Of Monsters [Closed]

[Jameson Dade]

It was snowing, but it wasn’t.

Only a week before, the white powder had fallen in full force and covered the streets in a cold blanket, which had then been forced out of the streets by snow plows. The foot traffic on sidewalks and thousands of cars had muddied that pristine colour until it was grey. What had once been loose and light had partially melted only to re-solidify and compact into lumps of shimmering ice. His boots crunched as he walked down the street. The Slums were not the best part of town; there was a great deal of criminal activity there, and ever since Bancroft had been put into mayoral office, there had been dirty cops policing the streets as well. One was no better than the other.

The cops in Harper Rock shot at citizens. Even if they had no violent crimes to their name. They just opened fire as soon as they saw them.

It was dangerous to be a criminal in the city of the damned for that very reason.

His umbrella spun above him as he walked and he would occasionally pull it back so that he could peer up to the sky and feel the touch of each cold flake against his skin. There was something invigorating about the freezing air and the way that the wind could whip against it to leave it feeling raw and red. Jameson had once read that pain was a beautiful thing because it let people know they were alive and had the ability to feel pleasure. He didn’t normally buy into that sort of thing at all. Most people spent their entire lives trying to flee the very idea of anguish. But he was in a mood. Which was to say that he was as high as a kite and not entirely there.

But he was coming to himself slowly, a process that felt a lot like drowning in revelation, and he absolutely loathed it, crashing into the ground after coasting through the clouds for so long. He first realized that it wasn’t snowing. Hadn’t been snowing at all, not for days. And then he realized that he was wearing a kilt over what appeared to be a pair of black leggings. The print on it was green and gold, tartan, and the fabric was heavy on his hips, but he did not recall purchasing it. There were whispers of memories in the back of his head about a conversation with an older man where he had been talking the guy into removing it so he could try it on. Then he’d just…wandered off with it maybe?

He didn’t entirely have control of himself when he was abusing substances, but that was also why he never went on a job high. No, those had to be done stone cold sober, which was why his heists generally took place at the beginning of the evening after rousing from a day’s slumbering death. Which left hours and hours for him to blow away existence by sapping ecstasy right out of someone else’s veins. He met with Robin most days to feed, but Jameson wasn’t really put together enough for that to be enough for him. Left to his own devices he would have stayed in a constant state of levitation above everything. But no one person could handle that, being fed from time after time after time.

Which was why he had turned up in the Slums to begin with, or at least, that was what he assumed as he found himself looking around for a crack house. It was bad for him. Most vampires had this ability, when they fed, to just seal the wound and send their prey off with no memory of the encounter, but Jameson had no such defense. But he had an itch that needed to be scratched and no real power to stop himself from reaching for it. The plan was simple really. Find someone blitzed out of their head. Then feed from them. Go on his merry little way.

“Hi. Hello. Hi. How are you?” He asked abruptly after having dropped what appeared to be an already broken umbrella behind him, approaching someone lurking just outside of his destination.

[Grey Weston]

The cold didn’t touch him. It should have, by all accounts. The shirt he wore was ill-fitting; it sagged comically, coming to an abrupt stop just shy of his hips. The collar was loose, stretched to such a degree that one bony shoulder was left exposed, always on the verge of spilling out entirely. It would’ve been the height of chic, if he were a woman. It had probably been two sizes too big for him new, but he hadn’t been concerned with that when he’d swiped it from a damp and partially collapsed donation box. It fit. Or he thought it had. It was one less thing he had to pay for, at any rate. The jacket he wore over it was an improvement, though marginally, at best.

It had, at one time, been a color close to caramel. Some kind of faux suede. The years had treated it roughly. They shared that much in common. The entire left side had been stripped of color, rubbed to a grayish white. The sleeves were three quarters of an inch too short, and the zipper was permanently off its track, leaving the front to hang open. Grey’s hands were firmly shoved inside of either pocket, fingers curled possessively around their contents. His fingertips had been rubbing against it for the better part of an hour; worrying at the smooth plastic like a talisman for luck.

