I feed on fire and confusion
Of this crime I?ll rid my soul
Gonna slide on down to the river
Gonna tell her all
So I told my troubles to the river
And I tossed them in the deep
And I washed my hands in the river
But the river brings more trouble to me
I told my troubles to the river
She shared them with the seas
She returned them to me doubled
The river holds no offer of peace
I can wash this blood from my fingers
I can wash this stain from my soul
But I can?t wash out your memories
The river returns them all.
I told my troubles to the river
She shared them with the deep
Yeah I told my troubles to the river
But the river brings them back to me
Yeah the river brings them back to me
Though he'd glutted himself earlier that evening after his bombardment with the brat pack that was apparently the Granger clan and the infuriating rebuff of Elias, he'd gone out and hunted down another hapless victim, purely to sate the boil of his rage, not to slake the currently well sated hunger that lay coiled within like a slumbering serpent. He wasn't ready for home yet and the empty streets held no attraction... so it was back to the inn and the sanctuary of the Great Hall.
Curiosity kills cats - but it also gives them the chance to explore. Ragged, paint-smeared jeans are the same, and all the dirtier for it, that Cat had worn the night before - and the night before that. So are the rest of his clothes, just as pungently malodorous as always, though the bitter cold of the night air helps keep the stench muted. It's a bright, clear night, and the hammer of noise radiating from the Inn is enough to deflect Cat toward the possibilities of an empty Outback. The Hall is right there, though. Somewhere that he's never been. So it's a curious Cat that comes a-prowling, without a hint of feline nature to blame for it, slinking in through the doors left unlocked and open to whatever might wander the city's night. He pauses just inside, studying the posh decor with silent bemusement that anyplace could be that... gaudy.
Gideon had climbed in through one of the carelessly open window-doors that lead out to the massive veranda and moved through the quicksilver pattern the moonlight made on the tiled floor through the leaded glass panes, the shattered pieces of moonlight sliding over the hard-set planes of his face, cold features taut, the rage still bubbling to the surface as he paced the floor like a caged thing. He jerked as the heavy door that separated him from the overwhelming crowd opened.
A familiar scent wafted in almost before it's bearer did, and the evil thoughts of what torments he'd love to visit upon the useless Grangers were stopped cold and replaced with the piqued curiosity of the night before. Salt, cold flesh, decay and slippery, chill scales... The faint shadow of a smile returned to curve the broad mouth.
The man that prowls the echoing confines fits so neatly with the setting, melds so perfectly into it that Cat's gaze barely pauses on him, head cocking to the side as he searches for - and finds, there, against the wall. No building in the city would be complete without a bar. A sharper glance recoils to settle on the man, studying him with all the suspicion of a crow coveting some morsel as a cur slinks toward it. A shoulder twists, sharp spine pushing against the door to swing it shut again.
"Hullo there." Gideon was cloaked in shadow where he'd stopped his mad pacing, and only the eerie half-sheen of crystalline eyes gave him away. His tone was soft, the kind of timbre one would use to coax a frightened cat out from under a bed, the sound of it velvet against velvet. He moved forward just a step, open palm outstretched.
"Don't go." Half command, half open plea.
Not going. The door clunks shut, closing out the sounds of the crowd, and leaves Cat inside. He stalks toward the source of liquid heat without breaking his stare at the stranger. There are other scents to mingle with those of dead fish. Paint, the rubbery marine kind, harsh and acrid from the repair dry-docks. Human, undiluted by the subspecies so common in the city. Warm human, at that - the cold and death are memories only of the piscine carcasses he handles on the ships.
"Ain't goin' nowheres but ta get a drink."
Gideon had misunderstood the jerk of reaction for flight and let the outstretched hand relax by his side as the smile relaxed into a convivial one. He shoved long fingered hands into the pockets of his pants and lifted a graceful shoulder.
"Oh. Well in that case, mind if I join you?" He moved forward a step or two, waiting for invitation or allowance.
Head tipping up slightly, Cat gives the stranger a more direct, intent scrutiny. Top to bottom and back up again, as if he were measuring a strange species of fish to decide if it were poisonous or not. His previous evaluation of of 'predator' still stands clear, but after a few seconds - and steps, watching his companion rather than a path he'd already memorized in a glance - he shakes his head. It jostles tangled hair, but vanity isn't one of Cat's faults.
"Ain't my call ta make, but I don't mind." He slips behind the bar - and that it's a barrier is clear from the angling of his body.
Gideon moved forward with a slow graceful stride, nothing at all to betray the predatory strength behind it. He took up a lean against the bar and offered a cigarette to the odd man.
"The name's Gideon."
Slow and deliberate are good, so long as it doesn't come off as stalking. The strength had already been betrayed, though, and Cat rarely forgets what he's taken note of. Gideon's choice to remain on the other side of the bar earns him a subtle relaxation of stiff joints, and Cat half turns away from him to scan the bottles on their shelves, reaching finally for one that looks more familiar than the memory of his mother's face - which he doesn't remember much at all. Rum gurgles into a glass, and a glance lands on the cigarette being offered.
"Ugh... ain't one'a the pot-smokin' types. Ya want somethin' to drink?"
His mouth made a careless moue at the refusal and took one himself.
"Scotch if it's there, whiskey if it isn't"
Neither are drinks that Cat has much familiarity with. Rum is safer than water, and served on so many tall ships that he probably drinks it more often. His hands tremble, a subtle thing that would take a close regard to catch as he lifts the glass for a slow swallow, eyes closing as heat slides down his throat. That he can't read is painfully betrayed by the bottle that he reaches for when the rum is set aside, turning to hold it up to Gideon in query. Vodka.
"Hellif I know what's here. Gideon... ya got a fancy-soundin' name. I'm called Catlin', or Cat more like."
Gideon regarded the thin man with unveiled inquisitiveness and warm regard. He loved a mystery.
"You had quite the show last night." Hard to tell whether he meant the little tableaux put on by himself, Quinn and Mack, or the tomfoolery at the rest of the bar, regardless the emaciated man's observations had been observed in turn, Who watches the watchman, His lip curled in disgust at the offer of vodka and he shook his head once,
"Never mind, I've had enough tonight anyway." He lit his cigarette, the flame throwing the sharp angles of his face into stark contrast for a second.
