A/N: Been a while, eh? I do apologize deeply to those invested in this fic! I finally decided to finish up this draft and post it. I miss writing, and I promise I'm still invested both in this fic and Flower Frost! Life really does get in the way.
Anyhow, enjoy this chapter, in which Grian has a very bad night and makes very poor decisions.
~ Rb if you enjoy! <3 ~
Part VIII - AO3 - Masterlist
Grian leant over the grimy wooden bar of The Foxhole, nursing half a mug of beer and feeling very much like the typical lonely alcoholic bars of this sort were known for. The place was full to bursting, crowded with patrons who drank and laughed away their Friday night. Enmired in their midst in his own pool of misery, he found it difficult not to begrudge them. Mumbo had invited him to the Hermiton Arms with Pearl, but he'd declined. They'd been distant - or rather, Grian had - since their mission together, and he hardly wanted to debrief the encounter with Pearl. He dreaded the discomfort and horror that he'd see stirring in her blue eyes, even as she comforted him. It was stupid to avoid Mumbo, he knew that - he'd felt like a child afraid of being scolded - but he just hadn't wanted to face the humiliation and disappointment, deserved as it was.
His attempts hadn't made much difference anyway - Mumbo had known him long enough to catch exactly what he was playing at, and the second evening, Grian returned to find Mumbo making a drink in the office, despite the late hour. He’d offered a lame greeting and moved to go to his own room, but Mumbo had stopped him.
"Hey, G! Wait a second," Mumbo said, eyes on the reddish cocktail he was straining into a glass.
"What's up?" Grian lingered by the doorway, wary.
Mumbo approached him, habitually sipping his drink, while Grian tried to suppress a rising panic. He'd throw him out, expose him, maybe-
"You're avoiding me," Mumbo began.
He began to protest, but Mumbo cut him off.
"Look, I wanted to apologise for the other day," Mumbo began steadily, "I shouldn't have had you do that - come with us to threaten people, I mean. I didn't think about it because I'm so used to you, but I should never have put you in that position, mate."
Grian had paused, taken aback.
"I ... thank you, I guess. It was my own fault, though; I should've known.”
Mumbo had been the one to apologise. It wasn't only the warped epitome of British etiquette, but a simple show of good character. Mumbo was like that; keener to emotions at times than one might expect, and above all, a truly good friend. They'd resolved things - or at least Mumbo had, but Grian hadn't been able to let it go as easily. It had hit far more deeply for him, struck a nerve he thought he'd at last buried. His actions, even if Mumbo didn't see it that way, were glaring proof that he wasn't 'fixed'. Proof that, for all he worked to be human, he was imperfect. A mummy, meticulously painted on the outside whilst its twisted, rotting interior clawed at the sarcophagus. Even perched in a crowded bar, he couldn't help but feel utterly apart, a sensation that, without his notice, he hadn't experienced for many years now. But that feeling of unbelonging was back and worse than ever, the dregs of the worst parts of his life, the inhumanity that had tortured him since he could comprehend it.
On the previously rare occasions he did crumble, he'd placated the self-hatred by getting drunk with someone and going home with them, careful to keep himself as clothed as possible and disappear as soon as he was satisfied. It was a foul trick, to force someone to want him, to consume their desire and abandon them - an integrally human way of being a monster. He felt all the worse for it, and the more the hate festered, the more he clawed for validation, some face he'd forget to show him he wasn't an obscenity. He was a snake that ate itself, day after day.
He gazed at the notebook he'd brought, scouring his mind for any detail he could add to his series of profiles. He'd dedicated pages to each of the nonhumans he'd met (and Joel, for good measure) - name and species first and foremost, followed by physical descriptions, traits, personality, and profession. He'd attempted to continue, carefully recorded his encounter with Scott, penning half-considered thoughts on the man, but he knew he was only mimicking working.
He shut the book in defeat, downing the rest of his beer in an undignified swig. He wiped his mouth and gathered his belongings before fastening his cape about his shoulders and slithering his way through the bar's inhabitants towards the door, followed by half-hearted exclamations of annoyance.
Perhaps he'd find something to kill instead.
Just drunk enough to shrug off logic and look for trouble, he left the humid safety of The Foxhole and stepped onto the cool street.
He strayed the perimeter of the groups of people inhabiting the streets - some stumbling to their next bar, others sitting on the grubby pavement, cheerfully chatting after being thrown out of one. He slipped through the narrow alleyway of Threader's end, working towards the quieter, darker streets where, in the dark and depth, he knew he could find trouble. He flexed his fingers in anticipation, feeling the prick of talons through his gloves. He'd neglected to clip them, and he wished deeply that he could slash them through something. He didn't use his claws for a reason though, and removed one glove, contenting himself with scraping them gently along the bricks that flanked him.
He stopped only when he felt his foot slip slightly on the dark cobbles. Upon striking a match to examine the disturbance, he found he'd stepped in a scattering of blood, glistening like a broken string of rubies, already coagulating and reflecting the light hungrily. He replaced his glove and tracked the tiny spots intermittently tempting him up the alley. Someone was hurt, someone fled. A human - he knew that without a second thought. A quiet thrill spread through him as he followed the trail as quickly as he could in silence.
As though some God was bending to his wishes, he hadn't followed the trail far when he heard a man cry out from somewhere nearby, a choked, pained quality to his voice. Grian sped up, dropping the match and grinding it out with his heel. He turned a corner into a service alley, panelled with decrepit, unused doorways and strewn with debris.
In the sheltered back doorway of a house, a man was holding another against the wall, hands unable to push off his assailer as they grasped at a heavily bleeding wound in his neck. His face was marred with blood, panicked eyes peering out between the claw marks that sharply divided his pallid skin. The man who held him there was of no notable height, though he sported the stocky musculature of a trained fighter, evident even in the gloom. He faced away from Grian, grim horns silhouetted against the brick. The victim let out a gurgling cry, sighting Grian, but was cut off by a heavy punch to the jaw. Grian leapt into action as the man slouched, his attacker easily holding him up by his collar. He reached them with little sound, holding his gun by the barrel and slamming it into the monster's head with a crack. He wanted a hands-on encounter.
The man staggered and his victim collapsed, shaking hands clutching at his neck as he gasped.
Grian spun his gun until the handle nestled familiarly in his palm, pointing it at the attacker, but the blow hadn't put him off much. When the monster looked up, Grian recognised with a jolt the wolfish canines, the golden eyes and the - now flattened - ears he'd taken for horns.
Ren stared him down savagely, blood running down his lip - it seemed he'd bitten it thanks to the blow. It dripped languidly onto his shirt, half open as it had been the night they'd first met. Grian froze, as though his brain had been switched off mid-thought. He didn’t have a plan of action here. Panic coursing through him, he took a paralyzed step back, then another, unable to take his eyes off Ren.
Surprise at Grian's being alive seemed to have been snuffed out by anger before it even registered.
"Get out of here," Ren growled, wiping his mouth with his arm, though he made no motion towards him. The man slumped on the ground was shakily attempting to stand.
"Help me!" He wheezed, staring imploringly at Grian, even as he blinked away blood. Ren turned on the man, tail lashing, crouching and gripping the man’s jaw with a clawed hand before shoving it to the wall, growling something indistinguishable to him. But Grian couldn't help. His every instinct told him to act, to shoot Ren in the back of the head while he could, to take the man to safety. But if he laid a hand on a member of the Eighth Circle ...
So he holstered his gun mechanically, backing away slowly.
"HELP ME-!" The man choked out as Grian broke into a run, and he heard the sound cut off by furious blow of another clawed fist, the clatter of teeth on the cobblestones. He didn't look back. The quiet told him he didn't need to.
He didn't stop until he trailed to a halt before The Foxhole, the voices and laughter beckoning him in. But the familiar din didn't tempt him now; the prospect of being around people sickened him. He'd done something truly terrible, and panic was flooding his veins, making it hard to breathe. That man was surely dead, and it was because of his inaction. His inability to act. Because of the Eighth Circle. Because he was a coward. Because, in short, he was a monster too. He wandered past the bars dazedly, feeling utterly wretched, more alone than ever. He couldn't tell Mumbo. He was losing grip of everything - one stumble seemed to have upended the life he'd fought so hard to build for himself, and he wanted to drink until he didn't have to remember all that crumbled beneath him.
He kept walking, not knowing what he was looking for. It brought him past the lively bars that loudly proffered their joy, company and relief, passed the sleeping storefronts and empty apartments until he found himself in Seville Square. It was an utter mockery that he'd ended up here of all places, the silent cafe square devoid of it's usual glowing squares of light, the scent of baked goods and coffee hideously absent. He looked towards the Meadowsweet Cafe and it's little alley, as dark as the road to hell, even in this ghostly place.
He picked that direction though, and found the door. He made his way through the slaughterhouse by matchlight, pushed open the brick door and found himself in the marble lobby he'd been in only once before. He'd had plenty of time to rethink this decision, but this time, there was no lure to the snare.
There was someone new at the counter, and a fresh lance of pain shot through him. Impulse must still be gone. He nodded to her tentatively, removing his gloves and freeing his tail, the actions unfamiliar and dangerous. The new cloakroom attendant - he struggled to call her a bouncer - was a short woman with bright blue eyes and pale pink hair that parted for calico cat's ears.
"New, are you?" She said brightly, taking his cloak with the overexcited air of a new employee.
He only shook his head, depositing two of his flintlocks on the counter before making for the heavy door.
"Rude," He thought he heard her mutter as he pulled open the doors, trepidation welling steadily in his heart.
The Eighth Circle was as crowded as The Foxhole had been, welcoming him with friendly golden lanternlight, warmth and easy chatter wreathed by the scent of cigarette smoke and alcohol. It was like Scott, really, an enchanting facade, a mimicry that offered safety before eating you alive.
He didn't bother putting up appearances as he skulked through the tables, making his way to the crowded bar and finding himself a clear seat hidden by a nearby booth. He caught sight of Etho in his customary mask, quickly fixing drinks for the customers fighting to catch his attention. He really was a talent, moving with perfect grace and precision as he worked through several drinks at once without an ounce of flamboyance to his method, all the while cheerfully greeting some patrons, slipping into quick conversation with others. Another man was here this time, shorter than Etho, with tanned skin and bright eyes. He wore a peculiar capelet that looked to be made of moss, though underneath had done Doc the dignity of wearing a proper dress shirt. He appeared human, though his rolled sleeves displayed odd discolouration on his skin - stains in shades of dark green that intermittently dappled along his arms and neck.
Grian couldn't decide what type of monster he was, but he watched nonetheless. This man darted around hazardously, riffing with customers as he fixed their drinks and occasionally receiving a rap on the head from Etho when he got too distracted and fell into animated conversation with a customer. He'd spin around and snap at Etho -rather like a cat having its tail tugged - but the grin that played about his mouth and Etho's innocent laughter told of their affectionate relationship. The two paused briefly when the shorter man poured them each shots of some deep red liquor, and both took them before returning to work.
"...supposed to touch it to the counter before you take it!" He overheard the other man chastise Etho, and Grian smiled inwardly despite himself. Etho moved to help someone nearer to Grian, leaning his elbows on the bar to hear them. But as he acquiesced to the order, Etho's gaze found Grian. He stared for a moment, white brows furrowing. Grian looked away, but Etho smiled genially, crinkling his eyes over the mask.
"Etho!" A customer laughed, breaking the moment, "Do your party trick!"
"Finish my drink first," another called with a grin.
Etho rolled his eyes but smiled as others called requests. In a swirl of colour, Etho's form was replaced by a silver-grey lynx, who swept the room with an imperious black-and-red gaze. It rose onto its hind legs and planted huge forepaws on the polished bar as the patrons cheered. Evidently, this was common entertainment here.
The lynx - Etho - made growly noises as the customers as they pretended to order from him. He retrieved an empty bottle from the bar, clamping his teeth around it before depositing it on the bar with a thunk, then swatted at it as the crowd laughed. Then he was a milky snake that slithered along the bar, flickering its tongue and rising into a pretend strike at his coworker, earning a sharp sound of protest. The snake fell forward from its strike and toppled from the bar, earning gasps of concern. In the next second though, a snowy owl flapped up from behind the bar, soaring on silent wings in a circuit of the room, gracefully gliding back down and landing on the edge of the bar.