He was warm, in spite of the color in his windburned cheeks. It was a drowsy sort of warmth; slow to build and almost stifling, as if he’d cocooned himself in a nest of blankets. He was oblivious to the cold and the bite of the brick between his shoulder blades. He was focused, instead, on the way his breath escaped his lips in a ragged vapor trail, twisting upwards before dissipating. Tearing itself apart. He’d been there since the afternoon. Hunched against the wind, stumbling at a pace barely above a brisk shuffle. He’d fallen once or twice; then. Feverish. Teeth clenched against that sharp twist of nausea that wrung soft, piteous sounds from his throat. They never quite managed to spill past his lips; firmly locked behind teeth as he desperately tried to swallow the old-penny taste that lay thick over his tongue.

It had taken him two hours to score a hit. Two hours too long. He’d bared his teeth when the transaction took a second too long and hands fumbled; impatience warring with the half-formed apology that froze on his lips, gaze unfocused and cornered. Animal. He hadn’t cared. He’d ducked into the refuge of an alley minutes later, hastily rolling up sleeves with deft hands. They were always deft in seconds before; a thin moment of clarity. The knot in his stomach loosened. Relief. The pressure at his temples subsided, muted. It was fine. Everything was just fine, he was f--

He jumped. Flinched, really. He spent a puzzled moment studying the gloom, contracted pupils attempting to make out the speaker in the murk. Suddenly nervous. He wet his lips, calculating. If he ran for it now, he could probably make it to the end of the alley and a handful of feet beyond. Maybe. His legs would hold him now, he was fairly sure. The false sense of security he’d felt was gradually giving away, slowly but surely being torn asunder. Before he could make a decision one way or another, he was already being approached.

“I...yeah. Hi.” He eyed Jameson for a moment, before his gaze shifted to the bent skeleton of the discarded umbrella. “...I’m great. You know?” He probably didn’t, in fact, but there was nothing wrong with being amicable. “You?” It was asked reflexively. He might’ve been high, but he hadn’t, at the very least, forgotten manners.

[Jameson Dade]

They were the children of wolves, but more monstrous than the literal imagery. When they were together, when there was enough food to go around, they were pack, and they were solid in each other. They protected one another gave false hope and created little puppy piles filled with stacks of flesh and writhing limbs. They created their own warmth for each other on the cold nights, and when that silent plea for permission was asked, they always granted it. They never judged their own. Being a junkie was, despite what anyone might have thought, a community sport. One needed another person to accept and condone wasting a life and who better for that task than someone else with a similar affliction? The problem arose when there was not enough of their gold and god to pump into their veins.

That’s when those children of wolves grew claws and fangs, and that’s when they destroyed each other.

Thankfully, Jameson did not have to directly ingest something to enjoy its benefits. In fact, he didn’t prefer it that way. Baking in the blood made it all the more delicious to him; an instant high that he could enjoy for hours.

Jameson knew immediately that the man in front of him was riding some kind of wave, standing out there in the cold all by himself. That was a dangerous game for anyone, especially if a police officer happened by. Did that make him a savior or a murderer? He took another step towards Grey, his eyes a cool blue, though where the other man’s cheeks were pink with the cold, his own were stark white. Much as allurists might have looked more human than any of the other vampiric paths, the truth of the matter was that they were still very much dead. His hair fell to his shoulders in a golden wave. Even though it had not been cleaned in a few days, it had no oily quality to it, but looked lustrous and metallic.

That was perhaps the one benefit of what he was. In life, he had looked constantly washed out, too pale and dull from years of abuse. His teeth had suffered from his addiction, and so had his skin, his veins. After dying, most of the imperfections that his lifestyle had created had all but disappeared. He looked pretty even, a lot more delicate than he really was. “You’re going to catch a cold.” And with that, he reached out and snatched up the other man’s hand to tug him towards the door of the crack house. He had his own plans, of course. He could easily have just fed from the other guy and left him to his own devices, but he wanted to pump him full of the chemicals that would bring Jameson pleasure.

And then he would just drink them all out.

On some level, he knew that meant he would probably end up killing the other man. But the allure of it was too much for him to pass on. Besides, it was probably for the best, wasn’t it? No one needed to know about him that way, needed to know about his being a vampire. He could just dump the body somewhere, and people would assume it was some kind of overdose or something. Maybe? He wasn’t all that good with biology or things like that, so it was just a guess.

