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psychoshenanigans2013-01-19 10:03 pm
exanimatus) wrote in psychoshenanigans2013-01-19 10:03 pm
Nowhere // AU
Death, huh.
He can't say he's surprised. He's been quietly awaiting his own death for a very long time. And that wasn't a fight he had exactly expected to win, given that his opponent was a far more powerful being than himself.
So really, the better word... is disappointed.
He'd expected more of a blaze of glory, after all. A legend to live up to his name, something to fill in the cracks that only he sees between himself and the thing he's supposed to be. Slowly bleeding to death, slumped over in some alleyway, surroundings a little charred in the struggle--it really isn't how he'd prefer to go.
Thankfully he's at the stage where he finds it bitterly amusing. He's got no strength left to heal. He's losing blood faster than it can turn to ash, making him a right mess of red and soot. His fingers feel heavy, which means they might start crumbling too, even as they're pressed up against the gaping wound in his chest. The boiling might be the worst. The cut is wide and simmering, bubbling hot just near the surface. A vampire using silver... Still detestable, even in his dying moments.
...But really, it's the waiting that'll kill him (no pun intended).
He can't say he's surprised. He's been quietly awaiting his own death for a very long time. And that wasn't a fight he had exactly expected to win, given that his opponent was a far more powerful being than himself.
So really, the better word... is disappointed.
He'd expected more of a blaze of glory, after all. A legend to live up to his name, something to fill in the cracks that only he sees between himself and the thing he's supposed to be. Slowly bleeding to death, slumped over in some alleyway, surroundings a little charred in the struggle--it really isn't how he'd prefer to go.
Thankfully he's at the stage where he finds it bitterly amusing. He's got no strength left to heal. He's losing blood faster than it can turn to ash, making him a right mess of red and soot. His fingers feel heavy, which means they might start crumbling too, even as they're pressed up against the gaping wound in his chest. The boiling might be the worst. The cut is wide and simmering, bubbling hot just near the surface. A vampire using silver... Still detestable, even in his dying moments.
...But really, it's the waiting that'll kill him (no pun intended).
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It wasn't the safest course of action, maybe, but it felt like home. Newford. As long ago as it seemed, now. The stars were unfamiliar and the streets were too quiet...too clean...but it was still a city at night, complete with all the nooks and crannies and hidden wonders she loved to look for. For all its faults, Paradisa rarely failed to offer up wonders, even in the hours approaching midnight. But, unlike her ramblings back home, she rarely found people...at least, not people who weren't where they were supposed to be. So the last thing she was expecting as she rounded the corner was to find herself looking at someone's crumpled form.
The shadows stretched long and dark across the alley, obscuring more than the outline, but even in the darkness she can see the way the concrete near him is stained, too dark to be natural. She knows, before seeing, that it has to be blood.. and she doesn't even think.
"Oh god."
She doesn't even realize she's crossing the space between them until she's already done it, kneeling down at his side as she reaches out to gingerly touch his arm. A voice in the back of her mind--It would have been Sophie's, once, but it's got echoes of Willow, now, and the Doctor--tells her that she should be careful. Injured doesn't mean he isn't also dangerous, and there's something about the silhouette that is ominously familiar, but she leans forward all the same....and catches sight of the wound. Even seen through his fingers, it's sickening and horrible and undeniably mortal and that knowledge is already heavy in her eyes when she glances up....and sees a familiar red gaze under a shock of red hair that she should have recognized long before.
"Zelman."
For just a moment, her pulse skips. But, unlike so many times before, it steadies almost immediately. He's dangerous. She's many things, but she's not naive enough to believe anything else. But he's also hurt and, for now, that's the more important part.
"What happened?"
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"...Ah, it's you."
Sluggish, but perhaps understandable, given that he appears to be dying. He tries to move, somewhere between shifting to sit up and curling in on himself a little--neither of which gets very far. He's trying very hard to think through the fog that's settling over him. Coming up with a response is easy, as usual. Running through his usual web of tactics and skills and opportunities is much more difficult.
"I was stabbed, if you'll believe it. Rather--" He manages to smirk, even if it seems to pain him to do so, "--Unfortunate."
She's filled with blood. He can smell it. If only it weren't so hard to move; he'd take her in an instant, by instinct alone. His mind may have settled on dying, but his body is hardwired to keep going.
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Her journal was in her satchel. Rocking back on her heels, she was already sliding the strap over her head to slide it around into her lap where she could fish it out.
Someone would see. If they were lucky, it would be someone who could come fast. Help him.
...but there was already so much blood.
