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Jesse has come to the slow conclusion that he should, in fact, stop trying to communicate.

On far too many occasions, he has been misunderstood, his words misinterpreted. He sits at Swansdale station, chewing on the inside of his cheek. There’s a bench that he has commandeered, all to himself, his legs sprawled out in front of him, his arms thrown up over the back of it. There’s a scowl resting on his lips, and the commuters keep well out of his way. They circle around the bench that he sits on as if it’s plagued with a disease that they might catch if they get too close. He pays no attention to them. And nor does he catch a train – at least five stop and leave again, and he remains seated. Lost in his thoughts.

He cast his memory back. He is trying to figure out whether there’s something else he’s done to inspire Micah’s ire. The text message he’d sent to his cousin had only been met with unbridled aggression. Yes, he could go and try to talk to the man face to face, but what’s the point if he’s not going to be open to reason?

And Micah’s not the only one. Too many other people seem to take him far too seriously. And even when he’s trying to be helpful, he is misunderstood; a recent argument with Grey was caused by that very thing. Misunderstanding. He’d vowed, then, to not speak so much anymore – to revert back into the silence he was first so well known for. And now? Now, he’s vowed to say nothing, ever, on Crownet, unless it’s for informative purposes only. Bereft of any humour. People seem not to appreciate his humour.

The Necromancer’s bright blue eyes narrowed at a young boy as he passes by. The boy gasps, eyes wide, and scuttles to stand on the other side of his distracted mother. Jesse isn’t in the mood to be kind. He’s disturbed, and ill-at-ease. He has no idea whether he’s done something more to displease Micah. Micah, one of the only people he respects. More than that, he’s one of the only people whom Jesse might seek approval from. It disturbs him to think, one, that he has done something to displease his cousin and, two, because he doesn’t want to have such a weakness. He’d been through this before, though – he’d tried to push everyone away because of it. And in the end had concluded that he couldn’t help the way things had turned out, and realised he preferred it. He liked having that thing he’d never had before – a family, and people whom he could trust, and who he hoped would trust him in return.

But somewhere along the way he must have done something wrong. Obviously. And he doesn’t know what to do about it.

A heavy sigh expels from Jesse’s throat and he slides further down into the bench, his legs stretching a little further out onto the platform – he nearly trips a businessman, who turns to swear at Jesse – but upon seeing the vampire, snaps his mouth shut and scurries away. A clucking noise clicks in Jesse’s throat, and his head rolls back, gaze slipping to the ceiling.

(())

For a moment or five, Jesse closes his eyes. The random passerby still passed him by, though quite a few no doubt mistook him for some young drunk, near passed out on the platform bench. No one would dare confront him about it, however, or try to get him to move. And while he sits there, he tries to drown out the thoughts in his head by focusing only on his other senses. His hearing: when he focuses properly he can hear the rumble of the train long before anyone else can; he can hear it in the way the metal tracks vibrate against the wood, the way that the tiny gravel stones rattle against each other. He can hear whispered conversations happening on the platform on the other side of the track – it’s an urgent, hasty argument between two women. One who denies attraction while the other seems desperate to convince her companion that what they shared was special.

And he can smell so much, too. He can smell the rats from the tunnels, the ones immune to the rumble and roar of the trains and who claim the tracks as their home. Cousins to the sewer rats, no doubt. He can smell that particular scent common to rat droppings. He can smell the trash in the can nearby – discarded McDonalds and god knows what else. What he can smell, however, above all else is blood. Human blood, just as he can hear the hearts as they pound in the chests of the humans lingering nearby. Thinking of that blood, hearing it as it rushes through their limbs, makes his throat burn worse than usual, the insatiable itch never sated. His mouth waters as he day dreams. As he imagines taking that woman – as there is a woman in high heels passing by, he can hear her clop clopping along the platform – and slamming her up against the pillar, wrenching her head to the side and tearing into her neck, regardless of the numerous watching eyes.

The daydream is interrupted by a familiar voice. Jesse’s eyes open and his head falls forward, settling upon the slight figure of Ursula. Here’s one person who, as far as he can remember, hasn’t ever misinterpreted him and who has taken his attitude in her stride, because she has the ability to laugh at it, just as he intends for people to do. But still, she’s caught him in an odd moment, where, consciously or not, his mindset has slipped back in time. Back to a night when his voice eluded him.

And so he does not speak. He does not utter the teasing words that sit at the base of his tongue, the kind of light banter that he and Ursula usually fell into, with its harmless sexual innuendoes that are just that – innuendoes, and nothing more. Instead, he just shakes his head, arches his brow and shrugs his shoulders, the corners of his lips tilting into a grin – a grin that says a silent hello.

There’s something in her stance that indicates some kind of wariness, but Jesse figures he’s reading too much into it – or he doesn’t notice so much, given that he’s been watching that kind of wariness in everyone else for the better half of the evening.

Cat, indeed. If the cat is metaphorical, and if its name was bitterness, then yes. The cat had got his tongue. Where did that saying come from, anyway? Somewhere, sometime, at some random point in history, had there been an instance where someone had lost their tongue to a cat? Jesse makes a point, in his own mind, to research the phrase. Pure curiosity. He can see it as a Sailor Jerry – a Popeye-like man with bulging eyes and flailing arms as a Tom-and-Jerry-like cat has his gnashing teeth clamped down on the man’s tongue, fur bristled.

The necromancer watches as his progeny’s progeny closes the distance and settles on the bench beside him; a bench that has been used for years by commuters, whose underside is probably spotted with blackened, hard remnants of discarded chewing gum, much like the platform is. The paint is peeling. Jesse doesn’t move an inch. He’s aware of two women walking past – both at least in their forties. He hears them mumbling to each other. He catches the words sweet girl and scoundrel – tones of disdain and horror. They’re shocked that Ursula should have chosen to sit next to him. They’re worried for her safety and wellbeing. How quaint.

Jesse doesn’t bother looking at them. He ignores them completely, his sharp gaze remaining steadfast upon Ursula. Of course she would ask that question. Why? Because his silence is so immediately obvious? Shouldn’t it be a familiar cloak? Something people are already accustomed to? Why should hint to them that something is wrong, something that he might want to talk about?

Ursula’s a smart girl. If he doesn’t respond, she’ll get the hint. There’s a reason he’s not talking so much, and it means no. No, he does not want to talk about it. He hadn’t even talked to Grey about it, though Grey had been there. She’d seen the storm in his eyes when he’d returned from that hunt – hers had been the arms he’d run to, but still he had not talked to her about it.

The storm is only a distant thing in Jesse’s eyes, now. The smile remains curled on his lips and his knee sways, just once. Slowly, he shakes his head. That’s a negative. No talking. He cants his head to the side and arches a brow, head almost bowed in inquisition. He’d prefer to hear about Ursula’s night. He’d prefer to know if there’s anything she’d like to talk about. He’d taken it for granted, before, when people would just open up around him. It’s only recently that he’s realised he misses it.