"Caitlin?" The question left what was probably the usual taunt unspoken.
Habit runs deeply, and instead of remaining behind the bar once Gideon refuses his offering Cat slinks out, glass in hand. He hesitates there, glancing across the room to the cold fireplace, then back again with canny intensity. The pause doesn't last long, and Gideon is left to hold up the bar by himself as Cat goes stalking across the floor, as predatory as any mouser with a furry target in sight. But his quarry is warmth, and to gain that he'll have to build a fire. Fortunately, he's done that before.
"Ain't no woman. It's Catlin'. Like the animal. The boys as put me ta work figgered it was as good's anything ta call me, since I took to the lines natural. Didn't get busted up like mosta the boys." Working the rigging of a tall ship isn't always the safest job. Setting the glass aside, he squats down to start working on building a pyre.
Cool gaze watches the pacing in bemusement as he let his head cant to one side, exhaling the smoke slowly.
"What on earth is your story?" He mused, more to himself than to Cat. The man's odd grace was fantastic, and it filled the cold vampire with a warm sensation akin to favor. It had been a long time since he liked anyone, and the novelty of it was a pleasure.
"Catlin." He corrected his pronunciation with a conciliatory tone. The sour, slick, salty scent was overpowering, gaining life as the man moved and the heat of his body released the miasma of ship and shore, dock and line. He could imagine the wiry frame scaling the spiderweb of rigging like a spider monkey on crack and it made him grin to himself, eyes dropping in embarrassment at his unveiled pleasure at his companion, a thumb rising to brush absently at the underside of a dark brow.
"I'm sorry." He almost breathed with a soft laugh. "I'm afraid I'm a little too forward. I've got no right to ask that."
The sweater, sleeves long since chopped off near the shoulder, is ragged enough that a hard tug might demolish it. That Cat isn't worried about that becomes clear when he strips yarn out of it to pile under the lengths of firewood he'd stacked up, sitting back to search for something to provide fire. The earlier comment had been stewing as strongly as the stench of his clothing was, and he twists to stare at Gideon silently for several seconds before speaking.
"Ya got that lighter thing? If ya mean the show with the hookers, that weren't no show. Hell, mosta them down by the docks woulda just rolled ya under a table and been done with it."
He might be forgiven for mistaking the two for prostitutes, since most of the women Cat knows are.
"Ain't no need to be sayin' sorry for anything. I seen more'n that plenty of times. I ain't no story-teller, though."
He holds a hand out, obviously expecting the fancy lighter to be handed over - and that Gideon would go to the trouble of walking it over to him, in the interest of a fire.
Gideon tossed it cleanly toward Cat and repressed the riotous laugh at his description of the girls.
"They weren't whores, Catlin. You have to pay whores." He shifted in his lean against the bar and took another drag.
"Besides, what's the fun in having anything that easy?" Meaning the willing virtue of the dockside women.
Catlin squatted on his heels, twisted around to watch Gideon to the point that the knife edge of shoulder blades can be clearly seen beneath the fabric covering them, Cat's eyes track the lighter's flight through the gloom unerringly. His hand doesn't move until it's within reach, flicking up with natural ease to pluck it out of the air. And he turns back to the fire, apparently finding nothing peculiar in Gideon's humor.
"Ya don't always have'ta pay the hookers. Sometimes they put out to pay for somethin', themselves." His tone is indifferent enough that some might think he's too young to have taken any notice of the creatures, though he doesn't look it.
"Screwin' ain't worth troublin' over, but if those women weren't hookers, what'n hell were they doin' looking for a screw?"
Dark brows shot upward in surprise at that.
"Because, Cat... if you believe it or not, 'screwing', when it's not a forced obligation or taciturn business arrangement, can actually be pleasurable." He took another long drag and gave the man a smile that would have made lucifer himself swell with pride.
"You should try it sometime."
"Huh." Noncommittal sound, neither acceptance nor disbelief. Boney shoulders hunch in a shrug, and Cat leans over the cold stones to fumble with the lighter, far more awkward trying to figure out how to get it to light than he had been in catching it. It takes a few scrapes, and a hiss when flame licks across chapped fingers, before thin tendrils of flame snake upward across frayed wool to investigate the firewood. Watching it intently, Cat edges backwards only far enough to ensure he doesn't end up on fire, too, turning the lighter in his fingers absently. Only when he's sure it's caught does he straighten up and reach for his glass.
"If yer one'a them as screws men, I ain't sellin'." He braces his shoulders against the mantle, narrowed eyes on Gideon suspiciously.
One more drag and the cigarette was spent. He pushed off the bar and wandered slowly toward where Cat hunched, tossing the but into the kindling flame, piercing eyes never leaving the other's face, their light half amused, half...somewhat else. He canted his head to one side and slid a hand into the pocket of his suit pants.
"Judgmental, much?" He gave Cat a twisted little smile and held out a hand for his lighter. "You seem to have a lot of opinions on things you don't know much about."
The man's approach might be closely watched, but it's not enough to make Cat relinquish his spot in front of the fire the first brush of heat against the backs of his legs is enough to make him shudder with the promise of warmth to follow, and he drowns the reaction in another swallow of a fire that only gives the illusion of comfort. The lighter is held out to Gideon without any hesitation, too automatically for there to have been any intent on keeping it, and he sets it into the man's hand without looking down.
"I don't know what that 'Judge-mental' is. Figger it's probably somthin' to do with laws, and I don't know much of anything about those. I know plenty about hookers, though, and ain't none of them ever told me screwin' was any fun. Maybe your woman friend wasn't a hooker - but she wanted you, clear enough, and seems to me she paid out what it took ta get you. How'd you call that?"
That was a novelty. No one had ever as outright called him a whore. He laughed softly, the mirthless sound of it tumbling off the walls of the empty Hall. He tucked the lighter away absently.
"I suppose she had her own currency to offer, Cat, but it was a lot sweeter in the trade than cold hard cash. Trust me on that." He held his ground near the odoriferous young thing, hunger coiling behind blue eyes at the remembrance of the night past.
"Judgmental means you've made up your mind about something a bit too hastily. Why do you think I want the same thing from you as I wanted from Sarah?"
