Sylar isn’t the most patient of people. He doesn’t like to wait, not when he’d spent thirty years of his life waiting. Every second that passes causes him to glance at the phone, as if something more than a demand to do what is hardest for him will pop up.
He’s not sure what to expect, but lately, that’s about right. He’s been through quite a bit from the last time he’s used the name ‘Sylar’ to now, when being Gabriel Gray is just not something he can stomach.
The things the cop told him, confirmed by his clairesence, has him worried that he’s back on the wrong track anyway. Again.
He doesn’t want to be hated. Not anymore. But it’s still better than being forgotten.
Whoever answered his text, the owner only number programmed on the phone he had been given, had better be fast.
Carrying a paper bag full of sedatives after midnight would make anyone look suspicious. But for Gary, who's on a first name basis with most of the cabbies, he skirts by most of that simply by being who he is. He leaves the office building and finds a cab waiting for him.
"Hi Dave," he says as he gets into the backseat and gives him the address. "And remember, no street names with L or 9 or-"
"Yea, yea, I got it the first five times ya told me," the cabbie said with a cavalier attitude Gary had come to appreciate. It's why he tipped them so well.
He would arrive close to Gabriel's location precisely a half hour after their last correspondence. There's still a short walk to 'Blindspot Alley', as he's decided to call it. He would not be hard to spot if Gabriel were watching. Youthful, tall & lanky, dressed in muted colors, he would either be everything Gabriel expected, or nothing at all. He carries the paper bag on his left side, the hand on his right doesn't remain still. His fingers float and dip in the air, as one might atop a river's surface, strumming at the invisible grid.
Once in the alley he looks around for his new friend with the bad killing tendencies, his gaze roaming around the darkened shadowy corners.
Honestly, he’s expected that kid he once tried to kill a few years ago, the one with the super strong mom and the phase shifting dad. He doesn’t remember any of their names but that kid’s made his life difficult a few times thanks to the super powered kid club he’d formed.
But the kid that approaches? Definitely not what he’d had in mind. Sylar isn’t sure if he’s happy with that or not.
The rings of his ability sends a haunting tug at the back of his skull, and he grits his teeth to clamp down on it. To compensate, he scatters some liter from around his ankles and sends it out in all directions as if taken by a localized wind before he steps through it. The phone in his hand casts a ghostly light on his face.
The transducer sidesteps the scattering litter, letting out a small noise of protest. He's hardly surprised by the tactic. Someone like Gabriel always enjoyed making an entrance. The question gets a half chuckle, though.
"Depends on your perspective. Normally I'm in bed at this hour. But you're an exception to my routine." Amusement underlines his usually even tone. As he hands him the bag, Gary pointedly makes direct eye contact, the first time since he arrived. There was a distinct lack of fear in those hazel eyes; instead Sylar would only read curiosity, nervousness.
Once emptied of something to hold on to, his left hand moves to the opposite wrist, rubbing at the skin there as his fingers continue to strum through that constant grid pattern. "We should... get you somewhere. So you can sleep. A bed is better than a dirty alleyway." He says, looking around the place in question. It was gross. Probably full of germs.
He doesn’t really sleep but it’s one of those things you don’t tell some stranger that seems to have connections to some sort of Company-like organization. He’s starting to feel that ticking gear-like itch between his ears again, and a sensation not unlike his skull throbbing against the skin of his head.
The things Gary can do, is doing, is interesting in a way that also showcases some error in the guy’s code. Sylar wants to fix him.... and that so rarely ends well.
“Should get out of the city,” he says, a gravelly sort of annoyance in his voice as he opens the bag and grabs the pills before he drops the paper to his feet. He uses the phone to illuminate the label, frowning slightly. These won’t be strong enough, he decides, seeing the doctor’s imprint from touching the bottle, followed by Gary’s stealing the bottle. Interesting. He pops the top of the child safety cap and downs probably ‘too many.’
An expression similar to concentration passes on his features. Leaving the city. The words echo in his mind. That was one of many possibilities he'd thought on his way over here. Follow-up question: would his mom be okay with him leaving so suddenly, and for such a long time? The immediate response to that, lacking in the usual concern for her worry, was 'Of course'. He was on a Mission, and that entitled him to go where ever he pleased at any time.
Further along that path: maybe, just maybe, he might convince this man to teach him how to drive. His fingers still their movements for just a second at that thought and he smiles. It's a tiny twitch at first, uncertainty, then excited. Yes. He likes this plan a whole lot, now. There's a renewed bounce in his step when he turns back to his new friend.
