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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Lancelot reaches to grab Faolan's arm and hauls him along the bridge, half tempted to pick him up and carry him if it'll make him move faster.

If they go down the other side, they'll be below it. It'll jump on them, and that -- that is not something Lancelot thinks he wants to experience. He skids to a halt at the top of the steps down, risks a glance back.

"Shoot it!"

Normally he wouldn't condone violence to dogs but, well, this is not an ordinary dog.

Faolan wants to yell that with all this being tugged around he is hardly likely to get a shot in, but he appreciates being dragged to safety nonetheless. Once Lancelot skids to a stop he does the same, turning and raising his gun at the approaching creature. There's only one thing for it. Even if he can't get in a good hit, he knows he's got to force it off the edge of the crossing. He can't let it get all the way over to them, then they're as good as dead.

"Stay back!" he orders Lancelot, and shifts his stance to fire.

He doesn't have an infinite number of bullets, so he has to make this count. Starting in a grand swoop from one side of the railings to the other, he starts shooting at it. The first shot misses and it ducks sideways, rolling into the barrier. The second shot he aims at the barrier it's crashed into, and it throws itself into the air. How many bullets does he have left? He doesn't have time to count.

His heart seems to skip a beat. The thing is so close, and so close as it is Lancelot has an alarmingly good concept of how big it is. It crashes into the barrier, jumps, and then Faolan hits it --

and his gun clicks.

The last shot is enough to make it misjudge its land. It scrabbles as it crashes over the edge of the edge of the concrete bridge, claws scraping horribly. Lancelot stays frozen a second, watching it, unsure if he wants it to fall or not. The tracks below are live, or at least some of them are. Could a werewolf survive that? What would it do if it did? Lancelot swallows hard, inches up beside Faolan again uneasily.

Faolan swears, loudly and emphatically, as his gun clicks on empty. Luckily for him, he seems to have done enough to get what he wanted anyway, and with the creature scrabbling on the edge of the bridge, Faolan is left with a few options. They could just run and hope that it doesn't regain its balance -- but if it does, then they're really out of luck. They could push it over and be done with the thing -- but then it might survive the fall even if they do, and if it does, then he could still send it after them. No, he supposes, with a sinking feeling of dread. They need to get the collar off.

Faolan holsters his gun (like hell he's losing it, even if it is useless at this point), and slowly inches his way forward towards it, hands outstretched in caution. The wolf is still scrabbling over the side of the barrier, they can do this. All at once, Faolan throws himself upon the creatures head, arms locked around its massive face, putting his whole weight into it so that it can neither swing and snap at him nor at Lancelot. But it's a serious struggle for so small a man, and he will not be able to hold it like this forever.

"The collar!!" Faolan nearly screams at Lancelot. "Get it's goddamned collar off!!"

He hesitates as Faolan creeps forward, unsure what the man is going to do. Is he going to push it? Can Lancelot stomach to watch such a thing? There are no oncoming trains, and yet --

Then Faolan is lunging for it and his eyes widen, unsure how to process the strangle hold the man has on it. The man's voice trickles through, somehow, and Lancelot darts forward with a start. Collar? Since when did werewolves wear collars? Yet he has no time to question it, begins scrabble his hands over the creatures fur as it struggles.

There is a collar, too. Smooth metal, tightly closed around its throat. He works his hands around it, trying to find some form of fastening -- something to loosen it, anything --

"Got it!"

It snaps loose and he darts back, collar still in his hands, hands half-raised as if to ward it off should it take this opportunity to come after him.

Of course, now that the collar is off, Faolan is faced with the tricky situation of figuring out how he's going to let the creature go. He does feel rather bad that the only option in this that won't lead to the wolf turning right around and coming after them again -- this time of its own accord -- is by tossing it off the ledge and onto the tracks. At least it will stand a better chance now. And if it survives, there might be a chance that he can find it again, this time as a man, and be able to have it lead him back to its master -- who knows.

One step at a time, though, he knows, and so it's after a cry to Lancelot, "Stay back!", that he braces himself and shoves the wolf away and off, into the unknown. Turning, he does not wait to hear or see what might become of it, he runs at Lancelot and grabbing the wrist of the hand with the collar, he grinds out another command to him. "Run."

Lancelot stares in horror as Faolan pushes the wolf down toward the tracks, starts forward a step before the man catches his wrist. Run, he instructs, and Lancelot resists a second before complying. His stomach twists uneasily, and as he breaks into a run at last it isn't quite as quick as before. Isn't quite as energetic or determined.

