Joscelin Fitzthomas (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dredefulchilde) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2016-01-04 08:58 pm
dredefulchilde) wrote in undergrounds2016-01-04 08:58 pm
Entry tags:
No Way to Handle Things/Who Made Me So Bad - January Catch-All
Mamma, the weeping
Ealing, 4 January
Jamie Brown died on 28 July 1990. He was nine years old; the victim of an accidental drowning at a crowded water park. Joscelin knows this because he did his research. That is one of the main perks of the modern technological era; all it took was a name on a headstone and a few keystrokes on a smartphone and he had access to twenty-five year old obituaries and opinion pieces about whether the water park was liable for the tragedy.
It also helped him track down the boy's mother, Candice, at her flat in Ealing. She was still grieving, the poor old dear, all these years later.
Getting her to invite him into her flat had been a bit trickier than usual, but once he was in he wasted no time in integrating himself into her little family. Joss excelled at mind control; he had her fully convinced he was her long-lost little boy in a matter of minutes. The arrangement worked well for both of them. He was back in London for the first time since the Seventies, and she had a son to take care of once more.
But it's been six months, and Mrs. Brown, no longer as young as she had once been, is fading fast. He has to find a new blood bag. Soon.
Before that, however, there's an appointment to keep.
An all-night cafe is a strange place for a small boy to be at two o'clock in the morning, but the very large bribe the boy gave the proprietor to keep quiet means he remains undisturbed. Looking quite bored, he idly checks the time on his phone. That is when he hears the footsteps behind him.
"You're late, Lord Coward."
Mamma, the angels
Westminster, 6 January
The Sixth of January marks the Feast of the Epiphany, an important point on the liturgical calendar celebrating the arrival of the Three Kings to the Holy Family. Epiphany marks the end of the Christmas season, and the beginning of a series of holy days culminating in Candlemas in February.
It's also Joscelin's birthday. He is six hundred and seventy-nine.
Birthdays are hardly important in the life of a vampire. Now that he's in his seventh century, they don't exactly hold the same significance as they once did when he was alive. The only reason he even remembers that his birthday even is 6 January is because of the interminable church services he endured as a child before getting to go home and feast.
Still, it isn't every day a boy turns 679. He decides to treat himself - a day at the cinema, perhaps. Or a cupcake at the cafe down the street.
Or a visit to a blood bag for hire. Just to celebrate.
No sleep in heaven
Tower Hamlets, 15 January
It's taken months to work up to this. Tower Hamlets is Islington territory, pure and simple. He's been all around London, everywhere but here, since his return to the city more than six month ago...just not to the heart of the vampire's world.
It's changed a lot since he was in power here during the nineteenth century. So has he. He's calmer now, more patient. Revenge doesn't need to be hasty to be effective. Time is one thing he has a lot of.
He smirks at a figure in the distance.
"Pleasant evening, isn't it?"
Or Bethlehem.
Ealing, 24 January
It isn't raining for once; a small mercy. The full moon shines down on the wintry city, and Joscelin knows instinctively he must be careful--werewolves could be about. But that doesn't matter, not now. Not when Candice Brown is dying in his arms in the middle of an abandoned park.
Joss hadn't thought about her heart when he started feeding off her. It hasn't kept up well with the strain of the constant bloodloss, and it's giving out.
"Help me!" he calls, out trying to get someone's attention. "Someone! She's sick!" It isn't supposed to happen this way. He's stopped killing humans. That was one of the terms of his banishment and he's kept it, damn it.
"You're not going to die, old woman. Not yet."
He bites his wrist and holds it to her mouth.
Ealing, 4 January
Jamie Brown died on 28 July 1990. He was nine years old; the victim of an accidental drowning at a crowded water park. Joscelin knows this because he did his research. That is one of the main perks of the modern technological era; all it took was a name on a headstone and a few keystrokes on a smartphone and he had access to twenty-five year old obituaries and opinion pieces about whether the water park was liable for the tragedy.
It also helped him track down the boy's mother, Candice, at her flat in Ealing. She was still grieving, the poor old dear, all these years later.
Getting her to invite him into her flat had been a bit trickier than usual, but once he was in he wasted no time in integrating himself into her little family. Joss excelled at mind control; he had her fully convinced he was her long-lost little boy in a matter of minutes. The arrangement worked well for both of them. He was back in London for the first time since the Seventies, and she had a son to take care of once more.
But it's been six months, and Mrs. Brown, no longer as young as she had once been, is fading fast. He has to find a new blood bag. Soon.
Before that, however, there's an appointment to keep.
An all-night cafe is a strange place for a small boy to be at two o'clock in the morning, but the very large bribe the boy gave the proprietor to keep quiet means he remains undisturbed. Looking quite bored, he idly checks the time on his phone. That is when he hears the footsteps behind him.
"You're late, Lord Coward."
Mamma, the angels
Westminster, 6 January
The Sixth of January marks the Feast of the Epiphany, an important point on the liturgical calendar celebrating the arrival of the Three Kings to the Holy Family. Epiphany marks the end of the Christmas season, and the beginning of a series of holy days culminating in Candlemas in February.
It's also Joscelin's birthday. He is six hundred and seventy-nine.
Birthdays are hardly important in the life of a vampire. Now that he's in his seventh century, they don't exactly hold the same significance as they once did when he was alive. The only reason he even remembers that his birthday even is 6 January is because of the interminable church services he endured as a child before getting to go home and feast.
