undergrounds | Every single holiday, a head in a box

Faolan nods after a moment. Maybe he'll manage to find the excuse to take him out for drinks later then, depending on how this goes. "We have a name," he admits. "For the victim. According to the fae that brought it in at least. Someone who liked to hang around the fae, Seelie more specifically. But really anything you might be able to give us -- any direction to take is better than none..."

He stands up straight, moving to step around his desk before fetching the box itself and setting it on one of the tables he had set aside in the room that he sometimes liked to eat at or do paperwork on. It would be helpful, so they weren't crouching around the thing on the floor. He's going to need to disinfect it before he feels like eating there again, though. "This is it," he says, glancing over at the other man dubiously.

His eyes widen a little and Lancelot studies the box a second warily, takes a half step closer.

"What was the name, then?" he prompts, feeling a little like he's paling already as he reaches out and nervously flips open the flaps. He can definitely feel... something off the head. Fae magic, he thinks, even as he tries to somehow perform the feat of looking at it without actually looking. Like it's a picture rather than a real head.

"Mushira Ahmad," Faolan repeats, watching Lancelot carefully as he steps closer to him and the box and begins poking his way into it. "Human, according to our fae benefactor claims he knew her to be. Who might have done this to her, why they chose her, why they sent her to him..." Faolan shrugs slightly. "That's what we're hoping to find out."

He watches Lancelot's face, sensing his hesitance, his uncertainty around the box. And yes, watching his face pale as he nervously pokes his way into it. He thinks about suggesting that he doesn't need to help after all, not if he doesn't want to, but then they do need all the help they can get. He'll be there though. In case it's too much for the other man. He hopes that will count for something, at least.

Mushira Ahmad. The name makes Lancelot's police instinct wonder if there was some religious or racial aspect to this whole thing too, but he pushes the thought aside. No need to project human issues onto something supernatural too quickly.

So he tries to focus, letting out a slow breath as he does so. He can definitely feel magic on the head, although picking apart the threads of it is more difficult. The fae magic is there, if more subtle, but there's something else too. Something that makes his skin prickle. A sense of -- something, something peculiar that's making crawling over him and he feels angry about. Not angry, no, angry is the wrong word but at the same time he feels like it's increasingly difficult to move, to breath even. Trapped? Something --

Lancelot's frown creeps deeper as he concentrates, but equally the odd sense of alarm seems to be doing something else. Around him, bits of Faolan's office seem to slowly lift themselves and hang a few inches in the air.

Faolan doesn't notice the way that his office is rearranging itself at first, so focused he is on the other man's face. That is until beyond Lancelot, he catches sight of a book he'd left lying on the table behind him decidedly not lying on the table anymore. Having experienced such a phenomenon from the other man before, however under slightly different circumstances, Faolan finds himself somewhat more prepared for this than he might have otherwise been. Still, that doesn't stop him from stepping forward (somewhat hesitantly) towards the other man and speaking to him in a soft and low warning tone.

"Lancelot...? Is there something wrong?" Even though he knows the answer already, judging by the fact that the entire layout of his desk is floating nearly a foot above the surface of the thing.

The surge of aggression makes Lancelot snarl "What?" in reply, before the combination of Faolan's voice and his own snaps Lancelot out of it and everything suspended all drops at once, making Lancelot jump a little himself.

"Ah," he says, realising that may have been his fault and looking decidedly sheepish about that. He blinks, trying to steady himself and considering the head a moment -- blinking his eyes open wider as if to force himself to focus. "That was strange."

Which, without any context about what actually happened, is probably the least helpful statement he could make.

Edited 2016-04-03 11:46 (UTC)

Faolan finds himself slightly on edge, both in response to the magic floating his office around him as well as the fact that Lancelot has hardly ever raised his voice at him, and certainly not in such a manner as that. Not even when he's obviously been exasperated with him.

He keeps himself from taking a step back though he holds his hands up in something of a defensive gesture just to be certain. Lancelot's reactions from there certainly aren't giving him much to go on as to the other man's stability (or current lack thereof).

Faolan does not speak up to voice his questions, but instead merely raises an eyebrow inquisitively at the other man that says it all. What the hell was that all about?

"The head," Lancelot says, still perhaps not being entirely clear. "The -- ah, forgive me if this is hard to explain. I'm not so sure I know what happened myself, but the... magic I sensed of it. I think it may be -- stronger? Than I am used to? Or -- well, perhaps not, but either way I... felt something. Beyond the magic itself. Perhaps something to do with -- the person this was? Without knowing her that makes it difficult to say."

