proosh
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Gilbert scoffed and ducked under a branch, taking note that the dirt path they were following was starting to thin and become more overgrown. It had somewhat recently been churned up by what was presumably horses at a gallop. As if confirmation of that, he carefully stepped around what appeared to be a streak of dung. The thief was pushing the horses hard. While he was unfamiliar with the forest, Gilbert was not an idiot. “I work best at night anyway. You know that time of night when it gets real dark and you can hear the clacks a thousand paces away? When even the Thieves’ Guild is settling down? I’m a dwarf. We have dozens of words for the concept of ‘dark’.” And hundreds for the concept of ‘rock’, but that was a given.
He shrugged. “What, are you worried about your vampire friend trying to eat us?” While there wasn’t a vampire on the Watch, he had a fair amount of experience with the small population in the city, those that had sworn off humanoid blood and instead got a daily cut from the butchery run-off. He rolled his eyes and didn’t bother to respond to the blatant showponying at first, subtly stepping closer to the blond as the path narrowed. “Look, if we don’t have everything covere the Patrician will be on our collected arses, and then the whole city will go up in flames.” Surprisingly, that was not an exaggeration. He didn’t even mention the politics with the Thieves’ and Seamstresses’ Guilds, part of which was why he was trudging through the depths of the forest and begrudgingly attaching himself to the hunter.
“…We have some time to kill,” he said after a few moments, squinting as the setting sun shone straight into his eyes and pulling his rimmed helmet down to cast a heavy shadow across his face. The temperature was starting to drop, but at this time of the year the nights were fairly mild. “Tell me more about your prey. He a city-vamp or one from out east? How many people he eat before you started hunting him?”
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The other man glared at Alfred from the corner of his eye, self-consciously tugging his studded skirt down around his short trousers, simple protection for his upper legs from rocks or debris thrown around in a street or bar brawl, as well as diverting rainwater away to keep his underclothes dry. He supposed it would also be of assistance when forcing his way through short foliage to prevent tears and scrapes. Whatever. “The pixies wouldn’t attack us in broad daylight,” he replied dryly, visibly shuddering as a bug crawled between his toes and earning an abrupt and almost violent shaking of his leg to remove it– Before he froze and lit up a bright red. “Or. At least I don’t think they would.” The last time he had been posted outside the city was during an investigation to the far east, where it was too cold for most of the more delicate races that lived in the forests to survive in. And ‘broad daylight’ was in itself inaccurate, as the sun was beginning to sink towards the horizon.
“Don’t get too smug,” he shot back at Alfred, scowling and conspicuously pitching his voice quieter, “We’re a public service and we’ve got three million people to watch over and keep from rioting.” Gilbert’s own speciality revolved around the inner city politics between the Dwarven and Troll gangs, specifically breaking up the bubbling tension between the two racial groups. “Watchmen are not infallible, but you would be wise to not spread any rumours otherwise.” He paused and seemed to consider something. “…Did you know we have a few pixies in the Watch? Fantastic little buggers. Some o’ them can lift a full-grown man like it’s nothing. A couple dozen can lift a troll and toss it from one side of the street to the other.” The silence returned and the shadows were lengthening. “…’Pparently those ones just come from the mountains.”
Hopefully.
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Gilbert clucked his tongue and met the other’s eyes properly, holding his gaze in a brazen display of control. His fingers linked together as he shifted subtly, considering how to phrase his question. Would it be too blunt, or would he be too light on the poor kid? He internally rolled his eyes, this was a nation he was talking about. So blatant forwardness it was.
“What is going on? You’re very clearly not okay. You’re half-starved and you look like you’re about to keel over. The conditions in your country alone are not enough to warrant this. I understand you have a… ‘condition’–” He phrased the word delicately, gaze unmoving. “–But I doubt that’s the end of the matter. I need you to be completely honest with me, please.” He resisted the urge to remind the other that he could tell when he was lying.
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The albino’s brows rose a touch and he finished his lunch, politely sliding the plate away from himself and returning to resting his elbows on the table, gaze attentive and eyes very slightly narrowed, scanning the Italian’s face as if subtly searching for information, apparently unhappy with the answer he had received.
“…Feliciano. May I cut the bullshit?” He had always despised inefficiency, and the other had been unresponsive to the probes, at least not in the way he wanted. He hid that under a carefully constructed veneer of apparently earnest worry and interest.
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This reply was modified 8 years, 10 months ago by proosh.
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This reply was modified 8 years, 10 months ago by
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He sat back in his chair and folded his fingers over his stomach, red eyes levelling their gaze at the Italian and lips drawing downwards, apparently unhappy with the reply. Something was evidently going on in his head, but he didn’t voice any of his thoughts.
“…So. How has your country been? Things stable nowadays? Merkel has got me working West and I’s collective asses off. I swear to Christ, that woman is a slave-driver.” He rolled his eyes, referring to his current Chancellor.
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This reply was modified 8 years, 11 months ago by proosh.