That Gideon thought Cat had meant he was the prostitute earns a blink, but he doesn't comment on it. The term could go either way. His head tilts, listening to the strange resonance of the man's laughter - not unnatural, perhaps, but a sound too unfamiliar to Cat for him not to tense at the sound of it.
"I ain't 'Judge-mental' then. And I ain't got nothin' against hookers. It's as good a livin' as any, if'n they wanta put up with it. I ain't ever met a man who wanted ta tell me how good sex was that wasn't lookin' ta buy it. I didn't figure you'd be wanting whatever you got from your Sarah - but that you'd probably be wantin' something. Hell, not much'a anybody talks ta me that doesn't want somethin'." It's not a complaint - just blunt honesty.
"Well, I can't claim that that isn't true about me. I would like several things from you." The admission rare honesty.
"Foremost of which, I'd just like to get to know you. Which is probably harder than getting to bed you." Said with a half shrug that dismissed the notion as something not necessarily on his list.
"The other thing I'd want wouldn't hurt you, or cost either of us a thing. I promise." The tone was soothing, hypnotic like a serpent's stare, lulling and deliciously soft.
"And as for telling you how good sex is...well..." Pale eyes flickered in amusement. "Just consider it friendly advice. If you ever bend your mind to try it, don't have the sort you have to pay for, have the sort you'll actually enjoy."
There's nothing that gets Cat's non-existent hackles up faster than anyone trying to lull him, and his scrutiny sharpens instead of gentling. He might not move from the careless lean against the mantle's edge, fire starting to beat heat into the backs of his legs and ass, but he's abruptly as vibratingly tense as if someone had run a live wire up his spine. Perhaps surprisingly, he doesn't seem alarmed by Gideon's admission, though.
"Ain't a whole lot ta know about me, but if ya want to ask, I ain't got no problem with answerin'." He doesn't deny that the information might be more difficult to extract than sex, either!
"And I ain't never paid for sex. Been paid for it, but like I said - I ain't sellin'." Which means that he has other work to pay him.
"What you after 'sides talk?" Better to just ask than speculate, and Cat isn't alarmed enough that he doesn't lift his glass, tipping his head back to drain it completely. He also breaks his stare on Gideon to peer into the empty depths with unconcealed regret, but his hands aren't shaking any more.
He left off the lulling, but the smooth velvet undertone still slithered in his voice.
"May I?" He gestured smoothly toward the tangled knots of Catlin's pale hair, not entirely making clear what he was asking permission for... but he had promised not to hurt.
Gideon is far, far too late to have encountered Cat before he learned that most promises are lies. He doesn't move from the shoulders down, but his neck twists, eyes locking on the hand that motions toward him before returning to the man's features.
"May you what? You wantin' ta put your hands on me, or somethin'?"
"Just for a second, yes." The suspicion Cat regarded him with stung, and he did nothing to hide it's reflection on his expression. He stamped down his greed and the biting lust to just take what he wanted. It hardly mattered how wiry the man was, he was just a man, and Gideon could have torn him limb from bony limb in the space it took his heart to clench out a half a beat behind the thin rails of his ribcage. The knowledge was tantalizing to the bestial side of himself only recently repressed and chained again, but he wanted what he wanted to be given freely. So much more the sweeter earned.
Sometimes, honesty can earn more than any amount of soothing. Cat blinks, eyes dark enough in the gloom to be mistaken for black as he twitches his shoulders against the mantle, restlessly pinned in place not by any fear, or threat, but because he's unwilling to leave a source of heat that replaces so pleasantly what his own body can never seem to hold onto.
"So long's ya don't go tryin' ta stick any needles in me, I don't mind. I ain't afraid'a getting touched. Don't know why ya'd wanta, if ya ain't after screwin', but go ahead it it makes ya happy."
The curl of the smile the small fire illuminated was achingly grateful glossed with the wicked pleasure of getting what he so desired. Evil, foul creature. He stole forward, caution without hesitance, and moved around Catlin in the half arc of a shark circling a wounded seal before the strike. The lack of touch crackling the inches of air between them with the electric burn of anticipation. Behind the sharp wall of Cat's shoulder blades long fingers rose and tangled in the mess of his hair, short, smooth nails brushing coldly against the nape of his neck. Gideon lent close and buried his face in the mess for a second and inhaled deeply. His stomach churned. More scents, some foul...well most of them foul, some delicious in ways they could only be to someone like Gideon punctuated the black of his closed eyelids like stars... the one he'd been aching for shining brighter than all the rest.
"Sunshine." The word slipped unbidden past his lips in a half-groan half whimper of a noise, the ache of it making the edges of the velvet voice ragged as grit. That scent, that one special, enviable, perfect scent that so many took for granted was buried in that tangled mess of hair. Working on the docks, up in the high ropes of the ships that hot blaze of fire had beat itself down on Catlin's bleached head for years, and the strength of it was incredible. Gideon could have wept. Too quickly the conjured heat and light was gone, though, and he remembered himself with a jolt. What a spectacle he'd just made of himself. He let Cat's hair loose from his fingers and pulled back as if the other would strike him, suddenly cowed in embarrassment, the hunch of broad shoulders belying their proud spread a moment before. He cast desperately for words of explanation, apology, anything... nothing came. The hard, sharp memory of the sun was all he could think to grasp at, and it blinded him.
Evil, foul creatures are something Cat has been intimately familiar with - in the full sense of the word - for most of his fairly short life. They stopped bothering him at some point - probably when he'd realized that they're the majority of the people he's known. His stare tracks Gideon without any sign that he realizes he's so vulnerable to the man, wary in a habitual way that goes far deeper than any fleeting worries. The hand that reaches past his shoulders earns the subtlest twitch of truncated reflex, the desire to slink out from underneath it like a cat too often struck aborted before it can begin. He shudders under the brush of cold against his skin - cadaver-touch, and Gideon might be just as startled by it as Cat. Because despite the way the cold eats into him, he's not chill himself. It's as if there's a fire burning beneath his skin, heat radiating off of him - which is exactly why he never holds enough heat to keep himself warm. It's not any magic. It's purely and simply the result of a metabolism too hyperactive, burning energy like an innate furnace. To have the stranger bury his face in his hair earns a wide-eyed, frozen shock that holds Cat immobile for the long seconds required for him to realize that he's not being attacked - that's one thing that no one has ever done to him. And Gideon is right - the scent of the sun does live in his hair, that and the wind, the salt-brine water that's the only thing he's ever washed it with. Not out of any strange preference, but because that's all that he's had available! Some fancy, scented soap might have been a more pleasant aroma, but there's no sign of it. Remaining still in front of the fire as Gideon flinches back, Cat simply blinks at the man, mute with confusion, before finally shaking his head.
