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lt-doberman · 2 days ago

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Daire had never been known for his patience. Always quite an issue in his youth: stomping his feet or making odd animal like sounds while waiting. They had to give him something to do just to shut him up, chores made just for the little woods kid. Time was always his biggest enemy. The world practically in slow motion.

Watching Claude walk into his penthouse was no different. In actuality it was only a few minutes: getting Eve out of his truck, discussing parking for Daire’s car (which no, he didn’t need.), and of course helping the angel walk to the actual entrance. They were even trying to be quick with it, not wanting to linger and give the media any good shot of the scene. That didn’t change the fidgeting. When Emerson’s eyes glanced back at his former kidnapper and current hunter he found the hellhound fidgeting with his sleeve. He looked like he might be sick.

Good, that makes two of them.

The very second the doors closed Daire jumped for his phone. Which ironically also rang the very second it was in his hands. Panic darkening his features as the man tried to accept said call and pull out of the driveway at the same time. …God he was fucked!

"Doberman."

"Sir…"

"Admiral."

"Ah, Admiral, Sir."

"Your grace."

"Y….Yer grace."

It wasn’t good to question authority, but in this case it was warranted wasn’t it? Asides he’d already jumped far into the deep end. It was too deep already.. he missed the kiddie pool. He missed his captain. She wouldn’t do this. Any of this. Make him lie. Or make him pretend things are alright. She wouldn’t make him hurt people like this. Only monsters.

She also, certainly, wouldn’t make him pretend she was some kind of royalty in order to not get fired.

"What, something funny y' Mutt?"

"No! Nothing! It’s just, errr, well I thought y' grace was reserved for kings."

"Oh, became an expert since you started kicking it with that little egomaniac sexdoll."

"Yer right I’m sorry."

"Sorry, what?"

"Are you seriously going to make me call you that?"

"What, do you not want your j—"

"Your grace."

"That’s a good hunter."

…

"I need a proper debriefing on project first-son. In person. That way you can beg for forgiveness properly, yeah?"

“Yeah."

"So I can expect you in next week."

"Yes, yer uh … umh…”

“Excellence.”

“Yer greatness!"

"Grand. I’ll want graphics. Maybe a slide show. Are you smart enough for that?”

"I’ll manage."

"Yes you will."

……

"Don’t mess up like that again."

"I know."

"Good. I hate being mean to you, y' know that."

A weaker man would’ve thrown his phone once that cocky admiral hang-up. Luckily daire had half a mind to not break the device he’d spent a few hours replacing prior to this conversation. Fuck. Shite. Man.

It really was like his world was crashing down on him. Literally actually. This weight on his chest was overwhelming. Pale hands trembled as they tried to keep himself steady on the road, breathing now falling into an uneven, erratic pace. He’d nearly killed Claude. Was he dumb? Well surely he was. What kind of idiot attacks an angel and thinks they’ll want to be buddy-buddy with him after? Stupid. Why does everyone take the time to pretend he’s not. Treat him differently. They all know it’s true. They all…

His driving was irregular. Worrying. It was hard for him to stay on the right side of the road, especially when looking through tears. It was honestly luck he hasn’t crashed yet.

Then to everyone’s amazement the car stopped. In place. All at once. Before starting back up, in an even, calm manner.

"Just gotta learn how t' make a slideshow."

The rest will work out.

It has to.

He’s on the winning side afterall.

He just has to have a little faith.

Well that, and ignore the itching feeling that he’s being watched.

The smell of gunpowder was a uniquely familiar and unpleasant thing. It was hard to describe it to others, like a more metallic, smokey version of spoiled meat. Or if someone tried to make a battery out of rotten eggs. It lingers, leaving the bitter taste of sulphur to coat everything it touches. Admittedly the combo of that and gasoline from a rusty car wasn’t just particularly traumatic to the angel, it also just happened to smell like utter shit.

Claude Krueal was a much stronger man compared to when he was last in a hunters truck, yet despite that he still felt just as small and helpless as before. It was as if instead of maturing into a reasonable adult, he’d grown into a tall child.

It was pitiful if anything.

It appeared that following their ‘friendly fight’ or more accurately ‘Daire’s Attempt at Aggravated Assault' the brunette was brought to some type of Patrol Car, specifically a van. Boxes littered the floor along his feet, the crates full of weapons and miscellaneous paranormal objects. A sword in a glass case that was neatly tucked under the car seat stood out the most in this arsenal, its texture akin more to a feather than steel. It was stained a deep red at its tip. Curious. Perhaps the attorney could appreciate it at a time where he wasn’t on the verge of a panic attack because he was obviously kidnapped by the monster hunter he met online. Surveying the room again didn’t yield much information of interest, mainly just stuff animals or magazines.