He winces apologetically, frowning as he tries to focus on the memory.

"Forgive me," he says again finally, "I don't suppose you have something to drink?"

Faolan blinks, unable to help his surprise, before shaking himself out of it. "Yeah, we. Here," he says, and steps forward, putting a hand on the other man's lower back and turning him to lead the pair of them out of the office for the moment.

"There's a sitting room," he explains. "It'll be better to talk there. And there's a liquor cabinet." Someone had been seeing that it was kept stocked, and it sure as hell hadn't been him. "Unless you'd rather go out?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. It's an honest question, of course. He'd drop everything and accompany the other man to the closest bar right there and then, even if it might be a little more difficult to talk about magic and heads in such a setting.

"No, no here is fine -- unless..." Lancelot hesitates, looking faintly uncomfortable. "Well, unless you -- would rather people not... see me here, or yourself with me. Which -- I would understand, of course, I know you prefer to keep your role less known... And, well..."

He winces slightly, terribly self-conscious all of a sudden of their differences in faction and general beliefs. Not that Lancelot truly thinks Daybreak is the answer to everything, but he well knows Faolan is hardly pleased with them at best.

Faolan frowns at the idea of it. No, his friendship with a Guardian isn't necessarily going to be seen as a positive thing. Not when the opinion of the Night Council is so otherwise lacking. But the way that Lancelot looks, in response to the idea that Faolan might want to squirrel him away because he's ashamed of him.

"To hell with them," Faolan replies. "You're here as my guest, as my friend. I am allowed to have friends, aren't I?" he asks, perhaps a little more defensively than he should. It isn't Lancelot he'll need to argue the point across to, after all.

He lets out a low breath and steps forward closer to the other man. "You're here to help. Anyone who has a problem with that bring it to me. This isn't about the Night Council, or Daybreak, or whatever other affiliations you may or may not have. It's about your support of Hillingdon." A beat, before he feels compelled to ask, because he's honestly never sure that they've ever spoken about it before. An awkward thought, considering he's their leader, and all. "You... Do support Hillingdon, don't you?" Even just vaguely? Peripherally?

Support them? It's an odd sort of question, because in all honesty Hillingdon don't have any particularly defined belief sets to support. Does he support, in general, a gang of hunters doing their thing? He supposes do, or at least, he doesn't not support them?

"Well, I support you," he offers, "and I suppose if you can keep this rabble from breaking the law or trying to kill me I generally support them."

He offers a small, slightly hesitant smile before adding.

"Especially if that means I'm allowed a drink?"

Faolan flickers him a smile in return, gently rubbing his hand against the other man's back without even realizing he's doing it, in an attempt to soothe whatever might have just happened between them there. "Of course you are," he says. "Wherever you'd like one. Here. Out."

He pauses, shrugging, before throwing out, "Hell. My place even, if you want." He's certainly got enough of a selection at home, after all. Certainly more than Lancelot himself, at least. And the selection at Hillingdon House, for that matter. Although he's not exactly sure why he's just invited the other man over. Or potentially done so. It's not as though it's anywhere to boast about. Still, if that's what Lancelot wants... He'll certainly do his best.

"Here is fine," he says, without even a second thought. "I'd really like to sit down, so, wherever is closest."

His head is still spinning a little, truth be told, and he'd prefer to sit down sooner rather than later just in case it all gets worse and he loses his footing. He's not entirely sure he wants to suffer the indignity of Faolan propping him up or worse carrying him through Hillingdon House. The slight pinch to his expression as he forces a smile is probably enough to hint that now, please, is the preferred time for this to happen.

Faolan nods in response to the immediate answer and realizes that yeah, perhaps the request for the drink isn't only because Lancelot's been grossed out by the head. He suddenly remembers back to the last time that Lancelot had demonstrated any sort of involuntary telekinetic response like that, which had happened to occur right before the other man was nearly ill and then almost had passed out. Yeah, maybe it's a better idea to get him sitting down sooner rather than later. He'd already made that mistake the once.

"Sure," he says. "There's a room. This way." He steps forward in an attempt to guide the other man along with him, suddenly much more aware of his hand on his back. And equally intent on keeping it there. At least until he was given reason to believe it unnecessary.

Lancelot follows along easily, only glancing back at the room once as he belatedly realises he might have done some damage.

"I didn't break anything, did I?" he prompts, slightly awkward in the question. Hopefully if he did it's replaceable, and not too expensive. As soon as they seem to be in the right room Lancelot sinks into a chair with a heavy sigh, touching a hand to his forehead. He's a little hot, but he doesn't think he's about to throw up this time. Not yet anyway. That's one thing, at least.