"Ya just wanted ta... sniff my hair?"
The scent, the feel of salt-stiff, wind knotted hair opened up a void in Gideon even as it filled his hear tot he brim with half-forgotten flashes of a life before. The sound of Cat's puzzled voice snapped him to, but only just.
"Yes... I..." Words, the words, where where the words? Gone with the sunshine. "I'm...sorry?"
He gritted ivory teeth and stood awkward, staring at the flagstones under Catlin's feet. If he'd had any color in him whatsoever the pale plane of his cheeks would have been on fire. As it were the muscles in the lean pockets jumped as his jaw flexed in frustration. Cold fingers ached to grasp the crisp straw of that hair again and this time take a bit more than an innocent sniff. He closed them tightly within the prison of his palms. He couldn't hurt the fragile, deliciously mean, bony thing before him, but the ache was insatiable.
A taste... His mind moved to quick for him to stop it's lethal path. A taste... would he taste of sunshine too? Or of slippery, salty brine and the endless cold of the depths? The heat rolled off Catlin and only fed the fire of the agony. A taste...
Narrow shoulders flinch upward in a twitch that digs his spine into the mantle's edge, a sensation Cat's too familiar with to really notice. There'd be bruises later, but he doesn't notice those, either.
"If that's all ya were wantin', ya ain't got nothin' to be sorry for. It ain't like ya went'n chopped it off to take, or somethin'." He eyes Gideon with all the seeming of bewildered perplexity, without any trace of the cultured mask most people come by so naturally. Instinct comes more easily to Cat than concealment, and his fingers close tight around the empty glass as he slithers a few steps away, gaze still not leaving his companion.
"You keep the fire goin', eh? I'm gonna get another drink, s'long as they seem ta be free 'round here. Build it up some - yer colder'n fish blood in winter." He never quite turns completely away from Gideon as he starts toward the bar, keeping the predator at the edge of vision with a stray's reflex.
"No." It was hollow agreement, snatching at the tattered edges of the wherewithal it took to carry on a conversation. For one who wore so many layers of armor, Gideon was stripped bare of them with ridiculous speed by the smallest things. Older than before, but still a young thing for a vampire.
"Fire, o-of course." He knelt as Catlin moved out of the periphery of his sight, and fed the pathetic, licking flames with a few dry logs, letting them be consumed before placing a larger piece atop the blaze. Sharp elbows rested on his thighs, hands hung loose between his knees as he knelt, crouched like a cat on a ledge gone limp. The fabric of his coat whined as it stretched with the hunching of broad shoulders. He stared glassily into the flames, their golden orange glow giving his skin an unattractive pallor. Firelight didn't suit him well.
The obedience to suggestion surprises Cat more than it would have if the man had come snarling after him, enough that he flinches when Gideon starts to kneel. That obedience works better to sooth him than any dangerously velvet tones could have, though. As the crackle of flames grows deeper, Cat turns completely away finally to prowl across the room, hesitating over the bottle of rum. There's nobody but the two of them there, and the man doesn't act like he owns the place. A decision is made as quickly as the thought is formed, and when he pads toward the flames again - even more eagerly than he'd gone for the liquor - Cat carries the bottle as well as his glass. Gideon's sensibilities might be in for an offense, since Cat splashes rum into the glass he'd been drinking out of himself, and sets it next to him. He doesn't even get a clean one! Squatting down alongside the man, ass on his heels and forearm draped across a knee, Cat huddles close to a fire so much more rewarding than the feeble, trash-fueled things he's more accustomed to. Gideon's complexion doesn't even get a stare.
"These up-town places spend a hell of a lotta money on wood." The bars where Cat lives and works don't waste money on fires.
The tilt of his dark head and the sharp chin tucked as he gazed down at the gift. Rum. Worse than Scotch but not nearly as bad as Tequila. cold fingers closed on the glass and he lifted it holding the bottom between thumb and forefinger he tipped the whole of it back, hissing softly as the poison burnt his throat and scalded his tongue. Innards churned. He'd pay for it later, but it didn't matter. The pain was a good thing, it blotted out the rest. He set the glass down again and nodded absently, the small working part of his brain left wondering with bitter humor what Cat would have thought of the never-ending fuel fed fireplace in his penthouse. A quiet huff of a laugh escaped him and he turned his face to give the other man a wondering, slightly bemused smile.
Poor Gideon. Cat is, if nothing else, generous with his liquor. A red-palmed hand, chapped by over-frequent exposure to saltwater and rough ropes that he never seems able to callous enough from, stretches toward the flames close enough to flirt with the risk of burns - to join the blister already forming from his difficulties with Gideon's lighter. The other hand reaches over to refill the man's glass, before Cat tips the bottle up for a long swallow, breath shuddering pleasantly at the burn that heats his throat, radiating outward through his veins in a flood. A never-ending fire would have fascinated Cat far more than any fancy cars, or fine fabrics. Those material things weren't nearly as interesting as the simple luxury of being warm. Head tilting again, he eyes Gideon's smile with caution too deeply ingrained to be anything but reflexive, tensing again. Reflexes - a smile is more likely to mean trouble than a scowl.
"Whatcha laughin' at? Didja spit in m'hair or somethin'?" He reaches up to find out. Cat's had far worse things on him than spit!
Dark brows drew together as he regarded Cat intently as he drank, lean throat working against the nasty sickly-sweet rum, the bones and muscles of it silhouetted against the flames. Sweet, mean daemon. He dropped his gaze for a moment at the accusatory glare of Cat's disdainful glance.
"No, of course not." One corner of his mouth tugged up again and he looked up to reach and bend cold fingers around the heat of the wrist attached to the hand that rose to check Cat's hair. His grip was gentle, if icy, and he shook his head.
