HOLY HANDS

✧ — SO THE MORNING LIGHT WILL BRING US HOME.

✧ — Ezra sharply pulls his arm away from Danny's touch, scowling under the golden mask. Even with Danny—or maybe especially so—he's temperamental about being touched, and right now, he feels trapped and stiffened in this silk suit. The gilded gold and intricate designs remind him of when the church events and the ritualistic robes that go alongside them. Ezra knew he always looked like shit in them, and he suspects he looks that way now. He feels that way, anyway.

At least for Danny's sake, Ezra isn't laughing. "You look like a pigeon going to the Met," he says. The matching patterns on their suits make Ezra even more tense; at best, it's an embarrassing coincidence that makes them look like a Halloween couple's costume. At worst, it's a fucking taunt.

He should stop seeing Danny. He knows that the Entity knows, can feel her stare through the cracks in the basement wall. If he messes up, the other survivors will know, too. He doesn't consider any of them friends, but he's starting to like some of them. Maybe there's some part of him that wants to be liked, too, and spending all this time with the Ghostface won't help with that.

But he's still here, sitting on the edge of this little cot, watching Danny stand in front of him. He can feel himself softening.

♡   BASICS.

IS YOUR MUSE TALL  /  SHORT  /  AVERAGE ? average height! he’s 5'9. ARE THEY OKAY WITH THEIR HEIGHT ? yeah he’s fine lmao WHAT’S THEIR HAIR LIKE ? soft black curls. it can get very fluffy. he’ll sometimes style it in different ways, mostly for disguise purposes, and it always looks weird and bad when he does. 

DO THEY SPEND A LOT OF TIME ON THEIR HAIR  /  GROOMING ? more time than you might think! there’s a reason why his skin is so clear and soft :) it’s not a crazy amount of time in the morning; maybe 10 minutes. 

DOES YOUR MUSE CARE ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE  /  WHAT OTHERS THINK? also more than you might think. he has pretty low self-esteem, and his appearance isn’t excluded from that. he has a hard time shrugging off people’s opinions. 

♡   PREFERENCES.

INDOORS OR OUTDOORS ? RAIN OR SUNSHINE ? FOREST OR BEACH ? PRECIOUS METALS OR GEMS ? FLOWERS OR PERFUMES ? PERSONALITY OR APPEARANCE ? BEING ALONE OR BEING IN A CROWD ? ORDER OR ANARCHY ? PAINFUL TRUTHS OR WHITE LIES ? SCIENCE OR MAGIC ? PEACE OR CONFLICT ? NIGHT OR DAY ? DUSK OR DAWN ? WARMTH OR COLD ? MANY ACQUAINTANCES OR A FEW CLOSE FRIENDS ? READING OR PLAYING A GAME ?

♡   QUESTIONNAIRE.

WHAT ARE SOME OF YOUR MUSE’S BAD HABITS ?

Poor sense of self-preservation. He’s curious and impulsive, and for all his intelligence, he tends not to think things through. 

HAS YOUR MUSE LOST ANYONE CLOSE TO THEM ? HOW HAS IT AFFECTED THEM ?

Yes. It has affected him very badly :’)

WHAT ARE SOME FOND MEMORIES YOUR MUSE HAS ?

The first year anniversary of being drug-free. Climbing up rooftops and drawing the cityscapes. The mornings when he’s watched the sun rise and felt ready to face the day.

IS IT EASY FOR YOUR MUSE TO KILL ?

Yes. If he’s made up his mind, he’s quick to the draw and ruthlessly efficient in the execution—and considering how quickly his thoughts run, he can make up his mind in a matter of moments. But he mostly keeps his hands clean. It may be easy for him, but it isn’t fun. 

WHAT’S IT LIKE WHEN YOUR MUSE BREAKS DOWN ?

If he’s around people, then his first priority is to get away, whether by physically walking away or freezing the other people out until he’s left alone. Once he’s alone, then he’ll find a corner to tuck himself away in and have a good sob. He doesn’t break down often—he’s pretty good at keeping himself upright—so when he does, it’s a long night. 