The moment there was flesh on flesh contact, there was warmth. Body heat. Jameson sent a pulse of the vampiric energy he was only just beginning to master straight into the mortal. Apparently it was an ability called ‘Pacification’, one that many other vampires of his path had. He had first begun to stumble upon the mechanics when he’d been spending time with Robin, and had carefully honed them after that point. He wasn’t sure how it worked for most of his breed, but for him, it was like this wave of powerful euphoria that hit the one he was targeting. Kept them malleable, and unable to do much in the way of harm to him.

Which was necessary, really.

Another tug towards the side door leading into the house, and he glanced back into Grey’s eyes. “I’m Jameson, come and play with me.”

[Grey Weston]

Catch a cold. For a moment, the statement washed over him like the crackle of static, fuzzy and distant. The look he leveled on Jameson was uncomprehending, unsettling because of the curious lack. Not blank, but not entirely present. There was an intensity to his stare; wholly narrow in its focus and scope. It was a look perfected by years of addiction. It spoke of unadulterated fascination, as if whoever or whatever held their attention was the center of their world. Because they were. For the moment. His eyes began to burn inexplicably; a stinging sharpness that quickly had them overfull and spilling over. That wasn't terribly uncommon. Grey had been around others who'd abruptly began sobbing when high. Usually it was soft, barely audible. Pitiful little sounds in the dark and wet inhales that largely went ignored. At other times the sounds were high and thin, cresting on a sob. Ugly sounds. They were a violent purging of years and years of neglect and denial. That was generally when they'd hit rock bottom and realized they'd effectively pissed away every shred of good to grace their lives.

He knew the sound. He'd heard it several times over the years, usually while huddled and shivering on the opposite side of a stained mattress, never entirely sure of the date or the name of the city. The difference was that Grey knew how he'd gotten to where he was, and the paths he'd chosen to take. He just...didn't care. He hadn't teared up out of sadness or epiphany; he'd forgotten to blink. He was openly staring at Jameson, as if desperately trying to drink him in. His fingers flexed inside of his pocket; moving to shape themselves around an invisible brush. A part of him ached to paint him, to capture the unexpected. And that, really, was why he craved the highs; the sharpness of detail. The way everything seemed to slow. How, in certain light, anything could be beautiful.

"Bagpipes were used in psychological warfare." The words are surprisingly matter-of-fact, delivered in an even, almost cheerful tone. He could've been remarking on the price of gas, for all that the other man's words registered. His gaze was fixed on the pattern of his kilt. He was distracted, fingertips touching against each other. He couldn't feel them. He felt their resistance; the stiffness in their joints. But he couldn't see how drawn and pale they were, tips gone a sickly yellow in the cold. The first jolt of panic cut through the pleasant warmth circulating through his veins. He valued his hands. They were tools, calloused and nail-bitten though they were. A knife to cut through the gray of the world. Damaging them--losing them--was out of the question. One of the few things that could take the edge off of any warm, dark wave.

There was suddenly contact. He would have tensed, normally; shied away from the touch with an impatient jerk of his arm and a scowl. Only...only there was a sudden sharp spike and the wave he'd comfortably been riding threatened to engulf him. It was as effective as if someone had seized a kitten by its scruff. "Grey." It was delayed, thicker than normal. As if it were suddenly a struggle to get his lips to form words. What the ****? The thought surfaced, hazy and slow-forming as the blue triangle of an eight ball. Fleeting. He stumbled along in Jameson wake. He didn't remember moving. He wasn't entirely sure he was. But he didn't resist as he was dragged closer towards the door. He was fairly certain there were rules; something imperative his mother had imparted when he was a child.

Don't talk to...? Gone.

"Yeah. Sure." **** it.

[Jameson Dade]

He had been told at one point that a vampire’s Path was based on their personality, on who they had been in life. The traits, both good and bad, became exacerbated after they were turned, and in some ways they became caricatures of themselves. Shadows, for example, tended to be loners, cowards, murderers – the sort of person who naturally stuck to the darkness, away from the attention of the public, and far off from the scrutiny that could have undone them. Jameson would have killed to have been one of them, but he was essentially the opposite. Allurists tended to be artists, or the vain, natural leaders. He was none of those things, simply a likable man whose only merit was a willingness to share his vision with everyone else.

