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spellsandpixiedust · 7 years ago

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[ From Safety To Where…? ]

Participants: Liam Talbot | James Stark

Mentioned: -

Chronology: Unkoil → From Safety To Where…? → Paper Cages

Original Tag: From Safety To Where

“Stark? Ye’re up?”, Liam yells after closing the front door to Oz’ unacceptable gaff and might have only stopped to do so to allow himself to grumble at the hopscotch bullshit that lay ahead of him. Not an easy task, not in the morning (fun question: is it technically still morning if the time’s in double digits?) and not while balancing two plastic grocery bags in either hand. Once past the hex traps Liam resumes yelling: “Oi! Bought breakfast. Ye’re up or not?!”

"You don’t gotta yell.“ Actually he heard the kid’s approach before he opened the door, as he was only a few feet from the kitchen. He looks moderately more good-natured than when Liam departed, mostly since he finally had an opportunity to rinse off the salt water, traces of his own blood and Duncan’s repugnant dead-guy juices, and all the other grit that accumulated since their return to Bath. Also since he disposed of the deplorable dead guy before the shower. So, more good-natured, but naturally not cheerful. Taking a couple of the bags, he peers suspiciously at the contents. Experience has given him serious doubts about Liam’s palate. "Does breakfast include anything with actual flavor, or is that outlawed in this country?”

Of course he doesn’t have to yell, but it’s fun - would’ve been double the fun if he could’ve actually startled Stark up with his yelling. No joy, apparently. Yet a quick glance around the living room before his eyes settle on the older mage lifts his mood significantly. No more dead blokes to trip over. That is a massive relief. So he even takes that side blow with a cocky smile and a counter quip: “Oh, really? Ye’re not hungry? That’s no problem. I’ll have all those blueberry muffins for meself then.”

Typically Stark would be right there with him on making noise for the hell of it, buttypically isn’t now. Typically he doesn’t have so much on his mind; typically he hasn’t spent the last thirty hours going from one unpleasant or revolting action to another - even if his life is never what you’d call calm. Yet Liam’s grin mitigates the stress a little. He snorts, musters a fake scowl, sets the bags in his hands on the counter to take those from the kid and rifle through them until he finds the muffins. "Better. Is there coffee too?“ Not that he needs coffee - no reason to be awake until late this evening, and sleeping some time before then would be a good idea - but what the hell else is he supposed to drink with muffins? Whisky?

Liam furrows his brows for the sole demonstrative purpose as in wordlessly telling Well, let me think about this for a second, then he reaches a harsh conclusion: “Do I look like a fuckin’ Starbucks delivery boy? There’s instant coffee in that cupboard behind ye. Help yerself, maestro.” He shakes his head. “Fuck, I had to let them bloody card me to restock yer dwindling supply of booze and ye’re still not happy, are ye? Next time you go to Tesco’s and I poodle around the gaff.”

Stark tilts his head and squints like he’s deciding whether the kid does look like a Starbucks delivery boy - before a more important question comes to mind. "Does Starbucks deliver? Now I get why it’s got a cult following.“ He still can’t approve of the grande-pumpkin-spice-sea-salt-mocha-frappucino-dry-soy-breve bullshit, however, so he hunts up the instant coffee. Rinses the kettle on the stove out to remove any taint of tea, fills it with water to heat. Liam’s acerbity doesn’t make much of an impact. "I’m not sure what poodling is, but I am sure I’ve never done it in my life. If you didn’t get coffee what’s the rest of this shit? More booze? Don’t act like it’s all mine.”

“Yeah, sure. Like ye’ve never arsed around. Get stuffed!”, Liam’s grin freezes when he realises foreign words should probably not be translated with more foreign words. Although the concept might be a little more clear by now already. “Laze around…?” That should be universally understandable. Why the fuck didn’t he think and get a dictionary while he was at it?

“Don’t act like it’s a fifty-fifty share either. It is mostly your booze. Irrefutably. The rest is for dinner and I’ve been to the chemist’s, too, got dressing material and pain killers and a few other things we might need for our trip to the mystery island.”

While he likely could have made out the first explanation, he’s glad for the extra clarification. "Sure, if you call hauling two hundred pounds of actual dead weight across a bog in the middle of fuck-all nowhere ‘lazing.’ How about, next time you can dispose of the leaking corpse and I’ll go grocery shopping. Anyway, I hate poodles.“ Turning off the burner, he finishes making coffee - if it can be called that - and takes his mug, and muffins, back to the other room to reclaim his place on the couch.

The mention of ‘their’ trip to the island is unpleasantly jarring, but Stark doesn’t so much as twitch guiltily. Plenty of time later to explain how it’s not a plus-one invitation. "Good thought. How much experience do you have playing medic?”

Liam dares to ponder about the likeliness of a next time corpse around the place they crash at and decides it’s probably better not to give it too much thought. At least - given that poodles are canines - he can agree on their mutual hatred.

With a mug of his own, tea bag doused with the remaining hot water, and a jug of milk, he follows after Stark and takes the seat beside him. Then, almost instantly, he places both items on the table in order to help himself to a muffin. “I’ve never stitched anyone up save for meself”, he falls silent for a moment, blankly staring at the muffin in his hand as if it was possibly poisonous. Though the only thing venomous is his fucked up life which loves to bite him in the arse, apparently. “Got beaten up quite often and I didn’t want anyone to know so I learnt how to patch meself up. Did come in handy when I started knifing around for magic. So I should have the basics covered. Alas, if ye lose a limb, ye might wanna see a proper doctor.”

Stark doesn’t have to bother with likelihood. It will happen. Though he doubts Liam would be physically capable of carrying a dead Duncan anywhere, so swapping is a useless suggestion. He works on demolishing a muffin, appetite unaffected by the conversation, takes occasional drinks of coffee before it cools down enough to really taste the sub-par brew. "Still means ya got more experience than me. Not worried about myself, but there’s no telling what shape Eugène will be in. We might have to go straight to LA if he’s bad…or if I lose a limb.“ He pauses to consider that, looking at his left arm as at an unfamiliar inanimate object, brows furrowed. "Wonder if Kinski could sew it back on or grow a new one for me?”

Visibly shaking off that discomfiting thought, he turns to the kid curiously. "You have some spells for healing in that book of yours, don’t you?“ Stark refuses flatly to use the word ‘grimoire.’ It’s pretentious and silly. Like those people who spell magic with a k or call themselves warlocks. "Between those and your embroidery skills we can maybe piece the old man back together ‘til Allegra can look at him.”

Liam follows Stark’s gaze with his own and stares at his arm for a moment or two before his inner kitchen timer snaps him out of his thoughtlessly pensive exercise and he’s got to tend to his tea instead. With a spoon (as a loan from that coffee mug) he fishes the stringless tea bag out and dumps it in the makeshift ashtray - formerly known as a dinner plate. After adding a good splash of milk and giving it a quick stir, Liam returns the tea-contaminated spoon to its rightful place and resumes taking part in their conversation; “I’m not auditioning for a part in Holby City, but, yeah, right, I’ve compiled some spells. Poison, broken bones, bleeding wounds. Thing is, I’m not good. I mean-” Pulling grimaces doesn’t really help convey his point, nor does it encourage the right words to come to mind, but he’s left with not much else until he takes a sip of tea, burns his tongue and regains his speech.

“I meant I’m literally not good. Something always persists. Poison transmits, kinda. And it’s really no fun when bones break a second time. Makeshift I can do. Proper stuff not so much.” But it might be enough to stall for time until they can get to the professionals. Whoever those may be. Stark beats him round the head with names and more names. At least he’s positive that Allegra, for once, does not belong in the surname only club like Stark, Kasabian, Vidoqc and probably Kinski, too. Who’s hopefully not related to Klaus Kinski in any way. Well, what are the odds? It’s probably worse anyway.

When Liam moves, Stark comes back to himself as well. Blinks a few times. Finishes the destruction of his muffin. He doesn’t complain about the spoon theft but when the thing is replaced, the nephilim gives a squawk, shamefully like a startled chicken, knocks the utensil out of the mug to the floor before a full second has elapsed. “Don’t sully my coffee with your Earl Grody piss.” While sipping his coffee, he glares sullenly. Then in revenge, steals Liam’s untasted muffin. Ignoring the several unclaimed pastries on the table in front of them.

Unfortunately - or maybe not - the conversation reminds him that he is in fact an adult, not a whiny toddler, and there are bigger concerns than someone putting their chocolate in his peanut butter. “Yeah, I get what you mean. Never been my forte either.” Stark stares into his coffee as if there’s a seeing spell cast on the liquid, exhaling a restrained sigh through his teeth. The enjoyable mental image of Allegra’s and Vidocq’s jubilant reunion is replaced by one of Eugène sadly beaten and bleeding. Or with his throat slit like the late Duncan’s. “Look, we can burn that bridge when we get to it. Let’s focus on getting him out before we start building worst-case-scenarios in the air.”

The theft of his muffin in revenge is answered with a simple pursing of his lips, when Liam’s gaze additionally falls onto the spoon on the floor, he cocks a brow deducing his own little sherlockian case far from mature deliberations and doubts about their upcoming rescue mission. Quite frankly he is still misled to believe he’s invited to this party, even if fully aware he doesn’t have any experience apart from breaking into plain ordinary town houses and getting nearly sliced and diced in an Indiana Jones adventure playground death dungeon. Those things combined make for an awkward experience of work, but in his eyes good enough to be spared the humiliation of being left behind.

“We’ll get him out. You’re like a one-man-army and I’ll have yer back”, the kid promises while he’s reaching for the makeshift ashtray once more. That impish expression he wears augurs ill. “Oi, that’s my muffin by the way.” An there he has his grabby hand on the soggy warm tea bag dumped in cold ash. “I give ye Earl Grody piss.” No, grody doesn’t mean anything, but piss he can understand. “Consider this a fair warning.” He feints throwing his drippy missile. “Release the hostage now.”