IS YOUR MUSE CAPABLE OF TRUSTING SOMEONE WITH THEIR LIFE ?

Yes, but, uh, Ezra does not have a particularly great sense of self-preservation, so do with that as you will.

WHAT’S YOUR MUSE LIKE WHEN THEY’RE IN LOVE ?

Ezra lets him talk. He always has, and it makes Danny wonder if he always will — how long this will go on for, or if it’ll end here, late on a Thursday afternoon. The thought sends a chill of pleasure up his spine. If one of them dies here, if one of them doesn’t get to continue their story — … The thought is too thrilling to dwell on, so he tucks it away to savour later.

Ezra always lets him talk, right up until the point where he doesn’t. Guess, Ezra says, and leaves Danny with the cheerful little tone that says he’s been hung up on. Again. Rage bubbles in his gut, lashing upwards in flames that lick his ribs, and he hits redial before he even knows what’s happening. The bastard turned off his fucking phone. He hung up on Danny and turned off his god damn phone.

How can one man make him feel so much? From fury to pleasure and anticipation, to that one little needle of fear that sticks in him, Ezra’s range is remarkable.

Guess, Ezra says, and Danny’s eyes roll towards the ceiling, listening for footsteps he knows he won’t hear. Ezra’s here. He has to be. And he’s waiting for Danny.

The hand on his thigh crawls higher, fingertips dragging up Danny’s stomach and his chest to his neck to feel the pulse, holding his throat loosely like he’s thinking of squeezing but hasn’t quite made up his mind yet. He stays like that a moment, eyes moving over the ceiling like he can see through it, and then his hand drops to the arm of his chair where the Ghostface mask rests. He’s partially dressed, and there’s no time to be as prepared as he’d like — too many belts and buckles, Ezra would be on him before Danny could get ready for him (and what a thrill it is, to be the one caught by surprise for a change) — but he’s sure as hell not going to give Ezra anything for free.

Danny pulls the mask on slowly, exhaling into it as he drags his fingers down the clammy plastic. The cloak is on the back of his chair, and Danny drapes it over his shoulders and clasps it across his chest when he stands, finishing by sliding his favourite hunting knife into the sheathe on his thigh.

It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do.

Then, Danny crosses to the door, pushing it open and letting it click into place behind him, the lock mechanism activating automatically. If Ezra wants in, he’s going to have to work a little harder. Then, Danny creeps further into his house, ears pricked and the back of his neck tingling.

✧ — The phone rings on the bed behind him, and it makes him smile—a quick, pinched smile that no one, not even Danny, could ever see. It’s here and gone in an instant, but it’s that smile that’s brought him this far. Danny loves to talk, and Ezra loves to deny him that pleasure. 

     But by the time he’s out in the hallway, he’s focused again. He takes the safety off his revolver, and the feeling of the cold metal, knowing that he has six shots ready to go, makes him tense. But that’s not going to help his aim. It doesn’t help the resolve that he’s trying to find. He’ll kill the Ghostface tonight. He’ll kill Danny tonight. 

     What else could he do? He’s got no interest in the police. Danny would be gone before the cars even pulled up to this house. And if, by some lucky chance, they manage to cuff him and slam him behind bars, the stories that Danny could tell about Ezra, the journalists and podcasters and true crime fetishists that would prod for more information—Ezra doesn’t want any of that. He’ll finish this with no fanfare, no photos, no story. 

     Ezra’s always been calm in situations like this. He’s been told it’s an asset of his; even in the belly of the beast, he can find a place to hide. He can find a way out. He didn’t feel any fear walking into Roseville, brushing against the Ghostface for the first time. Even when the knife was coming down, Ezra never felt that leap of fear in his chest. 

     So why does he feel it now? As he walks through the cold hallways, he feels his heart pick up. He feels pinpricks on the back of his neck, and looks behind him. Just a hallway. He breathes in for eight seconds, out for eight seconds. His mother taught him that—she probably wouldn’t like that he’s using it in this situation. 

