undergrounds | Once you're lost in twillights's blue

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Once you're lost in twillights's blue

Closed to Faolan: Night-time Walk
If he has meant to or not, Lancelot has found himself associating more and more with people like him.

People with abilities, or knowledge of them. People who know about witches and ghosts, fae and doorways. People who know these things exist not just in films and TV shows and books, but in the shadows around them.

Lancelot had never expected to be anything special, to be anything other than what he is. After all, what qualities does Lancelot have? He's a Community Officer, he loves his dog, he goes to work like anyone else and comes home and goes to bed. His life is hardly rife with excitement and adventure.

Or at least, it hadn't been.

He's thinking about this one evening, having belatedly realised he'll need to run back out to the shops to get a few things. He leaves Lily behind, not meaning to be long, and cuts up a few side roads to get to the supermarket before it closes.

That's when he hears the sound. It sounds like a dog distantly, he thinks, the clack-clack of a big dog's claws on pavement. He glances back idly, but ignores it, expecting someone was out walking their dog late.

Something makes his hackles rise, some sense telling him to run. Making his pulse pick up.

He starts to walk faster, and the animal does too.

That answers the question. Lancelot breaks into a run, and tries to remember the quickest route to somewhere with a gate he can close.

Open: A Day-time Investigation

Lancelot is bruised, a little jumpy, but he's alive -- and now he's somewhat determined to prove what was chasing him.

He's dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt, sleeves pushed up as he re-walks the path from the night before with his Lily at his side. The fluffy white Samoyed may not be the world's best hunting dog, but she has a good sense of smell. Far better than his by any estimation. He frowns at the ground as he walks, looking for anything -- fur, blood, scraps of something from the fight. Anything that might help him work out what attacked him, if it was truly a werewolf. Anything that might help track such a thing, or that might tell him if it was alone.

Pausing at the sight of something he crouches down, frowning at a dark patch on the pavement and trying to replay the scenario in his head. Perhaps if he could get someone to run a trace -- would such a thing even work? Could the blood of a werewolf be traced? Would it match the human before they shifted? Would that even help? He lets out a sigh and reaches out to ruffle Lily as she sniffs at it. At the rate they were going, it was most definitely going to be a long day.

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The question makes Lancelot focus in on Faolan, makes him frown a little more -- but he nods.

"Yes, of course," he assures him, and vaguely lifts a hand to gesture along the road. "Down to the end here, we'll hit the high-street again. Then right along the main road."

Instructions given he begins to walk, not bothering to free his wrist from Faolan's grip. He can let go if he wants, or he can walk this way -- it doesn't make a particular difference to Lancelot. In a way, the contact is reassuring. Reminds him someone is still with him, should anything else happen.

As Lancelot starts to walk, Faolan moves to walk with him. He's still unsure of the other man's response to the whole of this. He isn't asking about werewolves or vampires, he isn't asking Faolan to explain himself or what the creature was, why he did what he did, why he had been carrying a gun even. He seems very focused on returning home, and that in and of itself leads Faolan to believe that regardless of how fine he seems, he is otherwise not at all.

Lancelot's stride is longer than him, and he knows where they're going. He feels vaguely like a child being pulled along as he is. But he does not let go. Not just yet, anyway. Because Lancelot isn't convincing anyone, certainly not Faolan himself. "Easy," he reassures him, for no reason in particular, other than the other man still seems tense even as they walk. He doesn't say that if it was still after them, then it would have come after them already. That's hardly reassuring. Instead, he merely shifts his hand to have a more comfortable grip on the other man's arm. "Your home will still be there no matter how fast you get there," he says gently, "I promise."

Lancelot's eyes slide sideways, assessing Faolan a moment before he nods slightly. Your home will still be there no matter how fast you get there.

It might be. It might not be. Lancelot is suddenly not sure of much at all, but he can accept being checked. Can try to force his shoulders to drop a little as he walks, try to ease his pace to appear more relaxed even if it isn't really.

