undergrounds | some kind of resolution (january catch-all for nancy and annie)

Lancelot is having a bit of a peculiar January as is. He keeps getting headaches that no amount of painkillers can touch (which WebMD helpfully has informed him means he has a brain tumour and is dying. He doesn't think it's that, but he isn't sure what it is) and on top of that, Gilbert Norrell has made his way onto the Night Council and begun making laws that will make his life incredibly awkward.

A purge of dark magic. Well, on the one hand Lancelot does agree that it's dangerous yet...

When he'd spoken to Sylvia about Midnight and its troubles he's failure sure he'd advised near enough the opposite of this.

He's trying to walk off another headache, hoping the fresh air (or near enough London equivalent of) will help when he hears the shriek. Instinct makes him stop and listen, and he isn't sure he likes the sound of the laugh that follows.

Lancelot pads his way closer quietly, close enough to begin to make out the voice of the fae and the figure of a girl on the ground. His headache worsens, throbs heavily as if a strange pressure in the world around him is thicker here. Digging into his skull and making it hard to focus.

The fae reaches down and picks up the girl -- Nancy, it's Nancy, he recognises her face -- and slams her into the wall.

He barely thinks about what he does. He steps forward and gestures with his hand and his magic surges out, shoves at the fae enough to make him stumble and get his attention.

Lancelot himself hardly cuts an imposing figure. Thin dark jacket, pale blue shirt half unbuttoned and slightly ruffled, worn jeans. He isn't dressed for work, his hair is a rumpled mess of curls and there are shadows under his eyes. He smiles, thin and a little pained, and shrugs -- shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Felt a little left out," he says quietly, and begins to pace closer. "Am I interrupting?"

The fae stumbles, letting go of Nancy. Nancy manages to catch herself, but barely, keeping upright as the fae turns his attention from her to Lancelot. Oh, she knows it's Lance, and she says his name with a quick breath out in relief.

Lance, who had done magic. Later, it will occur to her that she has no idea what he is, exactly. But for now, she's just glad there's someone in her corner. She braces herself against the wall with one hand, almost cowering as the fae approached Lance, nearly oinking as he breathed.

"Yeah- you is. This is 'tween me and the little girl." Said little girl used this time to search the alley for another weapon, finding the same rock from before (which was really just a hunk of asphalt) and charging at the fae with a yell. But he was faster than her, and managed to grab her by the arm before she could attack and disarm her of the rock, before dropping her back to the ground. "So stay the fuck out 'less you want trouble."

The distraction is more than enough for Lancelot.

His magic may not be weak enough to do much actively, but that's because it's soaked into his skin. It keeps him stronger, faster, reactions supernaturally sharp.

Stay the fuck out 'less you want trouble, the fae says, and is it turns back Lancelot is already in it's face -- grabbing it and slamming it around into a wall. Its arm twists up sharply behind its back, pressure applying slowly enough to warn that he means business.

Lancelot's headache throbs again and he winces, willing it back.

"Now," he says, still keeping an outward calm. "Didn't your mother ever teach you that's no way to treat a lady?"

Edited 2016-01-07 00:07 (UTC)

The fae snarled something out in return as Nancy winced on the ground. It was cold, even through the fabric of her jacket, and the puncture wounds were stinging something fierce. She curled her knees up into her chest, backing herself up against the wall again as she watched Lance twist the fae's arm behind his back. Her breath was still coming in ragged snatches, made worse by the way he'd thrown her to the ground. She had landed on her back, and now any small movement sent her into a small fit of pain.

"She ain't no lady," the fae spat. "Girl's a thieving, lying, gutless traitor of a whore." Strong words from a man who looked more like a pig than a man. He spat in her general direction, though it landed in the dark a few feet from the girl in question. "And so's her pop."

"Message- received-" she coughed out at the fae. "Tell whomever sent you." Christ, the world was going dark, maybe she could shut her eyes for a minute. That would help keep the burning, oozing sensation at bay. The poison in question wasn't lethal, just damaging enough to send the message. She'd be sick for the next day or so, but after that, it would pass as it worked it's way out of her system. Starting with the pain, then moving on into a cold sweat and the shakes.

"Yeah, and don't you forget it!" He said, snarling before turning to Lance. "Leggo my arm, or i'll put you through the wall."

"Confident for a pig in an armlock. You sure I'm not going to put you through a wall first?" Lancelot growls, slowly upping the pressure on the fae's arm. "I know exactly how much effort it would take to break your arm, and it isn't a lot. Now, when I let go, I want you to start running. And I don't want to see you bothering this young lady again. Understood?"

He doesn't even wait for the answer, he can feel the way the creature is beginning to tense up and squirm against the pain. The fae isn't the entirety of the problem, though, he can see that Nancy is injured. What he can't tell from a distance is exactly how bad it is. Loosening his grip on the fae finally he steps away, closer to Nancy, and watches it warily -- groping through his pockets as he glances sideways at her -- worrying clouding his eyes.