"Come on. I wouldn't do that." He released the hot flesh to lift up the glass of rum again. A choke this time and the searing worsened, and the back of his hand came up to his mouth as he struggled to hold the acid down.
"Ah, god..." He breathed and felt like he breathed fire.
Not disdainful - only cautious, and with a flash of something utterly feral as cold fingers close on his wrist. For the span of moments, Gideon is in serious risk of having hold of a snarling, fighting wild thing, bones deceptively slender within his grip. They're tougher than they seem, and he'd find more muscle there than most would suspect, tendons thick and sturdy where they lie beneath the thin veil of skin. Touch shows what sight rarely notices - the slicker patches of scar tissue signature to anyone who's spent enough time in chains for the skin to rub off beneath them, and Cat's pulse flashes hummingbird swift in a moment, though he doesn't show any other sign of reaction. The bottle is set down carefully, and no matter how light the grip, Cat rubs his wrist once it's released as if the touch had carved bruises into it instead of caging lightly. There's nothing but curiosity in his tone, though, eyes on the glass as he lifts the bottle and reaches across to top it up.
"If ya ain't a drinker, why ya drinkin' it? Gotta go slow with this stiff, or it'll bitecher guts. Ya look a bit yeller in the fire - ya ain't a drunk, are ya?" The bottle rises to his own lips for a long, slow swallow. Gideon's downing more rum than Cat is!
He felt that heat, the roiling feral spark of a wild thing. Felt it in a deeply fraternal way. He eyed the full glass as if it would leap up and rip his face off, unable to bring himself to lift it again so soon. He shook his head, fingers still tingling with the memories bitten on thin, warm skin. The sensation of touch both satiated and whetted hunger.
"No." He replied firmly. "It's just not my drink of choice." It sounded ungrateful to his ears and he revised, turning to watch Cat's endlessly changeable expressions, distrustful wariness its neutral position. "It burns." That was true enough. Fingers itched and clenched slowly. "Thank you for being so kind." For the brief moment of trust, for the company, for the cruelly shared poison. Cool eyes followed the caress of his wrist, rubbing the touch away like dirt. The muscle in his cheek lept again and he turned his face away. Deep scars, hard tissue laced over tender in beautiful, hideous welts and lines. No, he hadn't noticed until the touch. Nothing much to tell...
Eyes narrowing, he studies Gideon more intently, pupils dilated to drown out the color of his irises. Cat's hand moves faster than most humans would notice - but slow, slow to a vampire with heightened reflexes, as he reaches for Gideon's wrist in turn. Nothing cold about his fingers. They're rough, raw from salt and work, but fever-hot against icy skin as they close around it, a tight chain of bone and flesh. It doesn't last more than a moment, though. And when his hand drops, Cat just blinks at the man, frowning.
"You dead, or some kinda demon? Yer colder'n a sea-drowned corpse, an' you start moanin' 'bout sunlight like it's somethin' you could taste. I ain't bin kind. If ya don't want the rum, I ain't gonna get pissed over ya sayin' so, neither. I don't know what back there's that.. whiskey? Or the other that ya said you'd drink. Anything like that, yer gonna have to get for yerself."
He straightens up fast enough that the man might think he was about to leave - but it's just to turn around, crouching again to give his back to the flames and bake the other side.
Crystalline eyes move first, then the rest of his head as he turned to gaze at the hard, calloused hand wrapped around the perfect marble of his wrist. The searing ache of touch once more. No flutter of a pulse, the ice of his flesh gives only the tiniest amount, feeling thin as rice paper in stark contrast to the hard strength that lay just beneath. He watched Cat's grasp drop in amazement and turned his face back to the fire as he dropped his crouch to sit on the flagstones, one knee drawn up.
"Some kind of demon." He repeated before flashing Catlin a disarming, quickly bitter smile.
"I'm just... different. Don't get out much." Pathetic attempts at half truths. He ignored the comment about the alcohol, the better not to have to drink another drop of the stuff.
It's as if Gideon's choice to settle more firmly to the floor is a cue, a signal that it's okay to relax a little of the contained tension in Cat's frame. It's like having one circling cat step back, and he melts down onto the floor with a peculiarly natural grace, limbs rearranging themselves until he's sitting cross-legged. Back slouched, Cat tucks the bottle into the nest of his legs, sweater hanging as limply from him as last year's leaves clinging to the skeleton of a winter tree.
"Ya don't gotta lie to me. I don't much give a damn, 'ceptin' whether or not I believe it. Ya ain't got a pulse, either." He jerks his shoulders up in a shrug, breaking the relaxed curve briefly. "Ya ain't tried ta eat me yet, and ya seem ta get out enough to be chasin' after woman tail, so s'long as all ya do is go sniffin' around in my hair, I figure we're good 'nough. What you doin' in here all alone, anyways?" See how neatly Cat had managed to avoid talking about his past?
He cut a hard glance at Cat. Honesty on the subject was not an option, regardless of the shared aspects of their natures. For a second he entertained the thought of what manner of vampire Catlin would make, how feral, fierce, cold and heartless he would be. A bloody force of nature, the clenched fist of god. It was a tempting fantasy, take him, turn him, let him loose and run wild with him. A pair of vicious wild, cruel things. Again that hard bite of a smile.
"Just trust me in that it: doesn't matter. I'm not going to eat you... there's nothing on you worth the eating." Pointed glance at bony knees attached to jack skellington long legs. He lifted a non-commital shoulder to the question.
"Trying not to kill several someones in the Tavern." Flash of white toothed smile, charm for a second. "I just needed to get away. Glad I was here though. All alone works, but it usually sucks."
Chances are better than not that Cat would flee so deeply into his own mind at such a transformation that Gideon would end up with something more animal than god. He's too accustomed to fighting off the predators to take the change into one easily, though it might be a reprieve from the ache of always being cold. Gideon's smile earns another cautious stare, and Cat's head lifts as if he'd scented something dangerous - but all he does is edge back toward the flames, shuddering the flicker of flight reflex away without dwelling on it.
