HUMPTY DUMPTY.

“You always say that,” and for a spare second, caught between this minute and the next, the set of his mouth softens into something that resembles a smile. Perhaps it is too generous a description for that barely-there shift in angled curves, but taken relative to his usual demeanor, it is nothing short of a miraculous change.

His eyes are glass marbles in the muted lighting of the kitchen, blinking wide and curious in Henrik’s direction. They fall upon the familiar sliver of silver that ties around the other man’s throat, a mirror image to the one hidden beneath his collar, and his fingers reach for the cold bit of metal reflexively. It’s an unconscious action of habit, an affirmation of a sort between the two that they are creatures alike, in this way more so than any other.

“No, I haven’t.” The suggestion does give him pause though. It is an interesting proposition to consider, but going about making it into a reality will take some trial and error test runs, and certainly not with him as an ingredient in the formula. He tugs on Henrik’s cross gently, feeling over the smooth edges as his mind turns over his options. “Anyway, I don’t think I would taste very good. Where did you get such an idea?”

Another smile, slightly more recognizable this time, as though his muscles are remembering now how to form into the expression, and he flips over one hand so their fingers touch briefly. “Alright, but it might be a long night. I wouldn’t want you to miss your appointments tomorrow.”

The rabbit squirms ins his arms and he takes that as his signal to get back to work. He lets it down and turns to the body on the counter, rolling up his sleeves in preparation for the mess to come. Again, the faint light from the open window catches on silver and draws his gaze. He frowns. “Do you ever wonder what would happen to the kids if the church shut down one day? Would they be better off or no…”

“i say it because it’s true.” the tilt of his head is imperceptible to the average observer, so too, the crook of his lips. ashley is, perhaps, even more indiscernible to those unfamiliar with his subtleties, but this is the man’s charm, an ore rich with treasure and answers should one feel up to splitting him at the seam. henrik is not so arrogant as to claim to have done this or to even know ashley better than most, but he’s afforded the faintest glimpses that make him think ashley wouldn’t mind if he did. 

an infernal silhouette in the dim light, he bends only when he feels ashley’s fingers carding through his necklace, the brush of warmth against the valley of collar bones and shadows. he reaches for ashley’s upon impulse, fingertips tracing all its hallowed edges, catches the glint of it against the light in his palm like its the edge of a knife. there is no denying the symbolism of it, the meaning. there’s no forgetting - just as there is no discarding the necklace and all that it symbolizes.

“you don’t think so?” he chuckles. “i think you would. you, risen from the furnaces of under, risen from ashes. i think you’d taste clean and airy upon first impression, a tabula rasa of a palette, but the aftertaste would be compelling. mystifying.” henrik lifts an eyebrow. “curiosity. i do wonder if we’re as palatable as we appear to be on the surface.”

he’s always found private detectives to be a crapshoot, unlike their public counterparts. the police in wonderland are bumbling, blind bloodhounds, too easy to lead off with a false scent; the private detectives he’s encountered, and there haven’t been many at all, prove their worth by finding him at all. but they never stay for long - lists and lists of alibis and explaining away his connection to the person they have in mind. he knows many people, traversing between the cloister of professionalism in over and his work with the church - many people both ways need help, reach out to him because he’ll acquiesce regardless of their ability to pay.

(but they always do pay, one way or another). 

there are few people he doesn’t know in wonderland.

this one, he finds, is different. leagues above the police, more perceptive than one might find in the average amateur detective - not to say that he is an amateur, just that everyone else is. 

but he finds his position with this one switched from the usual charade - he comes to augustus grover with an inquiry of which he’s reluctant to let go without an answer. 

reclining in his chair, henrik surveys gus watchfully, curious, prompting. “you’ve no doubt heard of the fire, no?” one long fingers taps at his chin. “no doubt there are many parties interested in the fate of those missing children, but few can claim an intrinsic tie to the orphanage as i do, you’ll find. i don’t suppose anyone’s already asked you to investigate? to dive into the miasma surrounding this mystery?”