The high street still has a few people going back and forth even at this time of night, people standing in groups laughing as they wait for buses -- walking back from restaurants or down to bars. Lancelot keeps his head down as he walks, tries to thread through people without drawing attention. Without making eye contact. One of the bouncers catches his attention with a wave as they walk past O'Neill's, glances down at where Faolan is latched onto him and gives him a once over before deciding to let it slide.

Faolan wonders at the look from the bouncer. Wonders if the man knows him, if the man is questioning just what exactly is going on here, with Lancelot hurrying down the street barely meeting anyone's eyes and with Faolan dragged along behind him, clinging to his arm as he goes. He wonders how it looks to an outsider. Not that it really matters to him, in the end, but then he supposes that Lancelot does live around here. He should probably be more careful about this. Ah, well. He'll worry about that later. For now, his focus remains on getting the other man home. And he lets the thoughts of the bouncer and the once-over he'd received from him slip away for now.

"Hey," he says, catching a moment when there aren't all that many people around to hear him again. He has half a mind to stop him in his tracks, but he agrees they'll probably be safer once they reach their destination, which is probably the only thing that stops him. Still... "Talk to me. Are you okay?"

His eyes flick back up and around to Faolan, guarded now -- brow furrowed in an expression that doesn't seem to suit the same man who had so playfully joked about about criminal flies and man-eating Samoyeds. Lancelot eyes Faolan like a cornered animal, uneasy -- fingers flexing as he slows a moment. He flits his gaze away and around the road, as if checking for anyone (or anything) around them.

"Fine," he offers quietly, and speeds up again. "We're not far away. You don't have to stay. You must have other places to be."

Lancelot offers him an answer at last, and true to form, Faolan doesn't believe it for a moment. He isn't fine, he's scared, and rightfully so, all things considered. Faolan just wants to make certain that the other man is alright before he leaves him alone like this. It can be quite the shock, a reveal like this. He knows. And until he gets that sort of vibe -- until he does see from him more of the man he had met before, the man who joked and smiled and offered help even when he was too stubborn to politely accept it. Until then, he would be there for him as well.

Faolan shakes his head at the other man's statement. "No," he says. "I don't." It had been an early night, relatively speaking, and for once Faolan had been heading home, not out. He really didn't have anywhere to be until tomorrow. And with no one at home waiting for him, not even a fish... "I'm staying. For a little while, at least." To make sure he'll be alright, the unspoken implication hangs in the air. "You still owe me a drink, I believe. This wasn't exactly the way I had imagined it, but. I don't know about you, but I could use one. If you've got anything in..." Trying to deflect, maybe keep the other man's mind off of what just happened, for a while. Long enough for him to relax, at least.

A drink. Lancelot lets out a slow breath, trying to steady himself as he detaches from Faolan and fishes out his keys. Gives himself time to answer by rummaging through the keyring as he looks for the right one while they walk.

"I suppose I might," he allows finally, "although nothing strong -- I'm afraid I don't normally have company aside from Lily, so..."

He shrugs a little, finally settling on the right one and lifting his eyes to the road again, still avoiding looking directly at Faolan. He has a disconcerting feeling the man can see right through him. It isn't far to his flat now, at least. It's a quiet sort of cul-de-sac off the main through-road, a typical victorian-style property in a row of identical properties split into two properties -- upstairs and down. Soft light glows through the shutters of a wide bay window facing the road and as he puts the key into the lock there's a distinct scuffling the other side of an animal rushing to meet him. He pauses a moment, glances back at Faolan somewhat apologetically before opening the door to his excited canine friend.

Faolan shakes his head. "Whatever you've got is fine. Beggar's cant be choosers, and I'm not particularly difficult to please. Unless you're about to tell me that you don't drink, but I don't know what you're doing inviting me out for drinks in the first place if such a thing is the case."

