undergrounds | [OPEN] I'VE SEEN TROUBLE ALL MY DAYS

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[OPEN] I'VE SEEN TROUBLE ALL MY DAYS

A. WORKING HOURS
It's a slow day. With no clients booked for the afternoon, Faolan's finding himself with an unusual amount of time on his hands. Not one for being idle, he finds himself roaming the streets, rather idly, hands tucked in pockets, looking as nonchalant and unassuming as one can. Which isn't hard, considering the fact that he's a wiry little Irishman, standing 5'6" at full height. Looking a bit like he'd rolled out of bed only hours ago (perhaps he had, in all honesty), with a healthy growth of stubble on his face, curling into his rough brown leather jacket despite the warmth of the sun above him, he doesn't exactly make himself look approachable either for that matter.

It's going to be a long night. A long night after a long night the night before, and as he blinks up at the sky above him -- is that really the sun though? -- he decides that coffee is in order. In desperate order. Stopping in the nearest shop he can find, he orders himself the simplest drink he can and sits huddled against the counter, curling over it and willing the caffeine to do its work and snap his brain into functioning as well.

B. PREP WORK - HILLINGDON
Despite the lack of clients for the afternoon, Faolan's got a job that evening. As people start to get out of work and shuffle home to their normal families and their normal lives, Faolan decides to head over to Hillingdon House and see if he can find anything interesting to use on his hunt that evening. If there's anything that can be counted on, it's the fact that if anyone's at the "Hunter's Retreat", as they call it, then they might have some goods to share. Or to at least show off, if nothing else.

It makes the fact that he has no one to go home to and nothing but the hunt ahead a little more bearable than it otherwise might be.

C. ON THE HUNT
Faolan should have known that the tip had been shady. McCoy was good for some things, but details certainly weren't his strong suit, and Faolan had been less on the ball about his research than he probably should have been. He should have known that getting a lead on the location of the vampire he'd been after for the past week was too good to be true, that he wouldn't be alone, but he hadn't been thinking too hard about it. He'd killed four children, three of them under the age of ten, and Faolan wanted him dead.

So he'd gone in alone and unprepared for not one, but five vampires to greet him. He's a good shot and he'd made every one that he could count, but as his gun clicked empty and two of them still advanced on him -- two of them with their pet werewolf for that matter -- Faolan knew that he had a problem. So he ran, throwing himself down the stairs, through the closest window and off the fire escape down one storey to the alleyway below. He has just enough time to assess that the damage from the fight before, breaking through the glass, and falling from that height isn't too bad that he can't go on, before he hears the sound of the wolf scrabbling after him from above. Making a split second decision, Faolan stows the gun behind a dumpster nearby -- hoping the thing will be in the same spot when he comes back in daylight, since it won't do him any good now -- before he takes off at a run towards the nearest open area he can find. It won't follow him out into the lights of the street and the lingering evening crowds around, will it? God, he hopes not.

D. CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE
What it says on the tin!

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He probably does need stitches but that's besides the point. The point is that there's a werewolf out there and that he isn't sure whether he got the vampire he was after or just some of his flunkies, and that he's been stopped by a police officer of all people. Just when he thought that he was finally out of the woods.

Faolan lets out a bark of a laugh that could easily be mistaken for a noise of pain, for the sheer lack of humor in the sound. "A police officer," he repeats, straightening to take a good look at the man. Eyeing his plainclothes and the dog at his side. Obviously not on duty then, but even the way he holds himself. The sheer earnest need to help him, considering the mess he knows he must look. "Of course you are."

Faolan heaves a heavy sigh. "Sure," he says, because what's the harm in letting him look at the scratches. Maybe he'd at least think his story a bit more credible for seeing them. "Be my guest."

Lancelot nods once in understanding, then he's gently herding Faolan a few steps toward the outside seating area of a nearby cafe -- guiding him to sit and crouching to inspect his arm. He frowns, leans back to catch the attention of a girl clearing a table to ask for water and a cloth before shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Mostly to keep from getting blood on them.

"I'm going to need to push your jacket off and try and roll up your sleeve to get a better look. If it's too stuck or won't roll high enough I may need to cut it."