One-man-army. Stark snorts derisively. And yeah, he probably ought to bring up the nice point that Liam will not be there to have his back, but he’s not up for another argument just yet. At least, not a serious one. He eyes the revolting weapon in the kid’s hand with consideration and an Eastwood-esque squint, then looks at the swindled muffin the same way. Raises it in his hand and sticks his tongue out to deliberately lick across the top of the thing, in a notably un-erotic fashion. He takes a large bite and, in a final insult, spits it back at Liam.

Too perplex to react the kid’s gaze drops on the muffin fragment deflecting off his chest and ultimately landing on the ground just like the spoon did before. For a moment there he entertains the idea of taking a mouthful of tea and return the spiteful spitting, but he knows better - no retaliation is it worth to have his bloody mouth burned. So he settles for the second best option, narrows his eyes - acting the John Wayne to Stark’s Clint Eastwood - and then he starts throwing. No, not the teabag. He launches himself onto Stark, a missile of Limey, and attempts to wrap his arms around his neck; not in good, but to let his very own weapon - like a lump of snow in a dirty snow ball fight - slip under the yank’s shirt collar. His malicious intentions revealed by his impish cackling.

Only if they were doing some kinda kinky sensory-deprivation stuff could Stark miss noticing that attack coming - and maybe not then. As the kid lunges, he releases the contested muffin to get his arms up, drops backwards, catches him with a hand on either side of his ribcage to hold him off. But what then? Not like he can just throw him across the room as if this were the Arena. Before Stark can come up with a good alternative, the full assault is completed. Despite himself the nasty slug-like oozing progress of the thing makes him squirm. "Eugh.“ It’s revolting, and should fuel his faux-animosity. To tell the truth, it’s all he can do to contain a laugh. "Did you justteabag me, you vile little bastard? Harsh!”

Still, not harsh enough for him to hurt the little Limey fucker. Instead he readjusts his grip and flips the kid over onto the coffee table. Though he’s being relatively gentle, it’s a surprise that the battered-looking piece of furniture doesn’t crumble when he follows swiftly, to pin his adversary with a knee to either side of his legs. Sure, the coffee spills and the ‘ashtray’ shatters and debris goes flying in every direction, but the table seems sturdy enough. So Stark plants one hand securely on Liam’s chest and reaches with the other to, after a little search, reclaim the muffin. Going along with the playground tactics, he mashes the pastry atop the kid’s head, makes sure to really rub it in to his hair.

As he’s become too preoccupied with laughing Liam doesn’t do the math and it slips his attention how the grip on his sides is already half of Stark’s battle won; his counter measure inavertible. But all the kid does is laugh some more, roaring, frenetic laughter owing to his triumph, Stark’s comment and the comment on his triumph. A sudden shift in positions later - collateral damage naturally included as it is naturally acquiesced, too - Liam finds himself on his back and blows kisses at the one restraining him. Always one for taunting, but none to gladly accept retaliation, so - of course - his cackling flashes to pleasing:

“No! Nonononono! Don’t ye fuckin’ dare to-” Too late. Liam shuts his eyes at the muffin-impact and squirms with disgust as the pastry’s squashed and rubbed into his mouse brown hair. “Oi! Muffin man! Lemme go!”, Liam tries to get rid of the crumbs by violently shaking his head. Not particularly successfully though. “I’ll get ye back for it, ye bloody tosser. Now release me. Please?”

The taunting makes Stark’s eyes narrow, crinkling at the edges in suggestion of a grin that fails to form on his lips. "No, I don’t think so. Why would I release you if you’re threatening to get me back? Next time maybe vow revenge after begging for mercy.“ Continuing to keep the kid pinned, his free hand twists around awkwardly, digs under his own shirt collar in hunt for the sodden used tea-bag. It’s impossible to find from there. Instead his arm contorts the other way and seeks under the lower hem.

Whatever diabolical scheme he has for the thing, the quest is interrupted by the sight of Liam’s overturned mug and the noxious liquid spreading across the table towards his shin. ”Shit. Your tea spilled. It’s going to soak through my jeans and seep under my skin, make me start apologizing insincerely all the time and driving on the wrong side of the road and throwing fluffy, harmless-sounding insults at people.“ Stark recites all of this in a horrified dead voice, naturally, as he watches the pool of tea inch closer. He shifts away, but it’s no good. The stuff is inexorable. It’s either release his captive or get infected with Limeyism. After intense eternal debate, he flees. Springs off the table, lands on all fours, then stands up and casually heads back to the kitchen to make more coffee. As if he’s not the most ridiculous mass-murdering son of a bitch to ever exist.

Uh-oh, bad idea. Note to self: think before talking. Actually, cross that out. New note: Never underestimate Stark’s boundless talent for talking bullshit. Liam side-eyes his mug - killed in action - with mixed feelings. Primarily annoyance he’s got to fix himself another cuppa, predominantly utter confusion in light of the more than valid panic attack. Limeyism is a serious disease. Please hold a moment of silence for the 53 million infected.

“Ye’re bloody barmy on the crumpet, ye know that?”, obviously silence isn’t Liam’s thing. While Stark retreats, the Brit collects his almost emptied mug and follows after into the kitchen. “It’s not the tea”, he smirks, demonstratively drinking the poor remnants of his brew before setting the mug aside. “It’s me. Don’t be so naive. The conversion has already begun.” He cackles. “Soon ye gonna put the kettle on at five o’clock precise, support a football cub and feel genetically compelled to form an orderly queue. God save the bloody Queen, Stark. Resistance is futile.”

Whatever the cause, the infection must still be in an early stage; the phrase ‘barmy on the crumpet’ sounds as much like gibberish as it would have the day he came to London. Nonetheless he pauses, in the actual act of putting on the damn kettle, to give Liam one of those incongruous snotty-fifteen-year-old-girl glowers over his shoulder. "Get stuffed, wanker.“

After the water is set to heat and he’s found a new mug, Stark leans against the counter facing the kid. "Besides, I don’t even like football. Or soccer. And what’s the Queen’s deal? If you’ve got a parliament, why do you need royalty, too? How many fucking centuries has she been the Queen? You sure she’s not a shroud-eater? She looks kinda carnivorous to me.“

Proud like mother crow watching her fledgling’s first attempt at flying Liam smirks at Stark’s well conducted proof of the inexorable progression of his disease. In response he casually, playfully, flips the other off and places his contaminated, but sadly empty mug next to Stark’s, expecting him to fix an additional cup of coffee at least, while he busies himself with the tedious task of picking muffin remnants out of his hair.

“It’s called a constitutional monarchy”, well, look who’s been paying attention in school. He might not be a footie enthusiast, abiding by traditions or even think of himself as a royalist, but acting smart-arse that he can pull without hesitation. “What the fuck’s a shroud-eater?” Some mummed figure gnawing on the bones of their victim? Someone eating sheets…? No, fuck that. “Are ye makin’ that stuff up?”

Stark’s eyes narrow in faux confusion. “A constipated what? You’re gonna have to explain with words of fewer than no syllables.” No, he hasn’t forgotten that quip. He doesn’t appear overly concerned with deciphering Britain’s government structures, however; after a glance at Liam’s mug he reaches for the kid. Hooks a belt-loop and draws him nearer to help pluck bits of blueberry and pastry from his hair.

“Shroud-eater’s a vampire. Y'know, Bela Lugosi, capes and coffins…riboflavin-flavored, non-carbonated, polyunsaturated blood.” He even half-ass sings the last bit, reasonably in key if not as high an octave as the original. “Maybe we oughta investigate her? The fate of your terrible infectious homeland could be at stake.”

“Nah, no joy. Am not pissed enough for interpretive dancing.” Not like it’s an option to begin with. He lowers his head to allow for improved crumbs-picking on Stark’s accord while he puts his own hands to a better use to tug and cling to the taller mage’s shirt in the meantime.

With an arched brow he observes Stark break into song, counters his performance with an appreciative smile. “Bela Lugosi’s dead”, he shrugs, “Undead. Undead.” His response turns out a bit half-arsed in return, but there’s too much to focus on instead. “Ha-ha, at stake. Yeah, I get it. Why so concerned about this floating fucklog of a country all of a sudden? Must be terminal stage. Want a cuppa?”

Stark rolls his eyes as that entirely unintentional pun is pointed out. “Not sure stakes do any good. Never tried one.” The ape-like grooming of Liam’s muffin-laden hair is interrupted when the kettle starts to shrill. The older magician reaches over, pushes the noisy thing onto the counter, curses under his breath when he idiotically singes his fingertips. "No. I don’t.“ By now, there’s no need to ask what he’s being offered a cupof. That’s a bad sign. "On second thought, fuck ‘em all. Her Majesty can drain the whole damn place; just let me escape before this infection gets any worse.“

After turning the burner off, he repeats the process of making coffee - makes some for Liam as well, in favor of avoiding more liberty-threatening tea spills - and cracks open a fresh bottle of whisky to add some to each mug. "Speaking of shroud-eaters and Bauhaus, you ever see that 80s vampire flick, The Hunger?"

“Oh, yeah, very selfless, Van Helsing, aren’t ye? Ye’d sod off and leave me behind?” Despite the obvious diagnosis he’s well beyond remedy, and the fact that he doesn’t care whether the Queen drains life, drinks blood or eats shrouds, Liam can and will still find fault in Stark’s desire to leave if it excludes taking him along the ride. So that burn is almost deserved. Almost. Promptly he acts and offers Stark a tea towel soaked in cold tap water (sanitarily questionable by the state of the house and everything therein).

And while, yes, a cuppa per default means tea to Liam, he’s pretty sure anything Stark drinks usually doesn’t lack alcohol. Hence the coffee speciality his barista proffers doesn’t surprise him at all. He does - however - end up adding a spoonful of brown sugar to his mug. “David Bowie.” It’s said in an Of course. Duh. tone. “Yeah, what about it? Ye’re checkin’ for date films?”