Faolan realizes he may be babbling, but he's trying to be reassuring, for what good it will do. Of course, once they arrive to what must be Lancelot's place, as the other man steps up to the door and begins to open it, he's well aware that nothing he says or does can be more reassuring than getting inside. Especially with a greeting like that. He hangs back a little, unsure of what she might do, upon seeing him at her home. Unsure whether Lancelot's about to shut the door in his face. He supposes it would serve him right, considering what sort of trouble he seemed to get the other man in this evening. He tries not to hold his breath as he waits for his invitation or his signal that he's really not that welcome after all.

Lily's tail swishes excitedly over her back and she bounces in the hallways, front paws lifting a fraction every so often then dropping as she resists the urge to jump up. She's trying to be good, trying but he was gone forever!

"Good girl," he soothes, and gently nudges her backwards -- holds open the door with one hand and glances back at Faolan before inclining his head to suggest he follow. "I have some ginger beer," he adds finally, hesitating a little. "... and some white wine, I think, although that's a little..."

Odd, he thinks, to be using to misery drink after being chased by a monster. He drops to ruffle Lily's fur as she glances sideways at Faolan, unsure what to make of his presence, and Lancelot finally shrugs off his jacket as he steps through to the kitchen.

"I might have something else? I can look..."

Faolan can't help but raise his eyebrows slightly at the selection Lancelot has named thus far. It's not exactly... Well. Not what he'd had in mind. But beggars can't be choosers and he did just invite himself into the other man's house. He steps forward inside, making sure the door is closed (and locked) behind him.

"Thanks," he says. He moves to slip his jacket off himself, not knowing quite what to do with it, glancing at Lily and looking just about as unsure of being there as she is of him in her home as well. He'd intended for the gesture to be comforting -- have a little drink, be able to relax a little, get Lancelot to do a little talking, talk to him and explain himself a little, and hopefully ease that look on his face and return him to the smiling, joking man that he'd met before. He didn't mean to inconvenience him by it, however. Does he really not have anything stronger than wine and ginger beer...?

The kitchen and living-room flow together into one large open-plan area, fairly plainly decorated -- light wood, white walls, wooden floors with a plain rug in the middle of the living room and a sofa of some indiscernible sort with a throw over it (presumably to protect against doggy paws and fur). There's little in the way of personal items besides a set of hooks with a few coats on (where Lancelot deposits his jacket now) and some shoes, a crate in the corner of the kitchen with a blanket for Lily and some well chewed toys. He begins rummaging absently through cupboards, Lily circling his feet inquisitively while still keeping an eye on Faolan.

The bottles he begins fishing down are not much more inspiring. Some sort of oil, with curly writing along the bottle that clearly isn't english, another bottle of oil that looks like it might have chillies in it -- then Lancelot frowns, squints and hops a little to grab something at the back of the top shelf. It's a square sort of bottle, and Lancelot squints at it a moment before looking up and hesitating.

"Amaretto? I think I bought it to make a tiramisu once. I could chill it, or we could have it in coffee I suppose. Is it too late for coffee?"

For some reason, Lancelot seems terribly uncertain about even that. As if he's been rendered incapable of knowing what to do now that Faolan is standing in his flat, but then again there isn't quite etiquette for what to serve someone who saved you from a supernatural beast. Or if there is, he doesn't know it.

Faolan glances at the other man, awkwardly shuffling his jacket in his hands as the other man offers -- amaretto? Really? Of course the strongest alcohol he's got is hidden in the back of the cabinet and only there because he'd needed it for cooking. Faolan really shouldn't be surprised, knowing the other man even as little as he does, and yet. Nothing else? Ah, well. Amaretto will have to do then.

"Over ice, if you've got it," he says, stepping forward and deciding that it's better to put his jacket on the table than hanging it up on the hook -- he doesn't want to make it seem like he's too much at home. "If you want to get some sleep at all tonight, it should probably just be over ice." Plus he gets the feeling that Lancelot's wired enough as it is, without needing any caffeine to add to it, for that matter.

He winces slightly at the observation, sets down the bottle and tugs open the freezer to begin rummage for ice. That much he has at least, sets on the counter while he digs out vaguely appropriate glasses.