"Okay. Yes. Yes we should do that." The destination was not even a consideration. "I could acquire us another cab, or-" A quick fluttering of movements in the air, scrolling through options, expanding those strands. "-or we might rent a car. Those have better warranty options. There's a shop on 5th that opens in... four hours."
Godric sends him instructions, tickets, and the address after informing the rest of the nest of his intentions. Gary's not to be touched, he tells them with a touch of firmness. He's not claiming the human, but he's made his thoughts on him clear. Most of his kind would be out that weekend anyway, so there should be no reason to worry.
It's a little bit of a thrill, he muses to himself as he waits inside, to have such a strange visitor coming. It's nothing that Godric would have done before, but he's allowing himself to do some new things in his old age. What's left in his life but art, music, and new experiences?
Gary hadn't expected his mother to become upset about his new job offer. But, then, he never could understand her reasons half the time. He called for Dr. Rosen's assistance.
"Please don't cry, mom, I'll be fine. It's like a sleepover. He's a vampire and--no I said don't cry. I promise I'll be fine." He'd gone upstairs to his room then, and listened to them talk through one of the streams. Lots of hugging and assurances and a simple reminder that, legally, Gary was an adult. There had been no protests after that.
Once at the airport, Gary thanked Dr. Rosen for the lift, then: "You should stop by my former home every day. Like you're picking me up or dropping me off. Except you're not really, because I'm not there. I think mom would like that. She has her own routine too, Dr. Rosen." Dr. Rosen agreed, wished him a safe flight, then drove off.
The rest of the journey was mostly uneventful. Everyone being quiet and looking at their devices. Their texts and calls kept him plenty entertained. And there was a new bagel place he hadn't tried before. Bonus. He caught up on his missed sleep during the flight, finding its constant hum rather soothing.
Switching time zones threw his schedule into complete disarray. Jet lag was a new experience. Disorientating. Unpleasant. Per Godric's instructions, a pair of well-dressed individuals were waiting for him and helped guide him towards the waiting limo.
"Are you vampires too?" He asks. The taller one said nothing and even though they wore sunglasses, Gary could feel them rolling their eyes. Their partner was more pleasant and answered in the affirmative. "Okay well. I'll be right back. I need to consult with a human. I have a headache from flying and vampires don't get headaches."
After some assurances, they took him to a Walgreens and acquired advil, some green tea, and two packs of pudding. He wanted to ask why the can said Arizona Tea if they were in Texas but decided not to. They didn't seem like the type to joke around. He read their text messages instead. Very informative.
Finally after what seemed like a span of time both too long and over in a flash, they pulled up to an exorbitant mansion. It's grandiosity distracted him from his multitude of streams. The biggest house he's seen in... well, ever.
He exits the limo, with his companions carrying his bags. Toying with his hoodie's string with his left hand, he walks where they direct him, and only near the door does he half turn towards them. "You two shouldn't worry about your off hour activities anymore. Everyone knows. Just admit your love already." Weirdos.
Godric's house sits in a suburb north of Dallas, where affluent mansions sit in abundance, created by oil barons and trust fund babies, far enough away from the highway to keep the property values high. The neighborhood is quiet, save for the chirping of cicadas in the distance and the occasional hum of a passing car.
The two men exchange a glance just as Godric opens the door. "He is right, you know," Godric tells them, gesturing for them to enter. "Mr. Bell, I hope the trip was not too stressful." Stepping back, he leads them into the open living room, the fireplace on but only for decorative purposes. "Let me show you to your room for the weekend."
The room he leads them to is elaborate without being gaudy, all subdued wallpaper and crown molding. It could have been in any number of home decor magazines. The heavy shutters on the windows are the only clue that it might be a room for a passing vampire. "All the rooms are light tight, I'm afraid," and he actually sounds genuinely apologetic, "so you won't get much sunshine this weekend, but you are free to come and go as you please."
First thing he noticed was that his vampire host looked younger, physically speaking, than he'd anticipated. The second thing was that voice: dry like autumn leaves, yet soothing and calming. Were those his vampire powers at work? Gary didn't know.
By contrast, he was taller than Godric by a couple inches, offering a half-smile in greeting, and seemed almost entirely at ease. No fear for his own safety, or concern about the new environment. That was a problem for later; compartmentalizing. Before following, he turns to his travelling companions.