FOR: @ofhvmpty​ DATE/TIME: 09/12 AM 6:10 LOCATION: Houndstitch Church

“I take it you haven’t heard then?”

He doesn’t look up from where he’s elbow-deep in a jar of what might pass for red gelatin if not for the sheen, the smell. the way the gelatinous matter clings to his skin when he pulls his hand back. “If I had, I doubt you’d be here asking.”

They’ve known each other too long for him to play Kanta’s games, something the Cat already realizes, yet insists on testing each time he stops in. A familiar shadow shifts closer to overlap with his own, both now leaning over the jar to observe its contents.

“True. Then again, if you had, you wouldn’t be here talking to me.”

An interesting choice of words, and it has the desired effect. He finally straightens, lifting his hand out of the jar entirely and lifting his head to meet with that same ever-shifting grin, an unsettling smile that only grows wider as the wearer revels in having his undivided attention at last.

“This is the day you’ve been waiting for. There is retribution to be had at last, and if you hurry, you might get to catch the last of the pyre before it burns out.”

The rag he’d been cleaning with freezes midway up his arm. The Cat’s grin has taken on a predatory note.

“Oh, and lest I forget, he’s there right now, your favorite orphan.”

He’s running before Kanta even finishes. It’s been twenty years but his feet still remember the path to take to return to Houndstitch, to carry him home.

bitter and dense smoke still cloud the sky above houndstitch like an omen despite the disaster dissipating, nothing but ash and bone remaining. he watches it roil, watches it clear. his hands ache with dead heat and dull singeing - even the memory of crashing through the burning wood seems like nothing but an echo. a dream. 

he sits by the curb, filthy, watching the church turn to ruin. there’s a sense of loss in spite of it all the sordid history, one marred with transactions and close calls; he’d used the orphanage as much as it used him. the children here had been raised to go to the slaughter, yes, but this has been a shelter for those who were lucky enough to be spared by wonderland, and his acts of philanthropy were as much for them as they were for his image. 

his cross necklace burns. henrik wonders if it’ll leave a mark in the aftermath. distantly, he wishes ashley had been here, if only so he’d have a matching imprint. what would he think of this place going up? perhaps relief. a sense of retribution long overdue. 

For someone who surrounds herself with nothing but white, the dark halls and quiet shadows of Henrik’s office relax her shoulders as much as anything can. Or perhaps that’s Henrik’s presence. Something about him exudes stability the way she does her best to emulate.

“An unfortunate while.” He gets the closest thing she’s got to affection in her voice, the placidity of her face more reminiscent of a calm pond than her usual frozen tundra. She picks a glass up delicately, swirling it in her fingers and watching its surface ripple. “I’m not here for any favors tonight. More just the company of someone who isn’t mind-numbing in their simplicity.” And an escape from the Wishbone - two separate blows to her business within just a few weeks has left her claws curled further into the flesh of her own heart than usual. Still no answers in sight even as she rearranges the chess board in her mind.

“Of course, if this is an intrusion you are more than welcome to send me on my way whenever you wish.”

-

cleaved as finely as a diamond, this white queen boasts a pristine, silver-edged countenance in this bloodied and hollow heartland. admirable in the way she inspires fear as potent as loyalty - a pleasure to watch her rise while managing to keep her own hands clear. such distance is ideal if one was to operate in the shadows, and she perfected the separation adeptly.

“oh? i’m pleased to hear it.” and he is. “are you finding your usual company not up to par? but not so displeased that you’d change them out, i assume.” he’s curious to ask about any new developments with the wishbone, with the development of the details surrounding it, but figures she’ll volunteer whatever she’d want to share. 

“please. if i saw this as an intrusion, would i offer you a drink and i implore you to stay?” he smiles. “it’s hard enough to get you out of wishbone, understandably. do you take any time you deserve for yourself?”

tigerwillie​:

“The best we can do is try to be good, right?” Her face is hopeful but the words are without a doubt a question for him, the authority here, whose guidance she accepts all too easily. The best she’s ever known is to be obedient, inoffensive. To hurt another is just as impossible as stealing the limelight away from someone, anyone, clearly more deserving of praise and attention. “That, and enjoy our tea with people we adore?”