Then Etho was back, sitting casually on the bar where the owl had perched. He hopped down lightly and smoothed his hair back unsuccessfully, a smile reaching his eyes over the mask as a few applauded.
"Showing off like always," his coworker complained.
As incredible as the performance was, it stirred a sense of uneasiness in Grian as he wondered what - if any - limitations Etho had. Surely he couldn't turn into anything, but even with what he'd displayed so far, he was a particularly dangerous specimen. He tried to remember the forms he'd seen Etho take as he waited.
Traffic at the bar eventually slowed, and Etho chose the lull to approach, polishing a glass.
"What can I get for ya?" he asked as a matter of course.
Grian didn't meet his gaze. "Whiskey sour."
Etho nodded and got to work. Thankfully, he didn't seem inclined to press Grian for answers. He hadn't expected such civility, here of all places, and was grateful for it all the same.
"Who's your friend?" He asked as Etho returned with his drink.
"Who, Bdubs?" Etho stuck a thumb over his shoulder, "He's just my least favourite coworker. I told Doc not to hire him, but apparently, there's a huge shortage of bartenders around here. Can you believe it?"
"HEY-" came an indignant exclamation from the other end of the bar, "I heard that!"
Bdubs joined their conversation unceremoniously, "I was actually hired first. Lifted this rookie out of his life of squalor and insignificance," He announced grandly, indicating Etho, who rolled his eyes.
Grian nodded slightly, not having decided if he wanted to get into friendly conversation here. Etho seemed to sense Grian's hesitation and towed Bdubs away to serve a customer, accompanied by the faint complaint: "...having a conversation, Etho. Ever heard of one?"
Grian retreated from the chaos of the bar, taking up residence at a lone table on the outskirts of the large room. He sipped his drink a touch more quickly than usual, trying to soothe his anxiety as he surreptitiously scanned the room. Scott wasn't performing with the jazz band at the moment, and Grian was hit by a touch of nausea as he thought of Ren. Out finding some new victim, huh?
He searched warily for other familiar faces. Tango was absent, thankfully, and he didn't catch sight of Doc's intimidating person, though he knew he'd be here somewhere. Joel seemed to be attending to other matters too, and though he was a friendlier face, Grian didn't particularly covet the company. When he was satisfied he wasn't about to be disturbed, he retreated comfortably back within himself. The solace was not long-lasting, however.
“Mind if I sit here? It’s a bit full,” a voice asked hesitantly.
“Hm?” Grian looked up at the owner. To his surprise, it was the ash-blonde harpy with the tragic eyes whom he’d spotted sitting alone the first time, drinking away some unknown sorrow.
“Help yourself,” he replied simply. He was curious about this man - one of the few other harpies he'd seen. The man grinned and thanked him. He had a warmth about him, a sense of ease and openness in his expression. He deposited a bottle of black rum on the table alongside his expectant glass before sitting.
The two drank in silence for a while. It was a peculiar meeting, that of two who wanted to drink away their sorrows alone, forced together by something as chance as logistics. Grian lost himself again, wondering where he’d go from here. Could he be trusted to live with Mumbo anymore? If it happened again, if it really was that he was so easily able to snap and go too far, how could he continue as he lived? And now another wall had become corporeal. He’d fled from a member of the Eighth Circle, purely out of fear. It was embarrassing too, to realize that without his notice, he'd been taken in by Ren's innocent, friendly charm, even as he'd watched Grian be entrapped and attacked. It had genuinely surprised him to encounter the real Ren - a vicious thug who spent his evenings steeping the alley walls in blood. There was a cruel irony to his fear of these monsters though - he could so easily become one of those he hunted. Scott, Ren, Scar, Tango, Doc - it was as though a pack of wolves had cornered him, closing in bit by bit until he stumbled. He emptied the rest of his drink in a long draft and noticed his companion's gaze flick up, wry understanding in his eyes.
He pushed himself up, and his companion's gaze fell away as he walked to the bar, ordering another two drinks from Bdubs, who cheerfully prepared his order. Perhaps Etho had briefed him in private - though cordial, Bdubs was somewhat tense and didn’t attempt to engage in conversation. Some savage part of Grian was pleased. Maybe they're a little scared of me, too.
As Grian moved to return to his table, the feathers on his shoulder blades pricked uncomfortably. A hunter's wariness was a familiar sense for him, and he scanned the room, wondering what he'd subconsciously picked up on. Almost immediately, his attention was drawn to a pair of bright green, near-iridescent eyes that watched him from across the room.
Scar was leant against the far wall, dressed in his usual mahogany and studying Grian. He didn't shift his gaze as Grian met it, expressing no embarrassment at his faux pas. Grian held his eyes, returning his own pointedly blank expression. Leave me alone.
He headed back for his table, ignoring Scar and setting the drink before the man. He wanted to know what had the man brooding; what sort of problems did monsters face?
His companion looked up, surprised, and smiled weakly. “Cheers mate,”
“I saw you here a while back looking a bit rough. Thought you could use cheering up,” he replied.
The man frowned. “Have we met?”
“Nah, nothing like that. I uh- ended up leaving rather suddenly.”
“Ah, jumped ship after that fight eh? I did too. I’m Jimmy, by the way.”
Evidently he hadn’t paid much attention to the fight in question - or he was too wrapped up in his own misery (and whiskey) to remember.
“G,” Grian introduced himself, extending his glass to Jimmy by way of a handshake. He didn’t want to stir a panic in case Jimmy knew him by name.
His companion reciprocated cheerfully, and both drank with deep enjoyment.
“So, what had ya so down?” Grian asked, and Jimmy’s face fell.
“You don’t have to talk about it, of course,” he added hurriedly.
Jimmy seemed to consider for a moment, finishing his drink in a gulp before pouring a measure of his rum out with a practised motion.
“I get - weird dreams,” he began hesitantly, voice subdued, “and I’ve died so many times.”
Grian frowned, perplexed.
“I’m not much of a storyteller, mate. You're gonna think I'm nuts anyway," Jimmy added in reply to his expression. He continued nonetheless, seemingly warming to his subject.
“For a long time now, I’d get dreams. Sometimes far apart, sometimes closer. I’d live a whole life. Be in love, have allies, build - but also fight. Horrible fights. And I died at the end of each. It’s painful. I only remember parts of each, blurry faces, feelings. And the death, the awful deaths. I'd wake up after just a night and be confused as to where I am. Just as I'm understanding where I am, the dream trickles out of my mind and I'm left with a weird emptiness.”
“Nothing wrong with bad dreams is there?”
“Not really,” Jimmy replied, sipping his drink.
Grian let the silence take its time.
“But I woke up one day after I died. I think an enderman killed me, and it was so painful, so terrifying. But I was different. I had wings and talons, a tail,” he stretched a wing, buttery yellow and softly curved, for emphasis.
Jimmy laughed mirthlessly, “I used to be human, yeah. Now … I don't know what I am. I want to eat people. I spent a week not even going outdoors - couldn’t see my friends and family. They’re pretty big on medicine - thought I was sick and hired some crackpot apothecary to visit me.”
“Joel?” Grian questioned, but he already knew.
“You know Joel? Small world," Jimmy remarked with a laugh, "He introduced me to this crowd. Think he knew I wouldn't tell, knew I had no other option."
He went quiet then, and Grian tried to understand what he'd said. It wasn't possible, no one just had dreams and turned into a monster. But what else could have such an effect on him? He wanted to record this, interrogate him more, but compassion won.
"Guess I'm just cursed, eh?" Jimmy intoned hollowly, too wrapped up in his own tragedy to notice Grian's internal struggle.
"Do you believe in curses?"
"Didn't used to, did I?" He laughed humourlessly.
"So that night ..." Grian prompted.
"Eh?"
"When I first saw you, I mean."
"Oh. Yeah, that's when Joel first brought me here. Taught me to hide properly. Doc makes this place safe for the ones who can't hide it. They say I'm lucky. Maybe it's true, but it's hard to think of it that way when the world just chooses me of all people to curse."
Jimmy had finished his glass and poured himself another, profferring the bottle to Grian, who assented.
"So, what's your curse?" Jimmy queried, eyeing him over his glass.
"Same, I s'pose," Grian replied, "When is being a ... being like us ever good?"
Jimmy snorted, "Thought some of you lot rather enjoyed it. Don't know how any of you don't hate yourselves every day."
Grian flinched, Jimmy's words hitting far too close to home. "Some of us do," He murmured, and Jimmy's eyes met his again with that hateful, tragic understanding.
"So, how do you deal with it then?"
"With what?"
"With being a monster."
Grian paused. He thought of the many faceless drinking partners he'd taken home, the monsters he'd killed without a thought, of threatening the vagrants for Mumbo, of the bloody, self-inflicted wounds that scarred his body, the nights drowned in alcohol and the mornings of misery that followed.
He drank his rum mechanically. "Guess I don't," he replied flatly, holding his glass up for emphasis.
Jimmy refilled both glasses with a laugh. "Cheers to that then."
"You're not having a drink without me, are you?" Scar asked reproachfully.
Perhaps it was the alcohol, but weary dread welled in Grian instead of abject fear as he turned to the voice's owner.
"Evening, Scar,"
"Scar! What's up mate?"
His and Jimmy's tones could not have been more different.
Scar seemed to have decided to ignore his half-enthusiastic reception and drew a chair with the bashful air of a dinner guest running late. He placed his drink - bourbon rust, if Grian were to guess - on the table easily. How did he do that? It was bizarre, his instinctual ability to ingratiate himself into any situation he desired as though he was an expectation rather than an imposition.
Grian scowled moodily into his drink.
"How've you been?"
Grian opened his mouth to give a terse response, but realised the inquiry had been directed at Jimmy.
"Keeping calm, carrying on 'n all that. Best anyone can do, right?" Jimmy summoned a warm grin that seemed as natural to him as breathing.
Scar matched his smile with one of his own, equally as natural, but nowhere near as comforting. Scar's expressions all held a deeply held savagery in Grian's eyes. It was little more than the baring of teeth.
Scar caught his eye, not changing his expression an inch.
It told him everything he needed to know. Gotcha again birdie! How very Scar-like of him.
"So," Grian turned his attention back to Jimmy, feathers prickling, "How do you know Scar?"
Jimmy shrugged, "Joel introduced us; first night I ever came here," He chuckled, "Guess I can see why - Scar makes friends easily."
"Could've fooled me," Grian replied, sipping his drink. He knew he was being bolder than he ought to, but he'd had enough drinks that he hadn't the energy to put up a front.
"Oh, come on, G," Scar grinned, jovially nudging him. You can't still be upset about all that."
"About all what? How'd you two meet, anyway?" Jimmy interjected.
Scar took up the thread delightedly, "Oh, he's a stalker. I get 'em a lot. Must be my animal magnetism," he explained ostentatiously, laughing at his own joke whilst Jimmy looked nonplussed.
Grian prickled slightly in offence as he listened dubiously to Scar's iteration of their encounter.
"... So, naturally, I was a little spooked at my unannounced sidekick, and we had a bit of an altercation. He had to be forcefully removed - and y'know, with Etho and Doc, he got a little scratched up."
Grian gripped his glass a little tighter. Scratched up, that what you'd call it? He couldn't help noticing how Scar had neglected to mention his own contribution in the assault.
Jimmy furrowed his brow. "Then you were in that fight? You could've told me mate."
Grian opened his mouth, but Scar spoke for him: "Well, you can't be too mad at him. If I'd been sneaking around following people where I'm not expected, I wouldn't talk much about it either."
Grian lifted his glass to his mouth, forcing down his steadily growing annoyance and meeting Scar's eyes resiliently. "As you said, Scar, who are you to deny a man the company of his own kind at the end of the day?" He turned his attention to Jimmy, "It's a lonely life. He stood out to me as one of our own; can't blame me for following even the slimmest chance at community? Guess I could've done a better job."
Jimmy's betrayed gaze softened. "No, I really can't. I would probably have done the same. But it looks like you're more than welcome here now, eh?"
Grian couldn't return his grin, Scar's contemplative gaze pinning him from his peripheral. This is just like the last time, he thought uncomfortably, Scar toying with me, dangling me just out of the lion's jaws, just to show he can. And he was playing into it this time, joining Scar in his deceptive games, letting him lead him as he pleased. Why the hell was he here? Making friends with the creatures he'd see hang, letting Scar play with him when he should be the one in fear.