"Pudding goes in the fridge. Tea does too. C'mon. You can't be that old," he says to them. This time the taller gentleman made no attempts to disguise his eyeroll.
From the door to the bedroom, he looks around himself much like a tourist at a museum. He understood wealth and extravagance, to a point. Much like relationships or small talk, however, they seemed unnecessarily valued. Godric was more interesting. From the way he carried himself to the glimpse of tattoo; he was very New and Shiny.
"Sunshine. Hah. Serotonin. Happy chemicals." He moves into the room, looks around, nodding. "It's nice. Cared for. No coffins, but that's good. It's not my time to sleep in a coffin."
Godric drinks in that look of interest. Ah, to be so young...though there is certainly something different about this Gary Bell. There's something in the way he moves, the way he speaks, that Godric finds fascinating. He's certain, though, he'll grow used to it, as he does with all things.
"No coffins," he confirms. "I am old enough now that I can afford a bit of luxury for myself and those in the nest. I am glad you are pleased with it. You have arrived at a fortunate time, Mr. Bell. They," and he doesn't elaborate who 'they' are; it doesn't matter, "have decided I should get something called a 'smart phone,' though I doubt the intelligence of anything that arrives in a box."
He leaves Gary for a moment and returns with an iPhone in a box, something he holds out in front of him like it both contains all the information in the universe, and a dead rat.
If Godric wasn't over two centuries old, the look he gives would plainly read "Help me." Instead, he manages to just look serene.
Whilst Godric is away, Gary sits on the edge of the bed and flicks on the signals with a quick flick of his wrist. Cameras, check. Multiple phones, not as many as he'd expected, also check. Cell tower nearby, good, check. The range was extraordinary from this room alone.
He removes his hoody, and becomes more acquainted with his living space. It wasn't right, too new, and he had to make to make it His Own. Upon a nearby nightstand, he requisitions a chessboard - likely ancient, great craftsmanship - leaving the pieces elsewhere. Standing above this he begins to organize everything by the grid pattern. The rooms and their cameras each to their own square. His phone to another. His hands movements are like a composer's; a mix of his own electrical sign language, and basic gestures found upon any smart phone.
Speaking of... He turns back to Godric when he returns, dismissing the streams by closing his fist in the air, as one might catching a ball.
"You shouldn't dismiss what this box contains," he says as he takes it gently from him. Gary moves it to another nightstand and reverently begins emptying its contents. "Its everything. If you know how to use it. I can teach you. Also encrypt it. No vampire secrets getting out."
Klaus grabs what he needs for this little excursion, it's dark out, but not too terribly late, so he's not all that worried about being seen for what he's going to be teaching this guy. He slips out of his shabby, run-down apartment and heads down the stairs two at a time, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket to light on his way down the street. The pack and the lighter and shoved back in his pocket a moment later and he's glad he isn't far from Central Park because the kid could have picked a way further walking point.
The slightly-over-a-mile distance takes a bit for him to walk, he isn't exactly in the kind of shape he used to be in once upon a time, but he's there roughly on the agreed upon time, give or take a few minutes. He finds the picnic table by the pond that's a little more isolated than some of the other places around the park and lays across one side of the bench as he waits.
Gary changes from his footie pjs to more walking-outside appropriate attire: jeans, colorful t-shirt, and a hoody. His Tuesday outfit, and today wasn't Tuesday. But, given that late evening trips to the park weren't part of his Normal Routine, either, the exception easily fits. He pings Klaus's signal as he walks the route he's memorized and enjoyed at least twice monthly.
It's a nice, brisk, chill autumn evening. The colors of the leaves, and their crunch, are the best part about this season. Maybe the rain too but as long as it wasn't too cold. The cold was an important distinction between Enjoyable Day vs Cozy Up With Warm Blanket Day. This was currently the former although later, the coziest of blankets would be needed.
He arrives soon after his texting friend, hoping onto a pile of wind-swept leaves to crunch beneath his sneakers. From there he follows a trail of them, one footstep per colorful leaf, to the picnic table. There's a gesture, closing the signals around him, and then he looks down at Klaus with a curious head tilt.
"That cannot be comfortable. Or safe. I hope you don't get any splinters stuck in you."
"Hmm?" He sits up and takes in the sight of what is apparently the new baby stoner he's taking in under his wing. He is... young, though Klaus couldn't actually begin to accurately guess an age because he somehow looks anywhere between late teens to mid-20's. "Oh, it's not so bad. I've slept in worse places," he says with a wild grin. Not a lie, and he wasn't asleep anyway, but the whole remark probably comes off like a joke.
