John Abbott (john_abbott) wrote in v_nocturne_rpg, @ 2009-10-07 00:39:00 |
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Entry tags: | john abbott, simon alexander |
A Case of Poor Judgment
The Dragon's Arms
Earlier in the Evening...
"All right..." John leaned his elbow on the table and pointed at his friend. Their card game had dragged on for hours. He was slightly drunk, his eyes bloodshot around the hazel irises. "Here's what it's to be. If I win this hand, you must woo that lass." He indicated a tavern girl, a dishwater blonde with a ruddy complexion and a penchant for knocking men off their stools. "I won't be satisfied until you've won her, or been killed in the pursuit of your unwavering affection." As if sensing mischief afoot, the lass scowled from across the room. John lifted his pint in salute. After taking a sip, he said, "Now it's to you. Name your terms."
Simon was honestly already a little drunker than John, but not so drunk as to not know that vying for the attentions of the young lady in question was the kind of escapade that would only end with him on his arse, or worse, if he was truly to pursue her to the very fullest of his enthusiasm. Truly, the other part of this bargain would have to be a high price indeed to make it worth his while. He would have to make John... walk home naked! Or, no, that was probably too inappropriate. He should have some kind of entertaining vampire penalty. Like eating Garlic! Or... turning into a bat, if such a thing was possible. After a moment's thought, Simon pointed a finger at John. "Okay, if you win? I shall put my life into the hands of that wicked harridan and beg for her attentions. If I win?" He dropped his voice down a little, as he finished, "You must let me put a stake through your heart! I will take it out again of course, but you must let me see what it does to you."
John leaned back in his chair. "For god's sake, man!" He rubbed at his chest, as if nursing indigestion. A young vampire as such things went, he had never experienced the pain of a stake, and had no first-hand knowledge of how long such an injury took to heal. Mend it would, so long as Simon removed the offending weapon. But there was no telling what his intrepid friend would do while John slept. Reason dictated he refuse such an alarming request. However, alcohol and pride prevented him from doing so.
"I suppose I accept your terms," he said, appearing none to pleased. "It hardly matters, as I will almost certainly win this hand. However, if I lose, you are not to leave the stake in place longer than a few minutes." John settled his chair legs again. He pointed at his companion. "And you must give me your word not to do anything unnatural while I am incapacitated!"
"And what unnatural things precisely would you believe me so morally degenerate as to be capable of inflicting upon you?" Simon attempted to look outraged at the insult to his character, but he was a little distracted by looking quietly thrilled that John had agreed. Giving his friend a reassuring Clap on the arm, he nodded, "You have my solemn oath not to defile you in the event of my glorious and inevitable victory. Now, let us see how the cards fall."
So they played, cards were turned, and with a victorious crow, Simon slapped down his hand to reveal what could only be the sure sign of his success, jabbing a finger at the spread of cards, he grinned, "There! Now! I believe we should retire to my house, where I shall jam a piece of iron through your chest!"
John assessed the spread. "Bloody hell." Without another word, he polished off his pint and got his coat.
Simon's Residence
The Present
"Listen carefully." John, having divested himself of all but shirt and trousers, climbed on the dining room table. He rolled his up sleeves for the occasion, though there was no particular reason for it, since he wasn't going to do the staking. "Aim right for the heart. And for god's sake, strike hard! Otherwise, you'll only hit a rib." He shut his eyes and began to mentally prepare himself, only to open them again and add, "It will probably make a mess. Though something tells me you won't mind much." The vampire spared a look at the rest of the room. A cat slinked around the doorway, its spine arching. It had already hissed at him once and attacked the leg of his pants.
Simon nodded, hurrying John along with his advice. He knew how to stab someone through the heart for heaven's sake! It wasn't as though he was completely oblivious to the human anatomy, "Yes, yes, rest assured I shall be more than careful my dear friend! Cease your fretting!" Simon raised the stake, preparing himself to bring it down into Mr Abbott's heart, before pausing. Perhaps John had more clothes than him, but Simon recalled being extremely frustrated last time he completely ruined a shirt in the pursuit of knowledge. "John, not that I want you to think I'm making a serious attempt at getting you naked and helpless, but if you're going to bleed a lot, then are you sure you wouldn't prefer to borrow a sheet or something, rather than soiling your clothes? Only that you will probably have to go home at some point, and doing so clad in a bloodied shirt might not be the most subtle of guises."
