mattersverymuch | 12 ɂ voice

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12 ɂ voice

[The crackle of the atmosphere's static so close to the first lightning strike is enough to disguise the marquis's eager anticipation. Mostly. Those who know him very very well (and there are few enough of those) might notice a slight tonal uptick in the middle of his sentences. But that's all.]

I'm familiar enough with this type of environment that should-- [static] --require assistance of a protective or informative capacity-- [static] --available-- [static] --appropriate payment.

private } dean, later

[Okay, now he's definitely excited.]

I've-- [static] --at the beach. [static] --now.

( ooc; open to spam literally whenever wherever. he will be all over. all the time. in yo grill. )

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What?

I'm not be- -r gun-for-hire righ- Where?

North. The --th beach.

[There's a squeal and some extra static as Dean attempts his preferred method of dealing with static, but he's already on the move, and it's no better when he comes back.]

This had be- -mn important. I'll be there in -s.

[When Dean comes to the beach, there is, of course, no one there. At least no one apparently there.]

[So enjoy that, Dean.]

[Dean has, by this point, abandoned all pretense of not being on high alert. He's carrying his Colt in his hand now if he's going anywhere, and he's not happy about the sloppy beach that keeps sticking to his boots, but neither is he paying it much attention. There's no cover out here, and he knows better than most how quickly things can just drop impossibly out of the sky or blindside anyone dumb enough to be caught out in the open.

Which begs the question what the fuck he's doing out here and not back at the Barge. Dean has been headed what he's pretty sure is North, but who really knows out here, and he's actually becoming a little concerned. It took him a while to get here. Did something else happen in the interim? The hunter stops just a few yards up from where the waves are lapping casually at the muddy sand, turning in place and shading his eyes with his free hand to see, frowning.

He doesn't dare yell. Instead, when he continues to see no one, he swears under his breath, checks his clip, and steps out to keep heading the way he had been.]

[There is a stand of rocks by the water, just feet from Dean. It's almost the height of a man, but not quite. When he turns to go, however, it abruptly isn't anymore. In its place is the marquis.]

[The marquis, with a brightness of ambition in his eyes that hasn't been present in a very long time. With a smile that's just short of unhinged. Quick-moving eyes. His voice quiet - he has a plan.]

I thought this might be useful to you.

[Once, the Marquis had asked Dean if he could kill something while inebriated and half naked and strung out on loneliness and desperation. The answer, of course, had been yes. If he had to. Dean can do whatever he has to, he's found, and that's not always a good thing of course, but it's also the truth. Another truth is that this fact is backed up by tried and true, fire-tested, bombproof training and skill.

Dean whirls and by the time he's dropped into his firing stance - confident and comfortable in a way he almost isn't in his skin the rest of the time - his Colt is cocked and ready, aimed at the Marquis' chest. The hunter's eyes narrow, recognizing him immediately once he's no longer just a movement in Dean's peripheral, but it takes him a moment longer to lower the gun.]

Are you trying to get ventilated, or is all of this just too damn boring for you?!

You couldn't hit me right now if you tried.

[He is confident of this fact. At least, not with an ordinary gun.]

[He folds his hands behind his back and watches Dean, waiting for the gun to fall to his side. And for the other shoe to drop.]

Edited 2013-08-23 03:13 (UTC)

Keep it up, and I'll be happy to t-... wait.

[Nor has he ever been as slow on the uptake, not with these sorts of things, as they both know he lets people think. His narrowed eyes take on a new sort of suspicion, the focus broader, less on the Marquis himself and this new piece of information and what it means.

Which leads straight back to the Marquis himself.]

Alright, I'll bite. Which spider bit you?

This is who I am.

[This is who/what he/it is; he feels, paradoxically, the radioactive magic of the underworld flowing through him, the contagious un-temporal sensation of London Below. It isn't here, but some part of it has been given back to him. He has to take advantage of it while he can.]

You've noticed the patterns, surely.

I've noticed a lot of patterns. [And hated most of them, fears them a little, though he's paving over that with competence and sharp edges.] You're gonna have to be more specific.

[Dean rakes his gaze up and down the Marquis. He's never doubted the man is human, though never doubting and believing it can't be something else are two entirely different propositions. Dean lives in the space between, waiting for his instincts to tell him which way to jump. He looks for physical markers, some kind of behavior or tic that could tip him off, but finds nothing except exactly what the Marquis has said: this is who he is.

