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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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."

Faolan takes in another deep breath, letting it out slowly. So. Not quite the same as things had been for him. In some ways, that's better for Lancelot. The system isn't... Well. It isn't perfect, nothing is. But it sounds like Lancelot had a fairly good experience of things. Possibly better than he did himself, at any rate. At 18 years old, you're legally old enough to take care of yourself -- and with no family left, that's exactly what Faolan had had to do.

He hesitates at the question, before nodding slightly. "I'd heard about it," he says, before admitting, "though I hadn't really done any looking into it. Sometimes there isn't a lot that we can do, in terms of the fae..." Short of starting another war. And Hillingdon was rather against the idea of such a thing, so. "It's that recent, then?" he asks, sitting forward in his seat slightly, before gesturing vaguely at the other man. "Your memories coming back, I mean. Only a few months...?"

Lancelot nods sadly, dropping his eyes to his drink.

"June. There are still... gaps. Things are still blurry. Things I see job bits and pieces, the... what we saw tonight cleared some things in my memory too. I suppose it will all take time, although... sometimes I wonder. If it would have been better to not remember, if... some things are better left closed."

He'd been happy, after all, before this. Will he still be happy, if all his memories come back? Lancelot honestly cannot say.

Cleared some things... With the wolf chase. Ah... Faolan purses his lips slightly for a moment, looking down into the glass in his hands, feeling guilty at that. Wondering whether he should feel guilty or not, but feeling guilty nonetheless. Especially as the other man suggests that it might be better not to remember these things. Ah, well. Too late now, he supposes.

"It is up to you, I suppose," Faolan says. "Whether you would rather be more content to have been left wondering, rather than have your answers and simply not like what you've gotten. I am sorry that you did get wrapped up in tonight. Sorry that I can't take it back. That wolf, his master... They were after me, not you. I'm sorry you got mixed up in the middle of all of it." Sorrier than he can say. Lancelot barely knows him, to have nearly died or to have been bitten because of the simple fact that they had been in the same place at the same time -- because he had happened to stop and help him on the street that one night? "They must have assumed you were working with me. Must have seen you with me and decided to try a different route for getting back at me, I suppose."

He wonders how angry the vampire is going to be, at the loss of his pet. Wonders whether he's going to let it go or seek him out somehow another way. He supposes only time will tell. He only hopes that he hasn't just gotten Lancelot wrapped up in the middle of this, in doing so.

"You are hardly to blame, Faolan. You did not seek me out. It was my choice to help you, and my own efforts that drew attention to me."

He shrugs, sips his drink and offers a thin smile.

"Perhaps that is the real reason I feel so ill at ease," he offers, a fraction more lightly. "I am not used to so much attention, let alone people chasing me down the street. I suppose I should be flattered."

Faolan lets out a rough bark of laughter. "Flattered? For nearly being eaten? All because of your vague association with me? If you say so..." He raises the drink himself, taking a healthy swallow -- definitely more than the sip that the other man had. He sighs heavily, leaning forward on the table in front of him, reaching a hand up to run across his face, scratching his fingers through the stubble there. God, he hopes he hasn't just led anyone straight to this man's door. Wouldn't that be just his luck.

"I would ask if it should make you think twice about the next time you might stop and help a stranger on the road, but..." He sizes the other man up. "From what I can tell about you, I don't think even this would keep you from such things." He lets out another slightly self-deprecating laugh. "This might be the only drink I get to share with you though, if this is the luck I bring you."

Lancelot is about to carry on his idle quip about positive and negative attention when.. when Faolan sighs, rubs his face, and something about his tone takes all the attempt at humour from him.

This might be the only drink I get to share with you though, if this is the luck I bring you.

He frowns at that, a touch guarded, and flexes his fingers around his own glass.

"I'd rather think of it the first of many," he counters, "and if you're to bring me bad luck we can make a habit of stopping for a drink afterwards. A little more cheerful than thinking it'll be our only chance."

Faolan glances up at the other man at that, uncertain in that moment himself. He's certainly never had a home insist on being friends with him, associating with him at least, especially not after nearly having gotten killed for it. At least, not that he can recall, at any rate. "That depends on whether you would welcome such a thing, I suppose," he says, shrugging after a moment. "And if you would like for it to be a drink," he adds, after a moment's pause. He quirks something of a smile at the other man again. "You keep suggesting such things, and yet. Something tells me you are not nearly as much an enthusiast as that."

He raises his eyebrows at him over the rim of his glass as he raises it to take another sip. Over the rim of his glass of amaretto. Amaretto that Lancelot had found in the corner of a cooking cabinet, for that matter. He figures his point will be made as well as it can be, in that gesture. "You needn't keep offering such things, if it's only on my account." Though he has to wonder what had him offering such things to him in the first place. Simply because it was done? Or did he simply seem the sort to appreciate such a gesture? (Possibly because in truth, he was.)

Once you're lost in twillights's blue

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