Cease his fretting? Disrobe on a man's dining room table? John only stared, his fingers worrying a sleeve cuff. For reasons unbeknown to him, he wondered what Marguerite would think of the fine kettle of fish he'd gotten into. More than likely, she would have a great laugh at his expense. "You have a point about the shirt," he admitted. He unbuttoned it and pulled it off his shoulders. "However, mention the trousers a second time, and you may find yourself on the painful side of my knuckles." The pants were black and unlikely to stain, and if Simon was worried about them, he could drape his blasted sheet over his lower half to guard against splatter.
John picked up the bottle of scotch he had commandeered from a sideboard. Drinking from the neck, he swallowed several mouthfuls of it and wiped his face on his forearm. Afterward, he lay down on the table. "I cannot believe I agreed to this."
Simon grinned victoriously! Not that he'd actually achieved any great victory to speak of in ensuring that his friend was equipped with something clean to wear back home after he was done being staked. "I only meant your shirt," he assured John, waiting for the other man to lie down before readying the stake once again. "They do say that drink is a man's ruin. You may consider this to be one of the cautionary tales of your life. A modern day fable, if you will." Simon lifted the stake, preparing to drive it home, before hesitating once again. "Is there anything you'll need afterward? To make it heal faster, or... for the pain or something? I have laudanum somewhere I'm sure..."
Already tensed in anticipation of the injury, John sighed when it didn't come. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Simon, I haven't a clue what I'll need. I haven't done this before, you know." The aggravation in his voice could not be helped; after all, Simon may have won the bet fair and square, but he was still the person about to put an iron pin through his chest. John's arm flopped onto the table. "Laudanum may be useful. That's very considerate of you. And I'll require blood, to be sure. It needn't be from a human."
"You are not biting any of my cats," Simon said tersely, before finally aiming carefully and driving the stake down at last into John's chest. There was a moment of resistance, before the metal bit into the flesh and Simon felt it sink down into his friend's heart. When it was in deep he jerked back almost anxiously, his hands shaking more than he'd expected them to be after doing this. It would be fine of course. John had told him how this worked, he knew that when he pulled the stake out the vampire would be fine again, only... John hadn't done this before either, and loathe though he was to admit it, Simon... honestly was quite well disposed towards the other man. Carefully, Simon crept back towards John to examine the body.
When the stake first struck his chest, John's torso jerked, his hand making a grab for the weapon on a reflex. Such a reaction was to be expected. However, it went through his ribcage and into his heart before he could interrupt. The instant it punctured that particular organ, his head and arm went limp and hit the table. For all intents and purposes, the vampire was in a comatose state, at least what could be considered such for a creature with no respiration. His heart, pinned in place, stopped beating. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. He felt nothing and thought nothing. So he would remain until the weapon was taken out, his corpse rotting at the rate of a dead human. Healing would require days, blood, and sleep.
Simon leaned forward, peering into John's eyes. He reached out to press his fingers against the other man's neck, searching for a pulse.
Nothing. Obviously.
John was... definitely dead. He had killed John Abbott. That was absolutely more disturbing a thought than he had expected it to be. For a moment Simon just stood there stupidly, staring at the body, before turning to walk out into his kitchen. He was drunk. He was too drunk to be doing this. He should make tea. This decision made, Simon set about brewing a pot of tea, being certain to add enough water for the both of them, should John truly be restored to life when he removed the spike. While the tea brewed, he rummaged through his cupboards to find laudanum, and strips of cotton bandage. Preparing for the happier outcome, while expecting the worst. Taking the laudanum and the bandages, he wandered back into the living room and laid them on a counter top a little to the side of where John lay.
He looked at John's body for a minute. Then wandered out again to bring through the brewing tea and two teacups, although he was distantly aware that it was more out of ritual than out of a genuine expectation that John would be in any impending need for tea, even if he did survive.
Assorted distractions completed, Simon finally turned his attention back to the matter of removing the murder weapon from his friend's heart. Carefully, he shifted one knee up onto the table for leverage, and found a new grip on the intruding piece of metal. He took a deep breath, braced his free hand against the table beside John's head, and pulled back hard. With the pin gripped tightly in his hand, Simon peered anxiously down at his victim, waiting to see some change in his state.
The heart, a quivering mass of decimated tissue, began pumping first. Blood squirted out of the hole in his chest. It took a few seconds for the rest of the vampire's body to respond. John awakened with a lurch. He gulped in air, which was strange, but exactly what he'd done upon waking after his sister sired him. He sat up and coughed, spraying a mist of red droplets all over himself. The miraculously quick recovery began with his heart, which sealed itself to staunch the bleeding. A thin network of swollen, pink scar tissue grew across the wound, protecting his internal organs from the open air. The wound was far from gone, however.
John palmed his chest and looked at the culprit.