And just as there were many different kinds of vampires, he suspected there were many kinds of Allurists; like those who gave great and powerful speeches, or those who seduced the willing with carnal promises and half-truths. Still there were others, the glamorous, the beautiful, those who had, and would always be fixated on their appearances, on that first impression they were able to make. But that was not Jameson. He was a creature of addiction, with everything that he was. His was a morphine soul, and his touch could bring out the best in a high without the draw backs that came with abuse. His appearance was merely a byproduct of what he had become, and he was no more attached to it than he was the clothing he wore.

Eyes like midnight and hair like the stars, his skin was smooth and alabaster fair, save for the soft pink of his lips. “Berserkers used to run into battle naked. And there were certain clans that drank blood or urine for strength.” He liked to watch documentaries and information television when he was high. He occasionally picked up on a few facts here and there, but rarely more than little snippets. Half of it probably wasn’t even true, or outdated. Maybe aliens were real.

Whatever the case, it seemed some of the Gaelic cultures had been into that kind of thing. The mental warfare. He got that, but mainly just because he wasn’t much into violence himself. Better things to do with his life than get into a scuffle over something he probably wouldn’t end up caring about anyway. Easier to just pinch whatever it was (drugs generally) off of whoever, and be done with it.

“Like the color? Makes a prettier name than shade.” He replied, and then they were off. He didn’t really skip, or run, or walk. There was a levity to his movement. Kind of like floating and yet not all at once. He flowed across the icy street and away from the dark alleyway, into the building. The entire place was a trashed out mess, with wrappers, old pizza boxes, soda cartons and cans, and others such things spread around. There were also mattresses covered in sweat, and occasionally either piss or vomit. There were needles all over, pipes. Bodies sprawled just about anywhere they could, and Jameson found himself looking around for a moment before he found what he was looking for. He brushed debris aside as he approached a man curled around something. He crouched for a second, weaving his fingers through the arm bars before he jerked a bag free. A second later, he looked through the contents. Jackpot.

He tossed the plastic wal-mart bag filled with drugs over to Grey. “Hold this.” He then plucked a sharpie and sticky-note pad out of kilt pouch. He scrawled the words ‘Get your **** together, man.’ And then a heart symbol just beneath it. He stuck the thing on the sleeping man’s cheek before he shoved both things back into the fur covered sack. Then it was time to go again, so he grabbed Grey’s arm and tugged him right through the door they had entered. “We’re going back to my place.” He explained.

[Grey Weston]

His lips quirked, drew themselves into a half-smile, lopsided in a way that hinted towards what would have been a dimple, once. The suggestion of someone who used to laugh often. His laughter was rare these days. It was an expression that should have softened his face, smoothed away the sharp angles. It would have been attractive, once. Cute, even. As it was, it only served to highlight the fact that the man was all angles; gaunt and more often than not shaking with something that hinted towards more than just the cold. It was slightly confused, the smile. But polite. The look of someone who hasn't quite gotten the joke, but that was less important than the fact that they were really into person telling it.

His lips were chapped. He realized this belatedly, dry skin stretching to its breaking point before splitting. It wasn't the faint, stinging warmth he noticed. It was the sudden, slightly sticky smear of wetness across the center of his lower lip. He licked over it immediately, unthinking. He was making it worse. He always made things worse. "Yeah? Which are you?" The stirrings of paranoia were evident in the question. But the tone was all wrong. It was light; a forced causality. Better suited to asking him what his ******* horoscope was. The thought prompted a sound caught between a snort and laugh, quickly stifled. "What--" The question died on his lips as Jameson spoke. "It's spelled like the color." A pause. "If you're European," he added a second later, acting on a sudden impulse to clarify. "Officially, like the ******* goose."

He lapsed into silence, trailing after Jameson like a chastened child. "But..." he stumbled, both over his feet and his words in his sudden haste. The half-formed smile from before had widened, warmer. Excited. "But--yes, no. Not a color. Gray isn't, I mean." He hardly seemed aware of the debris littering the alley, although his feet crunched over it, the thin soles of his shoes grinding something hard underfoot. There was a moment of resistance, and then it crumbled, softening with a muted, brittle noise. His gaze was fixed on Jameson's back, mildly curious. He rarely discussed the merits of the color wheel, much less with passing acquaintances, at best. He missed it, truth be told. As much as he missed anything, at least. Loss was a closer friend than the crowds he'd run with at one time. It made no demands. Had no expectations. It was constant, predictable. Comfortable. It took only the things he had long taught himself not to miss.