"Glad ya ain't gonna eat me. I gotta catch the mornin' tide, and I ain't gonna be too good at walkin' with m' legs gnawed off." There's too little inflection on the words to tell if he's serious or not. "Ain't gonna tell ya not to go killin' folks as are in the tavern, neither. Somma them could use some killin, like's not." And then Cat betrays that he does, indeed, have a sense of humour - hopefully. "All alone don't suck none 'tall, less'n yer flexible 'nough ta be one of them contor-shun-ists. I'm thinkin' for that, ya need yer woman."
The roll of Gideon's laughter was infectious, Cat's wry humor breaking his melancholy perfectly. He rocked back slightly with the laughter, one arm tightening across the leg that was drawn up. Cat-like slits of blue amusement regarded the other male.
"I like the way you think, Catlin." The name had become an intimacy, and Gideon's voice intoned the affection he felt the name deserved - warmth without saccharine sweetness.
"And you're right - about everything." He let a brief moment of
silence fall between the two of them as he lent forward to drop another log on the fire. When the light of the flames had brightened again the laughter had made him bold once more. He held out an open palm.
"May I?" Again that question, begging permission, he nodded toward one of Catlin's hands. Red, callous, hard and leanly corded... he wanted a closer look.
That laughter should have relaxed Cat. It probably would have, with anyone else, but instead there's a moment of riveted stillness, muscle and tendon snapping to brittle tension throughout his body abruptly. He doesn't move away, though, apparently familiar enough with the reaction to weather it through until his shoulders sag again. A sidelong flicker of puzzlement answers the inflection given to a name that's as often an insult as something to call him by, and he lifts his precious bottle for long swallow before lowering it again. Cat drinks steadily when he can - but he never drinks enough to get drunk, metabolism burning the alcohol off too rapidly for it to build up. A wordless thrum of sound in the depths of his throat gives approval to Gideon's choice to add more fuel to the flames, but when the man asks for his hand... that gets a long stare. Fingers curl in, clenching into his palm tightly enough to pale the knuckles until the bones seem to glow through the tight-stretched skin. The choice is a visible one, flickers of doubt, unease, and puzzled curiosity chasing themselves across Cat's features in rapid confusion before he uncurls his hand, laying it into Gideon's palm as warily as he'd reach for a potentially venomous snake. Curiosity won. There are scars on that hand - both of them - as well, thin and narrow for the most part, the kind of marks unmistakeably left by sharp-edged knives.
He watched the inner battle with cautious hope and gave Cat a small, warm smile that only reached half of his generous mouth as the hand was relinquished. He felt it press against the chill of his palm and he shifted to bend his head over it, letting the hand that held Cat's rest on the knee of his leg not bent upwards. Dark brows drew together as pale eyes flicked back and forth under even darker lashes, tracing each little detail. Gideon had never seen a hard day's honest work in his life, and the chapped, worn stretch of abused skin was something quite new. His other hand closed in, and a fingertip that felt like an icicle traced the maps of the white lines, the rise and uneven edge of thick callouses, the shallow, soft bag of a blister... the fascination was akin to a scholar studying a work of intricate art. He let the span of his thumb slide over the cool, smooth weal of scar tissue the shackles had polished to the smooth consistency of a piece of sea-glass. He lifted his head just enough to give Cat a curious look as a nail scraped lightly over one of the knife wounds.
"Who? Why?" He asked quietly. He wasn't without pity, but he wouldn't shame the wild thing with such a wasted emotion. He felt anger, yes, and sick at the useless cruelty of the hateful, beautiful handiwork. He held the hand tenderly, finger still tracing the map of a life he couldn't begin to imagine.
There's not as much callous as might be expected, though there should have been. The skin certainly shows the signs of work - the palm and the insides of the fingers are thickened, but it's more from constant abuse than the hardened armor that normally forms. Raw, certainly, and cracked in places deeply enough to show the darkness to indicate he'd paid for that lack of callous in blood. The bones are slender, almost graceful, but Cat's saved from the curse of 'delicate' by the cable of hard tendons and wiry muscles that give him the strength to keep up with considerably more bulky men. He watches with unhidden curiosity as Gideon examines his hand, staring at it as if it belonged to someone else - some disembodied artifact, rather than something attached to the end of his arm. A shiver answers the chill of the man's grip, and the unfamiliar sensation of fingers brushing across sore skin, but he doesn't pull away. Nor is there any humility in his gaze as he tips his head, puzzled by the question as if it's something nobody had ever asked before. Probably because no one had!
"Ya mean the scars?" His fingers twitch, pulse again betraying the instinctive flight reflex with its flicker against the surface of his wrist.
"Ain't nobody ta blame fer them but m'self. I ain't too got at takin' orders, mostlike, an' that don't go down well on most ships. Tangled with a bo'sun as didn't like bein' told off none." His fingers flex, curling in almost defensively again as muscles twitch in his forearm, invisible under the long-sleeved turtleneck Cat always wears under his sweater.
Gideon released the gift of the hand like one would a bird, simply opening his tentative grip with quiet slowness in anticipation of flight. He'd have kept it longer, but the convulsive jerk and flex of fingers and arm told him quite clearly his time was up. He nodded, mouth a tight, hard line.
"And so he shackled you and cut your hands?" Shackled him long enough to wear skin away and cut him enough that some of the scars lay over each other in weals like a child's game of pick-up sticks. Most bosuns would have simply had him lashed a few times, and even though Gideon could easily imagine how infuriating the headstrong young man could be, the punishment seemed excessive. A shadow of a frown drew the corners of his mouth down slightly, that thin, straight line between his brows deepening.
"I'm sorry he hurt you." And he was, again without pity, just regret, though the scars made Catlin more beautiful, complex and fascinating than before. Scars on the inside, scars on the out.
Together they formed a barrier that kept the world away, hard flesh, hard feelings strung up like a spiderweb made of steel cords.
Gideon might just have misinterpreted Cat's responses. That much is clear when he retracts his hand - and starts scratching at it, the blunt, dirty nails of the other digging to scrape away the unfamiliar itching sensation that anyone else would have called 'tickling'. Blinking at the man in something very like wonder, and even more like bewilderment at the reaction, he shakes his head and answers bluntly.