Still, it isn't every day a boy turns 679. He decides to treat himself - a day at the cinema, perhaps. Or a cupcake at the cafe down the street.
Or a visit to a blood bag for hire. Just to celebrate.
No sleep in heaven
Tower Hamlets, 15 January
It's taken months to work up to this. Tower Hamlets is Islington territory, pure and simple. He's been all around London, everywhere but here, since his return to the city more than six month ago...just not to the heart of the vampire's world.
It's changed a lot since he was in power here during the nineteenth century. So has he. He's calmer now, more patient. Revenge doesn't need to be hasty to be effective. Time is one thing he has a lot of.
He smirks at a figure in the distance.
"Pleasant evening, isn't it?"
Or Bethlehem.
Ealing, 24 January
It isn't raining for once; a small mercy. The full moon shines down on the wintry city, and Joscelin knows instinctively he must be careful--werewolves could be about. But that doesn't matter, not now. Not when Candice Brown is dying in his arms in the middle of an abandoned park.
Joss hadn't thought about her heart when he started feeding off her. It hasn't kept up well with the strain of the constant bloodloss, and it's giving out.
"Help me!" he calls, out trying to get someone's attention. "Someone! She's sick!" It isn't supposed to happen this way. He's stopped killing humans. That was one of the terms of his banishment and he's kept it, damn it.
"You're not going to die, old woman. Not yet."
He bites his wrist and holds it to her mouth.
no subject
"Well, it's a special circumstance tonight, isn't it? It's my birthday, you see. My six hundred seventy-ninth. But everyone knows that six-seventy-nine is the new forty. Or twelve in my case, I suppose."
He swings his legs under the seat, looking for all the world like a child out for a special treat.
"Will you join me in a piece of cake?"
no subject
She leans down so the humans won't hear, every muscle tense as she tries to remind herself that she can't hit him in public, and snaps, "If I stick around here, it'll be to make sure you don't make it to your six hundred and eightieth."
On some level she knows that, if he really is that old, a fight between them won't go in her favor. But the prospect of losing has never stopped her doing anything before.
no subject
Joss gives her his most saccharine smile.
"I would not overly object were you to attempt it it, of course. I find I could use a bit of exercise. Gets the blood pumping, you see."
no subject
"Right," she says softly, grimacing. She's learned at least a little self-control over the past year or two. No attacking vampires in public, nothing stupidly suicidal. And though she really, really wants to wipe that smile off his face, she grits her teeth, and says, totally deadpan, "Sorry, I'll pass. I wouldn't want to make your birthday too much fun."
With that, she turns to head towards the counter. Maybe she'll let this one go, maybe she'll try following him to wherever he lives and take a shot at him there. She hasn't made up her mind yet. She'll be stuck there for a few minutes anyway, waiting for the barista to finish making her coffee.
no subject
Not that he even had any intention of harming her in the first place, really. Not unless she decides to do something truly stupid, and he doubts she will. Still, she is so very fun to tease.
"At least have a seat while you wait."
no subject
She could just leave, get her coffee someplace else and forget about this. But that would be like letting him win. She's not going to give even an inch of ground, even if that means putting up with him until the world's slowest barista finally gets around to her order.
"You're one to call me little," she snaps as she lets go of his chair.
no subject
He looks over at her.
"I'm going to say that you're a scared little she-wolf trying to make her bark look far more frightening than her bite. See? That really wasn't very difficult."
no subject
What she hates is him, and the fact that he can sit there making quips and eating cake like he shouldn't have been wiped off the face of the earth about six hundred and seventy birthdays ago.
no subject
He gives her a radiant smile.
"But, as it is my birthday, I'll forgive you. Do enjoy your...whatever it is you're going to get. A nice dog biscuit?"
no subject
no subject
Even after all this time, the wolves can still surprise you.
Joscelin makes a small sound as the girl grabs the front of his shirt, bodily lifting him out of his seat and sending his plate crashing to the ground. It's meant to be small and pathetic, but it's actually a choked-back giggle. He can't believe she's actually gone and done it. He hadn't thought all his goading would have quite this effect.
"Mummy!" he calls in his best little boy voice. "Mummy, help! She's hurting me!"
There. Now there are at least four middle-aged ladies converging on the table, trying to figure out why a teenager would attack a small child.
no subject
Alex hauls him towards the door, only to find almost everyone staring at her, including the barista, and several older women descending on her. Only five or six more feet and she'll be outside, but getting there might be a problem. Too late to just drop the kid and leave now. She'll have to make up some story.
"Stop making a scene, Robbie!" she snaps in her best fake British accent, inventing a name for the boy. "Mummy's waiting for us at home. You almost scared her to death, running off like that."
Maybe the middle-aged ladies will buy that Alex is his sister dragging him off home after he ran away.
no subject
Joscelin pouts his best pout and allows his "sister" to drag him outside. It's crowded here too, even on a wet night in January. London's tourist center has attracted the masses for centuries, after all, and that's where they are.
"Well then, bitch, you've got me." He speaks low--she's got good ears and he knows it. "But at what cost? Your coffee will get cold. And what do you plan to do now that you've got me?"
no subject
"At least I can make your birthday a little less fun," she snarls.