#character:wallas

[adirtydream-blog1]

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sweetest-of-sins

                   Another day gone by, twelve hours spent in duty of a city he hardly loved anymore, Wallas slumped over the steering wheel in his personal car. His forehead touched the leather of the steering wheel and - for just a moment - he closed his eyes. Every shift was the same, give or take one coverup or another, and he was tired. Though, as much as Wallas wanted to just sit there and let the world pass him by, he had to get home. He put the car in gear, engine already alive, and made his way down the familiar metropolis streets. Such a blur, all of it. From the blinking billboards to the endless waves of yellow streetlamp lights that lit up his unchanging face one after the other, Wallas felt nothing for any of it. And he didn't plan to change that.

                   He didn't plan his usual coffee run to be interrupted by a woman's - or was it a girl's? - scream.  The old Buick sat parked at its usual meter while its uniformed owner popped into the coffee house to order the same thing he did after every shift, but he never did make it inside. A scream erupted from the shadows of the alley. Such a shrill sound - of a woman's or girl's, he couldn't immediately tell - froze the blood in his veins and evoked his officer's instinct to the surface. One hand reached first for the mace sitting on his belt, the other for the radio that wasn't there. Off duty, he had to remind himself. He could turn around and pretend he wasn't hearing the shouts and shuffling clawing at his conscience from the darkness. He could just get his coffee and go home. Only, he couldn't.

                   With quick, decided steps, he moved into the alleyway. Mace in hand, he shouted, "CITY POLICE, GET ON THE GROUND." If only he had his flashlight on him. Three figures - large, male, Caucasian he noted - took off running, and there were no hope in chasing them. Not alone, not without his police vehicle or radio. Not while completely fucking useless, off the clock as he were. "Shit," he cursed under his labored breaths. The question of where the female scream had come was quickly answered as his wide stare fell upon a young woman. He paled and put the mace back into its belt pocket. "Excuse me! Are you alright there? Do you need assistance?" Such formal crap. So unfeeling. Wide, gradual steps brought him closer until he could see the color of her eyes. "Do you require medical attention?"

[adirtydream-blog1]

myfamiliartasteofpoison

[wallas!text] Just double checking... is this Anya's number? This is Wallas Renfield. If I've got the wrong number, so sorry. Please ignore.

[myfamiliartasteofpoison-deactiv]

♣ PROOF OF GRACE ♣

□ Anya - > Wallas

[adirtydream-blog1]

                          A clock struck five somewhere in the city, its pendulum swinging a telltale "bong bong bong" into the quiet, night air. If only that were the way Wallas Renfield's shift ended. Instead, a little electronic watch wailed an irritating "beep beep beep" from the wrist it sat upon. He'd been someplace else - as he often were in the last hour of his shift - and sucked in an ugly bit of air when he came suddenly to realization that it was time to go home. Thumb and index pinched the tiny knobs on opposite ends to shut the thing up. He rubbed his face and sighed.

                                                    - - - - -

                          His eyes - circled red, and weary - were cast down at his stiff boots as he crossed the station. Wallas didn't like to get caught up in small talk. Those little conversations about absolutely nothing were, once upon a time, treasured, but now they only served to irritate or undo. Keeping his head down kept others from stopping him, but he took a moment to close his eyes. It'd only be for a few steps, but in those few, he ended up tumbling over.

                          "SHI-..." The curse almost finished spurting from his mouth before his palms instinctively braced for the impact. Only, it were... soft. Blinking, red-eyed, and thrown from his thoughts, Wallas didn't immediately recognize the face of the woman he laid atop of, and neither did he spring back to his feet with apology. Then it hit him, and he stared so hard, his eyes wanted to crawl out of his sockets like spiders and eat her face where it sat. "Anya?"

[adirtydream-blog1]

beglitteredpirate

                        The morning sun might've come and gone without Raphael ever knowing. No windows in that room, and there was only a false one in the office, enchanted to reflect the actual weather outside. Wallas was up early (after a hard seven hours), no hangover to hold him to the pile of blankets on the floor next to the bed. And he waited, patiently, stupidly happy, in his office (again, much less an office, more like a tiny kitchenette and seating area), hot cup of tea warming his hands. On the tiny table between his chair and the other was Witch's Weekly, page open to an interesting article on muggle fascination with vampire romance. Not that his mind was really soaking in the topic. Even after tea and biscuits… Wallas could still taste him.