His voice is low and steady, eyes flicking up from the wound to catch Faolan's own. It may as well have come straight out of a police handbook. 'Speak slowly and clearly to the victim, make sure they understand the situation.' Even if Faolan is lucid enough that he probably knows exactly what is going on. You can never be too careful when someone's been attacked.

Faolan doesn't miss the careful way that the other man is speaking to him, the way that his training seems to have taken over. He wonders whether the other man has dealt with situations like this or whether it's the first time he's putting his learning into practice. Faolan's done his fair share of working with the police, but the fact that he hasn't met this man yet doesn't mean anything. He has a particular liaison who makes it a habit of calling him in on cases, and the rest of them? Probably could care less who or what he is. He wonders, as he watches the earnest look on the other man's face as he frowns at his arm and talks about needing to cut his jacket off, whether this man is new, whether he just hasn't seen enough action yet, or whether he really is that genuine. Him and his large, fluffy white dog both.

"No one's cutting anything off," he grumbles. "Here." He moves to try and help remove the jacket himself. Wincing as he does -- the movement may or may not have been a poor decision on his part. What can he say, he really likes this coat, even with the blood all over it. He's developed a particular talent for being able to remove blood from clothes, after all. Hazard of the trade, he supposes.

Lancelot sits back to give Faolan space, watches the way he moves as he shrugs off the jacket. Watches as he winces before leaning forward to take it carefully and lay it on the table. He inspects his arm, unbuttons his shirt cuff and carefully begins to see how far he can push up the sleeve.

"Did the animal bite you?" he prompts gently, "or just scratch? Did you see if it was injured at all itself? Bleeding? Twitching as if it were ill?"

The barista appears again with a paper cup of hot water and a cloth and Lancelot turns to her, mouths gloves? questioningly and she hesitates before disappearing to grab a pair.

Faolan shakes his head, watching the other man gently manipulating the cloth around the wound. "No bites," he confirms. "I'd made damned sure of that." He's not about to go furry on the full moon. Not if he can help it. That's the last thing that he needs, more shit in his already complicated life.

He sighs at the rest of the questions. He knows where Lancelot's going with them, but he's coming at it all wrong. It wasn't a dog, or even a real wolf. It was a werewolf. And short of coming out and saying as much, which he highly doubts would go over all that well, there's no other cover but that. "Look, don't worry about that," he says. "I made sure it didn't bite me. Believe me, if it had, I'd be a lot worse off than this." Like probably dead, if he's being entirely honest with himself.

"I'm sure you're right," Lancelot answers smoothly, "but it's better for both of us if I take precautions just in case. Ah --"

He turns as the waitress sets a pair of disposable gloves by him, tugs them on as he works up Faolan's short sleeve and begins to clean the wounds carefully. They're... significant, he thinks. It must have been a big dog.

"Could you describe it? The dog, if you had to. Rough size, colour, any significant markings or individual ways it might be recognised?"

Pausing he digs out his phone, tries to swipe the screen before realising the gloves won't let him and pulling one off a bit to begin scrolling through.

"We can get someone out looking for it so it doesn't hurt anyone else, but obviously we need an idea of search radius and to make sure we sieze the right dog."

Faolan sighs softly and tries to determine whether he should tell this man the truth or make up something that might send him on some wild goose chase after some fictional violent canine menace that he will never find. As he watches the man tear off the glove to swipe through his phone, he realizes if he chooses the second, he just might.

"Look," Faolan says, trying not to sound frustrated, because it's not the other man's fault that he doesn't understand. "You really shouldn't go through all that trouble. You're not going to find it. This isn't just some randomized attack, it's..." He shakes his head at the other man. "It's not going to just attack someone else, trust me. This was. A personal vendetta."

"A personal vendetta?" he echoes, glancing back up at Faolan hesitantly. "From a... dog?"

Surely Faolan must realise how this sounds, a vendetta from an... animal.

"You know the animal then?" he continues, trying to make sense of it. "Did you... harm it first, in some way? Do something to provoke it?"

Perhaps that is what he means, after all. As distasteful as it is, perhaps Faolan had kicked the dog or harmed it in some way. He flits his eyes to Lily uncertainly, as if worried she might be concerned by this development.