     He finds the staircase, overlooking into the foyer. He knows there’s no point in trying to listen; they have that silence in common. But the Ghostface is just quiet, not invisible, and when the black robes creep into view, Ezra feels his fingers tighten around the revolver. He knows he doesn’t have much time before Danny looks behind him. 

✧ — He flinches first when Danny puts his fingers on his neck. It was only yesterday when one of the Legion put a blade through Ezra's neck, and if he thinks too long about it, he can suddenly see the smiling mask and feel the wet blade through his windpipe, over and over again. And just because it's Danny doesn't necessarily make it better. Ezra exhales, trying to keep his body relaxed, not taut and ready to run, the way it always is during trials. He blinks, and his eyes almost want to stay closed, just to let Danny continue however he may like.

He isn't safe anywhere in this realm, not even outside of trials, and not inside Danny's shitty little home here. He's tried to make some cozy where he can: he's conjured up some lights to hover in the corners of the old shack, so they provide some lowlight glow for the both of them. There's something familiar about a place like this: maybe the old television and the scattered tapes, and the cologne that Ezra first smelled in the coats hanging from a Roseville family's closet, minutes before hearing the scream.

The cologne makes Danny's fingers warm and damp against the pulse of Ezra's neck, and he feels the shiver travel down his spine, painful and warm. Ezra is so still and so careful, with only his eyes, dark and tired, watching Danny. He does not move until Danny starts to move his hand away, and that's when Ezra catches him, with a decisive grab, almost like Danny's in trouble.

"It's not going to be good," Ezra mutters, "if I go back to the others smelling like you." He runs his fingers down the back of Danny's hand; in just this time in the realm alone, he's found himself so comfortable in the dips and grooves of Danny's hands, and maybe the rest of him, too.

Ezra touches down Danny's wrist, then up his arm and across his back. He finds one of the tassels hanging from the back of the Ghostface costume, and he runs his fingers down the length of it. He twirls the tassel around, fidgets with it, leans closer to Danny, just inches from his face.

✧ — He'd found Anabel Morgan dead in the kitchen. His tracking was correct; he was able to read the Ghostface's clues and trace the aim of his knife. But he was just too slow to the draw. He was only able to catch her husband's grief-stricken yell when he came home. Ezra hid behind a door and tried to steel his own regret.

And now he doesn't know where Mr. Morgan is. He has to assume he's still alive: Ghostface is theatrical. He'd make sure Ezra sees. His hand is tight around the cell phone, and he's half the mind to throw it down the stairwell. But that's not how this works. Ezra knows that will only make the night bloodier.

He grits his teeth, and his anger stews in his silence. He doesn't want to be clever. He doesn't want to play. He finds a closet and throws the door open, ready to shoot, but it's just boxes and coats. He shuts it with a loud slam and regrets the way it rings through the house, shakes the walls. His work has always been quiet. Not a sound, not a trace. But now a schoolteacher's been fucking stabbed, and he knows it's his own fault for bringing the Ghostface here to Los Angeles.

He bites back his instincts. That anger's threatening to demand Mr. Morgan's location or curse down the phone at Ghostface. But that, too, is not how this works. He takes a deep breath and turns around, looking down the long hallway. All those fucking closed doors. He'd shoot through all of them if he was certain that Mr. Morgan wasn't behind one of them, but he isn't certain, and he doesn't try.

He cautiously steps forward, and he feels a shiver on the back of his neck, like he's being watched. He dares to look behind him, and he sees nothing. He opens another door, ready to shoot—it's just a bathroom. He flicks the lights on. Not even a silhouette behind the shower curtain.

Prior to becoming a cleric of the Morninglord, Ezra worked several other jobs. As a teenager, he helped his mother run her store (an alchemy shop in his main verse, and a witchy crystal/herb/tea shop in modern verses). He was not very good at it, but it was mostly for her to keep an eye on him and give him a place to hang out after school. After he graduated high school, he worked days as a cornerstore clerk and nights as a dishwasher. It was enough to make ends meet, but Ezra scarcely remembers that period of time, thanks to drugs and depression.