Dean believes it. All the same:] Christo.

[It takes him a moment to realize what exactly has been said, the implications of it, and then he laughs, really and truly and loudly, perfectly amused. That's just hilarious.]

I'm not a demon. Temple and Arch. This is my home.

[Not this place - this power. This power is his home. It's the spark of Below that pulls his lips up at the corners, that gives him strength and power and some bastard kind of joy.]

[Dean, however, is unfazed - even a little relieved - by the laughter. Not that he doesn't recognize some of the similarities in how the Marquis is smiling at him now, not when he's stared down a pissed off crossroads demon offering him his daddy's soul in exchange for his own, not when he's tied evil to a chair and poked it with the verbal version of hot iron until it literally spilled its guts straight back to Hell, seen it wearing the skin of people he loves. But it's the rest that reassures him, and he rolls his eyes before glancing around them again, still on high alert.]

Yeah well, someday it'll be a demon, and you'll thank me then. Let's hear it. What's the sales pitch.

[It was less of an intent of sale (yet) than it was an opportunity to brag. An opportunity to - if he's being honest, which he's not - share his own happiness with someone else, someone he trusts at least ten percent of the time. More than he trusts most people.]

[The surprise doesn't show, though, and he's not nearly offended. The transition from pleasure to business is so instantaneous as to be entirely unnoticeable.]

Whatever's needed. There are very few limits. This is millenia of London in my hands, Dean, surely you don't expect it to be categorized in words.

So. What is needed?

[Even if it could be categorized into words, Dean's not sure he'd want it to be. Words have power, he knows, some words more than others, some power still fresh and resilient, some arcane and powerful, some expired. He understands bragging rights, the simple, human joy taken in a right reclaimed, but here and now he's interested in staying ahead of the chaos he feels breathing at the back of his neck.

It's a when, not an if, he knows as he watches de Carabas's attention focus on him out of the white-toothed satisfaction. He doesn't have to think.]

I need all the major threats located and assessed. Either that we brought with us, or that were already here when we arrived.

Done.

[In an instant. Because he knows Dean knows about debt.]

[(Because. Because. Because he'd do it anyway. Foul; the slick underside of a rotten log. But he would. Ugly, ugly things go on in a place like this.)]

Communication is unreliable. How would you like reports?

[Dean knows about debt and without a doubt, he knows he does not care. With the Barge there's always something worse, something more dangerous than the last, and it never matters; in Dean's profession, he's learned that the moment something is taken for granted, that's when he turns around and it's happened and he's done. It's over, his heart just hasn't gotten the message.

He shakes his head.]

I'll be on board the Barge with the repair team. The only threats I need to know about while repairs are ongoing are those that will directly affect us, and how. You'll need to beat them there.

I trust you can.

[What spreads across his face now is a rarity: a genuine smile. It comes of multiple things, the most significant force being the fact that he feels, for the first time in nearly a year, whole. But it's also because someone realizes his competence. He hasn't really had to fight for it, either.]

[It's an interesting feeling.]

I can. Will.

[As close to a promise as anyone is likely to get from him; and he turns on his heel to go.]

[He smells like magic. At least she can still smell. She slinks along in his footprints, noses mournfully at the back of one invisible calf.]

Edited 2013-08-23 04:33 (UTC)

[He shimmers back into visibility, even if only for a moment, to glance down at her with a skeptical look. A moment's observation - and her silence - are enough to indicate what's happening.]

You're not right, are you.

[She shakes her head, making a low, mournful crooning noise, with no shivering silver drumbeat inside it.]

[Well. Hm. He adjusts his presence - invisible but perfectly audible - for her benefit, then carries on.]

I'd say it's unfortunate. But it isn't for me.

Come on then.

[Polly heard his offer, but she doesn't need it, so there was no sense in responding. She does eventually come across him though and he looks busy. All the more reason to talk to him.]

Had many takers yet?

Is it your business?

[He's cheerful, either way. He's occupied. That's what matters.]

Not really. But I thought I'd give meaningful conversation a try since you were clearly displeased with the lack of it.

Well, pick a more meaningful topic, then.

You don't find talking about yourself meaningful?

[How odd given how many times he's tried to in recent history.]

Talking about myself, yes. This? No.

[There is a subtle delineation between himself and his business.]

I'm surprised. I always thought you to be a man proud of his work.

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