"Don’t ask stupid questions. Of course you’re coming with me.“ It’s a grumbling muttered as he inspects the reddened fingertips. God forbid he give away any sentimentality, though that decision is anything but selfless. His scowl eases when the kid applies that makeshift compress. Yeah, the burn will fade in a couple minutes - for now, it fucking hurts. “Maybe a few months of Fat Burger and opening chakras could even cure you. That’d be like, so hella bitchin’.”

Of course. Duh. “Right, David Bowie. I remember the lesbian overtones being more prominent than the famous bulge in that one, so I couldn’t be sure it was your kinda thing.” Stark takes his mug in his towel-wrapped hand, doesn’t drink from it yet. No need to add a scalded tongue to the morning’s list of injuries. “Nah. Already got plenty of those figured out.” Perhaps they could knock a few off the list now. With the late Duncan gone and hours remaining before nightfall, Stark’s realizing that for once, theydo have free time. Time not stolen from important inquiries or desperate ventures, time he can spend just being with Liam without guilt. Time that can probably be better utilized than in remedying the kid’s shameful lack of knowledge about spaghetti westerns and kung fu flicks. He reaches for Liam’s hand with his empty one, laces their fingers together. Pulls him nearer to drop a quick kiss atop his sticky, berry-scented hair. “Thanks, lindo.”

For someone who considers getting pissed a desirable past time Liam struggles way to hard to wrap his head around the fact that bitching in this particular case means something unequivocally good. Confusion etches a furrow between his brows not even a shift in subjects can ultimately remedy. “Yeah, kinda lost interest after they’ve aged him beyond recognition. It’s not like it’s me favourite.” Or that he’d choose films by the bulge of certain cast members. Although that’d make for one entertaining category in video stores. Probably he should not be allowed near Max Overdrive after all.

“Ye did?”, the kid can’t hide he’s less surprised than actually flattered all the way to the stars and back. Bugger the films. It’s all about the little date word. And it doesn’t just end there. In a vain attempt to fool time he closes his eyes, set to preserve this fleeting moment’s kiss in eternity. Evanescence renders his endeavour futile, but he can (and will) still maintain their hand-holding while his lips bear a blissful smile. “Right… I haven’t the foggiest what ye just called me. Is it good…?” Maybe he should’ve decided upon taking Spanish and not Latin in high school. Damn. Although between the yankisms, Hellion cawing and made-up bollocks, the Spanish doesn’t exactly stand out as much. “It is. Innit?” Now he has to think of a nickname in return and probably something to counter compete with the date films. Which gives him an idea and the urge to ask random questions: “What’s a perfect date look like to ye?”

Stark narrows his eyes, dredges the details of the movie from the depths of his memory. "Yeah. Don’t think he’d ever look like that, however long he lives. What isyour favorite?“ How has he failed to ask this vital question before now? Yeah, they’ve been busy, but it’s almost unforgivable.

Resting his chin on Liam’s head, he smirks at the pleasure in his voice. ”‘course I did. You’re good on weird 80s cult stuff and the decent Bond films, but you’ve got a lot to catch up on otherwise.“ Since the kid seems content to stay here rather than return to the couch, he sets his too-hot coffee aside and loops that arm around his waist. "Yeah,lindo, I know.” Not to say he was counting on Liam being unable to translate the term. Maybe it’s like the incantations. Stark finds it easier to express affection if the object of it doesn’t understand what he’s saying. "It’s not bad.“

The question makes his brain stall for a second. Not because it’s totally unexpected, but…dating? How does that work again? "An evening at Chuck E. Cheese’s with extra pepperoni, and sex in the ball pit.” There you go. Fall back on facetious answers. That aside, do they even have Chuck E. Cheese or anything comparable in England? "I never really did the date thing, to tell the truth. Not like actual, planned dates. Never thought much about it.“

Though his pout remains unseen Liam doesn’t make an effort to translate it into an audible version, instead he gives his head a wobble and for once thinks before answering right away. Yeah. Weird 80s cult and James Bond. Exactly the ingredients his reply is composed of: “Dunno if I have a favourite. I’m not that much into films, really.” Nope. That was the sissy-out answer. Try again: “Fine. Live And Let Die and The Lost Boys.”

“Blimey, I thought yer answer’d be be cheesy but Chuck E. Cheese is overkill.” Whatever Chuck E. Cheese is though. Sounds like junk food paradise and that’s certainly something he could live with “but ball pit sex? Really?! That is the best ye can do?” Chuckling Liam pokes the towering magician in the chest. No need to elucidate how the media had misguided him into false believe all American’s had to obey a strict set of dating guidelines. Yeah. He’s better off just sticking to his music after all. Don’t believe a word ye hear on telly.

“Oh, wait! Does it mean it’s my turn again?” Since no one is taking turns in anything and even if it would be Stark’s, yeah, probably not. Liam doesn’t give a damn: “I get to ask the next question and ye’ve got to abide by the policy of truth.” He could, could ask what lindo means, since he doubts Stark will tell him under any other circumstances, but he ditches the idea in favour of something far more important: “When were ye born?”

“Not bad. I mean, could be a lot better, but still not bad.” Not that much into films. Plainly, that will have to change. Now he’s rethinking whether this is the right time to begin Liam’s re-education in the glorious world of film.

"All right, how about: stealing a car, then getting shanghai’d by someone else who steals the car and knocks me out in the process, followed by a car chase with a firefight and an explosion. Or maybe posing as some self-satisfied uber-Christian magician in order to get a free weekend stay in his swanky hotel suite and taking full advantage of the room service and free cinnamon-flavored lube. Is that more what you were looking for?“

His turn? Stark leans back and squints down at Liam in time to have the rules of this game that he didn’t know they were playing explained to him. For a moment, he considers the terms, then shakes his head. "I don’t think so. But: Any time you catch me in a lie, I get to take a drink. Any time you accuse me of lying and I’m not, you have to drink. Same for your answers.” Releasing the little Limey’s waist, he reaches over to snag the fresh bottle of whiskey. Offers it to him with an arched eyebrow. "Deal?“

The chosen query makes him tilt his head in confusion. Does Liam actually not knowhis age? Well, on further thought, of course he doesn’t. He never asked, Stark never offered, and if he ever took it upon himself to rifle through Stark’s belongings to glean info - the way Stark did his - there are no identification cards that would give it away. For the first time in a while the older magician is reminded that, little though it feels that way, there is a moderately sizable gap between them. Yet he only hesitates a second before answering. "First of November in the year of Our Lord, nineteen hundred and seventy-nine. Kid.”

You don’t need to be psychic, just living around the Limey brat for a good week will do to know it’s an equal split between casually giving the two fingered salute upon being served that kidnap-story (again), mumbling an unperturbed “Get stuffed.” or a combination of both. Of course Liam goes for the latter. “Ye’re confusing dating with Stockholm Syndrome.” But if he was honest, it actually does make for a better date. If it hadn’t been for the cinnamon flavour and the whale songs, we might have a winner there.

So in order to not be too repetitive the kid admonishes himself not pull that very same reaction twice in a row and - despite Stark’s concluding word - focuses on what he’s just learned. Good. November’s still far away, so none of these awkward ‘oops your birthday’s today? but I got no present’ moments will occur anytime soon. It also strikes him as particularly funny they both missed the glorious decade of the eighties by one year. Should he be shocked? Surprised? Maybe at least a tad bit? Nah. Why bother? Neither have it in them to act their age. It’s just numbers after all.

His delight concerning what he’s just learned veers like the wind, smile becomes smirk and a brow is arched in the ever so silent but screaming Are-you-taking-the-piss-? manner. “Oi! Wait! Ye’re bloody psychic!” Liam reaches for the worktop to nick two crown caps and present them like gold coins to his challenger. “Thought ye could stitch me up like a kipper? I get to have two get-out-of-the-jail-free cards.” And he’s not asking permission for bending the rules here. “It’s only fair. Now we have a deal.”

“So? None of my other captors complained.” No, they just got rid of him, gagged him, tortured him, and on one sterling instance killed him. Big surprise he doesn’t understand dating! Unwinding the cold cloth from his hand, Stark peers at the faintly pinkish ex-burns, flexes his hand experimentally. He would be disappointed by the lack of reaction his admission garners, if Liam’s following caveat didn’t distract him. His head jerks up, eyes wide with indignation.

“I’m not. Bloody. Psychic!” Since he’s already tried, and failed, to convince the kid of this - and since he can’t come up with a better description for the way he can read people or occasionally has spooky knowledge dropped directly into his brain - he gives up, rolls his eyes. Somehow he manages to grab the coffee mug in the same hand as the whiskey, leaving him free to tug Liam along with the other. Grumbling all the way. “So not fair. All right. You’re a lightweight. And a shitty liar. Guess that earns you a handicap.”

When they reach the other room he releases Liam’s hand to clear a spot in the mess on the table. Sets down mug and bottle, then takes a diagonal seat on the couch leaning into the armrest, one leg folded on the cushion. “My turn, yeah?” Once the little Limey is seated too, he poses his question - discarding the first to come to mind in favor of something innocuous. Since, despite the evidence of his last comments, he’s not actually trying to piss Liam off. “When did you figure out you’re a magician? Or mage. Whatever. What happened that made it click?”

Right. Other captors. This practically begs for a question later on, despite his hunch that Stark would lie about it no matter what. Or would he? Suddenly only two lifeline caps seem not enough. Not to mention he actually is a shitty liar himself. May he disagree heavily on that or not. “Yeah. Psychic. Psychotic. Ye’re bloody both. Tosser.” Harsh words are justified, for it feels like Stark’s only debasing himself so he could mortify the kid some more. It’s probably not it. And if Liam adhered to such a concept, he’d probably do much worse than light himself a fag, face clad in a constant frown.