He stood, draining his glass, "Good to meet you, Jimmy. Scar," He said, with a polite smile and terse nod respectively.
He made his way through the rowdy tables as his heart mounted anxiously. It had been a foolish mistake to come back here; he had no plan, hadn't decided what course to take -
He felt a hand touch his arm as he reached the heavy doors in the balcony's shade, and whipped around to see Scar again.
He stepped back, bristling, and Scar held his hands up in surrender.
"You came back, huh?"
"Don't get too comfortable," Grian replied coldly, "Nothing's changed."
Scar smiled, "You sound a lot more confident than you looked coming in," He stepped towards Grian, lowering his voice, "Do you want to know what I think?"
Grian didn't answer, angling himself away from the wall and hooking a straying hand into his belt, comfortingly close to his knife.
"I think you got scared. I think you're so lonely it hurts, I think you couldn't resist the idea of being around your kind. There's nothing wrong with that, you know-"
"You're not my kind," Grian spat, "You want to make me one of you so badly, don't you? That's why you sit there and smirk at me, play games and try to frighten me. It's pathetic - I think you're scared, and you should be. If you're trying to romance me, think of a better method than trying to kill me."
Scar shrugged, disinterestedly, "Plenty of people are into that."
Grian turned and shoved open the door, trailed by Scar's call of "See you next time!"
Arbitrary Darkness (HC Monster Hunter AU) Part VIII
A/N: Hi again! Back with another chapter of Arbitrary Darkness, in which Grian gets to do crimes.
~ Rb if you enjoy! <3 ~
Part VII - AO3 - Masterlist
Grian flipped habitually through the post, sorting subconsciously through the overimaginative zealots and genuinely concerned civilians that made up his correspondences.
He vaguely reminisced about the night previous ... he couldn't help but remember Pearl, the way they'd chatted flirtily ... the way that night could've gone had Mumbo not interrupted. Bloody cockbl- ok, fine. Maybe he should have been more careful not to hit on his friends coworker. No doubt he'd have another chance to meet her - after all, she was still working with Mumbo. If he was entirely honest though, he'd probably have had an easier time going home with Scott - although that fling would certainly end with him being torn apart at the bottom of the canal. He looked up as Mumbo walked in, tying his tie with his usual precision.
"Mind making a pot of tea?" He asked by way of a greeting.
"Morning to you too," Mumbo grumbled, heading to the kitchen.
Grian, skimming a letter, didn't respond. A close neighbor ... change in behaviour ... his skin is sallow now, his eyes look empty and haunted, and his clothes always seem to be stained with slimy green. He's been odd, reclusive ... wouldn't have interfered, but I caught a glimpse of him wandering home the other night ... soaking wet and had blood all down his front but didn't look hurt... Next day I saw the news in the paper about that man who fell in, and you'll have known the state they found his body in ... I hope it isn't true ... Grian folded the letter thoughtfully. He'd never seen a drowned in such an early stage - that had to be the answer. He leant an arm on the chair arm, cupping his chin.
There wasn't any cure. The Hermiton Canal was swarming with drowned - suicides, accidents, even murders - they didn't have the coordination to climb up the few ledges out, but they were numerous enough that there was an open bounty for civilians who disposed of them from the bank. It wasn’t definite that the man in the paper was directly related - gruesome deaths weren’t uncommon in New Hermiton - but the rest added up plenty. Chances were the poor bastard had fallen in for some reason.
He sighed, standing and accepting a cup of tea from Mumbo.
"Why the drama?" Mumbo inquired.
"Got to go kill a dead man today," Grian replied easily.
"Typical Monday then eh? Pearl and I are on a similar mission. Gonna go have a chat with some scumbags about our other dead man."
Grian eyed him severely, "Be careful mate, take a weapon. No offense, but you give off something of an easy-target aura."
Mumbo sputtered on his tea in indignation, dripping on his neat tie. "I give off nothing of the sort! Now look what you've done."
"You'll live," Grian snickered, leaving for his own room to get ready as Mumbo looked reproachfully down at his tie.
-
Grian leant against the back wall of apartment 183 on Capercaille Drive, subtly looking through a small rear window. A man lay slumped on a dishevelled bed, not having bothered to put the blankets over himself. The small room was lit only by the weak light that slipped between a tiny crack in the drawn curtains through which Grian had been spying.
As he watched, the man awoke, starting slightly. He rolled over and stood limply, moving as though his limbs were someone else's, leaden and unwieldy. He seemed to already be struggling with motor function, fumbling lamely with a matchbox as he attempted to light an oil lamp, but the task evidently lost his attention. He shuffled out of the room, and as the light passed over him, Grian noted his ragged clothing, stained with dark brown and green. Definitely blood, and definitely algae. He must be past changing clothes.
Grian easily made his assessment. He tested the window gently, trying not to make a noise. Unlocked. Makes sense. Opening it carefully, he slipped in, palming his netherite hunting blade. He wore long, thick leather gloves when dealing with this type - more developed zombies, or drowned that had actually drowned in the water, had a dangerous (bloody painful) bite and oftentimes, long, dirty fingernails that'd give you a nasty infection if they broke skin.
He trod lightly, trying not to elicit a creak from his heavy boots on the floorboards, following the creature's tracks to the doorway. He passed an open door to the bathroom, where a tub of stagnant, dirty water sat undrained. Down a short hall was the kitchen, where he found the man standing at a counter. The room was deteriorating steadily, trash and moulding food piled haphazardly, cupboards open and several things knocked over. He seemed like he was attempting to make tea, spooning loose leaves into a mug and pouring what looked like spoilt milk directly into a kettle on the stove. Grian couldn't help his curiosity - he'd never had a chance to examine a drowned in this stage. It was as though he still was following old human habits, a burnt instruction book in his head that he felt the need to complete, but without any purpose. A pang of sympathy hit him. It was tragic, really, but it would only get worse as his brain and body continued to deteriorate.
The man knocked his milk bottle over, and it smashed on the floor, splashing lumpy milk everywhere. The man stared at it, seemingly confused. He looked around the room, as though for someone to blame, and his gaze landed on Grian.
He didn't appear shocked to see a strange man standing in his house, and stared at Grian - the whites of his eyes had a bluish hue, while the irises and pupils had taken a greyish cast. His fair hair was uncombed, and his skin looked spongy and pale, like it'd been submerged in water for days.
"Hello," He mumbled at last.
"Hi," Grian replied, guardedly. The man shifted towards him slightly, pale eyes unblinking and fixed on Grian.
"What can I do for you today Sir?" The man spouted mechanically, catching Grian off guard. Old habits, perhaps? Wonder if he works in a shop of some sort.
"Well, I suppose it's more what I can do for you," Grian responded graciously. The man didn't seem to hear him though. He continued to stare, then shuffled closer. Grian tensed as the man closed the distance, curling his hand firmly around the blade.
The man ran his tongue along his teeth. That stare was really starting to unnerve Grian, and he shifted his stance. The man made a move suddenly, baring his teeth and making an uncoordinated lunge towards him.
Grian stepped easily out of the way, wrapping an arm around the unbalanced man's neck. He thrashed like a fish on the deck of a ship, then focused his gaze on Grian's glove and sank his teeth in. Grian hissed at the pressure and drove his knife into the man's stomach, angling up past his ribcage before letting him fall to the ground. The man let out a strangled cry - he must still have some concept of pain.
By the time Grian had stepped to the side, massaging his aching forearm, The man was still again, eyes vaguely pained as he batted drunkenly at the profusely bleeding wound in his belly, the knife still lodged up to the hilt. He seemed to have reverted to his previous state of lost confusion. Grian crouched near him, pulling his blade out with a jerk.
The man looked at him blankly as he bled, losing the little that drove him quickly. "Sorry ... couldn't ..... help ... today," He mumbled regretfully.
Grian stroked the man's hair gently, not sure where the gesture came from. "I'm sorry mate," He drove his blade through the man's skull and heard the thud as the tip hit the floor. The man stopped moving immediately.
There wasn't any real sense of doing good as Grian shut the apartment door behind him. He sheathed his blade as he began the walk home, pondering the tragic man. It felt more like killing a person than a monster, even though he knew what the man had done and would do. That's the job though, isn't it? Damage control. At least he hadn't had to check if the drowned was affiliated with the Eighth Circle.
He dropped a form by the police station as he passed, letting them know he'd disposed of his quarry. He couldn't help his growing discomfort each time he went in there. It seemed as though his experience at the Eighth Circle had brought back a trace of his old insecurities about being found out, an idea that everyone could see what he really was. What they thought he was. You think you’re like them, then go - take off your cloak and gloves and wait for their gratitude ... see how different they think you are. Tango's words echoed in his head as they did often these days. It was stupid really, to let such a cretin affect his mentality in any way.
When he returned home, he felt more drained than usual. He wrote a quick letter back to the informant who'd inquired about the drowned before setting about supper - somehow he felt Mumbo would appreciate it.
Mumbo returned a few hours later, looking little better than Grian.
"How'd it go?” He motioned to the stove, “I made soup.”
Mumbo scowled, removing his tie with a jerk and serving himself, "How did trying to have a civil conversation with nutters go? I won't be having them round for supper anytime soon."
Grian laughed, "You'd love Joel."
Mumbo shook his head in annoyance, stirring his soup. “Couldn’t get anywhere with them. They won’t say a word of sense to anyone who looks authoritative. Guess they assumed we were cops.”
Grian raised an eyebrow, unsurprised. “Makes sense. You’re not all that used to dealing with that sort. You want some muscle?”
Mumbo surveyed him doubtfully, “You’re not exactly what I’d call muscle,”
“I’m more intimidating than you. Not to mention threatening and killing is my job, which I’ll remind you I’m excellent at.”
Mumbo cracked a smile, talking through a mouthful of soup. “You want in then? We’d be glad for the help.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full," Grian chastised petulantly, "-and yes."
-
Grian set off with Mumbo and Pearl in the early evening a few days later. They passed easily through the more populous parts of New Hermiton easily before the streets started to shrink, becoming far less crowded and far more dingy. Broken glass, syringes and other litter were strewn about here, stained housefronts hemming the tiny streets - the government didn’t seem interested in cleaning up this part of the city. Hogshyde Park loomed before them at last - a sparsely wooded section that claimed to have once been a well-groomed park. The only evidence of the body was framed in forgone police tape, already tattered and abandoned.
“Where’d you two go yesterday?” Grian asked, looking around warily.
“The Pigeonhole,” Pearl supplied, “That knot of little alleys at the eastern end of the park.”
They headed there, looking as casual as possible. Grian had recommended the two forgo their professional attire, which thankfully, they’d heeded. They passed by several people who were asleep or otherwise unaccounted for before coming across two men sitting against the wall, nursing a lilac-hued bottle between them. Mumbo nudged Grian subtly, breathing ‘these two,’ in his ear.
The pair looked up as they approached, meeting Grian’s eyes with the predatory gaze he was used to.
“Not you lot again,” growled one, a dark-haired man with pale blue eyes and a rumpled dress shirt.
“Us two again,” Mumbo agreed cheerfully, “We were wondering if you happened to have remembered anything of note about that dead fella who turned up the other day.”
Grian kept his arms nonchalantly crossed over his chest, knowing his capelet would rise just enough to show the bottom of his holsters. His netherite hunting blade gave him the usual sense of security, nestled in his palm like a beloved pet.
The man retained his casual demeanor, even as his eyes flicked to Grian's weapons.
“Can’t say I do remember anything,” he said easily, “what about you, V?”
The other, a man with a sharply featured face and a wifebeater, shook his head wordlessly, commandeering the bottle from his friend.
“That chorus fruit liquor?” Grian chimed in curiously.
The two looked slightly surprised. “Yep,” V agreed.
Evidently there wasn’t much hope in playing the friend game.
“You mentioned someone last time we spoke, if you remember,” Pearl intoned, “Tacitly, sure.”
The dark-haired man eyed Pearl harshly, “Look sweet, if I were you I’d leave us all alone here. You’re aiming to get yourself stabbed,” he looked her up and down, “or worse, dressed the way you are.”
Pearl took a step back, looking rather taken aback, while Mumbo remained, crossing his arms in an unaffected manner.
Grian prickled in anger, but kept still. No force until necessary.
"We don't have anything for ya mate, leave us be," the man continued with a grin, evidently pleased with the effect he'd had on Pearl, "No one knows what happened to that guy."