Well, that and the IV connected to his arm. According to it he was in some kind of hospital or ambulance before he ended up in some freak’s car. Although he already knew from the smell of lycanthropy the identity of said kidnapper at this point.

Speaking of the IV … he wasn’t bleeding anymore. When Claude looked down to check for injuries he found himself wrapped in a coat with the same insignia he was trying to remember before. Huntsmen United. Was that the only blanket that dog could spare?

Suddenly the thought of Doberman and him unconscious brought a new, pressing worry. The man outstretched his wings, checking with as much care as his running mind could give. Surprisingly his wings were still intact, in fact, someone took the effort of folding them so that they wouldn’t be crushed against the car seat. Beige patches linger along what he can see of his back, with what Claude could only assume were kids-bandaids lined around his wings and the base of his injuries. According to the clock at the front of the car it had been hours if not days. It was remarkable that he had been unconscious for that long in the monster-hunters care and that scoundrel hadn’t at least taken a taste test.

Being stitched up inside a place like this was a welcome change of pace.

Of course this wasn’t the time to appreciate the potential complexity of his abductor, especially when he heard the muffled sound of someone talking outside.

"—I tired that! ‘T didn’t work! Yeah.. mhmm .. I will … Slán, Slán."

…

“God I’m never askin' her for advice again. What a bitch."

So his internal monologue is just as colourful as how he speaks with others? Not too much of a surprise. The sound of jingling keys lasted longer than expected, almost like the man was struggling to get into his own car. He made a small ‘woohoo’ to himself when he got the door open, celebrating the little victory to the air around him. And apparently Claude. The look on the werewolves face when he realised the other was awake and watching him was priceless. So was his outfit! Forgoing his usual uniform, which to be fair was probably in need of a good wash, the younger man was in a cropped v-neck t-shirt and cargo pants. The shirt had the text ‘hair of the dog that bites’ while the trousers had clearly seen better days, faded and stained. Daire’s clothes were just revealing enough to show a complex profile of what were most likely work related injury scars. Ignoring that was the glowing-tattoo-elephant in the room, which apparently lined the others neck, arms, waist, hips, spine and chest. The same colourful kids-bandaids from before were on Doberman’s neck, covering the name of a certain Hellblazer.

"Ah shite - thought I had longer to work out n’ apology."

He was holding a cluster of plastic bags which he half hazardously tossed onto the seat next to Claude. From the looks of it the werewolf had gone to 7-11 for food. There was also a bag full entirely to the brim with scratch cards. That was to be expected.

"Welcome to the land ‘f the livin'."

( @lt-doberman )

Claude absentmindedly thumbs against the thick scar that ran down his shoulder blade, just around his wing. The smell of sulphur penetrated the air like the freshly smoking battlefields that'd stink up the city once the fight got too close, just potent enough to make his eyes water as he blankly stares out of the tinted windshield, potential legal cases flying through his head to cut through the radio static crackle. There's no such tightness in his chest that was an omnipresence before, just a light buzzing feeling that he had half a mind to notice was complete and utter disassociation.

Complete and utter disassociation.

There was a vague recollection of consciousness fading in and out, ambulances blaring with relief spreading in his chest, but then Daire's face over his as he drags him back into his truck. At some point, he was all out of fight— Daire had overpowered him easily enough that struggling was more than it was worth, enough that when Claude had woken up in his car again, he reckoned fate was trying to tell him something.

Just keel over and die.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was an angel feather sword tucked under Daire's seat, just sloppily placed enough to give Claude an inkling of a feeling that he at least tried to hide it. He shrugs off the coat Daire laid on him, feeling an itch come on before he crawls towards the front seat, teeth grit as every movement set off stinging shocks of lightning down his spine, flourishing into deep aches that craned in his back like a bad sleep day. Well, this was worse than a bad sleep day, but Claude's eyes are dry enough to be reminiscent of it, fingers just barely brushing against the case before he hisses, yanked back by the IV in his arm. At least Daire had the good sense to keep that in his body. Unlike the knife.

His ears twitch with discomfort as he recalibrates, a headache coming on as he blinks laboriously, world seeming to spin around him. Though he wasn't out for long, it seemed like all of the world's effects were hitting him at once, nausea rising in his throat until he's dry heaving, clasping a hand over his mouth to stop his saliva from splatting anywhere where Daire could harvest it. He's only given a few seconds to adjust as Daire stumbles into his own car, freezing suddenly as if he's surprised to see his kidnapping victim wide awake.

Claude's eyes narrow with a snarl starting to form, ears pinned back against the sides of his head, while his wings raise almost instinctively, puffing up like a cat trying to make itself look bigger. Scarier.

"Let me the fuck out."

#ic #txt #rp #claude ‼️#tw: cork #eve mention #panic attack #kinda #maybe…?#Whatever grown man call crying and shaking in his car #thread end?#Perhaps…

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