Faolan realizes exactly how it sounds. That doesn't make it any less true. But if he doesn't want to sound like he's either lost his mind or hit his head harder than he has, he's got to come up with some better explanation than that, and he knows it.

"Something like that," Faolan says, frowning down at the other man. "I know... His master. Who does not like me. Nor I him. I suppose you could say that the creature was only doing its job and following orders." Not exactly untrue, either.

He narrows his eyes at the other man, at the suggestion of him harming an animal, at the flicker of his eyes to his own dog -- really? Would he honestly... Well, he admits, he does sound a bit mad and he's just come upon him bleeding in the streets, but still. "Whatever you're thinking, you can stop right there. It isn't like that."

Lancelot lofts an eyebrow at Faolan's correction, tilts his head a little.

"You must admit," he carries on, "it hardly looks good. However, if someone set their dog on you then we'll need the man's name and a decent description of the animal. Where did it happen? I can send someone to see if he's still there, or if the dog is still loose."

Faolan runs his free hand through his hair, brushing remnants of broken glass out of it in the process, and questioning whether it might not just be easier to pretend that he's concussed than answer the continuous questions that the other man is firing at him. He did hit his head, although it's hardly substantial enough to have truly done the trick. He probably won't get anything more than a substantial bruise for the trouble. And sutures now, if the look of the cut on his arm is anything to go by.

"Look, I..." He says, hoping that maybe if he plays the pity card then at least that might work this time. "I really can't remember, alright? Nothing about the look of it. Just that it was big. As for the man... He's already got a record a mile long, but you're not going to catch him. So please don't try. Certainly not for this."

The pity card works much better. Lancelot frowns in concern, sets aside his phone and goes back to dabbing at Faolan's wound.

"I can't force you," he allows, "but I can tell you he'll never be caught if nobody reports anything he does."

Edited (names) 2015-07-26 18:58 (UTC)

Faolan holds back a comment about he'd never be caught even if he did give a name and description of the person who did this to him, or where it was. He'll no doubt have moved his lair by now, and anyway, it'll be pretty suspicious, admitting to have been in a place like that in the first place.

So instead he too focuses on the other man's tending to his injury and the careful way he's cleaning it out. "I suppose you're going to insist I go to A&E for this?" he posits, trying to focus the other man's attentions on the fact that he's injured rather than on how it was he got injured.

Edited (too much 'that) 2015-07-26 19:52 (UTC)

"I did say you may need stitches," he chides gently, "and I stand by that. This is deep. A&E would be best. I can get someone to take you if you don't have a car."

He looks up from the injury to frown at Faolan critically, studying him a moment. He has a sense the man doesn't want to go.

"If you don't it won't heal well, it will be more trouble than not going is worth."

"Someone," Faolan echoes. Although the present situation might be contrary to the idea, he is not all that fond of accepting help from strangers. He shakes his head. He will not be passed on to this 'someone', to become their burden as well. "I can handle myself," he says, gruffly.

And no, he does not want to go. He does not like hospitals, he has not liked them for a long time now. He doesn't even like clinics for they remind him of the hospitals he dislikes. It isn't exactly rational and he knows that. But some of the worst times of his life were in hospitals. Of course he should not like to go back to them, if he can help it.

Lancelot lets out a sigh, the sort of long suffering sigh that says he disagrees but is resigned not Faolan not changing his mind.

"As you wish, then," he allows finally, and reaches to begin opening some packets from the first aid kit the waitress has left for them. Something to at least keep the wound covered, keep it clean. "Then see that you do, and try and keep it from getting an infection until it is properly treated. Be careful not to exert yourself too much and tear it any deeper, or rip open stitches once you have them. If you change your mind about reporting things--"

He fastens the bandage a little, sits back and looks up at Faolan.

"You can ask for me at the station if you prefer. PCSO Lancelot Dulac. Anyone else would equally take your report too."

Faolan watches the other man for a long moment. He knows he only means well, and perhaps that's what keeps him from growing too frustrated with him. He's just so goddamn earnest and eager to help. Eager to make him someone else's problem as well, although he supposes he can't blame him for that -- he is off-duty, by the looks of it. He's right about one thing, though. He's going to need to get this seen to, going to need to get it cleaned out and taken care of if he doesn't want it to get infected or worse. He'd rather not lose his arm over being a stubborn ass.