The other man had slumped back, presumably interested only in finishing the chorus fruit liquor.
"You don't know anything that might've attacked him?" Pearl pressed, "Anything he may have taken?"
"'No clue. It's just another death; why would we know anything?"
"Surely it makes sense to assume there's some sort of community here, no?"
"You're annoying me love," V drawled, stretching and sitting up, "I think you're the type I prefer not to talk," He lunged suddenly, swinging the bottle towards Pearl with unexpected precision.
She leapt back and he struck her shoulder just as Grian intercepted, shoving him back against the wall and holding his knife to the man's stubbled throat. With his other hand, he pressed a flintlock to his companion's stomach. The dark-haired man flicked his eyes towards him angrily, but he was smart enough to keep his temper.
"They did ask politely," Grian said, pressing his knife harder, "Tell us whatever you have to say and you can get back to stealing enough money for a day's worth of liquor."
V scowled, but pressed his lips together tightly in defiance.
Grian glared towards the other man, hoping to get his message across, but he stayed silent too.
Grian huffed out a breath, standing. Mumbo shot him a look of confusion as Pearl rolled her shoulder.
The dark-haired man grinned as his friend chuckled. Then Grian smoothly aimed his gun and shot the recumbent man in the thigh. A thrill rushed through him as the man screeched, curling into himself and holding tight to his wound. The other moved to help, but pricked his neck on the knife Grian had placed there.
"You can help him if you want," Grian said coldly, "All we'd like is to know anything you can tell us."
He only scoffed, "I don't even know the guy, mate."
Grian shrugged, "It's all the same to me. If you're not happy with that, then you can tell us or I'll drive a knife through your throat and you can drown on your own blood," He pressed further, sinking the blade in until blood began to blossom.
Panic finally flashed in the man's eyes, and his words spilled out easily.
"I- Ok mate, I knew him. We were friends. He introduced me to this new substance. He got it from some guy here in the Pigeonhole - Bones, he called him, but that's just a nickname, obviously. He looks weird; has some black markings on his skin. Muscular; black hair and blue eyes, too. I don't know what it is, we just call it black blood. just looks like tar - ya slit your skin a little and smooth the stuff over, and it absorbs. That's as much as I know."
"That'll do," Mumbo said coolly, ending the tirade.
But Grian hadn't been listening closely. His eyes were entranced with the blood leaking from his knifepoint, the iron scent that had pervaded the area. Adrenaline seemed to be rushing through his bloodstream and he was vaguely aware he was salivating as his heart sped into a staccato. He hadn't let up on the slight pressure, and the man whimpered. He tightened his grip on the handle. Violent energy seemed to be building in him, he wanted to drive the knife clear through, to claw open the man's ribcage, to -
"Grian?" Mumbo voiced in concern.
"Get this crazy fucker off me!" The man yelped, trying to press himself further against the wall.
Grian lurched backwards, stumbling to a standing position. He rubbed a hand along his wrist, gripping tightly til his claws pierced through his gloves and into his skin.
"Sorry," He muttered, hoping his horror didn't seep into his tone, "Got distracted."
"You crazy bastard," The man muttered, rubbing his neck.
"We appreciate it," Mumbo told him simply, eyes on Grian.
They made their way back through the park, Mumbo and Pearl chatting in excited, low tones about what they'd learned, but Grian couldn't share in their mood. He trailed after them, sickened and frightened by how he'd felt in that moment - the way he did feel. He'd assumed he could handle it, handle roughing up some junkies - but the urge was still in him. It had hit him like a ravager and he'd almost lost control. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been that close to blood - human blood - that wasn't his job. Even when Tango had taunted him at the Eighth Circle... He snaked a hand up his sleeve and sank his claws into his forearm, drawing blood in his attempt to stabilise himself.
They reached home after what felt like double the time it'd taken to get there.
"Oi G, want to pop into the Foxhole?" Mumbo called cheerfully.
Grian summoned a quick grin, "I'll skip it tonight mate, I've gotta get to sleep tonight,"
Mumbo looked at him searchingly for a slight moment, then smiled warmly, "I'll be back in an hour or two then. We'll take a shot for you."
Grian bid the two goodbye as he headed indoors. Thank god for Mumbo. He wearily discarded his weapons, eyeing the bloodied knife for a long moment before cleaning it off. He ignored the scratches on his arm and went to bed, curling into himself hopelessly. He should've been more careful; shouldn't have let himself get so easily ensnared in that situation. It was too dangerous - He was too dangerous. He just had to be more careful, keep far away from these things.
He fell asleep swarmed with thoughts of blood, tragedy and self destruction.
Arbitrary Darkness (HC Monster Hunter AU) Part VIII
A/N: Hi again! Back with another chapter of Arbitrary Darkness, in which Grian gets to do crimes.
~ Rb if you enjoy! <3 ~
Part VII - AO3 - Masterlist
Grian flipped habitually through the post, sorting subconsciously through the overimaginative zealots and genuinely concerned civilians that made up his correspondences.
He vaguely reminisced about the night previous ... he couldn't help but remember Pearl, the way they'd chatted flirtily ... the way that night could've gone had Mumbo not interrupted. Bloody cockbl- ok, fine. Maybe he should have been more careful not to hit on his friends coworker. No doubt he'd have another chance to meet her - after all, she was still working with Mumbo. If he was entirely honest though, he'd probably have had an easier time going home with Scott - although that fling would certainly end with him being torn apart at the bottom of the canal. He looked up as Mumbo walked in, tying his tie with his usual precision.
"Mind making a pot of tea?" He asked by way of a greeting.
"Morning to you too," Mumbo grumbled, heading to the kitchen.
Grian, skimming a letter, didn't respond. A close neighbor ... change in behaviour ... his skin is sallow now, his eyes look empty and haunted, and his clothes always seem to be stained with slimy green. He's been odd, reclusive ... wouldn't have interfered, but I caught a glimpse of him wandering home the other night ... soaking wet and had blood all down his front but didn't look hurt... Next day I saw the news in the paper about that man who fell in, and you'll have known the state they found his body in ... I hope it isn't true ... Grian folded the letter thoughtfully. He'd never seen a drowned in such an early stage - that had to be the answer. He leant an arm on the chair arm, cupping his chin.
There wasn't any cure. The Hermiton Canal was swarming with drowned - suicides, accidents, even murders - they didn't have the coordination to climb up the few ledges out, but they were numerous enough that there was an open bounty for civilians who disposed of them from the bank. It wasn’t definite that the man in the paper was directly related - gruesome deaths weren’t uncommon in New Hermiton - but the rest added up plenty. Chances were the poor bastard had fallen in for some reason.
He sighed, standing and accepting a cup of tea from Mumbo.
"Why the drama?" Mumbo inquired.
"Got to go kill a dead man today," Grian replied easily.
"Typical Monday then eh? Pearl and I are on a similar mission. Gonna go have a chat with some scumbags about our other dead man."
Grian eyed him severely, "Be careful mate, take a weapon. No offense, but you give off something of an easy-target aura."
Mumbo sputtered on his tea in indignation, dripping on his neat tie. "I give off nothing of the sort! Now look what you've done."
"You'll live," Grian snickered, leaving for his own room to get ready as Mumbo looked reproachfully down at his tie.
-
Grian leant against the back wall of apartment 183 on Capercaille Drive, subtly looking through a small rear window. A man lay slumped on a dishevelled bed, not having bothered to put the blankets over himself. The small room was lit only by the weak light that slipped between a tiny crack in the drawn curtains through which Grian had been spying.
As he watched, the man awoke, starting slightly. He rolled over and stood limply, moving as though his limbs were someone else's, leaden and unwieldy. He seemed to already be struggling with motor function, fumbling lamely with a matchbox as he attempted to light an oil lamp, but the task evidently lost his attention. He shuffled out of the room, and as the light passed over him, Grian noted his ragged clothing, stained with dark brown and green. Definitely blood, and definitely algae. He must be past changing clothes.
Grian easily made his assessment. He tested the window gently, trying not to make a noise. Unlocked. Makes sense. Opening it carefully, he slipped in, palming his netherite hunting blade. He wore long, thick leather gloves when dealing with this type - more developed zombies, or drowned that had actually drowned in the water, had a dangerous (bloody painful) bite and oftentimes, long, dirty fingernails that'd give you a nasty infection if they broke skin.
He trod lightly, trying not to elicit a creak from his heavy boots on the floorboards, following the creature's tracks to the doorway. He passed an open door to the bathroom, where a tub of stagnant, dirty water sat undrained. Down a short hall was the kitchen, where he found the man standing at a counter. The room was deteriorating steadily, trash and moulding food piled haphazardly, cupboards open and several things knocked over. He seemed like he was attempting to make tea, spooning loose leaves into a mug and pouring what looked like spoilt milk directly into a kettle on the stove. Grian couldn't help his curiosity - he'd never had a chance to examine a drowned in this stage. It was as though he still was following old human habits, a burnt instruction book in his head that he felt the need to complete, but without any purpose. A pang of sympathy hit him. It was tragic, really, but it would only get worse as his brain and body continued to deteriorate.
The man knocked his milk bottle over, and it smashed on the floor, splashing lumpy milk everywhere. The man stared at it, seemingly confused. He looked around the room, as though for someone to blame, and his gaze landed on Grian.
He didn't appear shocked to see a strange man standing in his house, and stared at Grian - the whites of his eyes had a bluish hue, while the irises and pupils had taken a greyish cast. His fair hair was uncombed, and his skin looked spongy and pale, like it'd been submerged in water for days.
"Hello," He mumbled at last.
"Hi," Grian replied, guardedly. The man shifted towards him slightly, pale eyes unblinking and fixed on Grian.
"What can I do for you today Sir?" The man spouted mechanically, catching Grian off guard. Old habits, perhaps? Wonder if he works in a shop of some sort.
"Well, I suppose it's more what I can do for you," Grian responded graciously. The man didn't seem to hear him though. He continued to stare, then shuffled closer. Grian tensed as the man closed the distance, curling his hand firmly around the blade.
The man ran his tongue along his teeth. That stare was really starting to unnerve Grian, and he shifted his stance. The man made a move suddenly, baring his teeth and making an uncoordinated lunge towards him.
Grian stepped easily out of the way, wrapping an arm around the unbalanced man's neck. He thrashed like a fish on the deck of a ship, then focused his gaze on Grian's glove and sank his teeth in. Grian hissed at the pressure and drove his knife into the man's stomach, angling up past his ribcage before letting him fall to the ground. The man let out a strangled cry - he must still have some concept of pain.
By the time Grian had stepped to the side, massaging his aching forearm, The man was still again, eyes vaguely pained as he batted drunkenly at the profusely bleeding wound in his belly, the knife still lodged up to the hilt. He seemed to have reverted to his previous state of lost confusion. Grian crouched near him, pulling his blade out with a jerk.
The man looked at him blankly as he bled, losing the little that drove him quickly. "Sorry ... couldn't ..... help ... today," He mumbled regretfully.
Grian stroked the man's hair gently, not sure where the gesture came from. "I'm sorry mate," He drove his blade through the man's skull and heard the thud as the tip hit the floor. The man stopped moving immediately.
There wasn't any real sense of doing good as Grian shut the apartment door behind him. He sheathed his blade as he began the walk home, pondering the tragic man. It felt more like killing a person than a monster, even though he knew what the man had done and would do. That's the job though, isn't it? Damage control. At least he hadn't had to check if the drowned was affiliated with the Eighth Circle.
He dropped a form by the police station as he passed, letting them know he'd disposed of his quarry. He couldn't help his growing discomfort each time he went in there. It seemed as though his experience at the Eighth Circle had brought back a trace of his old insecurities about being found out, an idea that everyone could see what he really was. What they thought he was. You think you’re like them, then go - take off your cloak and gloves and wait for their gratitude ... see how different they think you are. Tango's words echoed in his head as they did often these days. It was stupid really, to let such a cretin affect his mentality in any way.
When he returned home, he felt more drained than usual. He wrote a quick letter back to the informant who'd inquired about the drowned before setting about supper - somehow he felt Mumbo would appreciate it.
Mumbo returned a few hours later, looking little better than Grian.
"How'd it go?” He motioned to the stove, “I made soup.”
Mumbo scowled, removing his tie with a jerk and serving himself, "How did trying to have a civil conversation with nutters go? I won't be having them round for supper anytime soon."