Simon half jerked away as John sat up. For a moment his expression was openly relieved, before it gave way to fascination and he leaned in to watch the wound in the vampire's chest close up in a matter of seconds. A splash of blood from the heart had shot out and cast itself across his shirt as he leaned over the other man, searching for signs of life, but Simon couldn't bring himself to hold it against John right now. Half laughing, he reached out to clasp John's shoulder. "There-- there, my god... that was... remarkable. Are you-- How do you feel?" He pressed his free hand onto the table to stop it from shaking. He had just watched a man revive from death. The very thought of it was astounding to him, unbelievable. He swallowed, smiled, and half turned behind him to the things he'd brought up, "Ah, laudanum? I don't know that it'll help, or..." He trailed off, turning to glance at John once again, just to remind himself that the other man was indeed alive again.
"Neither do I. However, I consider myself... willing to try." Yes, John wanted laudanum and the bottle of scotch. He reached for the latter and swallowed liberally. "I am sore. Incredibly sore," he amended, barely able to touch the bruised flesh that mended itself above his heart. Part of his ribcage was broken, and whenever he took a breath to speak, the pain announced itself in jabs and tears, as if a garden rake sat where his ribs used to be. "How long was I unconscious?" Somewhere in the house, he heard a grandfather clock ticking, but could not find it in a corner.
Simon grabbed the laudanum, bringing it back around to push it urgently into John's hands before replying, "You weren't unconscious, John, you were dead. I mean, really dead, not this weak imitation you seem to claim at. You were-- a corpse, my friend. It was most disquieting!" And how dare John disquiet him? Never mind that it had been Simon's idea, and by Simon's hand that the deed was done, that was no excuse! He took a deep breath. "No more than a few minutes though. Long enough to pour water and gather tinctures, but no more." That wasn't entirely true, there had been a good few minutes of hesitation between the gathering and the pouring, but John didn't need to know that.
As no spoon had been offered, John uncapped the laudanum and swigged a small amount. "This brings back memories," he said, making a dire face. His mother was well-addicted to the substance and he suspected he had been dosed on a good many of his obnoxious childhood nights. He chased it with more scotch, grateful for a strong constitution.
"A vampire is not truly dead without decapitation," he reminded his friend, grimacing as he pivoted and sat with legs hanging off the table. "Or... burning and scattering the ashes. Supposedly there's something to do with removing the heart as well. I have never run across specifics." Another cat tiptoed into the dining room, wary of the undead stranger. "Why were you disquieted?"
"Memories of self-medicating ailments? A childhood hobby of yours perhaps?" Simon asked his friend shortly, frowning as the man shifted to sit on the table. As the cat began to prowl past them he reached down to scoop it up, apparently for no purpose beyond the desire to coddle it a little. Scratching behind its ears and running his cheek across its fur briefly, he contemplated the question of how exactly John could be killed. "Perhaps a vampire is only permanently dead with decapitation, but I assure you, John, you were quite truly dead." Simon leaned forward a little, resting the lower half of his face in the cat's fur for a minute, before reaching down to let it go again and giving John a tight frown. "I stabbed you through the heart, John! I stabbed you through the heart and you were deader than I expected you to be and in case it has escaped your notice? I do not have a great many friends in this world. I can't afford to go around inadvertently killing them."
"It's kind of you to say so, Simon, but it was hardly inadvertent," John reminded. He dabbed wet cloth at the blood on his torso. Was that a bit of bone? He plucked the white shard from a curl of chest hair and studied it. "I'm curious." He grimaced as he set it on the table and reached for his shirt. The laudanum, in combination with the scotch, made pleasant work of numbing some of the pain. He was also dizzy and felt in some danger of tipping over. "What did you think would happen? How dead was I to be, if not that?" He slowly put his arms in the sleeves of his shirt and began to button it.
Simon frowned. "Had it been irreversible, it would have been inadvertent." He claimed. Although he wasn't entirely sure that made sense. He turned his attention to the tea he'd left brewing while John dressed himself, and reached forward to pour himself some. "I don't know, exactly. It's not as if I'd been sitting in the pub dreamily visualizing how you'd look when run through!" Simon gave a loose shrug, cup in hand, as he turned to face John once again, "I... really hadn't planned that far ahead when making the bet with you. Just thought I'd challenge you to do something that I know I myself could not." Simon brooded into his tea.
"You are an impulsive sort, a quality I assure you I understand." John picked up the bottle of scotch. He tipped it back. The alcohol sloshed in a dwindling funnel in the neck. There was discomfort upon swallowing and John broke away before finishing. "But! By all means, please do us both a service." He rested the bottle on his thigh and squinted at his friend. "Plan ahead before saying such things as... dreamily... envisioning how I'd look when run through." On such a colorful description, alternative interpretations were possible. Following on the heels of the order to disrobe earlier, it was a sensitive subject.