"Nah. He chained me and and stripped the hide off my back. The others - those're from bettin'. Jugglin' the knives, ya know? Ain't seen these up-town folks, like you, doin' that. Ya get ta tossing 'em back and forth, an' whoever misses one loses the bet. I been stuck a few times, but I ain't never missed. Some folks try ta make ya miss by throwin' instead of tossin' 'em. You ain't got nothing to be sorry 'bout still, and gettin' a whippin' ain't anything as is like ta kill me. There's hella worse'n that as happens."
Working his hand experimentally, almost like he expects it to have some hidden injury from having been gripped, Cat exhales in unmistakable relief and lifts his bottle for a quick swig.
"'Sides, I gutted that bo'sun next port-a-call. Bass'erd glassed 'is lash."
"Oh I see." He had misunderstood, and it was a relief to know that at least some of the abuse was self inflicted - he could relate to that.
"You know it's a little odd..." He said, raking his own fingers back through his hair in that habitual, thoughtless gesture that made dark clumps of strands stand on end in too many different directions. "That someone as cagey as you works on ships... the one place you have nowhere to run when you want to escape." Observation, nothing more.
He gave Cat a slightly surprised sideways glance of approval. A killer, too. He could have almost purred at that, and the rumble of quiet approval was damned near close to one as he grinned to himself. He could picture the vicious wraith exacting violent vengeance against pain and humiliation. It was a very pretty picture indeed.
Rather than deny that he's cagey - and that could be because he doesn't recognize the word, other than 'cage' - Cat braces a hand behind himself and leans back. For some reason, the strange man's rumpled appearance is far more comfortable than elegance. Another, nearly inaudible thrum and the slitting of his eyes proves that the fire is doing its work of replacing lost heat. The subject of ships is a safe one, and Cat doesn't seem to mind the suggestion that he'd flee, given the opportunity.
"'S what I know, eh? Been workin' the ships since I'ze a whelp. Runnin' riggin t' start with, an'.." He shrugs, aborting the rest of that comment. Anybody intimately familiar with ships would know, and those not wouldn't likely understand.
"Did'n have much choice ta start off, an' don't know nothin' else I'd be wantin' ta do now. Figger' if I ain't got anyplace ta run on a ship, it's the best place ta be runnin' from land, ya know? What you do, anyway? Some kinda lordy thing - ya own land, or somethin'?" The idea of not having to do any work at all is so foreign to Cat that he'd assume anyone who didn't must be too crippled, or too lost in a drug haze to do more than stare into space.
The sensation of Cat relaxing beside him was palpable, and Gideon stretched slowly and unfolded himself with all the languid grace of a jaguar, stretching out long legs to one side of the fire, ankles crossed as he lent back against the brace of both hands. The second time that night he'd been asked 'what he did' and it bothered him that his obvious wealth had become a thing to look down on. He was clearly lazy, right? It wasn't through any fault or gift of his own doing that he'd been born to money. He enjoyed his position unabashedly until lately. He groaned softly.
"What do I do? I used to be in importing and exporting - on ships much larger than you might know. It was the family business." It had been but Gideon hadn't done a damned thing for it a day in his existence.
"Now... I guess all I do is cause trouble." He said it with a small, tight smile. "I'm thinking about becoming a professional in it actually."
Don't doubt that Cat's eyes track ever shift of limb and angle of joint, measuring Gideon's motions intently to ensure that he knows exactly where the man's going. Once he's settled again, Cat unwinds a fraction more, reaching for his bottle for a slower, more indulgent swallow. He holds the liquid heat on his tongue, only gradually letting it burn its way through his throat to find his veins. Taste is a dull thing - it's the chemical fire that he enjoys. Instead of tucking the bottle into his lap this time, he keeps his fingers wrapped loosely around it on the floor. There are very few things that Cat looks down on - possibly because he's usually on more accustomed to looking up, to keep a sharp eye on what might get thrown.
"Yer inta the cargo frieghters? I ain't never worked on one'a them - they'se more likely to crew engin-ears than deckies, but I'ze been on 'em in the drydocks." Reaching down, he picks at one of the smears of rubbery white paint on his pants - smears that do more
Catlin: to hold them together than the seams. "Paintin', layin' nonskin on the decks, that kinda thing."
As abruptly in motion as he had been relaxing, Cat surges up in a tangle of limbs that somehow manages to sort itself out without fumbling, turning to face the fire again befor sinking down into a comfortable sprawl that remains a cautious margin of space from the other man.
"Makin' trouble kin' pay good, but it's like ta getcha a knife in yer gut. You some kinda ex-store-shun-ist? Ya know, one of the folks as promises not to break things up, if'n ya get paid not to?"
Drydocks large enough to hold cargo freighters in Rhy'din? His brows lifted at that. He'd never been down to the docks though, and most of the sea dogs that came around were salty petes like the one beside him now, rough and tumble deckhands that worked the tall ships that no one sailed for anything but historical value and pleasure in the time and place he'd come from. There was no reason to go down to the docks, not in the night time, the water black as an oil slick, too many eyes around, the way even the smallest sound carried on the water - all of it made for poor hunting grounds. He watched in pale amusement at the lurch and jumble and re organization of long limbs that startled him at first with it's sudden surge to life. He shook his head with a quiet chuckle.
"No, Catlin. I don't do anything for money - I don't have to. Although... I'd bet if you asked some of the people who used to know me they'd tell you I held some kind of extortion over them in exchange for not breaking things. But it wasn't money I extorted." A thin, wan smile to himself at that. "No, I mean making trouble for trouble's sake."
No docks large enough to haul on of the massive freighters out in - but that's still where the ships that are hiring repair or maintenance work done berth, and in a city like Rhy'Din, the bulky cargo frieghters have their place, just as the spaceport does. Cat's seen them in other places, as well, though. Rhy'Din is just his latest port of call - he'd bunked down in too many other cities to remember most of the names - for that matter, he'd never known the names of most of them, and never cared. Most of the cities predators seem to stay away from the docks, the bigger ones at least. The area by the water is home to lesser creatures, hunters slinking under the eyes of the true monsters, in a place where anything goes - for a price. Stretching his legs and spine with rare, contented luxury, Cat reaches over to prod at the logs and stir them up with a booted toe, unconcerned for what damage it might do the leather - and not in the least worried that any heat could make it through to burn his feet. Metal spikes glint in the firelight, crude and effective.