He spreads his hands across the table, "Come, sit, join me." he has this charismatic pull that almost makes you unable to resist the idea, which is probably how Klaus ended up in so many of the messes he did, but whatever, details~. He swings his legs over the edge of the bench on the side of the table he's occupying so he's sitting properly for the moment.
"So, have you ever tried rolling one? Like, ever-ever?" Because it's good to know exactly where the kid is on that scale.
There's a head tilt of curiosity, but no reply, to the 'worse places' comment. Gary might well imagine where those places could be. Under a bridge perhaps, where its smelly and wet? In the mud? He decides not to ask. Doing so would only make him want a shower, and he had one earlier.
He sits down opposite his new teacher with his hands close to the table's edge. He inspects the wood for dust, dashing away a bit of it, then sets his forearms near the edge again. The cotton wristband he wore tonight was a simply, navy blue. He'd prefer to keep it dust-free. He holds it now, giving it a loose twist.
"Nuh-uh. No rolling for me. Pipes were recommended. No fuss no muss. And prettier." He's fond of his colorful glass one at home. He folds his hands together, elbows on the table. "You've rolled many." A question that comes out like a statement of fact.
There's something almost childlike-adorable about this guy that Klaus can't really put his finger on. So he brushes the thought off and just laughs a little at that obvious statement-of-fact. "You're right, I have." So, so many. More than he could count, honestly, which is what happens when you've been doing something for over half your life. But whatever.
"They're right about the no fuss, no muss with a pipe, and glass is aaaalways better than metal. Don't ever get a metal one. They're gross, they get too dirty too quick and cleaning them is a pain and I dunno, something about the resin and the metal-- it just--" he makes some vague, quick motions with both hands. "mixes together and it tastes nasty." He doesn't know why, it just does, trust him, okay?
He busies himself with filling is grinder with a chunk of bud to crush up for the join as he explains. "It'll be kinda hard at first, you'll probably fuck up a bunch of perfectly good papers, but like with all things, with practice, comes perfection." He grins and dumps the ground up weed on the table. He decidedly does not care if a little dust gets in it, so it's just straight on the table top, sorry, Gary.
"So it's like this," he pulls one of the papers from the pack and shows him as he slowly goes through the motions he could do in a minute if he wasn't trying to teach. "Fold it in half, make a good little crease in the middle, right? And then you're gonna twist the end, just one end, real tight like this." Once it's twisted like he wants, he shows him the end result of that step. "See how it kinda looks like a boat? That's why it's called that." he waves a hand dismissively. "Anyway, you just... pack it in there..." he pretty much piles the majority of what he'd dumped out on the table into the empty space of the paper. "Aaaand you're gonna roll it, look-" he sets the example joint down and lifts his hands, joint-free, up so Gary can see the sort of twisting motion he's making between his fingers and his thumbs. "you're gonna roll it in your fingers like that, okay?" He picks it up and actually shows him with the joint now, rolling it between his fingers.
"And lick it 'n stick it," he finishes the tutorial with a joint that he's holding out to the other guy. "See? Easy." He grins.
[Gary did not like it when his signals changed like that. In fact it happened so rarely that this was an especially peculiar case. He follows it through like a cat sniffing after a mouse. Cycling through lines and pop-ups, pinning some and swiping away others.]
My question first. Your signal is in *my* room. Why does it change colors so often? That's not normal.
My signal isn't anywhere, it's a signal. It doesn't inhabit a physical space. Colors? I don't know what you mean by that.
[Maybe the person is high. Philip's fingers curl into a fist at the thought. He's still trying to get a handle on his host's... extra-curricular activities. The addiction makes him a liability, but he can't function without it. Marcy has figured out the dosage to keep him functional, but it won't last forever. That's the hope, at least, eventually he'll be able to kick it completely.
"If you take more than that, I'll know it's because you want it."
[Gary glances up from the corner stove where, armed with oversized teal oven mitts, he was extracting a pan of freshly cooked steaks. Half were seasoned, half were not. The technopath smiles at his guest, gives a nod toward the rest of the apartment.]
Make yourself at home. However that Spanish phrase goes. I can't ever remember.