"Please," he says, half distracted by the act of neatly breaking out the ice cubes but still glancing over. "You may as well sit down, if you're going to stay long enough to drink this. I know it is perhaps not ideal, not what you meant, but..."

Faolan shakes his head. "It's fine," he reassures the other man. "I'm not sure that it's what either of us imagined, when you asked me out for drinks. Though if you'd like, I wouldn't mind taking a rain check for when we can go out properly." Another one. Although the first time he'd said it, he realizes, he'd been mostly joking. He's somewhat joking here, but that doesn't make the situation any less... Well. Whatever it is right now. He still doesn't like that look in Lancelot's eyes.

He moves to take a chair as instructed, watching the other man prepare the ice, not quite knowing how to handle himself as he sits there and does so. Has he ever had to explain such things to someone before? He honestly can't recall. Perhaps he might have done. He's pretty sure he has, in fact. He's just not certain that he ever spoke to those people again, and if that would be the case here... He'd regret that, he realizes. "You can ask your questions of me now though, if you like," he offers, glancing down at the table as he does.

Questions, Faolan says, yet... what would Lancelot ask? Where should he even begin? He shifts uncomfortably, giving himself a moment to think as he pours out the drinks and closes the bottle.

"Forgive me," Lancelot says finally, "but I have not been entirely honest with you, Faolan." He sets the bottle down, frowns to himself then shakes his head. "Perhaps that is not true. I have not lied purposefully, there are simply... thinks I have not thought to share, because at the time I did not think them relevant. I suppose now I have found out rather abruptly that they are."

He takes a slow breath, brings over the drinks and slides one in front of Faolan.

"I have questions," he admits, "but I am... perhaps... not as blind to such things as we saw as you may have thought."

Faolan raises his eyebrows slightly at the other man's words, but waits for him to continue his explanation. Waits for him to explain further just what he means when he says that he is not 'as blind to such things as you may have thought'. He had some sort of an idea that he might have had something else going on, what with the incident with the fly, but he'd played it off and for the lack of anything else to do about it, Faolan had let it go. After his reaction to their initial meeting and Faolan's semi-concussed ranting about the wolf, he'd figured he'd had no idea about any of it. Even now, he's still surprised. He hadn't seemed to have known what he was doing out there. And hadn't he been surprised about the mention of vampires?

"I'm here to listen, just as much as explain," he offers, taking the drink from him as he does but holding off on picking it up just yet.

He's here to listen, he says, and Lancelot idly wonders if he the man knows what he'd be letting himself in for. Listening is an easy thing to promise, but Lancelot is not a person prone to sharing troubles or history -- and this... this is something long buried. Something he has had little chance to even try and share.

All he can do is try, he supposes.

"... Are you familiar with the term... 'Meta Human'?"

Lancelot slips down into a chair, draws his drink toward himself and squints questioningly at Faolan. He hopes he is, because explaining that on top of everything would be doubly complex.

Faolan raises one eyebrow at the other man slightly, but he nods as he does. Though he knows that the term can mean many different things depending on what abilities the person has, so meta-human is less of an explanation than another category might have been.

"I am," he says, and leaves it at that, looking at the other man expectantly. "I'm not one myself, but I'm. Familiar with the idea of it." He's familiar with the idea of a great many different other beings, but that's neither here nor there. It doesn't take a great leap in logic to be able to tell where Lancelot is going with this, given his speed and stamina he has since demonstrated to Faolan.

Well, that's a good start. Saves one bit of explaining, at least.

"I have been told that is the correct term for what I am. That others can... sense magic about me, that I have gifts that are not entirely... natural. It's complicated -- until recently I did not remember a great deal of my childhood. It turns out that it had been... sealed away from me, which is why I did not understand much of anything happening around me. Admittedly, I still don't. Plenty is fuzzy and my memories are... specific, not necessarily helpful for being chased by a werewolf through London."