“Yer turn”, Liam nods as he places his own mug next to Stark’s, then he takes a seat on the opposite armrest, shoes on seat, of course. He felt like koala-hugging Stark any time of day - safe for their occasional tantrums - but now he’d rather keep an eye on his opponent and his own too telling proof of lying as far off as possible. “Or a freak. Yeah…” he keeps the list up, but shrugs the notion off in favour of an answer:

“Right; uhm… I was thirteen and there was this bloke, yeah?, soddin’ bleeder he was. Would beat me up for nowt. I was dead pissed off and I had this old book lying around, that I planned on tearing pages out of to stick ‘em up me walls. Anyway. Instead of throwing darts at his mingin’ face on a picture, I tried a curse from the book, and I really very meant it. The next day he wouldn’t come to school. Rumour had it he coughed up blood. So just to make sure it wasn’t coincidence I cursed three other people. Same results. They had it comin’. All of ‘em. It was only just.” A sigh. Now that turned out way darker than probably expected, time to lighten the mood: “My turn: Tell me about yer first crush. Who were they?”

If it’s a waste of their precious free time to force Liam to sit through A Fistful of Dollars, it’s definitely a waste of time to try explaining, once more, how he’s got it wrong. Only half-wrong, in this case. As the kid declines to take up any space on the cushions, the older magician stretches both legs out, crosses them at the ankle and slumps more comfortably, nursing his Irish coffee.

“Or that.” He listens to the tale with visibly mounting confusion. Though it isn’t the vindictiveness or the casual hexing that bemuses him - he remembers his own youth too well to judge that. Plus, he’s seen first-hand how quick Liam is to resort to curses when he’s ‘dead pissed off’. “Sure seems like people enjoy kicking your ass. Didn’t ya consider learning how to just fight back? - that’s not my next question,” he’s quick to add. Wondering where a civilian teenybopper finds an old as fuck book of Baleful magic doesn’t yet rate a question either.

“Lauren Bacall.” Again, the answer is prompt. “Must’ve seen How To Marry A Millionaire a hundred times by my sixth birthday. Mom was a big Golden Age fan, mainly Marilyn Monroe, but Bacall was it for me. To Have and Have Not especially.‘I’m hard to get, Steve. All you have to do is ask me.’” A nostalgic sigh, then he leans forward, stretches a lanky arm to steal Liam’s smoke. "I guess it’s true what they say, you never really get over your first.”

For the space of a couple drags he ponders his next inquiry. Sure, there are things he’d like to know about Liam. Plenty. But they’re not the sort of things you ask during a light-hearted fucked-up game of Truth-or-Drink. Not until the whiskey bottle is almost empty. He passes the cigarette back and resumes his previous cozy position. "What about your love life? How many of your exes have you landed in prison? Or did the others earn worse fates?“

In a city whose university sees the necessity to sponsor a professorship for fairy-studies, old as bollocks curses aren’t as hard to come by. Frankly, spells have never been something Liam had struggled with. Fighting back on the other hand - and if one did not interpret cowardly cursing as such - is a whole different story. “Oh, right! Now that ye’ve come to mention: Why did I never think of that?!”, yes, sarcasm’s exactly how he wants to deal with it. At least until they cast a veil of silence over this subject and focus entirely on Stark’s trip down Memory Lane:

Marilyn Monroe rings a bell, Lauren Bacall…? not so much; positive proof private tuition is in order long overdue. Yet despite the kid’s blatant ignorance, the keynote of Stark’s tale prevails. “Now ye just got me well confused as to what’s yer type.” And whether he fits in there somewhere. Another question for later on, once they’ve gulped down a few shots each and Liam can muster his courage to ask. Hence he’s faking a chuckle for now and simply shrugs the thought off before he diverts his attention to reclaiming his fag.

“Oh, how badly ye must think of me!”, Liam pauses and wets his lips, pondering about a proper reply, “Oz is the only one who ever got the prison treatment, and that’s not because he’s me ex. He pretty much begged for it. The others? Dunno. Might’ve swiped a thing. Or two. Pocketed a few quid the most. Look, the majority just got away without anythin’. I don’t seek to ruin the lives of every bloke I’ve shagged.” He’s nicked stuff, landed one in the nick and then there was Nick. Fuck. Not telling isn’t the same as lying, is it? Because if there’s one thing he’d rather keep a secret, it’s the fact he’s been feeding his ex a love potion. “I’m…”, his fist clenches around the bottle caps, “Truth is, I was too busy crying meself to sleep over most break-ups, revenge never came to mind.”

Second question and he’s already bending the truth. Way to go, kid. If only he could lure Stark into a trap, provoke a lie from his lips that wasn’t so hard to uncover. But his mind’s wiped blank and he finds himself hesitatingly pose his next question: “My turn then. Tell me more about yer mum. How d’ye get along? Ye’re anythin’ like her?”

"Yeah, right? It seems like the obvious choice.“ What is sarcasm? His own too-sincere tone implies he’s wholly unfamiliar with it. “Maybe you should go back and kick the shit out of ‘em now it’s occurred to you.” Plainly, the kid doesn’t know who Lauren Bacall is. A little depressing. Have to add that one to the list of date films. Then again…watching Stark moon over a woman who’s now in her eighties may not make for the most romantic date. As for his type, the older magician raises his eyebrows and shoulders both, like it’s an unsolved mystery to everyone present.

A momentary smirk gleams for the kid’s introductory lament. The reply seems plausible - from what he’s heard, this Oz guy was begging for what he got - and Stark’s ready to dismiss the anxious micro-expressions on display as normal signs of discomfort. Until those slim fingers tighten on the Free-Pass caps. A blatant tell, good as a neon sign. ‘Truth is?’ Well, maybe some of it. “So you’re not already plotting potential pay-back strategy in case I fuck up? Guess I should feel reassured. But…you do know a lie of omission is still a lie, right?” Liquor snatched off the table, he stretches forward once more to thrust it at Liam. “You don’t gotta tell me where you buried the bodies. You do have to drink.”

If the little Limey was looking for a way to erase his smugness, he found it His face shifts to the thousand-yard stare it takes on when he tries to recall things from before. He’s barely spared thought for his mother since he got back (though his ‘father’ has been in mind frequently), and that’s too shitty for words. “Yeah, we got along all right. Better when I was a kid than during my reckless teen years…best when Dad was away. She was there when I needed her, but never more than halfway there any time. Lonely. Drunk. Kinda distant.” That far the words come easily. Continuing, it’s more difficult. “Didn’t know back then, but now I figure she never stopped hoping my other father would come back. Far as I know he never did.” Becoming aware of the fresh tension in his shoulders, Stark rolls his head from one side to the other, takes a fortifying gulp of fortified coffee. For the moment he appears to forget that it’s his turn now.

His lips part; The need to answer back is a reflex, his mind trying to process too many things at once is luckily slowing down said process. So Liam just keeps staring for a moment. Of course he’s not going through various vengeance strategies, yet his pert remark with reference to Stark’s paranoia conflicts with the realisation that in order to wreak revenge on an ex, a certain relationship-stage would precede. Naturally the kid neither has time (or the guts) to chase this subject up, nor does his blissful high last long. Knocked out of the skies by Stark’s Sherlockian skill to read him, the only reaction Liam sees himself capable of, is a low grunt in frustration. That, t h a t is exactly why he insisted on the free-pass: Stark’s unescapable psychic powers. His own inability to tell lies.

“I don’t”, he clarifies and tosses one of the crown caps at the other magician. Not yet, that is at least, not yet. Hence he only reaches out for the bottle to push it away again. “Don’t freak, I’m not a black widow. Just pathetic. That’s all.” Luckily it’s his question’s that’s being answered next and although he should be happy he’s not throwing himself head first into the next predictable lie, the tenor of Stark’s tale is anything but happy. “Sorry.” Of course. What else should he answer to that? Liam abandons his seat to get up - not onto the floor like normal people, but balancing on the couch and between Stark’s skinny legs to get to the other side. Almost a leap of faith (for the one who lies underneath the restless wanderer), then Liam has made it to the opposite armrest, settles down and buries his fingers in Stark’s hair. “What happened to her?” As much as someone should explain to him the concept of sitting still, the rules of this game should be reiterated for good measure as well. Or else he’ll keep stealing Stark’s turns whenever he can.

“Already? I figured you’d save those for when you’re totally FUBAR.” Like, two shots from now. But Stark catches the cap, tosses it onto the table beside the whisky bottle. “You don’t scare me, Miz Romanova. I dated a lamia once. Well, I say ‘dated’…” He trails off with an eloquently suggestive quirk of brow.

Maybe he’s talking so much in an attempt to conceal how uncomfortable that subject leaves him. Or to avoid thinking more about it. Either way, Liam’s terse apology and relocation (temporarily) shut him up. He watches the kid teeter across the couch with wary bemusement, then sits forward when the intention becomes clear, remaining half-turned around to watch him settle. To tell the truth, he’s not wholly comfortable with this new arrangement; Wild Bill’s final, fatal mistake made a good lesson in paranoia for future generations. However, he’s pretty sure the little Limey won’t be shooting him in the back, and he can survive another teabag. Probably, he’s just hoping that being out of Stark’s line of sight will make his bluffs less blatant. The scalp massage finally coaxes the older magician into cautiously leaning back, shoulders fitting between Liam’s knees. “Cancer. Got sick my junior year of high school, died while I was gone. And you owe me two now.”

Everything he asks about seems to turn from bad to worse. With what little he’s been told and inferred, inquiring after the kid’s family would turn it worst, so he thinks over his options while lighting a smoke of his own. Head tilting and resting on a knee, he peers up at Liam from the corners of his eyes. “So, enough maudlin shit. Who wasyour first crush?” Kind of a cop-out, reusing that one, but he continues. “And, what do you do? Like, for entertainment. Besides blood magic and burglary.”

Oh, he can imagine Stark would like that, wouldn’t he? A piss-drunk little limey not even capable of remembering he wangled get-out-of-the-jail-free cards in the first place. That’s never gonna happen. For as long as he may postpone his fate of drinking himself legless, clingy and unhealthily talkative, Liam will do so. Sobriety’s a friend. For once. Not all might agree. “Yeah, I’m not you”, the kid mumbles under his breath and settles behind the yank - oblivious to the honour he’s being granted and the trust he’s met with for choosing such a portentous position.