Taking a deep breath in, he lets it out slowly, before he finally says, "Faolan." When he realizes that hardly makes sense, having no other context at all, he explains himself further. "That's me. Faolan O'Neill. Though I won't be reporting this, not now, not later. But." He nods to the bandage, and well. To the general scenario they find themselves in, really. "Thank you. You didn't have to..." Take care of him. He's not exactly used to such a thing. That might be pretty clear, by now.

Lancelot shakes his head, as if to dismiss the thanks, and offers him a small smile.

"It is no trouble," he assures him. "I'd take you myself but I don't have my car with me. Came up on the underground. You're sure I can't call someone for you?"

He pushes to his feet at least, begins tidying up the clothes and packaging and glancing around for a bin to put them in.

"I'd rather not become someone else's problem," he says, and hopes that it doesn't come out too harsh. He doesn't mean anything by it -- he is grateful that Lancelot stopped and took the time to look him over. But accepting help is a difficult thing for him, and accepting help from a stranger because a man that he just met told them to help him.

Faolan collects his jacket gingerly with his uninjured arm, throwing it over his shoulder and moving to stand himself. The faster he's out of here, the faster he's out of the other man's hair, he figures.

"You would not be a problem," Lancelot insists, but he knows when he is beaten. Can tell Faolan is not interested in such a thing, and therefore must accept defeat. He sighs, stepping toward a bin finally to deposit the gloves and clothes before returning to catch up Lily's leash. "You are sure I cannot persuade you?" he prompts, "or walk you somewhere myself?"

Faolan hesitates a moment, on the precipice of just removing himself from the scene and making the long walk to the nearest place that will take him, wherever that may be, when Lancelot offers to walk him himself. He turns back, glancing at the other man, all of his righteous anger cooling in the face of the other man's offer. "I..." he says, and hesitates. In all honesty, if Lancelot physically walked him to the door, he'd stand a hell of a better chance of actually going inside than if he were left to his own devices. But.

"I would not want to burden you," he says. "And there's your dog..." Although the answer is not no.

"It would hardly be a burden," he assures him, "and Lily likes a good walk -- don't you Lily?"

She looks between the two of them curiously, tail swishing along her back. Walk? Yes? She likes walking!

"See? She agrees. Would you like me to carry something? You shouldn't put too much strain on your arm, it'll pull at the wound and make it worse."

Faolan raises an eyebrow at the other man slightly. He doesn't really have anything to carry, not since he'd stashed everything else he'd had with him back in the alley on the run over. He's going to have to make a trip by there tomorrow afternoon, hope that no one's found it. There has to be some reason why the vampire chose the area as a lair, though, he's hoping that people will generally avoid it because of whatever it is, and that he'll be able to get it all back.

"I..." he says, then frowns at Lancelot, almost puzzled at the offer. He shifts his jacket in his hand, looking down at it before back up at the other man. "Well, I mean, this is really all there is..."

Lancelot holds out his hand for it, but shrugs a little regardless.

"You don't have to," he allows, "but anything to take the weight off it. The nearest A&E is about 10 minutes on the train. You can at least sit down for the duration."

Faolan shrugs slightly, at least able to do as much as it is his forearm and not his shoulder that has taken the brunt of the injury. (This time, at least.) He's embarrassed and awkward at the fact that he is so injured and that the other man is fussing over him as such -- perhaps because he has not had anyone care in such a long time that he's forgotten what it feels like. But he hands over the jacket when Lancelot holds his hand out for it, nonetheless. It is awkward, carrying it one-handed, and it's heavy enough that his arm will get tired eventually. Or so he tells himself.

"I've been here for close to a decade," he points out, edgily, "you don't have to give me the guided tour." Though he regrets snapping almost as soon as he's done it. It's not Lancelot's fault that he's uncomfortable. Hell, he doesn't even need to be doing this for him. He sighs slightly, running his good hand through his hair. "Sorry, I'm sorry," he amends.

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