[He's dressed simply for the evening, cotton crimson striped shirt and gray sweatpants, fitting for a home that's more spacious and rustic than it is a flashy show of wealth. It was a comfortable, if spartan, loft apartment residence, high ceilings and big windows, perfect for those rainy nights. Nothing in the way of his signals. Dimly lit for the evening; the moon outside cascaded a swath of light through what counted as the main room. The couches and spread out chairs were mostly in shadow with a large tv, one of the few extravagances, set across the room.
The bedroom was just off to the side, if Matthew ventured in that direction. As with the rest of the living space, the room had only a few portraits hanging nearby, of a lighthouse by the sea, another of a moon and stars, but otherwise it was a space built for necessity. A nightstand held a stack of books, two mysteries to one horror, next to a comfortably plush bed that might easily fit three people.
Back in the kitchen, a space that was tidy but lived in, Gary was checking the temperatures of the steaks with a thermometer. Many years on his own and he still could not tell by sight alone if a portion of meat was "done" or not. He calls out to his guest.]
I forgot to ask. Did you prefer medium, or well-done?
Gary nods with understanding of the request and begins plating a couple of the steaks - those were medium or medium-rare, with three more he sets back into the oven to cook a smidge longer. Free of the task momentarily, he embraces his guest in a warm hug that lingers only an appropriate length of time before he steps back, smiling.
"Glad you could make it and you were not attacked by other rogue wolves. I've been monitoring where I could." It's a kind compliment, truly. A beat. "Oh, right, the steaks. Guess you pick up on all the spices. It's a blend my mom made long ago. Stuck with me."
He leans back against the wall nearest the oven. Just a few more minutes to wait.
See, Matthew could have taken more of the hug, but he's content to wait for the cuddles that'll come after dinner.
"I can smell all the spices, but I can't identify them all. I'm not that good in the kitchen--most of the cooking I did was breakfasts. Also, thank you for monitoring, but I'm not sure if I like the implication that I'm a rogue wolf."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Continued from TFLN
Sylar isn’t the most patient of people. He doesn’t like to wait, not when he’d spent thirty years of his life waiting. Every second that passes causes him to glance at the phone, as if something more than a demand to do what is hardest for him will pop up.
He’s not sure what to expect, but lately, that’s about right. He’s been through quite a bit from the last time he’s used the name ‘Sylar’ to now, when being Gabriel Gray is just not something he can stomach.
The things the cop told him, confirmed by his clairesence, has him worried that he’s back on the wrong track anyway. Again.
He doesn’t want to be hated. Not anymore. But it’s still better than being forgotten.
Whoever answered his text, the owner only number programmed on the phone he had been given, had better be fast.
<3
"Hi Dave," he says as he gets into the backseat and gives him the address. "And remember, no street names with L or 9 or-"
"Yea, yea, I got it the first five times ya told me," the cabbie said with a cavalier attitude Gary had come to appreciate. It's why he tipped them so well.
He would arrive close to Gabriel's location precisely a half hour after their last correspondence. There's still a short walk to 'Blindspot Alley', as he's decided to call it. He would not be hard to spot if Gabriel were watching. Youthful, tall & lanky, dressed in muted colors, he would either be everything Gabriel expected, or nothing at all. He carries the paper bag on his left side, the hand on his right doesn't remain still. His fingers float and dip in the air, as one might atop a river's surface, strumming at the invisible grid.
Once in the alley he looks around for his new friend with the bad killing tendencies, his gaze roaming around the darkened shadowy corners.
Re: <3
But the kid that approaches? Definitely not what he’d had in mind. Sylar isn’t sure if he’s happy with that or not.
The rings of his ability sends a haunting tug at the back of his skull, and he grits his teeth to clamp down on it. To compensate, he scatters some liter from around his ankles and sends it out in all directions as if taken by a localized wind before he steps through it. The phone in his hand casts a ghostly light on his face.
“Brown bagging lunch? Am I a field trip?”
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"Depends on your perspective. Normally I'm in bed at this hour. But you're an exception to my routine." Amusement underlines his usually even tone. As he hands him the bag, Gary pointedly makes direct eye contact, the first time since he arrived. There was a distinct lack of fear in those hazel eyes; instead Sylar would only read curiosity, nervousness.
Once emptied of something to hold on to, his left hand moves to the opposite wrist, rubbing at the skin there as his fingers continue to strum through that constant grid pattern. "We should... get you somewhere. So you can sleep. A bed is better than a dirty alleyway." He says, looking around the place in question. It was gross. Probably full of germs.