“Yes, though the keyword there is ‘try’,” he lets his hand rest on her shoulder briefly, a greeting more affectionate than he usually allows while at the shop, and slips into the seat between them. “It’s not possible for a person to always do good, and in the end, what is good and what is not is all subjective, no?”

“Sorry I’m late. A customer came in last minute for their pickup.”

he spots ashley’s exasperation before willie even sees him at all. a crooked grin splitting his face - it is both fond and knowing. ah, he doesn’t blame him for it - his charade has been long-established, so enduring that it might as well be just as much a part of him as anything else far more intimate and clandestine. perhaps it is cruel to deceive her so willfully, but, is it really callous when he has no intention of disrupting her perception of him? 

that it is for his own personal amusement is moot - nearly everything amuses him. and he cares for her in the ways he knows how, however frequently they can catch up; feeds her, guides her - they both do, he and ashley. in their own ways.

“yes. do not burden yourself with absolutes, darling. impossible standards will run you ragged. sometimes tea with people we adore is enough.” he shoots ashley a conspiratorial smile, knees bumping beneath the table, before turning back to willie. “now then, willie. what was your favorite thing about this week’s sermon?”

FOR: @ofhvmpty DATE/TIME: 08/23 AM 2:05 LOCATION: Sørensen Manor

“Are you wearing anything under that?” There’s mischief in how his eyes curve into half-moons with the grin that parts his lips, roving eyes lingering for a moment on the figure clad in seemingly nothing but a dark silk robe. “Kind of risque Henrik, don’t you think? Didn’t pin you for the type, but hey, I don’t judge.”

Technically, he’s trespassing here—breaking and entering if you will, something definitely categorized as a crime in most polite and impolite societies, even the barely civilized ones like Wonderland—and in light of this, perhaps he shouldn’t be making his presence known so brazenly to the homeowner. But this is hardly the first time he’s let himself into the manor uninvited via an unlocked window or a picked open door, and it surely will not be the last.

At least he leaves his shoes in the foyer before traipsing into the kitchen, looking for his unwitting host.

“Sorry to drop in like this again, but you know how it is. I needed some air without Asshole in it, and, well, I hardly have to explain what Vin is like do I?“ Hopping onto a bar stool, he drops his chin onto crossed arms, peering around the tidy space through the messy tangle of his curls. “Anyway, don’t you ever sleep? It’s two in the morning already!”

“is it really risque if i wasn’t expecting anyone to break into my house at two in the morning?” his lips quirk at zion’s marauding gaze, bemused at his intruder’s boldness, doing nothing to demonstrate modesty nor humility under scrutiny. “though i should really learn to expect you. or at least get a pot of coffee ready.” he does exactly this, deftly preparing his mokka pot, and pouring zion a glass that steams the air between them. “hello zion.”

he doesn’t mind his home being used as a pit stop for the lost and the wayard, this haunt for orphans of all manners - he’d be loathed to attribute it to any psychological underpinings, any perceived need for found family (however true it may be), to anything beyond a tickling at their antics. 

“Oh? I suppose you have a point, though I fear there might not be much of particular quality to your late friend here…“

Disregarding the dead man, stretched over his island-top like the overgrown slab of unprocessed meat it has been reduced to, he pours out two cups of a pale amber liquid—”White Peony. Not as delicate and fragrant as Silver Needle I’m afraid, but the shipment for this week is running late.“—and sets one down before that pair of folded hands.

There is a certain…quiet repose, an acceptance of a sort, where he allows Henrik’s touch to linger against his skin. Not quite comfort—he’s not well-acquainted enough with that sensation to confidently relate anything or anyone to it—but perhaps something nearing it. Familiarity, if nothing else, in how fingers flick through the fringe threatening to fall into his eyes.