Simon nodded glumly. Yes, he was rather impulsive, but still, even for a man who carefully considered the theoretical value of stabbing his friend through the heart, the sight of the finished product must be ever so slightly jarring, unless one was a complete sociopath. Somewhat missing the point of John's objection, Simon frowned at the other man's request, "Well, of course were I to actually envision such a thing it would not be in a dreamy manner! I would be scientific about it. It would more be a case of carefully conceiving how you would look when thrust upon my pike. I was merely being colourful." This said, Simon took a drink of the tea, happily oblivious to the ambiguities of his statement.
"Thrust upon your--?!" Confounded and inebriated, John stared at his friend. He leaned forward, sure he had misheard in the haze of pain, laudanum, and old scotch. He nearly tipped off the table in doing so and grappled with a chair. "Simon. What do you consider scientific about two men..?" He could not finish the sentence, simply employed his hands in a vague gesture that might have indicated a sex act, had his coordination allowed more than flapping. However, John sensed his own defeat. He also predicted an answer might prove more disturbing, or lead him to suspect Simon Alexander of deliberately provoking a bet, so that he might lure John to his empty home, ply him with drug and drink, get him undressed, weaken him significantly, and then--
"Forget I asked." He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. He made a note to check the time when he left. God only knew what might have occurred in the moments of his unconsciousness.
Bracing himself, the vampire slid off the table and dressed his upper body. "Is there someone on the grounds who could provide me with the means to get to my apartment?"
"What?" Simon frowned, then he frowned harder, then (thanks mainly to his general dissatisfaction with the evening in general, and his uncomfortable distress at seeing the effects of what he'd done to the other man) managed to look ever so slightly outraged as he realized what John had thought he was referring too. "I was talking about stabbing you, you bastard!" He let out a disgruntled huff, "Honestly, I just stabbed you through the chest and saw your, your..." He released the tea with one hand, and gestured to the table agitatedly, "...your dead body, lying there, and you're thinking about sex? John if there was ever a time when I was not interested in you spontaneously deciding you fancy me again then this is it!"
He rolled his eyes melodramatically, before pausing slightly grumpily at the other man's question, "No, I don't have any staff. I could... hail you a carriage if there are any still running at this hour. Or you could..." Simon paused, trying to think of a suitable alternative. He didn't have a lot of furniture that was actually suitable for this kind of thing, and fond though he was of John, the thought of sacrificing his own bed did not appeal, "There's a soft chair you could rest in if you wished? Or... how far away do you live?"
"Here?" John looked around at the dark house, with its multitude of hissing cats, book towers, and the grotesque Fiji mermaid he saw on the walk to the dining room. No, he would not stay. To be frank, he would rather stumble along the roadside, hailing any fellow who happened by. It might provide him with a warm, if unwilling, meal. "That won't be necessary. I'm not sure whether I ought to be grateful for the offer or dismayed." Where was his coat? On a chair closer to the door. Walking as well as his sore body allowed, he fetched it and eased the sleeves up his arms. John, whose face was gaunt and shirt wrongly buttoned, looked determined to cut their evening short.
Simon followed John's gaze. "What? It's a perfectly reasonable place to stay." He was beginning to wonder if John Abbott was really just a bit rubbish at being a vampire, if the man was honestly that put out by a touch of eerie background in a house. Still, the man seemed insistent on leaving, and Simon was still tinged with guilt from the thought that he'd killed what was more or less his only friend; so he reached out and grabbed his friend's arm as he prepared to leave. "Let me at least stay with you as far as the next inn. I'll pay your board for the night."
John sighed and scratched his mop of black hair. Then he pressed a thumb and forefinger onto his eyelids, as if willing an answer to surface in his muddled brain. "Alright," he relented. Possible homosexual infatuation aside, it was a wise compromise with his friend. Besides, thanks to accidental involvement in sorcery and hypnosis gone horribly wrong, he was as guilty of suspicious behavior as the other man. "Let's go then, before one of your cats attempts to claw out my eyes. I haven't the strength or sensation left in my face to care." Unsteady on his feet, he headed in the direction of the door.
"Good man," Simon muttered, clapping a hand onto John's back as they headed towards the door. "And for the record, my cats are noble, gentle creatures, who guard the house from marauding fishes..." He continued this explanation of the role of his cats in the welfare of the house, as Simon and the door closed behind them softly, and the two friends proceeded out into the darkness.