence as torment — oh. That was an awkward pause. He hurriedly continues: "Anyway, I... uh, thanks. Let me just."

He adjusts the time on his own watch, which looks stupidly expensive and ostentatious, like most of the rest of him. "Sorry, I don't mean to keep you from anything. You probably have something else to do." But you'd like to keep talking to me, right? His influence nudges Fish a little harder to see how he takes it.

"Nah, it's cool, I can hang around for a bit." It does occur to Fish that he's still on the clock and should be at the desk right now, but standing here staring at some guy's wristwatch takes precedence over assisting the inn's patrons, clearly. It could be said that he's about as metaphysically malleable as one could hope for, at least on the terms of right here and now. "I mean, if you want."

You scamp, you.

He folds his hands in front of his belt buckle—tonight's choice was repurposed from an old seatbelt, in case anyone wants to know—and waits there, most attentive, now lacking any sign of his earlier sour mood. He doesn't look cheerful, exactly, but his temper seems to have waned for now.

This is actually delightful for Balthazar. Fish is different from the kinds of people he's usually forced to hang out with, and he's still not really sure what's going on here, but he's almost certain Hell has nothing to do with it, and now there's this pleasantly malleable not-quite-human thing attending to him and responding nicely.

"That'd be — yeah, I guess I just have some questions." It's kind of a farce to have to go through this act and it's not really that convincing. If he really were Blake Angler, businessman, he'd probably be doing more freaking out and sputtering, but that's boring and he wants to talk to Fish at least semi-intelligently. Cautiously, he approaches to a more conversational distance. "The pamphlet mentioned a... militia. What's that about, are they like, actually everywhere, just. Listening, and stuff?"

He should be delighted, just like Fish is kind of delighted that his new pal wants to keep chatting. The guy even uses 'like' as punctuation, too, isn't that neat? They totally have something in common.

"Basically, yeah. I think a lot of em walk around in regular people clothes, so you can't tell who they are just by looking. Unless you're like trained to spot the signs, like a spy or something. That's what I heard." Isn't he helpful, just standing there the way he is, small and unassuming and not at all bothered by any changes in proximity. "People get kinda shifty when you talk about em, sometimes, especially right now."

Admittedly, he thought Fish might like the 'like' thing.

"Troubled times, huh?" He makes the kind of 'gosh I'm so bewildered' face he imagines a new arrival might make, and leans against the wall nearest to Fish. "I'll try not to do that, then. You know, I was looking around on that thing —" He taps his jacket where he put the CiD away. "Are they serious about vampires?"

"Yup. Completely. There's vampires all over the place here. I dunno if you've gotta worry too much about being anybody's dinner, though." Because the man is a scary demon, oh no!! ...Not really. "Most of 'em use donors or get their food from specialty stores. The ones that don't kinda get in trouble."

It's lucky for him that fondness equates to sharing, isn't it. Fish is a helper.

"How civilized." He touches his tie absently (or, okay, not really absently, but playing at it), clearly thinking and turning over this idea in his head, coming to grips with it, though it isn't half as hard as he's pretending it is. "So it would be safe to venture out right now? I don't think I could sleep. I would rather look around."

"Yeah, for sure." Since there's movement going on, Fish's eyes end up on buddy's hand there, and gosh, that's kind of an ugly tie. "I'd, uh..." He's not sure how he feels about the tie—no, he likes it. "Um. I'd offer to show you around, but I'm kinda...working... and stuff."

Yes. Working.

"Aw, thanks," he says and it is seriously the most unnatural thing he has said in many, many years. Not that saying it bothers him, in fact he finds it pretty funny, but it is undeniably just. Jarring, even though he's 'acting'. "Another time, maybe. You don't want to have to deal with my tourist gawking anyway."

Well, that came out better, and he smiles nicely, even. "Thanks again, Fish."

"Um...you're welcome." Fish seems to be trying to stifle an actual grin now, sort of bashfully, although he does maintain eye contact. (Mostly.) "If you need anything, like during your stay, if you're staying, I'm at the desk. I mean, I work at the desk. Every night."

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creeping up the backstairs, mother's nightmare

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