Grian laughed, "You'd love Joel."
Mumbo shook his head in annoyance, stirring his soup. “Couldn’t get anywhere with them. They won’t say a word of sense to anyone who looks authoritative. Guess they assumed we were cops.”
Grian raised an eyebrow, unsurprised. “Makes sense. You’re not all that used to dealing with that sort. You want some muscle?”
Mumbo surveyed him doubtfully, “You’re not exactly what I’d call muscle,”
“I’m more intimidating than you. Not to mention threatening and killing is my job, which I’ll remind you I’m excellent at.”
Mumbo cracked a smile, talking through a mouthful of soup. “You want in then? We’d be glad for the help.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full," Grian chastised petulantly, "-and yes."
-
Grian set off with Mumbo and Pearl in the early evening a few days later. They passed easily through the more populous parts of New Hermiton easily before the streets started to shrink, becoming far less crowded and far more dingy. Broken glass, syringes and other litter were strewn about here, stained housefronts hemming the tiny streets - the government didn’t seem interested in cleaning up this part of the city. Hogshyde Park loomed before them at last - a sparsely wooded section that claimed to have once been a well-groomed park. The only evidence of the body was framed in forgone police tape, already tattered and abandoned.
“Where’d you two go yesterday?” Grian asked, looking around warily.
“The Pigeonhole,” Pearl supplied, “That knot of little alleys at the eastern end of the park.”
They headed there, looking as casual as possible. Grian had recommended the two forgo their professional attire, which thankfully, they’d heeded. They passed by several people who were asleep or otherwise unaccounted for before coming across two men sitting against the wall, nursing a lilac-hued bottle between them. Mumbo nudged Grian subtly, breathing ‘these two,’ in his ear.
The pair looked up as they approached, meeting Grian’s eyes with the predatory gaze he was used to.
“Not you lot again,” growled one, a dark-haired man with pale blue eyes and a rumpled dress shirt.
“Us two again,” Mumbo agreed cheerfully, “We were wondering if you happened to have remembered anything of note about that dead fella who turned up the other day.”
Grian kept his arms nonchalantly crossed over his chest, knowing his capelet would rise just enough to show the bottom of his holsters. His netherite hunting blade gave him the usual sense of security, nestled in his palm like a beloved pet.
The man retained his casual demeanor, even as his eyes flicked to Grian's weapons.
“Can’t say I do remember anything,” he said easily, “what about you, V?”
The other, a man with a sharply featured face and a wifebeater, shook his head wordlessly, commandeering the bottle from his friend.
“That chorus fruit liquor?” Grian chimed in curiously.
The two looked slightly surprised. “Yep,” V agreed.
Evidently there wasn’t much hope in playing the friend game.
“You mentioned someone last time we spoke, if you remember,” Pearl intoned, “Tacitly, sure.”
The dark-haired man eyed Pearl harshly, “Look sweet, if I were you I’d leave us all alone here. You’re aiming to get yourself stabbed,” he looked her up and down, “or worse, dressed the way you are.”
Pearl took a step back, looking rather taken aback, while Mumbo remained, crossing his arms in an unaffected manner.
Grian prickled in anger, but kept still. No force until necessary.
"We don't have anything for ya mate, leave us be," the man continued with a grin, evidently pleased with the effect he'd had on Pearl, "No one knows what happened to that guy."
The other man had slumped back, presumably interested only in finishing the chorus fruit liquor.
"You don't know anything that might've attacked him?" Pearl pressed, "Anything he may have taken?"
"'No clue. It's just another death; why would we know anything?"
"Surely it makes sense to assume there's some sort of community here, no?"
"You're annoying me love," V drawled, stretching and sitting up, "I think you're the type I prefer not to talk," He lunged suddenly, swinging the bottle towards Pearl with unexpected precision.
She leapt back and he struck her shoulder just as Grian intercepted, shoving him back against the wall and holding his knife to the man's stubbled throat. With his other hand, he pressed a flintlock to his companion's stomach. The dark-haired man flicked his eyes towards him angrily, but he was smart enough to keep his temper.
"They did ask politely," Grian said, pressing his knife harder, "Tell us whatever you have to say and you can get back to stealing enough money for a day's worth of liquor."
V scowled, but pressed his lips together tightly in defiance.
Grian glared towards the other man, hoping to get his message across, but he stayed silent too.
Grian huffed out a breath, standing. Mumbo shot him a look of confusion as Pearl rolled her shoulder.
The dark-haired man grinned as his friend chuckled. Then Grian smoothly aimed his gun and shot the recumbent man in the thigh. A thrill rushed through him as the man screeched, curling into himself and holding tight to his wound. The other moved to help, but pricked his neck on the knife Grian had placed there.
"You can help him if you want," Grian said coldly, "All we'd like is to know anything you can tell us."
He only scoffed, "I don't even know the guy, mate."
Grian shrugged, "It's all the same to me. If you're not happy with that, then you can tell us or I'll drive a knife through your throat and you can drown on your own blood," He pressed further, sinking the blade in until blood began to blossom.
Panic finally flashed in the man's eyes, and his words spilled out easily.
"I- Ok mate, I knew him. We were friends. He introduced me to this new substance. He got it from some guy here in the Pigeonhole - Bones, he called him, but that's just a nickname, obviously. He looks weird; has some black markings on his skin. Muscular; black hair and blue eyes, too. I don't know what it is, we just call it black blood. just looks like tar - ya slit your skin a little and smooth the stuff over, and it absorbs. That's as much as I know."
"That'll do," Mumbo said coolly, ending the tirade.
But Grian hadn't been listening closely. His eyes were entranced with the blood leaking from his knifepoint, the iron scent that had pervaded the area. Adrenaline seemed to be rushing through his bloodstream and he was vaguely aware he was salivating as his heart sped into a staccato. He hadn't let up on the slight pressure, and the man whimpered. He tightened his grip on the handle. Violent energy seemed to be building in him, he wanted to drive the knife clear through, to claw open the man's ribcage, to -
"Grian?" Mumbo voiced in concern.
"Get this crazy fucker off me!" The man yelped, trying to press himself further against the wall.
Grian lurched backwards, stumbling to a standing position. He rubbed a hand along his wrist, gripping tightly til his claws pierced through his gloves and into his skin.
"Sorry," He muttered, hoping his horror didn't seep into his tone, "Got distracted."
"You crazy bastard," The man muttered, rubbing his neck.
"We appreciate it," Mumbo told him simply, eyes on Grian.
They made their way back through the park, Mumbo and Pearl chatting in excited, low tones about what they'd learned, but Grian couldn't share in their mood. He trailed after them, sickened and frightened by how he'd felt in that moment - the way he did feel. He'd assumed he could handle it, handle roughing up some junkies - but the urge was still in him. It had hit him like a ravager and he'd almost lost control. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been that close to blood - human blood - that wasn't his job. Even when Tango had taunted him at the Eighth Circle... He snaked a hand up his sleeve and sank his claws into his forearm, drawing blood in his attempt to stabilise himself.
They reached home after what felt like double the time it'd taken to get there.
"Oi G, want to pop into the Foxhole?" Mumbo called cheerfully.
Grian summoned a quick grin, "I'll skip it tonight mate, I've gotta get to sleep tonight,"
Mumbo looked at him searchingly for a slight moment, then smiled warmly, "I'll be back in an hour or two then. We'll take a shot for you."
Grian bid the two goodbye as he headed indoors. Thank god for Mumbo. He wearily discarded his weapons, eyeing the bloodied knife for a long moment before cleaning it off. He ignored the scratches on his arm and went to bed, curling into himself hopelessly. He should've been more careful; shouldn't have let himself get so easily ensnared in that situation. It was too dangerous - He was too dangerous. He just had to be more careful, keep far away from these things.
He fell asleep swarmed with thoughts of blood, tragedy and self destruction.
Arbitrary Darkness (HC Monster Hunter AU) Part VII
A/N ~ Hiya all! Been working on this chapter for a little while. I do about a thousand edits of each draft. Anyway, here's some vaguely spicy content and Scott being an asshole for you :D
~ reblog if ya enjoy! <3 ~
Part VI - AO3
Grian and Mumbo sat in a booth in the Hermiton Arms waiting for Pearl, whom Mumbo had been so good as to introduce only by name. Grian had initially been surprised when they passed by The Foxhole, the little pub he and Mumbo usually frequented, but Mumbo insisted that it was in bad taste to bring a work friend to such a scrappy place. Grian was of the mind that the Hermiton Arms was far too posh - more of a cocktail lounge than their usual pub-quiz-live-music-house-beer haunt, but acquiesced to the change of scenery without too much whining.
“Shall we wait for Pearl or get a drink?” Mumbo asked, evidently rather lost in the etiquette of it all.
“Suit yourself, but as third wheel I’m going to get a drink,” Grian replied rather petulantly.
Mumbo rolled his eyes and sat back as Grian made his way to the bar. It was quite full, though the patrons here had a more delicate, quiet manner to them than those of The Foxhole. Shame, really. Grian always rather enjoyed watching a good bar tussle. Dark mahogany paneled the walls and furniture, dimly lit by oil lamps and candles. Cigarette smoke curled lazily in the air with dim chatter. Very posh indeed - though perhaps a little too reminiscent of the Eighth Circle.
He became aware that the bartender had asked what he wanted - “Er, Negroni please,”
The bartender nodded and moved into swift, practiced action.
“Negroni, eh? You didn’t strike me as the type.”
The voice was lightly teasing, and Grian turned to see a woman leaning on the bar next to him, touselled chestnut hair curling around her smiling face. She wore a simple open shirt and skirt and watched him with inviting grey-blue eyes, ink stained fingertips tapping distractedly on the counter. Undoubtedly very pretty.
“That’s your opener at the bar? Insulting people’s drink choice?” Grian replied amusedly.
“Well, I don’t really see the point of empty flattery. You can make a lotta assumptions about people based on their drink choice.”
She spoke in a soft Australian accent. The type of voice and temperament that invites friendship openly, and Grian appreciated it.
Grian raised an eyebrow. “Right. And what does a Negroni say about me?”
“Usually signifies a manly type with a touch of class. Less brusque than an old fashioned, less girly than a whisky sour, only a tiny bit pretentious.”
The bartender presented his drink just then.
“So, you think I’m manly huh?” Grian replied teasingly, “I’ll take it, but unfortunately for you it just means I like marmalade,” Grian retorted smoothly, sipping his drink. It was a good Negroni.
“Marmalade?” She laughed, “You’re off your rocker! Anyway, I did say you didn’t look like the type didn’t I?”
“I’ll have you know I’ve manned with the manliest of men,” Grian replied with mock grandiosity.
Pearl laughed again, “Not gonna touch that one.”
“So, can I buy you a manly drink with a touch of class?”
“Never. If you’re buying though …” she tipped her head thoughtfully, “French 75.”
“Girly drink,” Grian muttered slyly as the bartender went off again.
Before Pearl had a chance to reply, Mumbo appeared.
“Thought you’d gotten lost mate! See you’ve found Pearl though,”
Grian coughed on his drink rather indelicately. “I - what?”
Pearl blushed faintly, giving Mumbo a little wave, “We hadn’t got to names yet actually,” she laughed, “You’re Grian then eh? I shoulda known!”
Grian sighed with a slightly embarrassed smile, offering his hand. “Yep, monster hunter extraordinaire. Told you, manliest of men.”
The bartender appeared again with Pearl’s drink.
“5 diamonds for them two then,” he grinned.
Grian paid with a quick, “Cheers mate.”
“What, I don’t get a free drink?” Mumbo mocked.
“Shut it,” Grian growled.
They stayed at the bar while Mumbo ordered and returned as a trio to their table, settling down in the plush seats.
“It is nice here Mumbo, I’ll give you that,” Grian conceded.
“Right? Papa K took me here once, early on. Thought I was about to get fired, turns out it was a promotion!”
“Naw, he’s a softie,” Pearl said, “I reckon he’d let anyone stay on if he liked chatting to em. Hard to be intimidated by a guy who calls you ‘sweet-face’.”
“I’ll have you know I can be intimidated by anyone,” Mumbo replied sternly.
“That’s a point on your resume, is it?”
“Right between ‘am nice’ and ‘write good’.”
Grian snorted. “So, what’s the story you two are working on? With creds like that, I mean.”