Of course, he should’ve known better than to just ask away. Your ordinary scallywags by the light of day, they’re truthfully both just damaged people, drawn to together by the subtleties they’re not aware of. Liam frowns. Now’s not a good moment to dwell on Martin Gore’s poetry. It is, however, more pleasant than to acknowledge he’d be devastated himself if his own mother died, no matter how much he claims to hate her. “Shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.” No, that is a stupid thing to say. He takes his pathetic excuse for a fag in his right hand and bends down (straining his every back muscle) to plant a kiss on Stark’s head. No, no shooting; only ridiculous signs of affection.

“Oi, that’s not fair!” - It is, pillock, get over it. Now owing two, Liam is only pacified by the easiness of the queries posed and wrests a compliant “Alright” from his lips. “Not dodgin’ yer question, but I really dunno when I had me first crush. Or on whom. Never pined for a bird, that I know. And that it took me some time to accept it’s blokes I fancy. So the first I remember…”, with a smile equal parts blissful and roguish he glances over to the stereo and tries to catch a glimpse of the Rebel Yell record they played on their first day. “I had a massive crush on Billy Idol. Ye should’ve seen me room. Well, better not. Had posters and everything. Fuck, I even bleached the bollocks outta my hair.”

No need to go into detail how not-amused his mum was about it. Or how little he actually managed to look like his billy-idol. “That’s one. And the other”, he chuckles, “Well, I’m not a full-time criminal blood mage, if that helps any. I’m just an ordinary bloke enjoying music. Like, ye know, New Wave and Post Punk and Rock. The good stuff.” Not exactly a neutral point of view. “Concerts, yeah, love those. Just listening to music in general though, that’s it.” Or he could show off. A little. Or should he? Liam hesitates. Yeah, why the fuck not? “I play guitar. Or, well, played. Would still if I had one. Wasn’t too bad. Even played in the school band. The Blue Mondays. Ye know, like the New Order song mixed with The Happy Mondays. Ye can’t have a more Manc band name than that. Don’t miss ‘em though, me band mates, but I do miss playing.”

"’s all right. Knew it was coming, and at least I’m sure she didn’t end up Downtown.“ One rough hand pats the inside of Liam’s ankle in forgiveness, then slips around his calf, grazes up to curl long fingers securely behind his thigh just above the knee. If he’s parked there for a while, Stark may as well take advantage and give in to his perpetual desire to have his hands on the kid.

"Good answer. Guess we know what your type is.” Though, what is it with this anachronistic obsessing over the eighties? Billy Idol is a great answer, actually, but Stark would’ve imagined Billie Joe Armstrong more the mark. Or someone kinda contemporary. Then again, he’s in lust with a starlet from the forties…

Slowly, bit by bit, assisted by the kiss on the head, he’s relaxing into this position; he rolls his head farther back, squints as he pictures Liam all peroxide-bleached. The edges of his lips curl up. "Yeah? I was blond a lot during high school myself. You do the gravity-defying hairspray thing, too? Practice your vicious sneer in front’a the mirror?“ Removing his cigarette from his mouth, where it’s been perched and marring his speech, the older magician flicks ashes toward the table. Not much concern for accuracy. “Not yet, you mean. Soon it’ll be black mage by day, cat-burglar by night…rockstar by alternate nights. Wait. Why don’t you just steal a new rig?” He isn’t about to ask why the bandmates go unregretted. They probably beat him up, too. It appears there’s just no one in Liam’s past worth any affection. Perhaps he really meant it when he said England has nothing he’ll miss.

With his ‘type’ undeniably confirmed all there’s left for Liam to do to counter react to this revelation is to pull faces. “Get stuffed”, whoops, there it is again, although voiced in an uncharacteristic cheerful tone. It helps that Stark’s willingly giving more insight into his past without strategically posed questions preceding his short stroll down memory lane. Or more like a step out onto the memory porch and back in, leaving the little Limey snorting from a suppressed giggle fit. “Oh, that?”, right, show time: he ruffles his hair to give himself that very distinct bed-hair look (or post-shag; there’s room for interpretation for his sticky-uppy hair), then shows off his best impression of a lip curl. Not even close. It’s the thought that counts though.

“Oi! Ye don’t just steal a new one. That’s not fair!”, because fairness is a thing now, apparently. Liam reaches with his left hand for Stark’s smoke and takes a shallow drag, then returns the a fag with his right, swapping cancer stick from literally Hell for a pathetic leftover that’s more filter tip than anything else. Fairness. Right. “And then what? Leave that one behind when ye move on? Ye just can’t. It’s… personal. Ye’re in a relationship.” That escalated quickly… “Awful cheap and tinny sound aside, I love me Strat, still. And it’s not like I’ve suffered in want for two and a half years without getting me paws on a guitar. Tryin’ it out in shops. Best I could manage. But that’ alright. I’ll settle down and get a new set up. And a Les Paul.” Liam laughs in disbelieve either’s ever gonna happen. Neither settledness nor owning his dream-guitar.

“My turn! So, do tell me more about yer high school escapades. How were ye like? What phases did ye go through?” But before Stark can answer, Liam intervenes beaming with mischievous glee: “And as of the new rules, yer follow up question allows me to pose another. So: When did ye realise ye’re not straight?”

Yeah. Should have foreseen that. Stark mutters a casual “Sod off” in return, momentarily digs his sharp fingertips into the muscles under theim in a playful (and possibly painful) squeeze. And while it’s nothing like a giggle, he can’t refrain from laughing at the kid’s lightning-quick makeover. "Very Fatal Charm. Impressive.“ It’s actually cute as hell, but he won’t say it.

Amusement is traded for an affronted expression when his smoke is swindled, scowl increases when given the shitty replacement. Stark scoffs, but kills the rest of the weak cigarette with one long drag. Flicks it aside, then drains his coffee mug. "You wouldn’t have to leave it behind. You’re already carrying your wardrobe and that massive damn book of hoodoo everywhere you go, just get a gig bag too. And steal the guitar from someone that plays shitty indie rock - you’ll be doing the world a favor, so you won’t have any pangs of conscience.” Obviously dubious about Liam’s ability to settle down - kid can’t even stay in one position for more than ten minutes - he shakes his head, but says no more. He’s certainly not planning any instrument theft himself. That would be preposterous.

Stark reaches up with his free hand to reclaim his malediction while the opposite loops further around, forearm resting comfortably on top of Liam’s thigh. “Phases? Shit.” High school feels like a long fucking time ago. He stares blankly at the wall as he searches his memory, until Liam’s follow-up question incites automatic recall and causes a small grin to draw up the corners of his mouth. "That’s funny. Kinda coincided. I was fifteen when I started hooking up with dudes, and for a while I wentFull Queer. Attended protests and pride rallies. Dyed my mohawk to look like a rainbow. Wore skirts. Wasn’t long ‘til I decided no one really needed to know what I do in bed unless I was doin’ it with them, and that phase was over.“

Billowing his cheeks to blowfish proportions Liam exercises silent protest upon being presented with possible workarounds for his musical deprivation. Yeah, why not get a roadie while he was at it? He could think of a hundred cynical remarks, but eventually puffing smoke from his swindled cigarette in Stark’s general direction is the least passive aggressive thing he can come up with. Slowly learning. Very slowly. Might just as well be only exceptions whenever he manages to rein his provocativeness; but there’s hoping.

And of course, easy come, easy go. He doesn’t even protest the re-theft of the malediction, but he does lean over (probably making things uncomfortable for the moment being) to reach for his fortified coffee. Better shouldn’t have. It’s harder than it looks balancing a mug without spilling the precious liquid while fighting back a laugh. Even the minuscule trembling’s enough to send stray droplets of coffee down the back of his hand.

“Nah, ye’re takin’ the piss! Ye didn’t. …did ye?” Nah. Rainbow-Stark feels way out of place. Throw in some glitter and ducttape a horn to his forehead. That’d be just as believable. How wonderfully biased Liam could be for someone in his position. Then again he’s always tried not to stick out. He just fails to understand the motivation. “Come on! Ye didn’t have rainbow hair. Ye made that one up.”

"You calling me a liar, Frank?“ After allowing the not-so-ominous silence to stretch out, Stark makes grabby motions with his cigarette-laden hand. “Hand it over. You’re out of strikes, ‘cuz I sure as fuck did.” He can’t blame Liam for his disbelief; when people refer to him as ‘colorful’ now, it’s in a whole different context. Not that he canprove his claim. Maybe, once they get to LA, he can hunt Itzy down and see what she’s got in her photo album.

“I admit, mostly did it to piss my dad off. He had old-fashioned views on guys who suck dick. He prompted my days as a straight-edger too. Then there was a goth period after this hot Elvira chick told me I looked good in eyeliner. Tried to impress someoneelse by going Buddhist…'til I realized I’d have to give up bacon.” Okay. Maybe he didhave a few phases, because the majority of that is true. There’s a lazy dismissive shrug, after which he shifts his shoulders to one side, making it easier to look up at his accuser. “Most of that shit stopped when I started going to Sub Rosa school. Too much other stuff to focus on.” And, though he’d never own up to it, another person to impress, one that didn’t give a damn about eyeliner or rainbows or anything except power.

Now it’s his turn again. “All right: What’s the farthest you’ve ever been from home? Is California gonna beat the record?” Though this game isn’t going precisely as expected - no one’s even begun to drink yet, since the spiked coffee hardly counts - Stark can’t say he isn’t enjoying it. Definitely better than playing scavenger hunt through Liam’s personal possessions, and for a bonus, less likely to irritate him.