He caught the bag on reflex; arms reaching to catch the crumpled shape and gather it close before Jameson's command truly registered. His gaze shifted to the man curled in on himself, arms bereft of their burden. For a moment, he felt a pang of pity. Not because he felt guilty, but because he knew what the morning would bring. Had been there once or twice himself. He remembered that lurching panic, the compulsive need to check and recheck every possible location. As if looking away would somehow, through sheer will, ensure that it would be there when you looked again. That simmering rage just beneath the skin. The moment where everyone shared guilt by association. Touch. Fingers on his arm again. He started forward, blindly giving in to some nameless compulsion that was borderline instinctual. "I...look. Jameson. I don't know. I've got people waiting for me." It was a lie, and it rung hollow in his ears. Not entirely--there was Stoker.

He doubted begging off for the sake of needing to feed his dog sounded half so convincing, however.

[Jameson Dade]

A light brow lifted at the question. Which one was he indeed? He didn’t intend to answer; that was the sort of thing the other man would need to figure out for himself. “I hear the Europeans add a lot of extra ‘u’s into everything. So it’s spelled G-R-A-U-Y?” He asked, and then laughed, at his own terrible joke. Grey then, and not gray, though the distinction was minimal for Jameson; he didn’t place a huge amount of value on precise spelling or exact meanings of words. He was all about context, and connotation, and tone. Feeling. He was all about the feeling that was trying to be conveyed rather than the actual information, and how accurate that may or may not have been.

“That’s mighty confusing. Your parents must like being befuddling.” He replied. Jameson wasn’t sure about the origin of his own name, though it had probably just been what sounded good to his parents at the time. His father had been a small time pot dealer for years before the boy had been born, and his mother had spent most of the Allurist’s childhood passed out somewhere, unable to deal with life. Even into the modern day, Jay had to take care of them in one form or another. Jackson Dade was in prison on distribution charges, hadn’t even noticed that his son had gotten very pale over the past few months during their brief visits. Jameson didn’t meet with his mum, because it always depressed him. She was a wreck even with the man she’d loved. Without Jackson, she wasn’t even a person.

A few minutes later the two of them were standing at the door leading out into the blistering cold. Something poetic and fitting about that.

“Is that so? Well then feel free to invite them along. We can call it a party.” He said even as he drew closer. He moved slowly, deliberately, so that he didn’t step on broken pipe glass or on any of the needles on the ground. He was a glutton, and if there was the chance that he might get to feast on more than one person. Well, he knew that it was a terrible idea on the outset, but that didn’t necessarily dissuade him. So he let his fingers curl against the bag he had snatched from the other man. Digits tightened and he yanked it right out of the human’s arms before brushing past him and through the door. “But if you really have to be going, I suppose I can take these and leave.” He replied.

But really, it wasn’t that fair. Like taking food from a starving man. He knew exactly what the other would pick because Grey looked as much like an addict as Jameson had used to. He was still unreasonably thin, but he didn’t seem to be emaciated. He knew the choice he would have made if it had been posed to him. Though Jay had been shameless in his pursuit of a good high. He would have lapped a substance up out of the mud if it would have given him what he wanted. Maybe he was overestimating the sway the contents of the bag might have had.

[Grey Weston]

An inward wince was the sole acknowledgment of the other man's attempt at humor. He'd never been particularly literary; that had been largely uncharted territory. The proverbial edge of the map. Which isn't to say he didn't read. It was more that his taste ran towards the easily consumable. Graphic novels. Penny dreadfuls. Classics the likes of which were penned by Shelley and Lovecraft. Even so, he was half-tempted to inform Jameson that his butchery would've had any English major soft in under two seconds. "G-r-e-y," he corrected patiently. "Jackass," he finished, tacking on the latter as an afterthought. It was unnecessarily harsh, but Grey was on edge. It was evident in the dry, grinding rasp of his molars. It was an unconscious habit, and usually the telltale signal that he was on the downswing from whatever coked out fog he'd cocooned himself in. It was an uglier side to the otherwise even tempered young man; an aspect that would have inspired shame, once. But Jameson had what he needed, and all that mattered--all that the narrow scope of his focus could reconcile--was a means of getting it.