Faolan shrugs slightly, brushing the back of his hand against the back of the other man's forehead himself as Lancelot does. "I don't know," he says, honestly. He a little hot yes, and Faolan can feel the heat of his magic pouring off of him as well. He finds himself somewhat distracted for the moment, and thus answering a little more bluntly than he might otherwise do. "I wasn't really paying attention to what happened to it all. Don't worry about it. There wasn't anything valuable in there even if you did. I'll get it all cleaned up later."

He steps back, watching the other man for a moment. Trying to gauge how he's doing. Certainly worse than he'd thought at first. He'd seemed shaken of course, but not... Well. Obviously Faolan needed to be more observant. And come to understand that when Lancelot actually asked for something for himself, such as a drink, or to be able to sit down, that generally the situation was actually more concerning than he's probably letting on.

"Water?" he asks. "Or something stronger?"

He hesitates at that, because he wants to say something stronger but equally he doesn't -- Lancelot doesn't drink a lot as a rule and he doesn't want to worry Faolan.

"Water should be fine," he says finally, and flicks a wan sort of smile. "Just -- give me a moment and I'll try and describe it to you, although I'm not so sure how much it will help. It's all a little imprecise."

Faolan's lips twist in response to the other man's words, although the look on his face may not quite be defined as a smile, as he moves to step back towards the door. "Don't worry about it," he says. "Anything's better than nothing. Sit tight."

And he ducks out the door and down the stairs to the kitchen to be able to fetch the other man a glass. And to spend the time kicking himself in private as he does. A drink, he'd said. Water. Because he's feeling shaky. Not alcohol to steel his nerves as he'd thought. And Faolan had offered to take him out. Back to his? Who the hell was he kidding.

He splashes some water on his face too while he's at it before heading back up the stairs, glass of water in hand. "Here," he says, handing it to the other man, before sinking down into another chair in the room. He's tired. Tired of this mess, tired of messing up, tired in general. "Take your time," he reassures the other man. "I've got nowhere else to be."

Lancelot takes the water and sips it slowly, lets out a heavy sigh as he tries to steady himself.

"Well, that's never happened before." He says finally. "Or, well, the floating bit has -- forgive me that -- just... not the rest. Normally when I... feel magic it is more a sense of the type. This... was as if perhaps I sensed -- the person? As if some of themselves bled into it, I suppose. Although if it was... your victim or whoever did that to them I cannot be sure."

"Sensed the person?" Faolan asks, sitting back in his own seat and watching the other man struggle to gather and explain himself. "In what way do you mean?" Physically? Perhaps he had some idea of how to identify them that way? Or was it a purely emotional connection? He had certainly seemed to have an emotional response to it at any rate. Although whether it was because he was experiencing something new and frightening as far as his abilities were concerned or something beyond that it was hard to tell from Faolan's perspective.

"I felt... angry? Some sort of anger. No, actually, it wasn't... just anger exactly. It was -- violent. The desire to hurt someone. But there was also... a trapped sort of feeling? Forgive me, I must sound insane, but that is what it was. I am not sure how else to describe it, just -- that it felt hard to move."

He gives Faolan a wincing, apologetic sort of smile and takes another sip of water.

Then, after a moment, he hesitates.

"I... could take a look again, if you want me to."

Faolan has sat forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands as he listens to the other man talk. Trying to make out what it all means. What it all could mean. Busy thinking hard enough that he doesn't know how to react to such a suggestion at first. He raises his eyebrows, blinking for a moment and wondering what could have led the other man to suggest doing such a thing again.

"Well," he says, after a moment. "No one's forcing you. If you think it would help is one matter. But you don't have anything to prove to me. I believe you." He raises his eyebrows again and sits back in his chair. "It does sound rather mad, to be true, but that isn't to say that you didn't experience what you say. So unless you really want...?" He shrugs slightly.

Edited 2016-04-12 03:17 (UTC)

Lancelot screws up his face a little in a way that suggests no, given the choice he wouldn't really want to.

"I only wonder if I might pick up something else," he says finally, "or understand it better a second time when it is not so surprising."

Faolan regards him quietly for a long moment. Part of him doesn't really think that the other man will get that much more out of it, although perhaps he will be able to understand it more when it is less of a surprise. Most of him doesn't believe that trying again so soon is a very good idea, though. But if Lancelot insists... He'd better not regret letting him do it, if he does go through with it, that's all that Faolan can think.

"...if you think it will help clear things up," he says, after a long pause. "But no one is forcing you into it, alright? Least of all me."

Every single holiday, a head in a box

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