do you want to die together?

It’s a bit odd not having a familiar face around to enjoy the bittersweet taste of nicotine with, but as disappointed as he was, he’d live. He had more important things to worry about– like getting back to work and enjoying himself. Maybe a drink was in order, after most of this cigarette had been reduced to ash.

All plans go awry in the end, of course. He catches a glimpse of a face that strikes a chord, and a few distasteful memories rocket to the surface like a volcanic eruption. There’s that pretty visage, the cold look plastered in those eyes, and finally the metal pressed to his head–

The rest is history, and hardly history that deserved to be repeated.

His posture on the walls straightens. Green eyes are focused like a hawk, watching as the other man wanders like a lost animal. He’s getting closer, closer, and finally pale digits wrap around the stick in his lips and yanks it loose, the opportune time to exhale wispy smoke and end up casting it into Meredith’s lungs.

The grin that slides across his face is the usual– smug and overall unpleasant, but there’s something else there, not discernible. Not yet, anyway.

“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in by the hair.”

Then, he reaches; fingers abruptly digging into the other’s lapel and holding fast, just enough for him to raise the opposite hand and promptly stub out his cigarette.

Where? On a previously clean shirt, of course.

It’s Proton. It could be anything. As it is, the man’s just ruined a perfectly good jacket that he doesn’t have the money to replace, which sends tinges of irritation shooting through him, though nothing strong enough to warrant actually acting on such feelings. Still, he’s got the faintest of aches in the back of his mind that, perhaps, something is --

<<Not by choice.>> Which is, well, obvious. He realizes he’s backing up a few steps, away from the other, and has to consciously stop himself. 

You still have the gun.

<<Then, does that mean our boss is still here?>> He doesn’t want to wonder aloud about Elijah, not to this guy.

Immersed in civilian travel-murmur, it’s not a syndrome of undreamed of deprivation: his blackened lungs inhaling word of mouth with sickened fascination (a rarity it is to gorge himself on goods if not for personal wealth); the flourishing speak revealing details—details are important, for he does the minimum necessary to insinuate himself into everyone’s good graces.

His absorbing involvement has always been praiseworthy, and he entwines himself around tragedies and critical points; he knows, through self-taught anatomical knowledge, how a man is only flesh and bone and can be ended quite easily. Frangible, human beings are; he, too, is consigned to the Inferno and Death has him clapped in irons. This fact brings him playful repartee when it shouldn’t.

Cyril isn’t elated at having been spirited away, and the cessation of life pales in comparison to his necessary ire. Now, he releases a non-compulsory exhale, rightly blusterous and forced through the nostrils, as he attempts to seize an internal calm; correct choice, in fact, as he overhears a newly-ended conversation, one of which is befouled by undeserving praise—and entirely one-sided.

He has a penchant for tracking down any poor devil, and he’s damned for it; misfortunes never come singly. It’s the hair length and thoracic rigidity that is so terribly familiar, and this whole scene is bound to make his eyes roll back.

His relations with Meredith Elkwood have been anything but cordial, and, as his unhurried footfalls near him, his first utterances are not gasps of laughter or another reveal of his love life; he forbids his signature ability to express pleasant invitation. That pestiferous, smoldering, baffled rage seems to underlie his manner, and he grips the insufferable bastard’s shoulder with profound vigor.

‘Mr. Gabriel’ has left him with a nasty taste on his tongue, absolutely more putrid than an attempted poisoning—on his receiving end. He knows that his loyal dog isn’t to be underestimated, but he doesn’t shudder in affright.

Bitterness aside, he should probably count himself lucky to be employed, even if it is by one of the most wanted men around. Granted, he has been unable to find the man upon returning to this awful place, but he’s sure he’ll show up eventually. No, that’s not the problem right now.

The hand on his shoulder is enough to make him freeze in place -- the grip is tight and bruising, but the voice, the voice is what turns alarm to a quiet, seething anger that burns low in his chest, sits there unmoving.

No, he hasn’t forgotten what Cyril said to him that evening.

When he snaps his head around to face attention, Meredith also puts a concerted and visible effort into slipping out of the other’s hold on his shoulder with a ducking motion of his upper body. Anything, really, to get that hand off of him.

<<You could have asked anyone else. There are thousands of people in this city.>>

Thus, he ended up sleeping in, and only bothered rousing himself at the incessant beeping of his phone…again. The device is yanked over by a pale hand and he glances at the screen, squinting at the name (that was the late guy, wasn’t it?) before re-reading over the words on the screen a few times. The meaning soon sinks in, and while he could lounge around the apartment like a lazy bastard free from work, he admittedly found the prospect tempting. A few seconds of deliberation before his finger tap on the screen, hitting the send button as soon as he’s done.  」

From: Proton To: Princess

TEXT: aw do you need someone to hold your hand? thats cute

TEXT: let me get dressed and ill head over

Casual attire tugged on and one long (at least to him, anyway) venture later, he made sure to offer a grin and a sharp wave of the hand the moment he was in viewing distance of what you’d call his…coworker.

When green hair comes into sight, he’s uncertain for just a moment if that’s him, before the nonchalant wave follows. It doesn’t suit the hard look in his face, his eyes, Meredith thinks, and his dislike for the man known only as Proton steadily increases by the moment. Even if they both play the villain, he gets the feeling their values and morals are entirely different.