Faolan raises both eyebrows now, at that explanation. As faltering as it might have been, it does give him a lot more than he had known before. And honestly, surprises him. Whatever he had expected of the other man, it had not been that. "Sealed away from you...?" Faolan questions. For such a thing is not done naturally, not normally at least. What more is there to this story that Lancelot has not yet told him?

"What do you remember, then?" he pushes, before realizing it might be a personal question and continuing on to add, "If I may ask. Perhaps there are more things than werewolves that I might be able to explain to you better."

His eyes dart to one side uneasily, weighing up the pros and cons of telling Faolan, then Lancelot takes a slow sip of his drink.

"Blood," he says finally. "The memories are... old, I was a child at the time, and they have been locked away so long they seem... detached from me. At the time I did not understand what was happening. Yet now..." He swallows, winces and tries to retrack what he's saying. "It must have been a turf war. I was too far too young to help. There were... wolves, running through the streets. My parents forced me to hide, left me to try and do what they could. They weren't... witches, weren't anything more than humans themselves -- although I think.. I think they knew what was going on. By the time I came out... everything had gone quiet."

Faolan takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he does, forcing himself to sit quietly and listen to the other man's story. To live through something like that as a child -- to lose the memories and then gain them back, after all these years -- Faolan can only imagine. He notes that Lancelot is using the past tense for his parents and he knows enough from his own personal experiences, having lived through the horrible massacre of his own family before his eyes, not to ask him straight to his face whether they had been killed by them or not. But he's willing to bet that the answer is yes, all things considered.

"Werewolves are... Incredibly violent. Fast. Strong. As a child, you wouldn't have stood a chance against them. If your parents knew anything about them, then they would have known. Done their best to protect you from it." Inwardly, Faolan wonders at the idea of regular humans knowing about such things, wonders whether they were hunters themselves. But that is neither here nor there, he supposes. And he falls silent, waiting for the other man to continue. Something tells him there is more to the story than that.

Lancelot nods at that, fidgets with his glass a little as he thinks.

"And they did. I cannot be sure exactly what the faction clash was, but... it seemed like whatever side the werewolves were facing lost. It was... summer, I think. Bright and hot. I went looking for anyone who might be alive, who might be able to help, but... the only thing I found was a fae. I suppose they might have been involved in the battle, or... just curious. It took me back to the Other Realm. I must have been there some years, my memories are... fuzzy still. Why they brought me back here I cannot say. Perhaps they tired of me. For most of my life, however, I did not remember a thing about my childhood. I suppose it was safest for them if I could not tell people what I knew of the Other Realm."

Could not share any secrets, any plans, although what secrets or plans there might have been he still does not remember. That, he supposes, may be for the best.

Faolan weighs that all over in his head. Family killed by wolves. Taken into the Other Realm by the fae. Well, a fae, but taken in with them nonetheless. Living with them there, beyond the world that they live in now. Being cast out, eventually. Having memories suppressed for it.

"How old were you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow slightly at the other man. "If I may ask? How old were you, when you returned here? Without your memories? What happened from then, that you should have not discovered such things until now, you said?" Not that it matters, of course. It's just that Faolan knows what it's like, to be on the cusp of adulthood, with nothing to speak of, nothing of his own. Having lost...everything he had known to be his. If it should have been even remotely similar for this other man, well then. He understands. He understands anyway, of course, but he understands even more for that.

"11, nearly 12. I hadn't any living relatives here, so... I was put through the adoption system. It wasn't bad -- everyone was very kind, of course, it... well, is just a little disorientating. To have so much of your life missing. I suppose everyone thought that... I had blocked it out, perhaps something terrible had happened. Perhaps that is why I had been missing for so long. It is a strange thing, to have so much uncertainty and... then to have it all removed. There--"

He hesitates, winces a little.

"Did you hear of the children going missing the other month? They were being taken through fae doors. I was... investigating, as a Community Officer. I happened to fall upon a door being closed. I suppose... it was enough of a push to begin undoing my blocks."

Once you're lost in twillights's blue

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