“All business eh? That’s a change,” Pearl winked at him and he felt his cheeks warm slightly as he grinned sheepishly.
“Article on the dead guy they found in Hogshyde Park,"
"What happened to him?" Grian asked warily.
"Not sure really," Pearl replied, "We've been looking into it - funny thing is, cops don't think it was a monster - not that they have much idea - but usually the body would be a bit more ripped up, half-eaten, you know?"
"We saw the body," Mumbo added, "looks like a drug overdose if anything. Maybe he had a weird reaction or something, because it doesn't really look like the usual. His veins were almost black, and the mortician who autopsied him said his blood had basically turned to ash.”
Grian made a face. “Ew.”
“Right?” Pearl looked rather delighted by the whole thing. “We’re planning on doing a little poking around, see if anyone has any useful details. Could make for a proper interesting story.”
“Ought to ask some of the more unsavory group that hangs around there,” Mumbo pondered.
“You reckon they’ll talk to us?”
Grian zoned out of the conversation as it started involving a litany of names he didn’t know, entertaining himself by examining the other bar patrons vaguely. His gaze was drawn suddenly to a man with unmistakable aquamarine hair, a pale, sharp face he’d hoped not to see again.
It had to be him though. Scott sat at the end of the bar, in smiling conversation with a girl whose back was to Grian. He was dressed differently tonight - an elegant, tailed waistcoat of navy blue, draped over a pale shirt that lay open, lazily revealing a v of pale chest.
What the hell is he doing here? Who is that? Perhaps she was a monster of some sort too, but Grian had a nasty suspicion she wasn’t. As he watched, Scott slid a suggestive hand along her thigh. He didn’t like the look of it one bit. Temptation to intervene crept under his skin, but … it was too much of a risk to make a scene. He’d keep an eye on him, hopefully not be noticed. If -
“Grian?”
Mumbo’s voice took his gaze back - it seemed he’d missed a cue.
“Sorry, what?”
“Trying to find someone to go home with tonight?” Mumbo teased.
“Hardly,” Grian retorted. Not that I'd be opposed ... if he weren't a bloodthirsty murderer. That drink was definitely hitting.
Mumbo laughed, “Pearl asked if you knew any monster with venom that'd do that."
Grian thought carefully, shaking his head slowly. "No, doesn't ring a bell. Wonder if it’s a hybrid or infection we don’t know about.”
He wondered silently to himself if he ought to ask Joel. He’d know more than anyone about the shady underbelly of the city, but somehow he didn’t think Joel would want to help him with anything.
“I reckon I could ask about, see if I can glean any useful info,” Grian ventured.
“That’d be great. Shame about Tango, really. He’d have had some insight I bet.”
“Tango?” Pearl asked.
Mumbo met Grian’s stern gaze. “Ex-business partner of Grian’s.”
“I wouldn’t worry," Grian sighed heavily, "He wouldn’t have told me anything. We weren’t exactly confidants.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Grian saw Scott stand, offering an inviting hand to his companion. The two began to make their way towards the door, and Grian made a split decision, downing the rest of his drink.
“Going for another drink,” he muttered, pushing up from the table to follow.
The night air was cool and fresh, in stark contrast to the warm, smoky air of the Hermiton Arms. He lit a cigarette as he leant on the doorway, taking a long drag and letting his quarry get a fair distance in front of him before following quietly.
They walked along the canal, brightly lit by lanterns and dotted with cafes and bars, patrons enjoying the evening air and chatting. Their quiet conversation was too muted for Grian to hear, skulking along a good 20 feet behind. He couldn't help but feel like the monster in this situation, stalking after them in the shadows like a cat. They walked for about five minutes, reaching a slightly darker, quieter part of the road, and the pair sat on the canal's edge. The moonlight glinted silver on the water, soft chatter wended its way down the breeze, and a nightingale was singing softly somewhere.
Quite the romantic, aren’t you?
He watched, fairly close behind them but enveloped in the shadow of the buildings, as they talked and laughed like any other young couple. Before long though, Scott cast a surreptitious glance around, evidently missing Grian in the shadowed doorway. He returned his attention to the girl, tenderly brushing her hair aside, and she looked up and him with a smile as he bent his head to meet his lips with hers, traveling a hand down her back to brace securely on her waist.
Grian predicted the next 30 seconds quickly and made his decision, taking another deep drag before stepping out.
“Ma’am?”
He made as though he’d just reached them, and she looked up, blushing furiously.
“Sorry to interrupt,” He started casually, tapping ash from his cigarette, “only I work at the Hermiton Arms - a bartender said you left your wallet at the bar.”
Please don’t tell me he bought all your drinks. And please don’t check.
Thankfully, it appeared she was too flustered (and tipsy, probably) to give it much thought, and she stood quickly.
“Did I? I’m sorry! Thanks for letting me know.”
Scott watched the encounter intently, standing, and Grian turned his back on him.
Stay away from him. Trust me, he mouthed to her inconspicuously.
It appeared she’d succumbed to his illusion of authority, and her face went from quizzical to a look of horror that glanced her face only briefly, and she nodded imperceptibly.
Thank you, Grian thought.
“I’d better be off then, I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly to Scott.
“No worries,” he replied in that melodious, easy tone, “I expect I rather distracted you.”
She blushed again, turning to walk down the street in the direction of the Hermiton Arms, glancing back nervously.
Now I’m the one alone with the psycho monster. Just what I wanted.
“The benevolent hero steps in again,” Scott commented idly, strolling towards Grian, who stepped back towards the building walls behind them, “Surely even monsters have a right to a quiet date. If you wanted a three-way, you only had to ask.”
“I think we both know that’s not what you had in mind,” Grian replied sharply, “and I prefer my threeways not to end with two of us being ripped apart at the bottom of a canal.”
Scott shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by Grian spoiling his plans, “don’t knock it til you try it.”
“I don’t think I will, thanks,” Grian replied cuttingly, “Don’t insult my intelligence by trying this game with me.”
A smile played on Scott’s pale face, and he moved directly in front of Grian, leaning one forearm against the bricks and caging Grian slightly. In these quarters, Grian could smell the floral gin on his breath, the slight scent of freshwater.
"Don't you like me?" He murmured, brushing a thumb along Grian's cheek and travelling his fingertips salaciously down his neck and chest. Grian's breath hitched unwittingly, and he was annoyed at the way his heart quickened. That damned drink.
He squirmed out of the contact, scowling. "I don't think you need me to tell you what I think of you."
The moonlight glittered on Scott's cyan hair in an ethereal way as he gazed down at Grian piercingly from beneath spiked lashes, smiling slightly. God, he was beautiful. No human could look like that. He was consoled only by the hand resting on the handle of his knife, concealed behind him in his waistband. With the other, he calmly continued with his cigarette.
“You know,” Scott breathed conspiratorially in his ear, “You could always join in on the ripping apart bit of my nights out.”
Grian scowled and shoved him away, hard, burning him with the cigarette end. Scott stumbled slightly and didn’t approach again, only cocking his head and surveying Grian sardonically.
“Thanks for the invite,“ Grian spat, “But keep your bloodthirsty exploits to yourself. I'll be there as much as I can to spoil your night."
"You really haven't got it yet," Scott mused gently, "We're on the same side. If you keep forcing yourself to be this ... farce, you'll only become an obscenity to all sides."
Grian bristled, striding towards Scott menacingly. "How many times do I have to say," he snarled, "I'm not like you. I've never -- I'd die before becoming anything like you."
He hated how the words stuck in his throat. Even here, even now, his tongue betrayed him.
“Why don’t you kill me then?” Scott asked sweetly, not waiting for a reply, “Oh, right, I remember.”
With that last jab, he turned, strolling away as though they’d just said a heartfelt goodbye, and called over his shoulder, “there’ll always be more bloodthirsty exploits if you want to have some fun!”
Grian watched Scott's graceful silhouette recede, hand curled into a fist around his knife handle. He threw his cigarette end to the ground, spinning around to return to the bar.
"Get lost?" Mumbo asked cheerfully when he returned, frowning when he saw Grian's face, "What happened?"
"Doesn't matter," Grian sighed, "I'm gonna get that drink I promised myself. Want anything?"
"Round of Montenegro?" Mumbo suggested, looking to Pearl.
"Go on then," She acquiesced cheerfully.
Grian grinned and navigated his way through the crowd to the bar, leaning his back to the wood after ordering.
The scene and his position reminded me of his night at The Eighth Circle. The last time he'd been in a place like this, he'd been offered a concoction of blood and liquor.
Can't they just drink a Manhattan like the rest of us?
...Us. The word was steadily becoming more uncomfortable for him. He hated letting them affect his mentality in this way. Blessedly, the bartender arrived then.
"A vodka, neat, too. Thanks."
The bartender acquiesced as he paid and threw back the shot, giving his head a slight shake. Enough of all that, let's have a normal night.
When he brought the tray of drinks back, Mumbo and Pearl gave a little cheer.
"Man, no one's ever that excited to see me unless I have a tray of alcohol," Grian grinned.
"Well, you're a bit broody. Puts people off I reckon," Mumbo contributed helpfully, taking his glass of Montenegro delicately.
"Thanks, I can always count on you to ease my sorrows."
"You're welcome. Cheers then, to friendship and drinks and business. And all three at once."
"You're a natural wordsmith," Pearl laughed, raising her glass to clink it to the others as they drank.
Arbitrary Darkness (HC Monster Hunter AU) Part VII
A/N ~ Hiya all! Been working on this chapter for a little while. I do about a thousand edits of each draft. Anyway, here's some vaguely spicy content and Scott being an asshole for you :D
~ reblog if ya enjoy! <3 ~
Part VI - AO3
Grian and Mumbo sat in a booth in the Hermiton Arms waiting for Pearl, whom Mumbo had been so good as to introduce only by name. Grian had initially been surprised when they passed by The Foxhole, the little pub he and Mumbo usually frequented, but Mumbo insisted that it was in bad taste to bring a work friend to such a scrappy place. Grian was of the mind that the Hermiton Arms was far too posh - more of a cocktail lounge than their usual pub-quiz-live-music-house-beer haunt, but acquiesced to the change of scenery without too much whining.
“Shall we wait for Pearl or get a drink?” Mumbo asked, evidently rather lost in the etiquette of it all.
“Suit yourself, but as third wheel I’m going to get a drink,” Grian replied rather petulantly.
Mumbo rolled his eyes and sat back as Grian made his way to the bar. It was quite full, though the patrons here had a more delicate, quiet manner to them than those of The Foxhole. Shame, really. Grian always rather enjoyed watching a good bar tussle. Dark mahogany paneled the walls and furniture, dimly lit by oil lamps and candles. Cigarette smoke curled lazily in the air with dim chatter. Very posh indeed - though perhaps a little too reminiscent of the Eighth Circle.
He became aware that the bartender had asked what he wanted - “Er, Negroni please,”
The bartender nodded and moved into swift, practiced action.
“Negroni, eh? You didn’t strike me as the type.”
The voice was lightly teasing, and Grian turned to see a woman leaning on the bar next to him, touselled chestnut hair curling around her smiling face. She wore a simple open shirt and skirt and watched him with inviting grey-blue eyes, ink stained fingertips tapping distractedly on the counter. Undoubtedly very pretty.
“That’s your opener at the bar? Insulting people’s drink choice?” Grian replied amusedly.
“Well, I don’t really see the point of empty flattery. You can make a lotta assumptions about people based on their drink choice.”
She spoke in a soft Australian accent. The type of voice and temperament that invites friendship openly, and Grian appreciated it.
Grian raised an eyebrow. “Right. And what does a Negroni say about me?”
“Usually signifies a manly type with a touch of class. Less brusque than an old fashioned, less girly than a whisky sour, only a tiny bit pretentious.”
The bartender presented his drink just then.
“So, you think I’m manly huh?” Grian replied teasingly, “I’ll take it, but unfortunately for you it just means I like marmalade,” Grian retorted smoothly, sipping his drink. It was a good Negroni.
“Marmalade?” She laughed, “You’re off your rocker! Anyway, I did say you didn’t look like the type didn’t I?”
“I’ll have you know I’ve manned with the manliest of men,” Grian replied with mock grandiosity.
Pearl laughed again, “Not gonna touch that one.”
“So, can I buy you a manly drink with a touch of class?”
“Never. If you’re buying though …” she tipped her head thoughtfully, “French 75.”