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This reply was modified 8 years, 11 months ago by
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He nodded and returned to eating his own lunch, hands delicately holding the knife and fork. Table manners and etiquette had been effectively beaten into him to create an unusual dichotomy between his violent and volatile persona and the precise mannerisms he used in everyday life, from the way he held his cutlery, to the way his lips pursed as he bit back replies that were not as polite as they should be.
“I can teach you how to make it, if you want. It’s pretty easy. I managed to make it when I got out of the camps, and lemme tell you I was not in a good place–” He visibly cringed at the memories. The lingering touches of the Siberian winters ran down his spine and his tongue ached with the Volga German he had used to hide his identity from those that did not know of his true crimes.
He paused, though, humming tunelessly. “…If anyone does give you shit, just call me? I’ll… Make sure they don’t from then on, I promise.”
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He shrugged non-committally. “Eat. I’ll make something for you to take home.” He slid out of his chair with a brisk movement and disappeared into the kitchen, starting to get out the pots and such required to make the stew. It would be able to be frozen and stored away for months at a time. He smiled to himself, remembering his confusion when Sofia pulled a pack out of the snow as if it was a casual thing to do. Of course, once she had heated the broth it tasted like heaven on earth.
After setting up the water to boil, he returned to the dining room and to his seat, reclining casually but still keeping a careful eye on the other. “…Has anyone been making life difficult for you? I can convince them otherwise.” He cracked his knuckles, almost casually, his eyes slightly darkening with the beginnings of that terrible violent possessiveness he always kept firmly on a leash.
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Gilbert’s expression shifted, becoming something almost gentle. He sat back in his chair and his lips pursed in a particular way that made his whole features soften, from the sharpness of his cheekbones and his jaws to the way his mouth was usually set in a hard line.
He spoke slowly, as if approaching an injured animal. “There’s always food and shelter here, you know. I’m not gonna let a friend go hungry.” Not again. It would never be like those days, he promised himself. He would work, and provide, and justify himself to the world. He wondered if it was morally sound to use another’s suffering to build his own redemption, but disregarded it a moment later.
“If you need anywhere to stay I’ve got a spare bedroom. My doors are always open, Feliciano.”
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Annoyance briefly flashed across his expression. He really needed to keep that under control. Taking a sip from his coffee, red eyes focused on the other.
“Isn’t your brother around?” Surely the southern Italy would be there for Feliciano, right? Gilbert chewed the inside of his lip and took a slice of bread and a few slices of salami, making himself a sandwich.
“…Feliciano. Look at me. What is going on? You’re clearly ill or injured.” He didn’t want to beat around the bush further, eyes narrowed sharply but expression still open and inviting for further information. He wanted to get down to the crux of the matter as soon as possible, so he could help the Italian through whatever was happening.
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The German watched him carefully, silently observing his mannerisms and the way his body moved. He found it easy to assess people’s dispositions and what was going on, and prided himself on being as observant as possible. He couldn’t exactly figure out what was going on with Feliciano, couldn’t put his finger on what exactly was wrong…
He waited a good few minutes before speaking, eyes averting and thin brows drawing together in thought. He sipped his cold coffee, strategically spiked with some hard alcohol. Hey, it was a habit.
“So.” His words were posed cautiously as he ventured into unmapped territory. “What has been going on? Anything happening?” There was no room for objection in Gilbert’s tone, because there was very obviously something going on, and he was decisive in his search for answers.
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His eyes immediately narrowed, but only once Feliciano’s back was turned. The poor boy was far too thin and walked like he had just been shot. Gilbert was familiar with both sensations, but both of those things came and went with war and work camps. Neither of which were currently a problem for the Mediterranean, as far as he was aware.
“It’s no problem. What would you like to eat? I got biscuits, some cheese platters.” He was already internally calling up the recipe for a certain kind of stew, the one Ukraine had taught him how to make. Potatoes, whatever meat one can find, legumes… Feliciano quite obviously needed the calories. “Also fruit, if you’re into that.” Carbs first, the kid looked like he was about to keel over.
Rapidly processing his thoughts, Gilbert disappeared into the kitchen and brought out a loaf of bread and a platter of various processed meats. Hopefully the Italian would find something enticing enough to eat. Sliding the plates onto the kitchen table, he took his seat at the head and gestured for Feliciano to sit down, fingers knitting together as he gazed at him expectantly.
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Gilbert was about to simply put the crockery away before he heard the soft knocks– Now, who could that be? His guest, late? He rolled his eyes and forcibly pushed away the dark annoyance that lurked in the back of his head. Now was not the time for that. He gave a glance to his apartment and hoped the Spartan decorating and absurd level of cleanliness wouldn’t scare the Italian any more than he already undoubtedly was.
“Coming!” he called, striding over to the front door and swinging it open, his heels subtly clicking together in attention. “Ah, Feliciano, good–” He paused, briefly. “Afternoon. Come on in, how do you like your coffee?” The albino stepped aside to usher the other into the apartment; a little affair on the east side of Berlin. It used to be concrete and Brutalist, a stubborn reminder of the boots of the Soviets. He had since wallpapered it and gave it carpet, all whites and soft colours to ease out the harshness of the architecture. On the balcony grew plants, eagerly attended to and carefully groomed into bloom.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he continued, closing the door after the other.