"My mother was an alcoholic," he said curtly. He'd been ten when he'd discovered the origin of his name. His mother had left a bottle of vodka out on the counter the night before, half-finished, morning light catching the dirty gray of its frosted glass. Gray. He spent the morning picking at the runny, tasteless egg on his plate, certain with the voiceless terror only a child could manage that his mother would eventually drain him as empty as the bottle on the counter top. Wasn't that what love did? At least he came by it naturally. He studied the door over the curve of Jameson's shoulder, only half-listening to the other man's words. It was the cadence that held his attention, washing over him with an effect that left him feeling disoriented, much like the feeling that hit when he finally came down days later to find that it was Wednesday, the rent was past due, the electricity had been cut, and his cell phone had been redirecting calls with a detached We're sorry; the number you have reached is no longer in service. And all he wanted to do was shut his eyes and sleep. Return to that blissful ignorance.

"He's not interested." The words were sharper than he'd intended, and he flinched. "He just--" Softer. Drained. "**** off." It registered, belatedly, that Jameson had taken a step closer. When? Why hadn't he noticed? He was still approaching, edging closer in the same manner one used to approach a wild animal. He almost laughed. Until the other man's fingers hooked into the bag and abruptly tugged, that was. It was immediate. Effective. He lost his grip, and the sack jerked free of his grasp. He was briefly startled, hands lifting reflexively to chase after it. It spoke volumes. Screamed, really. Told Jameson everything he needed to know in one poorly controlled gesture. He probably would've hated himself, if he hadn't given up on that, too. "No, it's cool. I'm sorry." He wasn't quite groveling, but he was drawing increasingly close to doing just that. There was a desperation to his tone, an attempt to reason. There was as tension as well; a suggestion that if all else failed, he wouldn't hesitate to sink his teeth into the other man; kick until ribs snapped. He had no qualms with turning on his own.

"If you want to go, we'll go." He eyed him then, taking a step closer. Then another. And then he was brushing past him just as easily, leaning a shoulder into the frame of the door, hand falling to a handle, shoving it open and stepping over the threshold. So much for better judgment.

[Jameson Dade]

A smile when he was called a jackass. He didn’t take offense, because he had been called far worse things by people who meant it a lot more. “You know, you wouldn’t have to resort to name calling if you could just take a complement.” He observed. Because it was still true, he found it to be a pretty name regardless of the spelling. English was not his strongest subject, and never had been. He’d always been fairly good at math, but only because he understood its practical application. He’d used to use math every single day when he’d been a dealer for his father. Like how much he had to mark up each baggie from the price his dad set so that he could keep a few of them for himself.

Exclusive access to whiny rich boys and girls without any other means of getting their hands on the goods had given him that type of power. Years before, in high school. Max had been one of those, the son of an upstanding, wealthy family. He had been expected to become an extraordinary human being and Jameson had totally destroyed him. Some of those worse things he’d been called had come from the mouth of Max’s mother. They’d gotten along strangely well after the funeral, but Jameson blamed that on guilt more than actual concern. She’d watched her son descend into a pit of nothingness and had done very little to try and pull him out.

“You’re in good company.” Max’s mother had been better at it than Jameson’s. The last time he’d seen her, she had been in a bath tub, covered in vomit, with enough empty bottles around her to have started a bar if that had been her intention. Without her husband there to be her anchor, she had all but fallen apart, but Jackson Dade was in prison, most likely where he belonged. He chose not to elaborate further, because he didn’t want it to turn into some kind of exchange of sob stories. He’d put up with enough of that when he’d gone through rehab, and then the NA meetings. He sympathized, and that was the problem. He didn’t want to hear about how he was going to ruin the life of someone like him. Attachment was too dangerous for a vampire.