Nothing follows them as they run down the stairs and out the other side, around a car park and up toward a new patch of housing. Lancelot slows, and his heart may not be racing any more but he's clearly a little shaken.

"It isn't coming," he protests, trying to tug his wrist free and frowning down at the collar.

Faolan will not let Lancelot stop until it is clear that nothing is coming after them and that nothing will, and even then he is hesitant. He may not insist on running, but it would not do to stick around. And he's not certain what will happen if he lets go of the other man's wrist, so for the minute he's keeping his hand exactly where he's latched it.

"It isn't coming for now," Faolan says, turning to throw a glance over their shoulder, before looking at Lancelot. He looks... Well, shaken is a bit mild, but that's definitely one way of putting it. Faolan keeps the pair of them going, although he does let them slow to a walk now. "We should keep moving," he explains. "If it's still alive and it comes to, it's going to track any human within the area until the moon sets tonight. I don't want to even think about a third encounter, and certainly not a second in one night."

Right, tracking. Of course. That's something dogs do. Lancelot swallows uneasily, letting himself be lead along still.

"Where to?" he prompts, "I only meant to come out for a few things... I can't leave Lily shut in long."

She'll be pining by now, he thinks. She'll think he's abandoned her. What if the wolf finds her? What if he isn't there?

Lily? Oh, right. The dog. Faolan glances back at him again, and slowly reaches to gently take the collar from his hands. Knowing part of the reason he's probably so shaken is the way that they left things with the wolf. He seems the type to be concerned about the well-being of an animal, even if said animal was trying to kill him not moments before, and Lancelot himself had been yelling at Faolan to shoot it.

"Without this," Faolan says to him, raising the collar for him to see, "if it survived that fall, at least it stands a chance, alright? Without the collar, the vampire doesn't own him anymore. If you're worried about it, don't be." Faolan reaches to tuck the collar into his jacket. He'll stash it at home later, but for now, he's got the feeling that the less Lancelot has to remind him of what just happened, visually or otherwise, the easier it will be to cope.

"How far off do you live?" he asks. "I'll take you home." The irony of the role reversal, him escorting the other man instead of the other way around, is not lost on him in this moment.

The vampire doesn't own him. Why would a vampire own a werewolf? Was it a werewolf? Was it just a big dog? It looked like what Lancelot might imagine a werewolf looks like, but he hasn't any proof. He's never even seen one before.

His fingers curl once they're free of the collar, and Lancelot lets out a slow breath -- tries to think.

"Not far," he admits, and swallows awkwardly. "You don't have to -- I'm sure you have... better things to do."

You know, with his... guns and... shooting at things. Which begs the question what does Faolan do? Lancelot thinks that's a question for another day, he's confused enough already.

Faolan shakes his head at the other man's hesitation, and persists. "The last thing I need is to let you go off and get hit by a bus or something if I don't. It's fine. You can tell me to get lost once we're there, but until you're safely inside your door, you're not getting rid of me that easily." He looks around, wondering how shaken Lancelot truly is. Wondering whether he'll be able to navigate or whether he's going to have to call a taxi or something.

"How far is 'not far'? What's the address?" he asks, hoping it's at least a little distance, so that he can have a little space from what just happened and the safety of home. Faolan knows all too well what it's like to have the mosters take that sort of feeling away from you, after all.

Lancelot frowns at the question, eyes skimming the area they're in. Trying to get his bearings. They've run quite a way from where they were, after all.

"Assuming we don't want to go back the way we came," he begins, which he's pretty sure Faolan won't want to do... "Twenty five minutes, I think? Walking. It's back up past the station. Along past the roundabout, a few roads down."

Faolan nods. He hasn't let go of the other man's wrist, not just yet. He's still not quite certain at the other man's reaction to all of it. Whether he's going to start running or whether he'll pass out or what. It seems to him a better idea to keep holding on, for just now at least.

"Hey," he says, tugging him closer and trying to get Lancelot's attention, trying to get his eyes to focus up and on his face. "Are you going to be alright to walk that far?" PCSO Lancelot Dulac, with a fluffy white Samoyed named Lily, who seems to be the only hobby of his that Faolan knows about thus far, how should Faolan know how the other man is going to handle this. Any of this. The fact that he hasn't started railing on him about how vampires and werewolves shouldn't be real is either a sign of how easy this will be, given the other man's imagination, or how deeply in shock he's sunk. Faolan doesn't really know him enough to be able to tell one way or the other.

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.

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