multiversallogs | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

creeping up the backstairs, mother's nightmare

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