“Girly drink,” Grian muttered slyly as the bartender went off again.
Before Pearl had a chance to reply, Mumbo appeared.
“Thought you’d gotten lost mate! See you’ve found Pearl though,”
Grian coughed on his drink rather indelicately. “I - what?”
Pearl blushed faintly, giving Mumbo a little wave, “We hadn’t got to names yet actually,” she laughed, “You’re Grian then eh? I shoulda known!”
Grian sighed with a slightly embarrassed smile, offering his hand. “Yep, monster hunter extraordinaire. Told you, manliest of men.”
The bartender appeared again with Pearl’s drink.
“5 diamonds for them two then,” he grinned.
Grian paid with a quick, “Cheers mate.”
“What, I don’t get a free drink?” Mumbo mocked.
“Shut it,” Grian growled.
They stayed at the bar while Mumbo ordered and returned as a trio to their table, settling down in the plush seats.
“It is nice here Mumbo, I’ll give you that,” Grian conceded.
“Right? Papa K took me here once, early on. Thought I was about to get fired, turns out it was a promotion!”
“Naw, he’s a softie,” Pearl said, “I reckon he’d let anyone stay on if he liked chatting to em. Hard to be intimidated by a guy who calls you ‘sweet-face’.”
“I’ll have you know I can be intimidated by anyone,” Mumbo replied sternly.
“That’s a point on your resume, is it?”
“Right between ‘am nice’ and ‘write good’.”
Grian snorted. “So, what’s the story you two are working on? With creds like that, I mean.”
“All business eh? That’s a change,” Pearl winked at him and he felt his cheeks warm slightly as he grinned sheepishly.
“Article on the dead guy they found in Hogshyde Park,"
"What happened to him?" Grian asked warily.
"Not sure really," Pearl replied, "We've been looking into it - funny thing is, cops don't think it was a monster - not that they have much idea - but usually the body would be a bit more ripped up, half-eaten, you know?"
"We saw the body," Mumbo added, "looks like a drug overdose if anything. Maybe he had a weird reaction or something, because it doesn't really look like the usual. His veins were almost black, and the mortician who autopsied him said his blood had basically turned to ash.”
Grian made a face. “Ew.”
“Right?” Pearl looked rather delighted by the whole thing. “We’re planning on doing a little poking around, see if anyone has any useful details. Could make for a proper interesting story.”
“Ought to ask some of the more unsavory group that hangs around there,” Mumbo pondered.
“You reckon they’ll talk to us?”
Grian zoned out of the conversation as it started involving a litany of names he didn’t know, entertaining himself by examining the other bar patrons vaguely. His gaze was drawn suddenly to a man with unmistakable aquamarine hair, a pale, sharp face he’d hoped not to see again.
It had to be him though. Scott sat at the end of the bar, in smiling conversation with a girl whose back was to Grian. He was dressed differently tonight - an elegant, tailed waistcoat of navy blue, draped over a pale shirt that lay open, lazily revealing a v of pale chest.
What the hell is he doing here? Who is that? Perhaps she was a monster of some sort too, but Grian had a nasty suspicion she wasn’t. As he watched, Scott slid a suggestive hand along her thigh. He didn’t like the look of it one bit. Temptation to intervene crept under his skin, but … it was too much of a risk to make a scene. He’d keep an eye on him, hopefully not be noticed. If -
“Grian?”
Mumbo’s voice took his gaze back - it seemed he’d missed a cue.
“Sorry, what?”
“Trying to find someone to go home with tonight?” Mumbo teased.
“Hardly,” Grian retorted. Not that I'd be opposed ... if he weren't a bloodthirsty murderer. That drink was definitely hitting.
Mumbo laughed, “Pearl asked if you knew any monster with venom that'd do that."
Grian thought carefully, shaking his head slowly. "No, doesn't ring a bell. Wonder if it’s a hybrid or infection we don’t know about.”
He wondered silently to himself if he ought to ask Joel. He’d know more than anyone about the shady underbelly of the city, but somehow he didn’t think Joel would want to help him with anything.
“I reckon I could ask about, see if I can glean any useful info,” Grian ventured.
“That’d be great. Shame about Tango, really. He’d have had some insight I bet.”
“Tango?” Pearl asked.
Mumbo met Grian’s stern gaze. “Ex-business partner of Grian’s.”
“I wouldn’t worry," Grian sighed heavily, "He wouldn’t have told me anything. We weren’t exactly confidants.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Grian saw Scott stand, offering an inviting hand to his companion. The two began to make their way towards the door, and Grian made a split decision, downing the rest of his drink.
“Going for another drink,” he muttered, pushing up from the table to follow.
The night air was cool and fresh, in stark contrast to the warm, smoky air of the Hermiton Arms. He lit a cigarette as he leant on the doorway, taking a long drag and letting his quarry get a fair distance in front of him before following quietly.
They walked along the canal, brightly lit by lanterns and dotted with cafes and bars, patrons enjoying the evening air and chatting. Their quiet conversation was too muted for Grian to hear, skulking along a good 20 feet behind. He couldn't help but feel like the monster in this situation, stalking after them in the shadows like a cat. They walked for about five minutes, reaching a slightly darker, quieter part of the road, and the pair sat on the canal's edge. The moonlight glinted silver on the water, soft chatter wended its way down the breeze, and a nightingale was singing softly somewhere.
Quite the romantic, aren’t you?
He watched, fairly close behind them but enveloped in the shadow of the buildings, as they talked and laughed like any other young couple. Before long though, Scott cast a surreptitious glance around, evidently missing Grian in the shadowed doorway. He returned his attention to the girl, tenderly brushing her hair aside, and she looked up and him with a smile as he bent his head to meet his lips with hers, traveling a hand down her back to brace securely on her waist.
Grian predicted the next 30 seconds quickly and made his decision, taking another deep drag before stepping out.
“Ma’am?”
He made as though he’d just reached them, and she looked up, blushing furiously.
“Sorry to interrupt,” He started casually, tapping ash from his cigarette, “only I work at the Hermiton Arms - a bartender said you left your wallet at the bar.”
Please don’t tell me he bought all your drinks. And please don’t check.
Thankfully, it appeared she was too flustered (and tipsy, probably) to give it much thought, and she stood quickly.
“Did I? I’m sorry! Thanks for letting me know.”
Scott watched the encounter intently, standing, and Grian turned his back on him.
Stay away from him. Trust me, he mouthed to her inconspicuously.
It appeared she’d succumbed to his illusion of authority, and her face went from quizzical to a look of horror that glanced her face only briefly, and she nodded imperceptibly.
Thank you, Grian thought.
“I’d better be off then, I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly to Scott.
“No worries,” he replied in that melodious, easy tone, “I expect I rather distracted you.”
She blushed again, turning to walk down the street in the direction of the Hermiton Arms, glancing back nervously.
Now I’m the one alone with the psycho monster. Just what I wanted.
“The benevolent hero steps in again,” Scott commented idly, strolling towards Grian, who stepped back towards the building walls behind them, “Surely even monsters have a right to a quiet date. If you wanted a three-way, you only had to ask.”
“I think we both know that’s not what you had in mind,” Grian replied sharply, “and I prefer my threeways not to end with two of us being ripped apart at the bottom of a canal.”
Scott shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by Grian spoiling his plans, “don’t knock it til you try it.”
“I don’t think I will, thanks,” Grian replied cuttingly, “Don’t insult my intelligence by trying this game with me.”
A smile played on Scott’s pale face, and he moved directly in front of Grian, leaning one forearm against the bricks and caging Grian slightly. In these quarters, Grian could smell the floral gin on his breath, the slight scent of freshwater.
"Don't you like me?" He murmured, brushing a thumb along Grian's cheek and travelling his fingertips salaciously down his neck and chest. Grian's breath hitched unwittingly, and he was annoyed at the way his heart quickened. That damned drink.
He squirmed out of the contact, scowling. "I don't think you need me to tell you what I think of you."
The moonlight glittered on Scott's cyan hair in an ethereal way as he gazed down at Grian piercingly from beneath spiked lashes, smiling slightly. God, he was beautiful. No human could look like that. He was consoled only by the hand resting on the handle of his knife, concealed behind him in his waistband. With the other, he calmly continued with his cigarette.
“You know,” Scott breathed conspiratorially in his ear, “You could always join in on the ripping apart bit of my nights out.”
Grian scowled and shoved him away, hard, burning him with the cigarette end. Scott stumbled slightly and didn’t approach again, only cocking his head and surveying Grian sardonically.
“Thanks for the invite,“ Grian spat, “But keep your bloodthirsty exploits to yourself. I'll be there as much as I can to spoil your night."
"You really haven't got it yet," Scott mused gently, "We're on the same side. If you keep forcing yourself to be this ... farce, you'll only become an obscenity to all sides."
Grian bristled, striding towards Scott menacingly. "How many times do I have to say," he snarled, "I'm not like you. I've never -- I'd die before becoming anything like you."
He hated how the words stuck in his throat. Even here, even now, his tongue betrayed him.
“Why don’t you kill me then?” Scott asked sweetly, not waiting for a reply, “Oh, right, I remember.”
With that last jab, he turned, strolling away as though they’d just said a heartfelt goodbye, and called over his shoulder, “there’ll always be more bloodthirsty exploits if you want to have some fun!”
Grian watched Scott's graceful silhouette recede, hand curled into a fist around his knife handle. He threw his cigarette end to the ground, spinning around to return to the bar.
"Get lost?" Mumbo asked cheerfully when he returned, frowning when he saw Grian's face, "What happened?"
"Doesn't matter," Grian sighed, "I'm gonna get that drink I promised myself. Want anything?"
"Round of Montenegro?" Mumbo suggested, looking to Pearl.
"Go on then," She acquiesced cheerfully.
Grian grinned and navigated his way through the crowd to the bar, leaning his back to the wood after ordering.
The scene and his position reminded me of his night at The Eighth Circle. The last time he'd been in a place like this, he'd been offered a concoction of blood and liquor.
Can't they just drink a Manhattan like the rest of us?
...Us. The word was steadily becoming more uncomfortable for him. He hated letting them affect his mentality in this way. Blessedly, the bartender arrived then.
"A vodka, neat, too. Thanks."
The bartender acquiesced as he paid and threw back the shot, giving his head a slight shake. Enough of all that, let's have a normal night.
When he brought the tray of drinks back, Mumbo and Pearl gave a little cheer.
"Man, no one's ever that excited to see me unless I have a tray of alcohol," Grian grinned.
"Well, you're a bit broody. Puts people off I reckon," Mumbo contributed helpfully, taking his glass of Montenegro delicately.
"Thanks, I can always count on you to ease my sorrows."
"You're welcome. Cheers then, to friendship and drinks and business. And all three at once."
"You're a natural wordsmith," Pearl laughed, raising her glass to clink it to the others as they drank.
Arbitrary Darkness (HC Monster Hunter AU) Part VII
A/N ~ Hiya all! Been working on this chapter for a little while. I do about a thousand edits of each draft. Anyway, here's some vaguely spicy content and Scott being an asshole for you :D
~ reblog if ya enjoy! <3 ~
Part VI - AO3
Grian and Mumbo sat in a booth in the Hermiton Arms waiting for Pearl, whom Mumbo had been so good as to introduce only by name. Grian had initially been surprised when they passed by The Foxhole, the little pub he and Mumbo usually frequented, but Mumbo insisted that it was in bad taste to bring a work friend to such a scrappy place. Grian was of the mind that the Hermiton Arms was far too posh - more of a cocktail lounge than their usual pub-quiz-live-music-house-beer haunt, but acquiesced to the change of scenery without too much whining.
“Shall we wait for Pearl or get a drink?” Mumbo asked, evidently rather lost in the etiquette of it all.
“Suit yourself, but as third wheel I’m going to get a drink,” Grian replied rather petulantly.
Mumbo rolled his eyes and sat back as Grian made his way to the bar. It was quite full, though the patrons here had a more delicate, quiet manner to them than those of The Foxhole. Shame, really. Grian always rather enjoyed watching a good bar tussle. Dark mahogany paneled the walls and furniture, dimly lit by oil lamps and candles. Cigarette smoke curled lazily in the air with dim chatter. Very posh indeed - though perhaps a little too reminiscent of the Eighth Circle.
He became aware that the bartender had asked what he wanted - “Er, Negroni please,”
The bartender nodded and moved into swift, practiced action.
