#parafabian

April 4, 1979

It had been hard to tell what day it was, much less how much time had passed since the ball. Gideon had managed to drag his sorry arse out of his flat to visit Greta once, but otherwise he’d remained firmly boarded up in his own place, ignoring the owls that would periodically pop by to drop off letters. He hadn’t checked the senders, nor did he want to imagine which people had sought to contact him and which ones had spend the last few days struggling with their own demons. He was concerned about the all, certainly - Fabian, Molly, and Alice most of all, but Katrina, Amos, Greta, Florence...but outside of ensuring that they’d all emerged from the night of chaos relatively unscathed, the man couldn’t bear to see any of them. He’d tried - the night with Greta had certainly been an attempt, if ill-fated - but he wouldn’t any longer. Not until he could erase the sight of the twisted faces of the party goers from his mind.

Seeing the Dark Lord had been one thing. The horror that filled his mind immediately, as well as the impulse to bolt into the fray and inflict as much damage as he could manage, replayed on a near constant loop. He could hear the way the man’s smooth, understated voice filled the room in each moment of silence. He could see Dorcas’ expression of terror, the way her face wrenched together involuntarily with each further curse. As bad as those scenes were, it was his own actions that continued to flash in front of his eyes. He couldn’t be sure exactly whom had been the victim of his aggressions, nor did he know what became of the object of his anger. All he could recall were the flashes of light and the cries of mercy, the way his jaw clenched through the hard exhales of breath as his arm arced high above his head. How had it happened? How had he become the sort of person he’d actively campaigned against? In the fog of anger, he couldn’t fathom doing anything but attacking the nearest person with even the remotest affiliation to the Dark Lord. However, in the aftermath, Gideon couldn’t fathom how he’d possibly done such a thing.

A sharp rap at his door roused Gideon from his stupor, his eyes dry from staring off into the crags of the brick wall. What time was it, even? The shades were drawn tight, shuttered against any semblance of light that might sneak in, though the lamps shone brightly in the space. Evening then? The rumble in his stomach seemed to indicate that was a distinct possibility, especially since he couldn’t recall having woken from sleep recently. Another bang at the door, sharper and more urgent than the last rung out once more, causing the blonde to stumble to his feet. The effects of the firewhiskey he’d been drinking copious amounts of made itself known, the aroma of peat and smoke surrounding him as he lurched ahead awkwardly. 

“Aye, I’m on m’way,” Gideon managed to croak loudly, hoping that his words would allay another fierce knock. He made his way to the sink in the kitchen before the door, taking the time to take a few grateful sips of water and splash some of the cold, cleansing fluid across the clammy skin on his face. Once satisfied that he felt alive enough to entertain whatever manner of guest had come calling, Gideon sighed and trod slowly towards the heavy door. The large, thick piece of bewitched wood had been barred and locked in triplicate, with a variety of physical and magical barriers protecting his solitude. With a lazy wave of the wand, the protections fell away one by one before Gideon toyed with the handle, leaving the chain connected in case he needed the brief respite it would provide from an attacker. With trepidation and a fog in his eyes, the man opened the door warily to reveal the face of his twin. “Oy. Didn’t realize I’d be expected to entertain in this state,” he muttered quietly, trying a smile that only managed to turn the corners of his mouth up. “Hope you brought a bottle of something - my stash is almost dry,” he added as he flipped the chain off and swung the door wife for his brother to enter.

@fabian--prewett