“Hmm no, you were right on time, according to them,” he reaches down to pick up one of the rabbits that had been using his foot as a temporary bed. It eyes their guest sleepily through the steam curling between them, silent in its judgement and the verdict reached. “You know I don’t have a set schedule for anything, let alone sleep. Besides, they knew you were coming ahead of time, so I waited up. Did you want to stay for the cleaning? Or do you need to get back early.”

"if that is a slight against my friend, then i am inclined to agree.”

he had many routines, but he’s never claimed to be partial to any of them - save, perhaps, for the odd exceptions. post-mass brunch with willie, tea with theo, and this - dim evenings stowed away from the world outside, din of faraway ambiance and sounds, muffled and gone. in their place, boiling water, the fragrance of tea leaves. he is used to quiet - he is not used to peace.

“delightful. and perfectly brewed, i’m sure.” the tea is warm going down, and he sighs throatily, mind far from the corpse laying some ways away, not worth noting any more than a sack of laundry. “have you ever wondered what a tea inspired by all the significant parts of you would taste like? if what is beneath the surface is as palatable as what is above?”

his cross necklace, delicate and gleaming, has fallen out of his collar. henrik has a habit of letting it show - to fool those who don’t know any better, and for those who do, to recognize. they both bear the houndsnitch markings, their twin echoing nooses.

AUGUST 25TH, LATE EVENING NEAR THE OCEAN @ofhvmpty

slender fingers dance across the raw-hewn edge of his wound—the cut aches, dully beating to the sound of his own heart pumping in his chest—as he traces the slope of his calf, gently splashing seawater on it. the pain is hot-sharp; he lowers his lashes in a faint grimace as the water comes off as red. 

he ignores the burning—k tips his head back, baring the slender line of his neck to what moonlight that deigned to show between clouds, and he pushes his hands into the gritty sand, sifting through tiny rocks and shells. he knows the taste of fire, intimately; this ( and the edges of his open wound are still weeping ) is nothing in comparison to the living, and to the ghosts that haunt them.

gently, he toys with the hemming at the edges of his trousers, rolling them up further so that the cut has a bit more room to breathe. the ocean laps at his bare feet; he wonders, then, if he should shove himself—face-first—into the surf. 

he’s still bleeding. 

the sea that crashes into the shore paces away from his manor feels less indifferent than seas elsewhere. more tempestuous, more foreign, but more healing. to find cerisse’s faithful assistant seeking respite from the waves in the dark of night feels as organic as finding a stray cat that has crawled over his courtyard walls.

blood looks black in the moonlight, and k is painted with the aperture of the evening. but henrik cannot tell if her seeks to clean his wounds, to feel the burning more richly, or to lose himself in the ebb and tide - he is sympathetic to all of them, at once, especially for one who lends his body to battle. it is fitting, he things, that moonshine and brutality would interplay with him, even in repose.

this or that tag game: arcane elements cycle wip aesthetics by @aesterea​

SENSUAL: the meadow or the mountains? the desert or the winter wasteland? castle or village? palace underwater or castle in the clouds? ghosts or beasts? sparks or snow? black or red? red or blue? silver or gold? light or dark? day or night? silhouette or shadow? tarot cards or playing cards? fire or water?

SENTIMENTAL: defiance or devotion? memory or prophecy? beauty or mischief? creation or destruction? control or submission? like calls to like or opposites attract? live for love, die for love, or kill for love? chaos or cleverness? mystery or history? friendship or romance? haunt or be haunted? you are mine or i am yours? secrets or confessions? treasured waste or wasted treasure?

the firm, all splendid edges and dark surfaces, nestles itself sternly in the middle of over-wonderland, as accessible to those above as those below by a mere hop and a skip, a towering artifice never far from the eye. the office is empty now, save for the two of them and their silhouettes. granite halls and vaulted ceilings overtaken by black and dark, the only sound cutting through the silence is that of acknowledgment, of recognition. only his office is lit by the meager light of his desk lamp, a beacon shaded and obscured. 