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The things Gary can do, is doing, is interesting in a way that also showcases some error in the guy’s code. Sylar wants to fix him.... and that so rarely ends well.
“Should get out of the city,” he says, a gravelly sort of annoyance in his voice as he opens the bag and grabs the pills before he drops the paper to his feet. He uses the phone to illuminate the label, frowning slightly. These won’t be strong enough, he decides, seeing the doctor’s imprint from touching the bottle, followed by Gary’s stealing the bottle. Interesting. He pops the top of the child safety cap and downs probably ‘too many.’
His liver won’t mind, it’ll just regenerate.
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Further along that path: maybe, just maybe, he might convince this man to teach him how to drive. His fingers still their movements for just a second at that thought and he smiles. It's a tiny twitch at first, uncertainty, then excited. Yes. He likes this plan a whole lot, now. There's a renewed bounce in his step when he turns back to his new friend.
"Okay. Yes. Yes we should do that." The destination was not even a consideration. "I could acquire us another cab, or-" A quick fluttering of movements in the air, scrolling through options, expanding those strands. "-or we might rent a car. Those have better warranty options. There's a shop on 5th that opens in... four hours."
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~lore building woohoo~
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Just hit Gary’s and Bill’s adventure!
prepare to have wine for the finale! you'll need it~
Oh dear!!
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Godric sends him instructions, tickets, and the address after informing the rest of the nest of his intentions. Gary's not to be touched, he tells them with a touch of firmness. He's not claiming the human, but he's made his thoughts on him clear. Most of his kind would be out that weekend anyway, so there should be no reason to worry.
It's a little bit of a thrill, he muses to himself as he waits inside, to have such a strange visitor coming. It's nothing that Godric would have done before, but he's allowing himself to do some new things in his old age. What's left in his life but art, music, and new experiences?
and then i accidentally a novel. whoops
"Please don't cry, mom, I'll be fine. It's like a sleepover. He's a vampire and--no I said don't cry. I promise I'll be fine." He'd gone upstairs to his room then, and listened to them talk through one of the streams. Lots of hugging and assurances and a simple reminder that, legally, Gary was an adult. There had been no protests after that.
Once at the airport, Gary thanked Dr. Rosen for the lift, then: "You should stop by my former home every day. Like you're picking me up or dropping me off. Except you're not really, because I'm not there. I think mom would like that. She has her own routine too, Dr. Rosen." Dr. Rosen agreed, wished him a safe flight, then drove off.
The rest of the journey was mostly uneventful. Everyone being quiet and looking at their devices. Their texts and calls kept him plenty entertained. And there was a new bagel place he hadn't tried before. Bonus. He caught up on his missed sleep during the flight, finding its constant hum rather soothing.
Switching time zones threw his schedule into complete disarray. Jet lag was a new experience. Disorientating. Unpleasant. Per Godric's instructions, a pair of well-dressed individuals were waiting for him and helped guide him towards the waiting limo.
"Are you vampires too?" He asks. The taller one said nothing and even though they wore sunglasses, Gary could feel them rolling their eyes. Their partner was more pleasant and answered in the affirmative. "Okay well. I'll be right back. I need to consult with a human. I have a headache from flying and vampires don't get headaches."
After some assurances, they took him to a Walgreens and acquired advil, some green tea, and two packs of pudding. He wanted to ask why the can said Arizona Tea if they were in Texas but decided not to. They didn't seem like the type to joke around. He read their text messages instead. Very informative.
Finally after what seemed like a span of time both too long and over in a flash, they pulled up to an exorbitant mansion. It's grandiosity distracted him from his multitude of streams. The biggest house he's seen in... well, ever.
He exits the limo, with his companions carrying his bags. Toying with his hoodie's string with his left hand, he walks where they direct him, and only near the door does he half turn towards them. "You two shouldn't worry about your off hour activities anymore. Everyone knows. Just admit your love already." Weirdos.
I LOVE IT
The two men exchange a glance just as Godric opens the door. "He is right, you know," Godric tells them, gesturing for them to enter. "Mr. Bell, I hope the trip was not too stressful." Stepping back, he leads them into the open living room, the fireplace on but only for decorative purposes. "Let me show you to your room for the weekend."
The room he leads them to is elaborate without being gaudy, all subdued wallpaper and crown molding. It could have been in any number of home decor magazines. The heavy shutters on the windows are the only clue that it might be a room for a passing vampire. "All the rooms are light tight, I'm afraid," and he actually sounds genuinely apologetic, "so you won't get much sunshine this weekend, but you are free to come and go as you please."
