every long lost dream, every failed endeavour {tag Walter
He had almost given up any hope of finding out what had happened to Walter.
James wanted to think the man had taken the sensible option and fled the city, and was safe somewhere, figuring it out. He tried not to think of other possibilities, but they still crept into his mind whenever it became absent. Tracked down by Handlers, turned himself over to them, starving and mindless, dead for good. That would set him pacing again, or sitting in with Deryn to listen to theories and strategies on how they could move forwards, a way to survive. It seemed selfish to obsess over his personal woes when the lives of every supernatural in the city were in the balance, but it was impossible to stop the worrying. As time went on, it became normal- another constant concern to add to the pile. Eventually, he began to return to who he might have been beforehand, or at least, as close as he could get.
And then one day, as he was industriously setting about destroying Fraser at chess, Deryn skidded into the room, eyes roving the amassed creatures, before spotting them and making a beeline for their corner. Hearing that he had found sign of Walter was surreal, and James had to exert a great deal of effort not to freeze. He wasn't going to choke this time.
Deryn showed him to the general area, but otherwise, he went alone. He spent several hours tucked in the shadows, muscles going stiff as he watched the foot traffic. There were a few supernaturals here- it was the easiest place to lie low, under normal circumstances, the easiest place to disappear. James worried it was where the Handlers would start to target, if indeed they hadn't already. If they were any good at their jobs- and they were- they would realise that the down and outs, the homeless, the slums of America, were their blind spot.
The thought was interrupted by the sight of a flash of filthy curls, and James jerked to attention, not realising he had half nodded off. Brief elation shot through him, for just a moment, as he realized it wasn't too late, before it was replaced with intense worry. Even from across the street, he could tell Walter was in a state. He set off in pursuit, filled with nervous anger, trying to get a grip of his frustration before he caught up to the young man. Walter's lack of self preservation made him angry- angry at himself, at his fledgling, at the people who had fed the man's impression of vampires as something intrinsically terrible. That kind of damage could take so long to undo, and as far as time went, James didn't have the luxury of a plentiful supply.
Walter was slumped under an overpass, the grinding of traffic dull overhead. He looked exhausted and underfed, and, in horrendous irony, appeared more like a corpse than a man. His gaunt face was caked with dirt and dried blood, and his hair was limp and overgrown. Everything about Walter was unchecked, from his hair to his posture, which was at odds from the straight backed, precise man he remembered. "Good God, man," James breathed, unable to stop himself from exclaiming, before back-pedalling, remembering his disastrous attempts to talk his young friend around before. He tried for something light hearted, but his genuine distress and irritation at Walter's state coloured his pronouncement with more bite than he had intended.
"You really need a bath."
Off to a flying start, he sighed mentally, and braced himself.
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