In slow motion Liam’s facial expression shifts from the cannot-believe-my-eyes squint to a wide-eyed stare in shock and surprise. More shock than surprise, for it’s a shot across the bow - the next one’s gonna hit home. Better be careful about what to tell and what to suspect then. “I hate you”, it’s said in an I-could-kiss-you voice, rendering the verisimilitude of his claim dubious. Disgruntled still, despite the persisting willingness to kiss the older mage, Liam hands over the second crown cap, yet decides he’s not prepared to let go just yet. Practically glued to the token he holds Stark’s hand throughout his further elucidation and only lets go when he can come up with another silly idea of his: “Fine, ye can have it. But only if ye put on eyeliner some time.” Because that is how deals work, isn’t it? You give one thing and get two in return.

At least he can try. For all there is, he’s pretty familiar with striking deals. Just as familiar as he’s with homophobic parents and acting a martyr for love. Occassionally the similarities are quite shocking, but nothing a large gulp of fortified coffee couldn’t remedy. “I see. It’s not a disease, that display of limeyism is a phase then”, he jokes. With one hand holding his mug, the other lacks bottle cap and fag to toy around with, and hence resumes giving Stark a scalp massage - ignoring the lack of rainbow and gayness in his hair.

“Yeah. It’s gonna beat the record. Not that it’s hard. Surprise, me feet actually touched real mainland ground, but I’ve never been anywhere outside Europe. Although that depends on wherever this door fetishist’s paradise lies ye take shortcuts through.” That’s almost a cop out. Almost. “Farthest I’ve travelled must’ve been Italy then. School trip to Rome. Yeah, I know. I went to public school. Had the money to pull that shit.” It doesn’t help that British public school translates to ‘private school’, whereas a public school in Britain would be a ‘state school’. “The only advantage of choosing Latin at school besides being able to read up on old as bollocks spells.” Obviously. “Our Politics course went to London. Guess who pointed and laughed at them.” This little fucker, of course. “Might not have been that far from home yet, but I don’t get homesick, if that’s what ye’re afraid of. I promise.”

As the kid’s expression alters, so does Stark’s: into a broad, irrepressibly smug grin. "Don’t worry, you’ve made that crystal clear.“ Strong fingers close around Liam’s until the cap is relinquished, but with the addendum, his eyes widen in outrage. "That’s not - Look. If you’re gonna keep making up new rules, you need to start writing them down.” And that isn’t an agreement. He glowers, considering. "All right, two conditions. One: Next time you accuse me of lying and I’m not, you drink double. Two: You’ve gotta put it on. I could never do it without stabbing myself in the eye.“ The last free pass joins its predecessor and the whiskey bottle is grabbed instead. Not because anyone’s lying, because he’s out of coffee.

Refilling his mug with liquor undiluted by caffeine, Stark snorts at the quip. "I’m learning to speak Brit-ese so I can understand you, not impress you.“ He sits back, leans into the kid’s leg and his deftly massaging fingers, sipping while he elaborates. While the confusion of going to a public school yet having money throws Stark off, European geography does it even more. “How far - ” Wait, stop. Don’t phrase it like a question or you’ll be expected to answer more next round. "I got no idea how far Italy is from here.“ A pause, squinting at the wall. ”…actually I’m not even sure what direction Italy is from here.“

Shrugging off the failings of the American public school system - and neglecting to mention that he isn’t sure what direction London lies in either - he tilts his head, pillows it on Liam’s thigh. Gives him a lazy smile. "I’m not afraid of that. Can always bring you back if you start missing the constant rain or the tea or whatever.”

“Fuck. Ye’re in a tearing hurry to get me drunk!” Since it only took a couple of questions into this game to realise just that, there’s hoping. Hoping the gullible little idiot won’t fall for it again. Naturally he does. Of course, what else? It takes little to no time to consider the new terms and conditions before Liam nods. “Right. Two shots won’t knock me off me feet.” Not so sure about that, but of course, in a perfect dream world, he can stomach two shots and not feel the slightest tingle. “Not so sure ye wanna trust me though with poking yer eyes out. Or not, that is. Never done it for anyone else.” Which is enough disclosure on his accord for not answering any questions right now.

“Yeah, I’ll show ye on a map sometime” or not. Probably not. It might only lead to reveal how he only knows stuff about places he’s visited. Anything else is a blank canvas - or semi-blank with pencil drawing knowledge from his public private school days. “I sure won’t miss a fellow-countryman who understands me, if ye’re such a willing learner”, he chirps, yet he feels a pang of disappointment over Stark’s unwillingness to impress him. More. If there is a way Liam could be any more impressed. Even without the older magician aiming for it.

“Right…”, it’s the kid’s turn again. Of course he’s been hoarding questions by now in the back of his head. And only a question of time till he’ll be drunk and courageous enough to ask some of them. For a start though he reverts to something he’s probably tried to educe from Stark since day one: “About that door-room-thing though. Ye’ve never really explained how it works. How do ye do that?” And can he learn it? “What… what is it even?”

"I’m just making up for all the ways you’ve cheated. Not my fault you’re such a lightweight.“ And he’s definitely not above taking advantage of that, recalling how unusually communicative and agreeable overindulgence made the kid. At least his cuddliness has extended to the realm of sobriety too. Stark shakes his head a very little, to avoid upsetting the fingertips moving over his scalp. "It’s easier, doing it on someone else. I used to help Itzy with her more elaborate make-up sometimes.” He does note that this means Liam’s done so for himself. Maybe he had a Robert Smith phase of his own, after he got done with bleach-blond and mocking sneers and fingerless leather gloves?

Unconcerned about finding out where Italy lies, he makes a careless noise of agreement. Hopefully once he gets back to LA he won’t have any cause for further exploration of Europe. "Soon I’ll be so damn good at it, I’ll only misunderstand you on purpose.“ Coffee mug returned to the table and cigarette retrieved from his mouth, his opposite hand, still looped beneath Liam’s leg, scratches aimlessly along the outer seam of his jeans. Just a little affection to counter the sudden subtle dip he senses in Liam’s mood. He can sense it, but he isn’t sure what caused it. Probably something he said. The following barrage of questions distracts him from trying to figure it out.

“Fuck. It’s kind of a long story.” Only because he’s kept so much secret so far. “And, just a disclaimer: I don’t totally understand it myself.” Picking his head up from its too-comfortable place, he chews on his lower lip between drags of nicotine, stares at nothing. Debates how much to explain. “It’s not a spell or a trick. When I was in Hell this general called Azazel owned me. After a while he decided to make use of all the practice I had killing shit in the arena, wanted me to assassinate one of his political rivals. When I pointed out how I couldn’t get close to the guy without his guards slicing and dicing my ass, the boss gave me this weird Key - no, not gave. Loaned it to me. No clue where he got it. He explained that all I had to do was keep it close, step into a shadow, and I could come out inside the other general’s palace. So I waited for a while for him to get somewhere public, then went through a shadow into the Room for the first time, through the door marked with fire like he said.”

As he thinks back to that initial murder, Stark goes quiet for a minute. His teeth tear more viciously at his lip. “Anyway, it worked. I was fucking shocked. He knew I’d see it as a way to escape, so he was always careful to take it back after I’d finished running his errands. Not that I could risk bolting then. I wasn’t sure I’d make it back to earth even with the Key, and I knew he wouldn’t know. Except for Lucifer, Hellions can’tleave Hell. He did tell me later that it didn’t work for him, the Room wouldn’t open at all - only for someone like me.” …maybe he should have left that part out. Another pause and a few blinks as he comes back to himself. Did he end up answering the questions or not? “Later when I took it and tried to get back home, I was halfway sure I’d come out somewhere way fucked up and horrible. Buried in the Santa Ana foothills. Outer space. Texas. I hadn’t used it except to move around Hell, and Azazel never told me more than he needed me to know about how to use it. Since then it’s mostly been trial-and-error.”

It’s long become a contest of who could educe the most disturbing tales form the other by posing wholly innocent questions. Looks almost like they’d have a winner here. Winning - however - doesn’t seem desirable all of a sudden. Bad luck, bad timing, bad decisions. A holy trinity of fuck-up they’ve both become devoted to, apparently. With regret etching a furrow between his brows Liam watches the other mage move away, and as he does, the kid is quick to reconfigurate into a different position, stealthily claiming more and more of the sofa - not (solely) to act cattish, but to angle for the older mage and nudge him gently to bed his head on his chest. That is the least he can do. Or the only thing he can think of, to be precise.

What he’s asked, he cannot take back. And what has happened would not be undone either. In silent admiration that shall never be admitted publicly Liam waits until Stark has finished his narrative, exercising restraint, before he speaks again. “Trial and error… huh?”, no, he can’t bring himself to comment on the whole slavery-topic. He wants to, but the words just won’t come and he procrastinates thinking of any to a point everything else worms its way into his consciousness and he’s allowed to bury any unwelcome thoughts in the depths of his mind where they slumber until the next tidal wave of anxiety will see him drowning.

“Ye’re playin’ it safe by using the same two doors all the time then?”, Liam frowns, “Nah, forget that. It’s not a question.” And Stark’s answer is probably not a lie either. If anything he’d imagine the older magician lying to keep all of that a secret rather and not making it up for his entertainment. Of course, there could have been more and he’s practically begging to be interrogated further. No, the pause did not go unnoticed. You had something to hide. Should have hidden it, shouldn’t you?, no need to voice this line of lyrics thought though. Only remember what he’s going to ask in future rounds. Speaking of which: “Yer turn, innit?”

Perhaps there’s no such thing as a wholly innocent question, not when dealing with their separately fucked-up pasts. Stark’s an accomplished liar but he can’t come up with such elaborate tall tales at a moment’s notice. It sounds far-fetched and he’s not so out of touch that he doesn’t realize that, yet it is the truth. Which doesn’t mean he expects immediate belief.

He definitely does not expect sympathy.

Catching the odd note and hesitance in Liam’s voice, Stark looks at him with some bemusement. Only then does he notice the sneaky rearranging that’s gone on, how the kid abandoned his perch, stretched over most of the couch and partially curled around him. While he’s not quite capable of smiling, the warmth of appreciation shows in his eyes. “Don’t make that face. It’s fine. Most of what happened down there is easier to think about than everything before.” Easier to remember, anyway. That’s nearly the same thing. “Besides, I’m a one-man army, remember? Didn’t get that way without a lot of trial and error.”