"Yeah- yeah, right," the fae said as the pressure and pain built in his arm. When Lance let go, he pushes off and starts to scamper down the alley. He'd made sure his message was recieved. And hey, he was just the messenger, there was no need to stick around and get his ass handed to him. He wasn't getting paid enough for that.

This left Nancy and Lance alone in the alleyway.

"Lance?" She looks up at him and starts to pull herself up into a standing position, using the wall. "Shit- thank you. You didn't have to do that." Yes he did. He was a cop, he was a Guardian. He had to do just what he did. She was actually half-surprised Lily wasn't there at his heels.

Nancy's voice is rough from the lack of air and the way he'd held her by her neck, choking her. she rubs her throat, then wipes the back of her hand over her eyes, removing traces of tears and smearing her makeup further. She tries to laugh. "We've got to stop meeting like this."

He shakes his head at her thanks, watches the fae a second longer to make sure it's gone before crouching beside Nancy and studying her. His eyes flit over her in concern, taking in the damage before he reaches to gently rest a hand on her arm.

"I've been told I have good timing. Are you bleeding? Can you walk, do you think?"

"I can walk," she says before she's even sure if that's the case. Leaning on Lance, she takes a few steps gingerly, wincing with a sharp inhale of breath as something catches in her rib-cage. "Fuck," she mutters to herself, bracing herself. "I can walk." She didn't need to be carried, at the very least.

As for bleeding, she raised a hand to her neck, feeling the sticky blood and goo on her fingers. "I think I'm bleeding." He could verify this, but it wasn't nearly as important as remembering to breath even when it hurt. "Can you bruise lungs?"

Lancelot's frown deepens and he begins to dig through his pockets, taps on his phone to illuminate the screen and uses the light to try and see her injuries better.

"I'm no doctor, but I'd suspect you've bruised your ribs rather than your lungs. Is it an aching sort of pain or stabbing?"

If she's broken her ribs he'd think she'd know, but she could have fractured them too. There's only so much he can do before she'll need real medical attention, and somehow he suspects she wouldn't go easily.

Nancy places a hand on her ribs, which only makes them hurt more. "Aching," she confirmed, "and my neck, and arm where- where he got me with his claws. Something's wrong." She moved her neck with some difficulty, so that he could see the marks on her neck by his phone light. More than just the claw-marks, however, were fresh puncture wounds from a different sort of creature.

An idea occurred to her. "My flat's up the road- could you-?" Walk her there, at the least, and she'd make him a cup of tea. She didn't expect him to want to play doctor, by any means. He probably had more important Guardian things to do.

"Of course," he supplies, and he moves to hook one arm around her waist -- ducking so she can place another over his shoulders.

"I'd offer to call you an ambulance but I suspect you'd say no."

That, and he is aware it would be a tricky thing to describe -- the puncture wounds, the claws. It all complicates things.

"Oh I could kiss you," she says, leaning against him, wincing as she gets herself settled with her own arm around his waist. The don't have any secondary meanings, any hidden messages, just simple gratitude for a walk home. "But I'll make you a cup of tea instead, once I'm patched." And he wasn't getting out of that.

How long it would take her to get patched up depended on just how bad she looked when she got into her place. But one thing was for sure, her jacket was toast.

"I have some supplies at my place." Her world had always had violence in it, but it'd been growing increasingly more so.

"Save the kissing until we stop you bleeding."

After all, he's still not entirely sure how bad her injuries might be. They don't look life threatening as it stands, but a simple infection could still be her undoing if it wasn't handled right. He helps her along slowly, half wondering if it might be easier to carry her but not wanting to if she'd be touchy about it.

"How far is it?" he prompts after a minute or two. 'Just up the road' is vague, if it's a 20 minute walk in the dark with the speed they're going it could be more like 40.

Nancy chuckles at the caviate, but makes no more comments about it. Right now, she just wants to be be home.

"Ten minutes?" She offers, looking up the street. "It's not far." She was also wearing her damned thigh-high boots, which, while great, even with magic got difficult to walk in. Her keys were in her purse, still slung over one shoulder. Seriously, if he wants to carry her, she doesn't weigh much.

Ten minutes at this speed, he wonders, or at her normal walking speed? He glances sideways at her hesitantly, keeps moving while he thinks. If he carries her his hands aren't free, it's true, but he's fairly sure he could outpace a fae if he needed to...

"It'd be closer to five if I carried you," he offers, "if you don't mind, of course."

The quicker she's home, the quicker she can be looked at and try and stop things hurting. Surely that's an upside?

"I don't," Nancy conceded nearly immediately. She didn't weigh much, she had no doubt that Lance would be able to carry her.