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He doesn't have the strength when it gets there, though. His fingers slide uselessly off hers, hitting the ground again without so much as a grip.
"Don't--" Struggling against something, putting his hand back over the gaping wound, "Don't bother."
He can get over Jilly seeing him like this. But other people--big show-off heroes who'd make a big deal of it--he might have to off himself before he can give them the chance.
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"Zelman."
It's something like exasperation. Frustration and worry knitting together as she looks back up at him. "I'm not going to just sit here and watch you bleed to death."
She should have learned, really. This was why Legato had begun to see her as something more than an ant. This was how she got herself tangled up in things she had no place in. Because, no matter how little she trusted him...she still couldn't walk away.
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Whether he's just teasing (at the worst possible time) or genuinely assumes that all people are just as horrible on the inside as he is, it makes him chuckle. Shaky and unsettling, but it's there all the same. He's trying to think. Living is an option now, isn't it? He could go on a little longer, not have to let the inner mechanisms churn him out a little more ruined two weeks later.
That would be... preferred, yes.
"You really want to help?"
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What he's done doesn't matter. Not in this instance. But her desire to help doesn't completely cancel out her dislike. But it fades quickly enough as she tries to catch his gaze, misunderstanding the question.
"Let me call someone."
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With a great swell of effort on his part, he manages to push himself up against the wall. His wound gushes distressingly with the movement, but he seems entirely more satisfied with sitting up straight. Something else straightens out with him, and he holds out a blood-soaked hand towards her.
"Let me have some of your blood."
His hand is shaking, wobbling with the effort of holding it up, but his gaze is fixed and he sounds like he means it.
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"My-"
Her gaze, fixed on that horrible wound, flickers between his chest and his face for an uncertain second before the thought is realized and her eyes widen.
"Seriously?"
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His life in the hands of an obnoxious human girl. How pathetic. He'll never live it down, assuming he lives at all. His chances get a little slimmer with every second.
His arm gets tired just hanging there, though, so he rests it on his knee.
"But it's rather effortless, on your part. Doesn't even hurt."
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She doesn't need him to tell her that this is hardly the time for questions and answers. And he's probably right. Unless whoever answered was able to instantly transport themselves to Zelman's side, calling anyone would be utterly useless.
But she still has to ask.
"How do I know you won't kill me?"
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"You don't." It'd be much easier to kill her. He could drain her life away with barely any effort, and he'd be all the better for it. He's about to start giving her a reason to trust him for now, or maybe a rationale for saving his life (as if she really needed one), but his words catch in his throat and he starts coughing.
He covers his mouth. It sounds wet. That, in itself, is probably the best he could have shown her, even though he'd really rather be dead than own up to such weakness. He's in no state to kill anyone.
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This is a bad idea. A terrible idea.
But maybe it's better that he doesn't have a chance to rationalize, because she already knew there was no way to be sure. And, even worse, knowing that didn't change anything.
"...Fuck." She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears as her adrenaline spiked. Everything in her was screaming not to do this. But if she left him here to die-
"What do you need?"
...Another legitimate question, really, considering her affinity for layers. Turtleneck sweaters, vests, long sleeves, and fingerless gloves...even on a mild night like this one, she didn't exactly scream "vampire bait." The thought briefly crosses her mind that, if he told her to take her shirt off, she might just change her mind.
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So he's going to do this, all right. He sums up the familiar resolve to cling to life, faded but useful. It'll be a real shock to the one who thought they'd killed him, won't it?
"Your neck," he says, glancing over at her again. He could have asked for her wrist, but he's running statistics now. That's more blood, more of a chance of healing up the wound in his chest. More chance to get up and walk out of here before the sun comes up. Enough energy to snag another victim and crawl his way back up to something functional.
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Her stomach twisted at the matter-of-factness of it. And at the knowledge that she was actually going to do it. But what else could she do?
Walk away. And maybe she should. But she won't.
It's difficult to steady her own breathing, and impossible to stop the way her heart is racing, but she at least manages the first. It's just giving blood. Paradisa's very own Red Cross. Right.
She's already close, but she edges closer reluctantly, shifting her weight from her feet to her knees as she settles uncomfortably close to him...at least, for her. Being inches away from him would be unsettling enough, even without knowing where this was going. It's enough to make her hands shake as she reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear and push the heavy cowl of her sweater away from her throat.
"If you kill me, I will make your undead life hell when I come back."
It's a half-hearted comment, but it helps to say it...to pretend that it's something flippant enough to joke about. It helps drown out the voice in her head that's clamoring about her being an idiot.