Moments ticked past, and it seemed as if Grey was not going to take him up on his offer, and then the man’s tone abruptly changed. He felt a little guilty for it, holding that kind of power over the other’s head. He probably could have gotten away with all sorts of dark things with just that little bag as a promise. He’d seen his father do that with his mother for years, so it wasn’t exactly a stretch of the imagination. His family had always been odd. Dysfunctional, but terribly close. Win together. Lose together. The family business. They had stuck to each other through things that probably should have driven them apart, or made them realize how unhealthy their lifestyle was.

“Well come on then.” Exasperation did not enter his tone, and soon Grey was through the door, followed after by the Allurist. He pressed into the other man’s side as he walked, matching his stride so that he could drag an arm around a middle. It was a lot more familiar than it should have been, but that was Jameson. He didn’t mind touch, in fact, he craved physical contact and didn’t mind stealing that from someone he didn’t entirely know. “My place is only a few streets over.” He added a moment later, though he was quiet for the most part. He wasn’t going to pretend that they were friends, or that he had any intention of doing the kid favors. The truth was that he was going to help the thin boy get high, and then likely drain him dry.

The trip to his apartment was a short one by foot, and by the time that he got through the door, Bucket was just past the entrance. The Golden Retriever was immediately excited to see Jameson, and even the new person he’d never seen before. Which. He made immediately clear by attempting to maul them over and sit on them.

[Grey Weston]

"'Nice ***'" is a compliment. 'Pretty name' is what you tell someone when you know nothing about them. If you're going to compliment me..." He paused then, as if searching for words. Given his previously vacant state, that might not have been far off the mark. "Don't," he finished. The word was flat. Bitter. There was a defensive edge to his words. It was a poor sort of armor; thin and easily seen through. But easier. Painless. He glanced sidelong at Jameson then, carefully tonguing the raw skin on the roof his mouth. It was tender. Sore. He didn't remember when he'd done it. He could barely remember the last day he'd been sober. He vaguely remembered the details of an e-mail; someone interested in a print. He'd meant to respond, but the library was closing in fifteen minutes, and he'd...he flinched away from the memory, his focus returning to Jameson.

His lips gave a wry twist. He doubted it. Not that he necessarily deserved better. "I wonder if she's okay." The words were low and suddenly small. Thin sounding, even to his ears. He hadn't spoken to her in over two years. He'd called from a payphone, breath fogging the cheap plastic, listening to the muted, endless ringing that seemed impossibly far away. He'd been about to press his fingers down on the metal when a click sounded on the end. He remembered her bleary voice. How tired it sounded. "Hello? over and over and then silence. A ragged breath. He'd listened to the hissing static on the other end, the even rhythm of her breathing, fingers gripping the receiver so hard his knuckles whitened. I'm sorry, he'd wanted to say. She hadn't deserved it. Hadn't deserved such an irreparable mistake for a son. Funny how the thing you should say is always the hardest. ..."Grey?" It had been a whisper, wrenching in its hopefulness. He'd hung up.

He didn't react when Jameson fell into step with him, slowing out of necessity. There was a moment where he tensed when the other man's arm curled around him. And then he relaxed, leaning into him as if he offered some sort of refuge. Their movements were awkward, slightly mismatched as they jostled against each other. Without thinking, he lifted a hand, allowing it to slide around the other man's waist, fingers hooking into the back of a waistband, resting just on the edge. It steadied them, somewhat. Kept them from colliding together roughly. It could have passed for normal, on the outside. He nodded in mute acknowledgement of the other man's words. Truthfully, it wouldn't have mattered if he'd been on a forced march. As long as Jameson held a sufficient bargaining chip, he'd have blindly followed him into hell.

He was grateful once inside. The creeping sense of vertigo was back, warring with the dull pang in gradually warming fingers. He was careful as he pulled away from Jameson; not entirely steady on his feet, but in no immediate danger of stumbling over the threshold. That is, until a sudden whirlwind of fur presented itself. A change settled over Grey; expression softening, smoothing out his features in a way his earlier smile had failed to. There was vulnerability nested there, in the genuine quirk of his lips. Closer to a grin. He extended his hands, presenting not a fist, but twin open palms, gently cupping the dog's chin. He thought of Stoker; eyes nearly orange in the black of his face. The name hadn't been his idea, but it suited him. More importantly, he served as an anchor for Grey. "Dog person. So maybe not such a jackass, then."