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By contrast, he was taller than Godric by a couple inches, offering a half-smile in greeting, and seemed almost entirely at ease. No fear for his own safety, or concern about the new environment. That was a problem for later; compartmentalizing. Before following, he turns to his travelling companions.
"Pudding goes in the fridge. Tea does too. C'mon. You can't be that old," he says to them. This time the taller gentleman made no attempts to disguise his eyeroll.
From the door to the bedroom, he looks around himself much like a tourist at a museum. He understood wealth and extravagance, to a point. Much like relationships or small talk, however, they seemed unnecessarily valued. Godric was more interesting. From the way he carried himself to the glimpse of tattoo; he was very New and Shiny.
"Sunshine. Hah. Serotonin. Happy chemicals." He moves into the room, looks around, nodding. "It's nice. Cared for. No coffins, but that's good. It's not my time to sleep in a coffin."
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"No coffins," he confirms. "I am old enough now that I can afford a bit of luxury for myself and those in the nest. I am glad you are pleased with it. You have arrived at a fortunate time, Mr. Bell. They," and he doesn't elaborate who 'they' are; it doesn't matter, "have decided I should get something called a 'smart phone,' though I doubt the intelligence of anything that arrives in a box."
He leaves Gary for a moment and returns with an iPhone in a box, something he holds out in front of him like it both contains all the information in the universe, and a dead rat.
If Godric wasn't over two centuries old, the look he gives would plainly read "Help me." Instead, he manages to just look serene.
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He removes his hoody, and becomes more acquainted with his living space. It wasn't right, too new, and he had to make to make it His Own. Upon a nearby nightstand, he requisitions a chessboard - likely ancient, great craftsmanship - leaving the pieces elsewhere. Standing above this he begins to organize everything by the grid pattern. The rooms and their cameras each to their own square. His phone to another. His hands movements are like a composer's; a mix of his own electrical sign language, and basic gestures found upon any smart phone.
Speaking of... He turns back to Godric when he returns, dismissing the streams by closing his fist in the air, as one might catching a ball.
"You shouldn't dismiss what this box contains," he says as he takes it gently from him. Gary moves it to another nightstand and reverently begins emptying its contents. "Its everything. If you know how to use it. I can teach you. Also encrypt it. No vampire secrets getting out."
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/doesn't know iphones
{The Boat Technique
The slightly-over-a-mile distance takes a bit for him to walk, he isn't exactly in the kind of shape he used to be in once upon a time, but he's there roughly on the agreed upon time, give or take a few minutes. He finds the picnic table by the pond that's a little more isolated than some of the other places around the park and lays across one side of the bench as he waits.
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It's a nice, brisk, chill autumn evening. The colors of the leaves, and their crunch, are the best part about this season. Maybe the rain too but as long as it wasn't too cold. The cold was an important distinction between Enjoyable Day vs Cozy Up With Warm Blanket Day. This was currently the former although later, the coziest of blankets would be needed.
He arrives soon after his texting friend, hoping onto a pile of wind-swept leaves to crunch beneath his sneakers. From there he follows a trail of them, one footstep per colorful leaf, to the picnic table. There's a gesture, closing the signals around him, and then he looks down at Klaus with a curious head tilt.
"That cannot be comfortable. Or safe. I hope you don't get any splinters stuck in you."
((this tag brought to you by autumn ambience))
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He spreads his hands across the table, "Come, sit, join me." he has this charismatic pull that almost makes you unable to resist the idea, which is probably how Klaus ended up in so many of the messes he did, but whatever, details~. He swings his legs over the edge of the bench on the side of the table he's occupying so he's sitting properly for the moment.
"So, have you ever tried rolling one? Like, ever-ever?" Because it's good to know exactly where the kid is on that scale.
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He sits down opposite his new teacher with his hands close to the table's edge. He inspects the wood for dust, dashing away a bit of it, then sets his forearms near the edge again. The cotton wristband he wore tonight was a simply, navy blue. He'd prefer to keep it dust-free. He holds it now, giving it a loose twist.
"Nuh-uh. No rolling for me. Pipes were recommended. No fuss no muss. And prettier." He's fond of his colorful glass one at home. He folds his hands together, elbows on the table. "You've rolled many." A question that comes out like a statement of fact.