If he has any.

Risks were fine, but sticking to the main streets was like asking to get shot full of holes. Proton would pass on that, thank you.

Luck always runs out, though, as evident by the fact he wasn’t able to go undetected this time. He didn’t even notice there was somebody else there until a very familiar voice rang out with demands. He obeys, but with unimpressed irritation plastered over his face. One hand rests over his hip, inches over where his companions lay in their white and red containers, eyeing the face with a curl of the lips. 

He most definitely knew that face. But the question was was it the right one?  」

And just what do you think you’re doing? 

Temper, temper. He slips the safety off the handgun, weapon gripped tightly in both hands for steadiness.

<<Maybe the implicit ‘shut up’ wasn’t clear...>> The next bit stops Meredith, though, sends red flaring through his cheeks. As it subsides, his expression twists for just a moment --

-- before the gun goes off with a bang, shot aimed for one of this asshole’s knees.

     even then, in the arms of a loved one, Elijah hardly felt the sensation of stumbling into the alley and being set back down. he did not feel the pain, he did not feel the kindness.

                                            and oh how he wanted to  f e e l.

      perhaps he had gotten himself into this mess entirely, sought out the thugs, provoked them, wanted them to harm him so he didn’t have to do it himself. he just wanted to feel something other than emptiness, see something other than darkness, and it was getting more and more difficult to keep the smile on his face, even under his brothers gentle touch. Meredith’s worry translated directly into guilt; Elijah never wanted to see hurt on his features, never should have to see it, and his walls came crashing down.

      there were so many bruises, so many– so why didn’t he feel the pain? the guilt, the frustration, the turmoil, even the focus he’d been using to pretend nothing was wrong…it all presented itself at that moment. chest rose and fell in a faster tempo, warning of the hot tears that were to follow.

      “ I’m sorry. ”

      hands up to cover his face, the words were muffled, but audible in their close proximity. it meant nothing, absolutely nothing, but he said it anyway, said it again. and again. and again. and then– a sudden switch in tone.

No, knowing just makes him... angry, not at Elijah, but at the world itself for being the way it was. Still is.

Gently, he pulls Elijah’s hands from his face and sets them at his sides, usually impassive expression softening at the sight of tears running down the man’s face. Meredith knows he still cries here and there, but that Elijah has done his best to keep it out of his sight so as to keep him from fussing or worrying over him. Strangely, that’s only ever made him worry more.

<<Elijah... don’t apologize.>> Now isn’t the time for jokes: whether or not he means it is irrelevant.

Instead, he continues examining the various discolored bruises that stand out far too much even on his brother’s skin. He’ll probably have to check and see if it hurts badly enough for anything -- his ribs, mostly -- to be broken. With any luck (luck), they’re all just bruises, deep, misshapen bruises that look more like boots than fists and --

He hadn’t noticed it at first, but there’s a good deal of dried blood on the left sleeve of Elijah’s shirt. This isn’t enough to make him cringe, but sliding his brother’s otherwise clean, white sleeve up past his elbow to get a better look brings him back to some of their worse days. It looks like someone’s taken a knife and tried to rip it around in his forearm, because the muscle looks a little bit. Well.

Maybe, this once, he’s grateful Elijah doesn’t seem to feel everything like a normal person.

<<...Yes, because I’m going to take care of you.

The only thing missing was the people she loved. Without them, did this place have any meaning, anything else to offer that Melbourne did not? She had no idea.

With these thoughts, even days with wonderful weather could be tainted. Walking down the street, clad in a dress that an acquaintance had told her was “in”, she felt odd baring her arms. Even now, she was so used to wearing layers that a simple spring dress was still foreign. 

As was the sound of the rustling of bags, but the voice that accompanied it was certainly not.

Instead, he settles for a firm hug, briefly holding his sister to him with the very real comfort that she is there, where he can attempt to look out for her, if only indirectly. Then, before gripping her too long, he lets go, and steps back.

As quickly as Dylan had looked over him, he angles his body so his back faces the door, taking the time to reflect on his next actions. Now, Dylan is keenly aware of the shitty kid he’d been, but he considers himself having turned over many new leaves. Thus, he finds it in him to give Meredith another chance. Elijah’s absence almost gives him reason to approach him directly. He’s a few persons ahead in the line that he and Meredith are in, so all it takes to begin a conversation is a look behind his shoulder with a click of his tongue.

Still, after just a day, he’s already feeling worn down. It’s a bit of a shock to hear that voice and see the familiar -- yet decidedly unpleasant -- face of Dylan Springbell looking him over.

Perhaps he should have skipped out on eating lunch, after all.

<<Aha... Dylan, right?>> He’s entirely unprepared for this: give him literally anyone else at this point, Cyril even, and Meredith would probably be mostly calm, but there’s something about Dylan that just --

There’s no need to be rude or unpleasant when they’re both caught in the same situation -- this city -- and he realizes that Elijah will probably brighten considerably if he brings Dylan along to visit. As much as he dislikes it... 

ᴛᴏ: ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴡ ғʀᴏᴍ: ᴛᴏʀᴄʜᴡɪᴄᴋ

ᵗᵒ: boss

ᶠʳᵒᵐ: m