mattersverymuch | o5 ɂ voice + private

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o5 ɂ voice + private

-- Oxford Circus. Join me.

[He starts without explanation, because the person he's addressing knows exactly who she is, and then laughs.]

Have you ever played with pigeons? Slower, messier. Rats are quicker and cleverer but have the disadvantage of short legs and no wings. Although I imagine they'd make things more interesting regardless. Rats generally do.

Would never have let that happen. That's why pigeons are second choice. You're welcome, by the way. Again. It was a lovely few days. Practically a holiday. Even though I nearly got injured.

[private: dean]

You deserved that, retroactively.

[private: castiel]

[pleasantly:] In the future, find an alternate solution.

( ooc; mornington crescent. and though he's inviting iris in specifically, he left it open so that a) people familiar could try to beat him and b) people unfamiliar could ask about it. fair warning: he knows a lot more stations than you do. )

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[The marquis has not spoken of Below to anyone since he got here months ago. No one but Iris, who talks in circles as much as he does; despite her efforts to be human, she never will be, and he enjoys that about her.]

[But here, now, something unexpected happens. He finds himself smiling.]

[It's not specific enough to say he misses home. He misses his life. He misses power, he misses cruelty, he misses superiority.]

[But he misses the tunnels, too, and magic sparking at his fingertips, and the London-ness of it all.]

It was a subway.

[It's silent permission. Go on. Ask. He may even answer; he can't say just yet, as this is not a mood he's familiar with.]

[...this keeps happening. Dean won't be the one that questions it, of course, and he's not going to overthink it, not until he senses the trap closing. Problem is he always has that sense about the Marquis, and maybe it's dulling his instincts some.

So he keeps an eye on that smile and, silent permission acknowledged as silently, pushes ahead with the vague but ultimately distant hope that this isn't the weightplate instead of a small break in otherwise staunch defenses.]

Was?

Is.

[He watches Dean, just as sure that the trap is closing on him as Dean is of the marquis's intentions. But now, he's curious. Of all the dangerous things Dean could find out, the true nature of his home is very low on the danger scale; it's a good test. On some level, too, the marquis wants to brag. Who he was, what he was, is intrinsically tied into where he was, and he wants to relive that.]

[But he also misses it. He's surprised to discover this, though it doesn't show on his face. There's been no question that he's wanted to go home all this time, but - this is different. More acute.]

[His home is the underside of a city. He rules it, in his way, and now - well, now he's nowhere. And he misses London under his nails.]

And more.

More how?

[Given the chance, Dean might understand that, too. He's the ruler of nothing outside of his car, the world won't have him willingly in it, but he works to protect it anyway. The entire country is his, the people in it his, his job clearcut and necessary and his; he wouldn't have chosen the life he has, not for himself and not for his family, but now that it's his, well.

It's his.]

And why would you live there? Quick exit? Chokepoint?

[He laughs - not the chaotic, manic laugh of his illness, or the standard smug cruelty of his ordinary demeanor, but a pleased laugh, genuinely amused. Dean assumes that he would not live where he lives by choice, but he does and has for the longest time. Necessity has almost nothing to do with it. Profit, though, profit is everything.]

I live there because it's my home. I've told you. As for how -

[There's a moment when he considers answering. But he dismisses it in the end.]

You'll end up in the red if you go any further, Mr. Winchester.

[Later, Dean will remember this conversation, will remember that despite how hard the Marquis works to divorce himself of all the vestments of being just another person, he values the idea of home. Just like everyone else. Here, now, he raises an eyebrow but seems to accept it.

He, too, considers. Then he's shaking his head. He supposes it's not, exactly, intelligent to get himself into debt with someone he told Doyle only a month ago would sell him back his own spare body parts with a smile, but so far the Marquis has only asked for information. And information is something Dean is always willing to give out - for the right price, though his rates are different and in different currency than de Carabas's.]

I'm always in the red. Question stands.

[Sizing up Dean is becoming a daily, if not hourly occurrence these days. Not that he minds it - it's far more interesting than trying to entertain himself with the dull minds of most others on board. It's unexpected, though. And debt is worth more than Dean understands, he's sure. It's life and death.]

[When he speaks, he's not fond, but he's also not entirely present. He's remembering, as well as narrating. It's the story of a place most people have never heard of and will never hear of.]

I live there because it's where those who fall through the cracks end up. They lose presence in the world you have one foot in, Mr. Winchester, and fall face-first into a world that shouldn't exist and, for the most part, doesn't.

[The implication being that they are rife for manipulation. And oh, they are. They're desperate souls, and he thrives on the deals they choose to make for themselves, for their families, for their futures and their pasts.]

How deep would you like to go?

[Oh, he understands alright; he took on Buffy's debts, Angua's, because he understands. He's an avid proponent of lex talionis, he understands how to even the scales and he believes it should be done if he at all can. He hasn't thought it through as well as all that, he simply does it, but that makes it no less true.