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"They're right about the no fuss, no muss with a pipe, and glass is aaaalways better than metal. Don't ever get a metal one. They're gross, they get too dirty too quick and cleaning them is a pain and I dunno, something about the resin and the metal-- it just--" he makes some vague, quick motions with both hands. "mixes together and it tastes nasty." He doesn't know why, it just does, trust him, okay?
He busies himself with filling is grinder with a chunk of bud to crush up for the join as he explains. "It'll be kinda hard at first, you'll probably fuck up a bunch of perfectly good papers, but like with all things, with practice, comes perfection." He grins and dumps the ground up weed on the table. He decidedly does not care if a little dust gets in it, so it's just straight on the table top, sorry, Gary.
"So it's like this," he pulls one of the papers from the pack and shows him as he slowly goes through the motions he could do in a minute if he wasn't trying to teach. "Fold it in half, make a good little crease in the middle, right? And then you're gonna twist the end, just one end, real tight like this." Once it's twisted like he wants, he shows him the end result of that step. "See how it kinda looks like a boat? That's why it's called that." he waves a hand dismissively. "Anyway, you just... pack it in there..." he pretty much piles the majority of what he'd dumped out on the table into the empty space of the paper. "Aaaand you're gonna roll it, look-" he sets the example joint down and lifts his hands, joint-free, up so Gary can see the sort of twisting motion he's making between his fingers and his thumbs. "you're gonna roll it in your fingers like that, okay?" He picks it up and actually shows him with the joint now, rolling it between his fingers.
"And lick it 'n stick it," he finishes the tutorial with a joint that he's holding out to the other guy. "See? Easy." He grins.
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that one icon where his signal looks like smoke
heee love it
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just low-key tweaks the umbreallas into alphas'verse tbh
strangely it totally works!
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My question first. Your signal is in *my* room.
Why does it change colors so often?
That's not normal.
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Colors? I don't know what you mean by that.
[Maybe the person is high. Philip's fingers curl into a fist at the thought. He's still trying to get a handle on his host's... extra-curricular activities. The addiction makes him a liability, but he can't function without it. Marcy has figured out the dosage to keep him functional, but it won't last forever. That's the hope, at least, eventually he'll be able to kick it completely.
"If you take more than that, I'll know it's because you want it."
Her words still ring in his mind.]
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[And so at the appointed hour Matthew shows up to Gary's place with a backpack on his back, letting himself in.]
Evening, you.
whoops, an accidental novel yet again... worth the wait?
Make yourself at home. However that Spanish phrase goes. I can't ever remember.
[He's dressed simply for the evening, cotton crimson striped shirt and gray sweatpants, fitting for a home that's more spacious and rustic than it is a flashy show of wealth. It was a comfortable, if spartan, loft apartment residence, high ceilings and big windows, perfect for those rainy nights. Nothing in the way of his signals. Dimly lit for the evening; the moon outside cascaded a swath of light through what counted as the main room. The couches and spread out chairs were mostly in shadow with a large tv, one of the few extravagances, set across the room.
The bedroom was just off to the side, if Matthew ventured in that direction. As with the rest of the living space, the room had only a few portraits hanging nearby, of a lighthouse by the sea, another of a moon and stars, but otherwise it was a space built for necessity. A nightstand held a stack of books, two mysteries to one horror, next to a comfortably plush bed that might easily fit three people.
Back in the kitchen, a space that was tidy but lived in, Gary was checking the temperatures of the steaks with a thermometer. Many years on his own and he still could not tell by sight alone if a portion of meat was "done" or not. He calls out to his guest.]
I forgot to ask. Did you prefer medium, or well-done?
You always are, darling.
[The wolf-mind would prefer it raw, but that's probably not something to mention this late in the game while the food's already on the fire.
Making himself at home means Matthew's shoes come off near the door, before heading over toward the kitchen to give Gary a broad grin.]
It all smells really good.
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"Glad you could make it and you were not attacked by other rogue wolves. I've been monitoring where I could." It's a kind compliment, truly. A beat. "Oh, right, the steaks. Guess you pick up on all the spices. It's a blend my mom made long ago. Stuck with me."
He leans back against the wall nearest the oven. Just a few more minutes to wait.
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"I can smell all the spices, but I can't identify them all. I'm not that good in the kitchen--most of the cooking I did was breakfasts. Also, thank you for monitoring, but I'm not sure if I like the implication that I'm a rogue wolf."