“Negroni, eh? You didn’t strike me as the type.”
The voice was lightly teasing, and Grian turned to see a woman leaning on the bar next to him, touselled chestnut hair curling around her smiling face. She wore a simple open shirt and skirt and watched him with inviting grey-blue eyes, ink stained fingertips tapping distractedly on the counter. Undoubtedly very pretty.
“That’s your opener at the bar? Insulting people’s drink choice?” Grian replied amusedly.
“Well, I don’t really see the point of empty flattery. You can make a lotta assumptions about people based on their drink choice.”
She spoke in a soft Australian accent. The type of voice and temperament that invites friendship openly, and Grian appreciated it.
Grian raised an eyebrow. “Right. And what does a Negroni say about me?”
“Usually signifies a manly type with a touch of class. Less brusque than an old fashioned, less girly than a whisky sour, only a tiny bit pretentious.”
The bartender presented his drink just then.
“So, you think I’m manly huh?” Grian replied teasingly, “I’ll take it, but unfortunately for you it just means I like marmalade,” Grian retorted smoothly, sipping his drink. It was a good Negroni.
“Marmalade?” She laughed, “You’re off your rocker! Anyway, I did say you didn’t look like the type didn’t I?”
“I’ll have you know I’ve manned with the manliest of men,” Grian replied with mock grandiosity.
Pearl laughed again, “Not gonna touch that one.”
“So, can I buy you a manly drink with a touch of class?”
“Never. If you’re buying though …” she tipped her head thoughtfully, “French 75.”
“Girly drink,” Grian muttered slyly as the bartender went off again.
Before Pearl had a chance to reply, Mumbo appeared.
“Thought you’d gotten lost mate! See you’ve found Pearl though,”
Grian coughed on his drink rather indelicately. “I - what?”
Pearl blushed faintly, giving Mumbo a little wave, “We hadn’t got to names yet actually,” she laughed, “You’re Grian then eh? I shoulda known!”
Grian sighed with a slightly embarrassed smile, offering his hand. “Yep, monster hunter extraordinaire. Told you, manliest of men.”
The bartender appeared again with Pearl’s drink.
“5 diamonds for them two then,” he grinned.
Grian paid with a quick, “Cheers mate.”
“What, I don’t get a free drink?” Mumbo mocked.
“Shut it,” Grian growled.
They stayed at the bar while Mumbo ordered and returned as a trio to their table, settling down in the plush seats.
“It is nice here Mumbo, I’ll give you that,” Grian conceded.
“Right? Papa K took me here once, early on. Thought I was about to get fired, turns out it was a promotion!”
“Naw, he’s a softie,” Pearl said, “I reckon he’d let anyone stay on if he liked chatting to em. Hard to be intimidated by a guy who calls you ‘sweet-face’.”
“I’ll have you know I can be intimidated by anyone,” Mumbo replied sternly.
“That’s a point on your resume, is it?”
“Right between ‘am nice’ and ‘write good’.”
Grian snorted. “So, what’s the story you two are working on? With creds like that, I mean.”
“All business eh? That’s a change,” Pearl winked at him and he felt his cheeks warm slightly as he grinned sheepishly.
“Article on the dead guy they found in Hogshyde Park,"
"What happened to him?" Grian asked warily.
"Not sure really," Pearl replied, "We've been looking into it - funny thing is, cops don't think it was a monster - not that they have much idea - but usually the body would be a bit more ripped up, half-eaten, you know?"
"We saw the body," Mumbo added, "looks like a drug overdose if anything. Maybe he had a weird reaction or something, because it doesn't really look like the usual. His veins were almost black, and the mortician who autopsied him said his blood had basically turned to ash.”
Grian made a face. “Ew.”
“Right?” Pearl looked rather delighted by the whole thing. “We’re planning on doing a little poking around, see if anyone has any useful details. Could make for a proper interesting story.”
“Ought to ask some of the more unsavory group that hangs around there,” Mumbo pondered.
“You reckon they’ll talk to us?”
Grian zoned out of the conversation as it started involving a litany of names he didn’t know, entertaining himself by examining the other bar patrons vaguely. His gaze was drawn suddenly to a man with unmistakable aquamarine hair, a pale, sharp face he’d hoped not to see again.
It had to be him though. Scott sat at the end of the bar, in smiling conversation with a girl whose back was to Grian. He was dressed differently tonight - an elegant, tailed waistcoat of navy blue, draped over a pale shirt that lay open, lazily revealing a v of pale chest.
What the hell is he doing here? Who is that? Perhaps she was a monster of some sort too, but Grian had a nasty suspicion she wasn’t. As he watched, Scott slid a suggestive hand along her thigh. He didn’t like the look of it one bit. Temptation to intervene crept under his skin, but … it was too much of a risk to make a scene. He’d keep an eye on him, hopefully not be noticed. If -
“Grian?”
Mumbo’s voice took his gaze back - it seemed he’d missed a cue.
“Sorry, what?”
“Trying to find someone to go home with tonight?” Mumbo teased.
“Hardly,” Grian retorted. Not that I'd be opposed ... if he weren't a bloodthirsty murderer. That drink was definitely hitting.
Mumbo laughed, “Pearl asked if you knew any monster with venom that'd do that."
Grian thought carefully, shaking his head slowly. "No, doesn't ring a bell. Wonder if it’s a hybrid or infection we don’t know about.”
He wondered silently to himself if he ought to ask Joel. He’d know more than anyone about the shady underbelly of the city, but somehow he didn’t think Joel would want to help him with anything.
“I reckon I could ask about, see if I can glean any useful info,” Grian ventured.
“That’d be great. Shame about Tango, really. He’d have had some insight I bet.”
“Tango?” Pearl asked.
Mumbo met Grian’s stern gaze. “Ex-business partner of Grian’s.”
“I wouldn’t worry," Grian sighed heavily, "He wouldn’t have told me anything. We weren’t exactly confidants.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Grian saw Scott stand, offering an inviting hand to his companion. The two began to make their way towards the door, and Grian made a split decision, downing the rest of his drink.
“Going for another drink,” he muttered, pushing up from the table to follow.
The night air was cool and fresh, in stark contrast to the warm, smoky air of the Hermiton Arms. He lit a cigarette as he leant on the doorway, taking a long drag and letting his quarry get a fair distance in front of him before following quietly.
They walked along the canal, brightly lit by lanterns and dotted with cafes and bars, patrons enjoying the evening air and chatting. Their quiet conversation was too muted for Grian to hear, skulking along a good 20 feet behind. He couldn't help but feel like the monster in this situation, stalking after them in the shadows like a cat. They walked for about five minutes, reaching a slightly darker, quieter part of the road, and the pair sat on the canal's edge. The moonlight glinted silver on the water, soft chatter wended its way down the breeze, and a nightingale was singing softly somewhere.
Quite the romantic, aren’t you?
He watched, fairly close behind them but enveloped in the shadow of the buildings, as they talked and laughed like any other young couple. Before long though, Scott cast a surreptitious glance around, evidently missing Grian in the shadowed doorway. He returned his attention to the girl, tenderly brushing her hair aside, and she looked up and him with a smile as he bent his head to meet his lips with hers, traveling a hand down her back to brace securely on her waist.
Grian predicted the next 30 seconds quickly and made his decision, taking another deep drag before stepping out.
“Ma’am?”
He made as though he’d just reached them, and she looked up, blushing furiously.
“Sorry to interrupt,” He started casually, tapping ash from his cigarette, “only I work at the Hermiton Arms - a bartender said you left your wallet at the bar.”
Please don’t tell me he bought all your drinks. And please don’t check.
Thankfully, it appeared she was too flustered (and tipsy, probably) to give it much thought, and she stood quickly.
“Did I? I’m sorry! Thanks for letting me know.”
Scott watched the encounter intently, standing, and Grian turned his back on him.
Stay away from him. Trust me, he mouthed to her inconspicuously.
It appeared she’d succumbed to his illusion of authority, and her face went from quizzical to a look of horror that glanced her face only briefly, and she nodded imperceptibly.
Thank you, Grian thought.
“I’d better be off then, I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly to Scott.
“No worries,” he replied in that melodious, easy tone, “I expect I rather distracted you.”
She blushed again, turning to walk down the street in the direction of the Hermiton Arms, glancing back nervously.
Now I’m the one alone with the psycho monster. Just what I wanted.
“The benevolent hero steps in again,” Scott commented idly, strolling towards Grian, who stepped back towards the building walls behind them, “Surely even monsters have a right to a quiet date. If you wanted a three-way, you only had to ask.”
“I think we both know that’s not what you had in mind,” Grian replied sharply, “and I prefer my threeways not to end with two of us being ripped apart at the bottom of a canal.”
Scott shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by Grian spoiling his plans, “don’t knock it til you try it.”
“I don’t think I will, thanks,” Grian replied cuttingly, “Don’t insult my intelligence by trying this game with me.”
A smile played on Scott’s pale face, and he moved directly in front of Grian, leaning one forearm against the bricks and caging Grian slightly. In these quarters, Grian could smell the floral gin on his breath, the slight scent of freshwater.
"Don't you like me?" He murmured, brushing a thumb along Grian's cheek and travelling his fingertips salaciously down his neck and chest. Grian's breath hitched unwittingly, and he was annoyed at the way his heart quickened. That damned drink.
He squirmed out of the contact, scowling. "I don't think you need me to tell you what I think of you."
The moonlight glittered on Scott's cyan hair in an ethereal way as he gazed down at Grian piercingly from beneath spiked lashes, smiling slightly. God, he was beautiful. No human could look like that. He was consoled only by the hand resting on the handle of his knife, concealed behind him in his waistband. With the other, he calmly continued with his cigarette.
“You know,” Scott breathed conspiratorially in his ear, “You could always join in on the ripping apart bit of my nights out.”
Grian scowled and shoved him away, hard, burning him with the cigarette end. Scott stumbled slightly and didn’t approach again, only cocking his head and surveying Grian sardonically.
“Thanks for the invite,“ Grian spat, “But keep your bloodthirsty exploits to yourself. I'll be there as much as I can to spoil your night."
"You really haven't got it yet," Scott mused gently, "We're on the same side. If you keep forcing yourself to be this ... farce, you'll only become an obscenity to all sides."
Grian bristled, striding towards Scott menacingly. "How many times do I have to say," he snarled, "I'm not like you. I've never -- I'd die before becoming anything like you."
He hated how the words stuck in his throat. Even here, even now, his tongue betrayed him.
“Why don’t you kill me then?” Scott asked sweetly, not waiting for a reply, “Oh, right, I remember.”
With that last jab, he turned, strolling away as though they’d just said a heartfelt goodbye, and called over his shoulder, “there’ll always be more bloodthirsty exploits if you want to have some fun!”
Grian watched Scott's graceful silhouette recede, hand curled into a fist around his knife handle. He threw his cigarette end to the ground, spinning around to return to the bar.
"Get lost?" Mumbo asked cheerfully when he returned, frowning when he saw Grian's face, "What happened?"
"Doesn't matter," Grian sighed, "I'm gonna get that drink I promised myself. Want anything?"
"Round of Montenegro?" Mumbo suggested, looking to Pearl.
"Go on then," She acquiesced cheerfully.
Grian grinned and navigated his way through the crowd to the bar, leaning his back to the wood after ordering.
The scene and his position reminded me of his night at The Eighth Circle. The last time he'd been in a place like this, he'd been offered a concoction of blood and liquor.
Can't they just drink a Manhattan like the rest of us?
...Us. The word was steadily becoming more uncomfortable for him. He hated letting them affect his mentality in this way. Blessedly, the bartender arrived then.
"A vodka, neat, too. Thanks."
The bartender acquiesced as he paid and threw back the shot, giving his head a slight shake. Enough of all that, let's have a normal night.
When he brought the tray of drinks back, Mumbo and Pearl gave a little cheer.
"Man, no one's ever that excited to see me unless I have a tray of alcohol," Grian grinned.
"Well, you're a bit broody. Puts people off I reckon," Mumbo contributed helpfully, taking his glass of Montenegro delicately.
"Thanks, I can always count on you to ease my sorrows."
"You're welcome. Cheers then, to friendship and drinks and business. And all three at once."
"You're a natural wordsmith," Pearl laughed, raising her glass to clink it to the others as they drank.