"I ain't never met anybody as didn' haveta work at all. Not so's I knew, anyways. A few as couldn't - cripples, the like - an' were starvin' 'couse of it. Like ta be dead now." His shrug is one-shouldered, the one he's not braced by, and indifferent to the fate of those unfortunates. "What ya get offa them, if'n it weren't money? Goin' by yer woman a' last night, I'm figgerin it weren't screwin'. An... what d'ya do with yerself, if ya ain't gotta work?"
Suddenly he could feel the weight of his limbs, heavy and suddenly stiff. He drew his legs in and rose smoothly to pace across the room, away from the fire's heat and light to peer out the thick etched surface of the leaded glass windows. His curse was low, but loud enough to carry in the emptiness of the hall. He hadn't been paying attention, the whole of his focus bent on the fascination that was Cat. The dark purple that was usually his warning had already faded to lavender, and the pale pink blush of the approaching dawn constricted his chest with the closest the he still knew to real fear. He paced quickly back toward the fireplace, fingers raking scalp in self irritation. He could feel himself getting tired, weak. He could get home but he didn't have much time, and the poison still in his belly only made things worse, made him feel sicker. He gave Cat an apologetic look.
"I'd love to explain, but I'm afraid I have to go. Right now." Hurried glance over one shoulder and another regretful upturn of the left side of his mouth. He felt his knees buckle and caught himself. "I'll see you again?" Promise and question in one.
Gideon's motion has an immediate, and predictable reaction on Cat. Where he'd been uncommonly relaxed, studying the man with all the wonder of a child for something so bizarre and rare as to be incomprehensibly fascinating, he's abruptly coiled tight and wound to a wire's hum, legs coiling under him to bring him to his feet almost before Gideon' reaches his own. When the man sweeps across the Hall to the window, only Cat's eyes move to track him, the rest of his body as still as if it were he lacked a pulse. The sudden awkwardness in the other body would make him suspect intoxication - but surely two glasses hadn't been enough for that, and they'd talked away the time since then to chase that influence back. The flush of light in the sky startles Cat as much as his companion - he has a tide to catch, a trawler putting out for a day of long-lining that he's expected to be on, and his own comment is considerably less polite - or quiet - as Gideon's. There are certain qualities that have managed to survive in his nature, inexplicably perhaps, though. He reaches for Gideon's arm without really thinking about it when the man's legs seem to nearly fail him, offering a support that's more wiry than solid.
"Sure, I'm guessin'. Places up here got more an' better likker 'en down dockside. You needin' help ta get back ta yer bunk..? I'm thinkin' I won't be seein' mine, if'n I'm not too late ta catch the tide already. An' ta think I'ze warnin' you an' yer woman ta be movin' things."
"No, no I'll be fine." The undercurrent of serious tension in his voice spoke otherwise, but there was nothing the beautiful vagabond could have done to help, though his offer was almost touching. Misunderstanding Cat's meaning in his rush, Gideon fumbled in a pocket and withdrew the thin rectangle of a business card. He pressed it forward into Cat's hand.
"No woman - she's gone but her room is open if you need it. The address is on there." He nodded at the card. "If you miss your boat just ask directions, the Lanesborough isn't hard to miss. I'll leave the door unlocked. Help yourself to whatever, I won't be there until later." Time was running out, and quick. He'd be blistering by the time he got back now at any rate.
"Good luck Catlin." Despite the rush and hard sense of urgency in his voice he still caressed that name with the touch of a smile.
The suspicion in Cat's stare this time isn't for any expectations that the man would pounce on him, but for the honesty of the assurance that he doesn't need help. That thread of panic is too familiar for him not to recognize it, and he might have argued - except that he was too busy staring at the cart placed in his hand, fingers flinching from it as if he expected it to hurt. Or expected the fragile paper to be soiled by contact with his skin. Shaking his head, he opens his mouth, pauses, then shakes it again and offers the card back.
"I ain't gonna say it's not temptin', just ta see it, but if'n I showed up in some up-town fancy place you'd be gettin' the security called, figgerin' I was there ta rob the place. 'Sides, I can't read to see what's on here, an' I got a place ta go if'n the boat's already sailed." The next words are awkward on his tongue - something that Cat hasn't had much reason to say before.
"Thank ya, Gideon. It's a nice offer, but I ain't gonna be usin' yer kept- woman house, 'er whatever it is. I'ze seen what comes'a that." Nodding toward the door, he waves the man off. "G'wan, er the sun'll catch ya." Because there aren't too many reasons that could be blamed for that reaction to the dawn's stain.
He shook his head in frustration, no time to explain. He left the card in Cat's fingers.
"Do what you like." Though the thank you felt like honey to the ears, the other comments stung. His expression darkened like a cloud.
"Not everything is a bloody trap." Not everything but most things, like kindness, a shared bottle of rum, quiet conversation and harmless touches. It had trapped Gideon more surely than it had trapped Catlin. He turned to go, and had to force himself to make it outside and out of sight at a normal human pace before he moved, faster than the eye could track, towards the safety of home. He was red and burnt by the time he reached the blessed darkness of his penthouse, and only just managed to get the door of his room shut and locked solidly behind him before he hit the floor a few feet from the bed. Out cold as a corpse the second the white hot edge of the sun's orb touched the horizion. Somewhere in the depth of dreamless sleep, he swore he could smell sunshine.
Much better than being passed out cold as a corpse a few feet from the door of the building - and Gideon's rush might miss the mumble that follows him.
"Nah, true 'nough. Some traps ain't bloody till they gotcha." But he's not far behind Gideon - not far at all, trotting and leaving his bottle of rum forgotten on the floor for a rarity. Close enough to blink at the empty space in front of him before letting the door swing shut, wondering silently at the sudden disappearance - and shuddering at the knowledge that anything that could move that fast had been close enough to touch. Had touched him. And as Cat lopes toward the harbor and a missed tide, he can't help but wonder just what the kind of place someone like Gideon would keep would look like, the card bearing the brunt of sharing his pocket with a ragtag collection of coins from a myriad of different ports.
That sunshine smell is probably scorched flesh.