“i’m flattered you’ve paid me a visit, cerisse. how long has it been since we’ve shared a business without business hanging over us?” he carries a tray and rounds the corner of the threshold, nudging his door close with a gentle kick. it closes, resolute. ice cubes tinkle against gold-rimmed glasses, and he sets them down on his desk between them before taking his seat, fingers steepling into a spire. “is this a simple rendezvous between friends? or would i be presumptuous to suspect otherwise?”

-

Ruby had never quite understood the need for the so called justice system. When had it ever dispensed true justice, anyway? Truth was but nominal, shaped by those who had the power and intelligence to do so.

There is a flash of disappointment, for these kinds of jobs were much less fun in her opinion, not too much room for her to play a little, but whatever it took to satisfy the needs of a client would be what she would make happen. She was, after all, meticulous when it came down to business. It was something that she expected for this particular case, an opportune time for her to accept.

“ Ah, how un-fun. But I get it, Mista Witness is about to run into a stroke of bad luck, I suppose. ” The smile on her lips is a tad disconcerting, something about the childish glee at another’s impending misfortune. 

“ Don’t worry, the blueberries are havin’ a hard ‘nough time finding out why a body swings ‘n how an arm loses it’s home so they probably won’t care too much about a heart attack or somethin’.” she concludes brightly, rolling her eyes at the mention of the hopelessly inept police that Wonderland possessed. “ Took a look at their reports, they’re like lil chickies runnin’ round. But enough ‘bout them, how about we discuss payment? ”

-

"bad luck, indeed.”

certainly, his target in question didn’t deserve what was coming to him, but fairness was never any more of a guiding force here than some peculiar cosmic malice that never felt like malice at all - only hunger. hunger and indifference, and he’d suffered through them both, starved and neglected so he would know what great virtue it is to survive without a mother’s kindness, without anything to tenderize the marrow inside, carved and scarred by forces human and fated. what would he be if he didn’t embody this dogma? oh, he’d be a blasphemous heretic, unforgiven. forsaken. 

“i thought if any corpses would cause such a stir, it would be those of your own making. assumed, really, that they were yours.” he cracks a smile, eyes narrowing with curiosity. he knows better than to underestimate slips of a thing and small girls with sharp teeth - she barely fills the expanse of his chair, but he does not doubt the knives of bone and silver-edged lethality stashed inside of her, the arsenal inside of a girl. “indeed, those pitiable... blueberries. it must feel so undignified, constantly having to play catch up with forces greater than their own. and rest assured, if everything goes smoothly i expect i’ll have more jobs to offer - there are tasks i can’t risk doing myself.” fingers trace blueberries into the condensation fogging his glass. “but of course. i assure you the rate doesn’t matter nearly as much to me as the result, ruby.”

with the good chance that we crash / let’s say our grace event 1, 12:45pm 8/18, the poivre’s dining room closed to @ofhvmpty​

No matter what tragedies befall the city or other small crises might rear their heads in her life, Willie is never, ever late for tea time with Henrik. Not when he was so generous as to meet her every week just to take a moment out of time and relax! Between his work and all of the time he spends helping the community, it’s a wonder he ever has a minute for tea at all, let alone with just some girl he was kind enough to indulge a few conversations with once upon a time. 

Yet he’s always there waiting for her no matter how hard she works to be on time. Gloom hung over her ever since the week’s terrible news broke, but as soon as she spots her companion for the afternoon her cheeks round in a sweet smile. “Henrik, it’s lovely to see you!” She tries a little too hard to pronounce his name the same way he does, tongue tangling on the consonants. She can’t shake the desire to be liked, even in these details. “Sorry to keep you waiting! I hope you’re doing well? Especially under the circumstances - this week has been… strange, and difficult.” She’s still smiling even as her brow furrows. 

Taking the seat opposite him, she shakes out her shoulders and re-works her expression into something more pleasant, demure. It’s never exactly right in her mind. This place is something else; even the dessert spoons on the table are each worth more than pretty much anything she owns. “I don’t know why I even brought it up. I’m sorry. This is always the highlight of my week, I don’t mean to ruin the mood.”