He listens, more intent than he would get credit for if one just met him in the hall on the way to lunch or talked with him over the network about any given mundane thing. This is the hunter side of him, and it is the larger part, and he is good at it.]

That's what you meant by "between." I... [He sucks his lower lip in between his teeth, thoughtful, then shakes his head.] Depends. You hangin' onto it, or do I have anything you want right now?

No. I let debts accumulate. [He smiles.] They're more valuable that way.

[There's really no way Dean's interested enough to let his debt build further, is there? He's hardly invested. They're not friends.]

[But people do occasionally surprise him, so he lets silence fall and waits.]

Of course. [This is a scoff - he might understand it, he might honor it, but it doesn't always mean he likes it. He doesn't immediately shake his head, though.

The trick is in the questions and he wastes a silent moment wishing Sam were here to take it over. He's the clever one, the wordsmith. But Sam isn't here and Dean doesn't let himself get distracted by that right now.]

Your home. It's not underground, is it.

Yes and no.

[Oh, Dean. He's so close and yet so far.]

There are parts of it that are underground, parts that are above, parts that are high above, and parts that shift. In time as well as space. Should you attempt to apply rules to it, it will trick you. I wouldn't.

But you're all about rules. It's the only way to know where the loopholes are.

People make rules. Places don't always.

My home is its own very specific breed of geographical anarchy underlying maps and landmarks.

That's not... [Dean gets himself stopped before he can ask another question, because suddenly he's realized just how deep he might be into this. He's not quite sure what geographical anarchy actually means, but it's not at all what he was expecting.

Not that he knows why he was expecting mundane from the Marquis, not with everything else he knows. So the hunter shakes his head and feigns idiocy seamlessly.]

Man, you lost me there. It's okay. I think my tab is high enough.

[In another world, Dean would be much more cautious than he is now. He would have not only heard of the marquis's true reputations, the crimes he's committed and the crimes committed for him, but he would have heard rumors, whispers of much worse. Atrocities that perhaps once had a kernel of truth, but which have flown so heartily away from their creators that they surpass even his worst deeds.]

[Fear, it's what kept the marquis in business, in favors, in the green. This is a drop in the bucket; it makes him hungry for more. Everyone will need to play ball with him, sooner or later.]

[He smiles, almost pityingly. The smile is a lie. He doesn't believe Dean - because after all, Dean is a liar.]

Are you afraid?

[He doubts it. But it would be nice. He is a monster that lurks in the dark. Fear is his due, fear and acquiescence to his superiority.]

[Believed or not, the smile doesn't waver - Dean is a liar but a good one, unshakeable when it matters, solid the rest of the time. He doesn't look away.]

Sunshine, I got a lot bigger problems'n you hanging around. I ain't got the time or the energy for fear.

[Both of which are true. Dean is wary of the Marquis, aware of him, but he's a man with Hell hanging over him, with nothing to lose, and on a mission that will kill him if he fails in it. So he smiles, and he bluffs, and he slips on to the end:]

Should I be?

[There is a mixture of pity (still), disappointment, and the slightest hint of extremely grudging respect playing on the marquis's face when he responds.]

I don't think what should be matters to you at all.

Come on now, that ain't true.

[It's not. His brother is the idealist, Dean is too practical for that, but he spends a lot of time living how he thinks people should live.

But he also completely ignores the things they're currently talking about. Threats. Fear. Impossibilities. They can all go to hell if he needs something on the other side of them and Dean tips his chin up slightly.]

You get a lotta that back home, I'm gonna guess. Fear.

I do. [This isn't worth concealing. Dean knows it. He says he's guessing, but he's not.]

Which doesn't surprise you.

Any particular reason it should?

I've been underestimated before, here.

[And there is an edge of resentment, just the slightest harshness of tone, that belies how angry this makes him. Cool, silent anger, but anger nonetheless.]

Well, it's easy to do with Batman and Superman and freaking Arthas running around here.

Doesn't mean there isn't still an asshole with a knife in the dark that'll put you down just the same, though, does it?

[Dean is smirking. He's a creature of the dark, too. He knows.]

[A sharp look, sharp of teeth and eye, and smug, too. There is some level of shared understanding here.]

There are different kinds of predators. They aren't all loud.

[It's the kind of understanding that doesn't bear speaking of directly. The Marquis looks at him like that, Dean meets it with a bulletproof smirk, and that's all there will ever be.

The hunter considers replying to that, but there's really only one more thing to say, isn't there? He touches two fingers to his temple, flicks them out lazily in a sloppy, mocking salute, the smirk as unwavering as hie eyes on the Marquis'.]

See you around, Sunshine.

Edited 2013-05-06 02:55 (UTC)

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