Regardless, he isn’t slow to take advantage of the comfort offered, nuzzles into the curve of Liam’s shoulder and slinks an arm around his slim waist. “Guess I can tell you since it’s not a question.” Besides, he can’t think of a single thing to ask right now that won’t make the morose atmosphere worse. “I never play it safe, and I’ve tried all the doors. They don’t go to the same place every time, obviously. Fire leads to chaotic, dangerous places - used that a lot Downtown - and Ice goes to calmer places. I’m not a hundred percent on what they all do yet. Seems to work with association. Like getting here. We used the Door of Memory, but it didn’t take us into your actual memories. Or if I was trying to find you, I’d do best with the Door of Restless Ardor.” Yeah. He knows what that word means, unlikely as it seems.

For a moment he wavers on the brink of asking something he really wants to know. Forget detailing his past as a slave-assassin or even discussing his mother: The concept of posing a question that matters makes him feel much more vulnerable, so he nearly chickens out. Plans another throw-away inquiry, but when he opens his mouth, it isn’t what comes out. “Do you really wanna go to LA, or did you only offer ‘cause you were scared I’m gonna take off without you when this is done? I know I sorta asked that before, but you didn’t actually tell me one way or the other.”

A low hum in disbelief is Liam’s best attempt to convert a full-blown theatrical sigh to something less obtrusive. ‘It’s fine’. It’s fine? Like how on Earth and any other realm below or above could that be fine? For a second there Liam’s tempted to point out a lie, but the prospect of the double shot pacifies him instantly where normal people should not dread the outcome of possibly being wrong, but show restraint out of respect for one another. Piety’s not exactly Liam’s strong suit, yet devotion is. So he is glad the one-man-army has declared armistice - or surrendered even - to the ridiculous enemy found in one clingy bastard. Cuddled up like so doesn’t render it too hard to push all dark thoughts aside and wait with bated breath for Stark’s generous and somewhat sound explanation to this (to date) mystery he finds in the Room Of Thirteen Doors:

The association game plays well with Liam’s mind: So there’s Fire - risky business, imminence of chaos and danger. Like a Liverpool vs the Red Devils match. Nothing he particularly seeks, but any day better than a bingo night at the old people’s home - or whatever Ice would stand for. Of course, Memory’s in the lead right from the very start. They have been overusing that one for all the places at least one of them had been before and it never played some shitty trick on them by getting them soaked in a bloody pool. So Memory is the one - or would have been if it wasn’t for “Restless Ardour?” Liam’s grin has become wide enough to be audible. Aside from the fact ‘Restless Ardour’ would make a great title for a song of his preferred genre, he could not help but feeling more than just slightly flattered.

Until that momentous question ends his high. Stunned from his mental crash landing, Liam takes his time to collect and sort the debris of his mind very, very slowly, overthinking what he’s going to reply without resorting to lies and earning himself the double shot punishment. “I don’t want to go to LA.” Brilliant. A+ clothing his thoughts in words. It could not have come out any more wrong than that. “Hang on. Let me start over. What I mean is: yeah, playing tourist will be smashing, but it’s not like I’ve been dying to visit Hollywood. I’d be happy if ye’d crash in Leicester just as much as in Los Angeles.” The little limey falls silent again, gnawing on his bottom lip as if it might help come up with a bulletproof cop out. It doesn’t. And time’s running out for believably passing this for a breathing pause.

“I don’t get what bothers ye so much about me relocating. Me entire wardrobe fits in a bloody backpack” (and most of it has been turned to Swiss cheese) “When we met, I didn’t exactly have a plan where I was going. Sure, Yank land never came to mind, but now it does. Because I don’t want ye to just sod off and leave me. Or… or drop by every once in a while because ye feel like it. I want this.” He nods at nothing in particular to vaguely indicate he’s talking about their current situation. Whether that meant a rundown digs or cuddling on the sofa in the morning playing games to get each other drunk. “Yeah. I’m scared. Doesn’t mean I’m not lookin’ forward to ye givin’ me the grand tour and take me out for brekkers. It’ll be mind blowing to not hear ye complain about breakfast for once.” He sighs. After all it all boils down to this: “I want to come with you. Wherever ye’re going. Well, except for Sheffield maybe.”

Stark makes a noise of agreement; Restless Ardor, yes. “’s fitting.” Ardor, that part’s obvious. And Restless is appropriate, for both of them, yet he’s content not to move for the time being. Sure, the couch is too short to stretch out on and so narrow that one or the other of them is likely to roll off if they shift much, thin as they are. That’s just one reason to stay wound close together, another being the significant decline in giddiness he can sense as the little Limey processes his words and searches for a response.

"You don’t.“ He lifts his head just enough to eye Liam’s profile. The statement is so blunt that his reply lacks any quality of inquiry, but he doesn’t sound - or feel - particularly disappointed. Resting his chin on a clavicle, he watches the kid thoughtfully as he begins anew. Waits until he’s definitely finished before speaking.

Unlike him, Stark doesn’t overthink his words, since he evidently did not make himself clear before. "I’m not worried about you relocating. I’m not worried about any of it.” That now, that is probably a lie. If a generally harmless one. “I’m not asking if you willgo to Yankland, I’m asking if you want to. I don’t have any plans after this either, and there’s not a hell of a lot waiting for me there.” One jabbering head, two untrustworthy employers, a few new acquaintances…and a shitload of painful memories (in a palm tree~🎵). “Fuck, my wardrobe isn’t even enough to fill a backpack. I’ve been stealing clothes and staying in a single shitty motel room with Kasabian. Livin’ the American fuckin’ Dream.”

Now he pauses for consideration, that ingrained aversion to exposing weakness kicking in. Already he regrets raising the subject. But it is raised, so - fuck it - may as well deal with it thoroughly. Get it over. Make his pathetic point. “Look, I only escaped around four months ago, and the only reason I came back was to murder the power-hungry traitorous fucking cunt who sent me to Hell. Him and my other magic-circle pals, the five greedy spineless assholes who sat there, watched him do it and fuckin’ cheered him on. Beyond that, I didn’t plan, didn’t think about the future at all. Guess a part of me figured I’d end up back Downtown. That’s…it actually isn’t the worst fate I can think of. Everything is simpler there, and it wouldn’t be like at first when I was a dumb shell-shocked kid shitting himself in terror. I have a top-shelf hardcore reputation now, complete with a lame serial killer alias. I’ve got important allies. I know how Hellions think and how to deal with them. I don’t have to hide anything or hold back or pretend to be a regular person. I fit there. Four months or forty years, I’mnever gonna fit in up here, and I’m reminded of it every damn day. It sounds fucked, I know, but sometimes I really miss the place.” Well. That’s more of a speech than he set out to make. If Liam wasn’t scared before, he should be now, but Stark’s not finished. Preventing panicked retreat by tightening his grip, he takes a silent deep breath then goes on haltingly. “But…you. Being with you. It’s the first time I’ve felt like sticking around could be worth it. I’m not gonna sod off and leave, or just drop by once in a while, not as long as you want me around. So, let’s go to LA just for now. Later if you decide you hate it, we’ll come back here…or, not here. Blackpool or London or‘Leshter’ wherever the hell that is, anywhere you want. Italy or fucking Siberia. All right? ‘cause…I want this, too. A lot more than anything I left back home.”

Frustration kicks in as soon as Liam’s done talking and he finds himself confronted with the fact he’s still obligated to provide an answer to the question pending. He doesn’t want to go to LA. He doesn’t not want to go there either. Rolling his eyes and fixing his stare at some point on the ceiling (ugh, where did that stain come from?!) the kid rethinks his approach once again. Not one for dodging questions this time around, apparently.Wrapped his thoughts around the subject and barely thought of new words and a different syntax and other examples to get his point across, a second attempt is ultimately denied when the nephilim sets to give his speech. Hesitatingly Liam’s gaze drops - abandoning the cartography of stains in favour of losing himself in the mesmerising wilderness of scarred face. It is too easy sometimes to forget each scar comes with a story of its own, none with a particularly delightful one. But to think the place he earned most of them is the one place Stark feels like he belongs, etches a deep furrow between the kid’s brows. Sounds fucked indeed. And sad. And somewhat unexpected. For all he’s been trying to work out for himself, he was always sure with this Vidocq and that Kasabian and whatever name’s been dropped, Stark has something to return to. Something worth of returning. And that it was somewhere he can follow. Unlike Hell where he’d be bound in chains from the moment he sets his feet on cursed soil.

Try find something witty to reply to that. Impossible. Doesn’t mean Liam isn’t at least trying. Lips part and the corner of his mouth twitches into an excusing smile in light of his inability to find his voice. Luckily he doesn’t have to. He squirms at first, yet relaxes into the tighter grip and listens, listens over the loud drumming of his heartbeat gaining pace with every syllable of Stark’s confession. His chest aches, his rib cage a prison for a heart consumed in passion. Everybody’s looking for a reason to live; if you’re looking for a reason, I’ve a reason to give. Liam’s mind is full of song, but his lips find a better purpose planting a kiss shy above that scared eyebrow.

“Ye’re not lying, are ye?” He’s whispering - as if it may help weaken his inquiry. A rude one to think he’s being lied to when there’s no question Stark would have reason to evade with falsehood. But if it means he’ll have to drink one shot or two or the whole bottle, Liam doesn’t care for as long as he can make sure every word of Stark’s imbued with honesty. He needs to know. He wants it to be true. “I’d love that though”, he encloses meekly, “First LA and then wherever. I’ll show ye me favourite spots and ye show me yers. Unless they’re - what was it? - Downtown. No can go there.” Or it won’t end well. Yet for now he doesn’t want to think of endings, only his intermediate happy-end: “But”, as much as it pains him he’ll have to accuse Stark directly or else the too often modified rules won’t hold: “Ye’re lying.”