-

tragedies are a dime a dozen in this rotting heartland. he’d hardly blinked when news of a couple of corpses hit, and it wasn’t until he’d heard to whom those bodies belonged to that he’d paid it any mind. a murder was not simply just a murder, but transformed, the rising action of a something shakespearean and strange still being written. this tiny universe of villains, vagabonds, and innocents waits with bated breath for the next act, peering over the shoulder of every player with a pen.

this innocent that sits herself before him blooms in the light - he is curious to see if she’d grow below, or if she’d be left to wilt in her rot like the others. he prefers her like this, unknowing and strange in her persistent purity - perhaps, akin to the serpent beneath the dirt, nudging his favored crop to the sun. 

“no fretting. i wasn’t waiting long. i’ve already got them preparing us two pots. one for us, and one for our companion running late.” a smile free of edge. there is no need for one. he likes willie, truly. and soft things startle easily at the glimpse of a blade’s point. “i confess, i don’t have a particularly strong stomach, and i’m trying not to think too deeply on things of such heinous nature. it’s easiest for me to go about my days this way.” he shakes his head, offers his palm for her to take. “it is especially gruesome for someone of your sensitivities, i’m sure. what do you make of it?”

this neighborhood of wonderland lurches in the light - nocturnal longings better suits its climbing, tangling vines, its trees cloistering its inhabitants within spindly spinal branches bleached blue by the night. dead leaves snap like bones underfoot. his own manor looms in the distance, a lurking edifice through the grove. there is a streetlamp that casts its brittle luster upon them - it seethes with knowing.

henrik pauses here.silhouette dyed black with the light to his back, gaze sharp and bemused as he finds lukas in the dim and dark. here is a man who prefers the shelter of shadows but cannot help but catch the edge of light. a sum of paradoxes - this, who avoids henrik as if he carries the plague... until he has the crutch of a strange liquid, the cloak of evening.

“how do you fare thus far, lukas?” there is a pinch of mirth, a spit of taunting, a glimpse of a smirk, bone-dry. “do you need me to carry you the rest of the way? admittedly, i don’t know where you live from here - don’t think you’ve said more than four words to me until today. leave it to ashley’s concoctions to upend that.”

FOR: @ofhvmpty DATE/TIME: 08/18 AM 1:05 LOCATION: the White Rabbit

It’s not uncommon for stragglers to come stumbling into the shop at unnatural time stamps of the day—some lost, most simply too early or too late, very few on time. It’s much less common for him to receive a delivery at odd hours of the night—usually a good indication of what type of ingredient can be expected, and significantly narrowing the list of potential visitors to have tea ready for.

He’s waiting at the back door, small cluster of sleepy rabbits at his feet, when the footsteps and vague shadows finally give way to form a recognizable silhouette.

“Scrawny, isn’t he?” this about the companion his guest shows up towing. It’s hard to judge in the dark, but the man can’t be more than 150lbs at most. No matter; he’ll find a way to put every part to use somehow. “Well, bring him in. Mind the rabbits.”

The kitchen island is cleared for this occasion, a rare glimpse at smooth wood finish usually obscured by jars and pots and bowls. He leaves Henrik to hoist the parcel into place, busying himself with pouring the tea instead.

“What was it this time. Client? Scapegoat? Or did he annoy you.”

his clawing silhouette is one commonly found at the white rabbit during the evening than during the day, undulating with the flickering streetlights, teasing between svelte and monstrous with every second. the white rabbit offers many shadows within which he is fond of nestling, cleaving a home into - and he is much too busy during working hours to stop by - and better to make himself scarce in daylight to afford their nighttime activities some plausible deniability.

the body slumps unceremoniously onto the kitchen island with as much inconvenience as the man possessed when he was alive. henrik straightens himself, smoothing his tie and his silk, breathing only a touch more ragged, settling swiftly into a routine beating as he offers ashley a smile through the dim and dark, wet and waxing and gleaming. “it is not how much there is, but how well it is to be used. hasn’t one of us espoused quality over quantity at least once in our time, my dear hare?”