Nancy stopped, coming to face Lance. "Any way that's easiest for you, feel free." She gestured at her injured body with one hand. As she did so, she winced, pain coloring the edges of her vision, and she reached forward to hold on to something.

"Sorry. Something about- these cuts."

The wince, the way she grabs for something to keep steady -- that's certainly worrying. Worrying enough that he thinks it's better he gets her home to look at the cuts sooner rather than later. He moves forward to scoop her up in a bridal carry, dropping a shoulder so she can loop an arm around his neck if she wants to. She doesn't weigh much, it's true, and Lancelot is a little stronger than most humans to begin with. Carrying her isn't a hardship, and he moves quicker without having to steady her.

"Are they all from the fae?" he prompts, just because it's better not to assume these things.

She could be mad about the assumption, but, wrapping her arms around Lance's neck, she doesn't even bother.

"No," she even admits, because the wounds are going to look extremely different in the light- claw-marks versus teeth-marks- and she's dressed for work. "The ones on the veins are vampires," she tells him. She'd healed them a little, until she got home and could do a better job of it.

"And no one bit my arm." She looks over to see the shredded leather, and something too oddly colored in the dark to be blood. Turning away from it, she closed her eyes, leaning her head on Lance's shoulder.

'No one bit her arm?'

He frowns, glancing down at it, and lets out a slow breath. Something else hurt it then. Maybe acid? Like the fae he fought a while back who seemed to bleed the stuff. How on earth you are meant to treat fairy slime he doesn't know.

"Keep an eye on where we're going," he says, and speeds up - tightens his grip on her. "We can take a look once we get inside."

What can a vampire bite do, anyway? He thought they just drained blood? Unless it's been infected, he supposes, or the fae blood has gotten into it -- far too many possibilities. All of which he knows little enough about.

The fae had slashed it, and she'd pathetically attempted a joke. Just ignore her.

"Okay," she says, turning her head towards the road. It was easy to forget at a time like this, that Lance had no idea where the hell she was taking him.

As far as she could tell, no vampire had infected her. She'd known it had happened in the past, to others, but never to her. The pain started with the fae, and she could only hope that there was a way out of it.

"Just a few more houses," she said a few minutes later as they approached her flat. "My key's in my purse."

Lancelot is too stressed for jokes. He carries her quickly past another two houses, slows down as he waits for her to indicate the right one then begins to lower her to her feet.

"Here," he says, and shuffles to keep a hold of her. "Lean on me as much as you need. Just direct me. Are there stairs inside?"

"Yes," she says, and manages to reach for her keys. She closes them in a hand, and with some difficulty, opens the door.

"Yeah, two flights to my flat. Here." She hands him the keys. "Flat 246."

He adjusts his grip on her so he can take the keys, turn and shoulder his way through the door -- kicks it closed with a foot and starts up the stairs. Two flights of stairs is not so bad when you're a little supernaturally strong to begin with and you're carrying someone light, so he starts up them quickly, eyes half flitting about to check they aren't being watched and keeping an eye on the numbers. He shifts his grip again when he finds it, awkwardly holding her as he turns the key in the door and fumbles to push it open.

"Here we go," he prompts, "which way now?"

Carrying her in he moves to set her down, reaches to push the door closed behind them as he glances about.

The fumbling with the keys has Juliet awake and looking intently at the door when it's pushed open. Upon being set down, Nancy gives the cat a reassuring smile. "Hi, Juliet, just me and Lance."

Looking back up at her rescuer, because the cat is clearly the important thing here, she gives a reassuring smile. "Just the couch is fine." She takes off her ruined jacket with a bit of difficulty, tossing it wherever. Then she hits the light switch, flooding the place with light. The apartment itself is decent, a couch, coffee table, kitchen. There's no actual table other than the coffee table and the center island in her kitchen, but that's perfectly fitting for Nancy. A door leads from the living room into her bedroom.

"I've got bandages and stuff under my sink." She points through her bedroom to where her bathroom is located. Now in the light, she can look at her scratched and oozing arm. Definitely green goo. That alone is enough to make her nearly collapse on to the couch, gritting her teeth. With one finger, she points at one of the cupboards in the kitchen, which opens, revealing a bottle of whiskey. Another moment and it's already headed over for her on the couch.

Being a witch was really handy.

Under the sink. Right. Lancelot frowns at her in concern, begins shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves as he goes to check. Nancy doesn't look good, and while Lancelot knows first aid that doesn't necessarily apply to situations like this. To magical injuries.

He pads back quickly, begins setting things down and hazards a glance at her injury.

"That's a little like what I saw in Croydon. When the fae first took it. I fought one who -- shed acid, something like this but... stronger perhaps."

Hesitating a moment he picks up some cotton wool, coats it in strong smelling antiseptic and glances up to meet Nancy's eyes.

"... This is going to sting," is about all the warning she has before he gives it a test dab.

some kind of resolution (january catch-all for nancy and annie)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)