Yeah, he does have ties to the City of Angels. At least, compared to Liam, who is evidently making his way through the world untethered to even the loosest acquaintance (which seems unlikely and, now that he thinks about it, could warrant a query or two as well). However, the main attachment Stark has is to Vidocq. Until he’s safely retrieved, he won’t let himself assume the Frenchman will be around at all; it’s too much like getting his hopes up. Saying permanent adieux to Wells and Aelita would be the fucking high point of his month. Unfortunately, he knows he would be forced to bring Kasabian along, because aside from his necessary-evil role as The Spy Who Came In From The Underworld, it would be downright cruel to foist the mouthy bastard off on someone else. As to the rest of them - Kinski, Allegra, Candy, Mr. Muninn - sure, they’re friendly enough, but he can take or leave them, doesn’t need them. So - barring Eugène - Carlos is the only Angelino whose loss would have a drastic impact on Stark’s daily life. Where else could he find a bartender willing to put up with his shitand give him free drinks?

Having drifted away during the latter part of his speech, Stark’s line of sight returns to the kid when he closes in, morphs to an uncertain squint when he continues to draw nearer. His eyelids shut entirely as that oddly affecting kiss is planted on his brow and one corner of his mouth quirks up. “No,” his voice drops, in keeping with Liam’s suddenly hushed tone. “I’m not lying.” While that could almost be called an accusation, this doesn’t seem like the moment to press it.

“Damn. I hate to strike that off the Perfect Date list. I know this great little place where they serve roasted cave birds stuffed with strangler fungi and asphodel buds, marinated in their own venom and heretic tears.” Naturally the older magician seizes the chance to veer the conversation away from the somberness he himself imposed. For all the good it does. That following definite accusation startles him, no matter how gently spoken, enough that his pulse jumps like one of those dried Mexican beans with the larvae moshing inside. “ I just said I wasn’t.” Without realizing it he’s clutching yet more tightly, probably giving Liam’s chest a second reason to ache, his eyebrows knotting towards a scowl. Because seriously, what the hell? Is Liam accusing him of adifferent falsehood, or has he joined the effort to get himself wasted? “What am I supposed to be lying about now?! It isn’t even your turn!”

“Dunno”, Liam breathes quietly, obviously uncomfortable with the reaction he’s provoked. Because - right - he’s the only one entitled to vigorous responses? Nope. Stark’s not taking shit from the ridiculous kid, which is exactly one of the lessons he’ll never learn but needs a constant reminder for. And then there’s the other thing that makes the whole ordeal uncomfortable: to remind the undoubtedly stronger magician of his act of squeezing the living daylights out of him, Liam taps his shoulder - with his fist - and makes a pained expression to underline his non-verbal plea for release.

“The fuck should I know?!”, he encloses then, with a steady voice, but yet still quiet, “Trying to placate me? Maybe? Tell me all the things I wanna hear. And I do.” Squirming doesn’t do any good. He can’t get away from this disclosure, can he? “It’s so unreal. This. Like there’s a hitch somewhere waitin’ for me to discover.” Too good to be true then? A proper cynic’s approach to love doesn’t seem to fit the impetuously enamoured. Unless it is not as much an expression of doubts than a plea hidden in this obituary: I may have fallen, let it not be in vain.

Liam, martyr for love, frowns at the dramatic turn their conversation has taken and decides for making yet another U-turn: “Ye know what? Ye’re right. It ain’t me turn to nail a lie. It’s me turn to get nosy. So… right, badass, what’s it then with yer reputation?” What ever’s coming, he bets it’ll make the whole thing just more surreal, “Ye’re some celebrity or somming?”

Oh. The gentle-ish punch on the shoulder brings Stark aware of his borderline-violent affection and makes him relax enough to allow Liam to breathe. It doesn’t remove the scowl, one part bewildered, one part hurt, wholly pissed off by experiencing those uncomfortable emotions. “Right. ‘cause lying to make other people happy is totally my M.O.”

He takes a second to forcibly slow his own heartbeat along with a couple careful breaths. “Yeah, I get it.” Because he’s felt that too, right from the start. Too good to be true. Not that things have all been rosy and perfect, but more than once he’s caught himself holding his breath. Like he’s bracing for an impact, wondering what the catch is and when it will come around to bite him in the ass. The difference is, Stark expects it to come from some outside source. “Look, being around me isn’t an easy life. There’s gonna be plenty of hitches. But that’s not one of them. Trust me, I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

For Liam’s sudden turnaround, Stark’s expression goes the other way, brows raising. “Uh, no. Doesn’t matter if it was your turn. You said I was lying and I’m not.” Propping himself on an elbow, the opposite hand slithers from beneath the kid to allow him to snatch the whiskey bottle, which he offers with that expectant look. “Drink up. Then I’ll tell you about my star on the Walk of Fame.”

Right. For all he knows Stark could be donning a pink tutu the second relationships turn somewhat akin to serious. Modus Operandi his arse! Even though everything feels so familiar, they still know nothing much about each other. Hell, it’s the whole reason they have to utilise a party game to make up for their ignorance and get to the stage his heart tricks him into believing they’ve already achieved. Still, Stark does have a point there: so far he’s not shown any proclivity for lying making other people happy.

Except Liam is happy. (Although slightly on edge, too.) “Good. Right. I just needed to know.” As if a liar would’ve told the truth. The winner makes the rules. And for all it’s worth Liam can’t even count how often he’s been breaching them. Now penalty is due.

Reluctantly he takes the whisky bottle in his hand, but it takes a few extra heartbeats to bring himself to realign his gaze from Stark to the minging brew. “Ye just want to see me pissed” - whyever that may be. Bottle pressed against his lips he steels himself for the worst, then actually takes a proper gulp and swallows half of it, before he sets to repeat the ordeal in pretence, swallowing what he’s been keeping in his mouth for too long then, too. “Bah!”, Liam shudders, “There. Satisfied?”

That casual response, like the kid was only indulging idle curiosity, makes Stark exhale a snort of amusement. His hand drops back to Liam’s chest when the bottle is taken and he watches him narrowly. As if he expects the little Limey to cheat on his penalty, too. "Nah, I just like the silly face you make every time you drink something stronger than tea.“ At least this time it isn’t Aqua Regia. "Right there. That’s the one.”

The faint smirk he wears when he takes the whiskey and replaces it is enough to say that, yes, he is satisfied, though he does not confirm it verbally. "So, what was it you wanted to hear about? My infernal celebrity?“ This is plainly a rhetorical question. Stark shrugs one shoulder before continuing. "You know most of it already. Living people don’t end up in Hell much; I’m not sure if I was the first one, but it’s rare enough that I got a lot of attention. Later the novelty wore off, they put me in the arena barracks and I learned how to kill Hellions. Got good enough at it that Azazel claimed me, turned me into his pet assassin ‘til I killed him and escaped. Or did you want specifics?”

Upon tasting his punishment Liam’s mien had warped into a grimace of disgust, an expression not easily wiped from his face; merely his attitude ultimately transitions from aversion to annoyance. “Blimey. Thanks. Means a lot from someone who’s afraid of tea”, he retorts, over-articulating each word (applying arduous oral acrobatics as a means for his tongue to escape the foul taste - in vain. Obviously.)

Only when Stark commences to tell his story of infernal celebrity and downtown experience, Liam relaxes some, expression easing into a lopsided smile and eyes halfway closed …until they’re not and he’s rapidly blinking his mind back into alertness. “Hang on”, he furrows his brows, “That’s nuthin’ new. Ye’ve already told me that.” Which by no means poses a violation of the so called ‘rules’ either. Fuck. “So this is yer - what was it? - top-shelf hardcore reputation? To whom? And why does it entail an alias?” Now he’s just bubbling over with questions. Again providing proof this game’s rules are only a loose concept in his book. “Ye gonna tell me what’s yer alias at least, 007?”

"It’s not the tea I’m afraid of. It’s the side effects.“ The terrible infectious Limeyism. Perhaps Liam could say the same - he plainly dislikes the taste of the whiskey, but maybe he fears the candor of intoxication more. Too bad. Even two healthy swallows (or one, if Stark had been paying closer attention) will be enough to make the kid open up more.

Stark lowers himself again, plants his chin on Liam’s chest and tries, in vain, to find somewhere to put the rest of his legs. "I know, ’s what I said.” Not that there aren’t details he’s keeping back. One eye squints, thrown off by ‘whom.’ Do people actually use that word? Does it mean something different from ‘who’? “To…Hellions, I guess. And some of their worshipers on earth, too. I don’t know about the alias. I didn’t pick it; never even heard about it 'til I was back up here. Maybe they thought I’d be less scary if they gave me a dumb name.” After a moment of consideration, he shakes his head. Or rotates it a bit without raising it, anyway. "Nah. I would, 'cept telling you himself would be the highlight of Kas’ month and he doesn’t have a lot of chances to be happy. It’d be cruel to deprive the fucker.“

Liam lets out a groan, maybe in response to the implied side effects, mostly though because of the additional weight resting on his chest. Hence the better part of Stark’s elucidation is followed half-heartedly while he tries to warm to their current configuration, only to find that - once he can arrange himself with it - Stark decides to add another suitcase of uncomfortable in moving. Again. This time the groan’s a little more agonised. The whiny, theatrical, totally over-the-top kind of way. Granted, it is anything but pleasant to have a bony chin act pestle against his equally bony chest-mortar, but it’s not that unbearable.

No, there’s something else that qualifies for that. “Oi! Deprivin’ me of an answer’s cruelty ye’re okay with? Flattering.” Stark earns himself a pout and another round of lamentation: “Ye can’t just lure me then drop me. And ye can bet yer arse I’m gonna ask Kas. First thing I’m gonna do”, he promises, having found his way back to the familiar impish grin, “Don’t dare hope I’ll forget about it.”

The first groan gains an arched eyebrow, and the second makes things clear. Stark tilts his head down, thereby digging his sharp chin into the kid’s chest harder. "Something wrong, sweetheart? You sound like the ghost of a gouty old man.“ Admittedly he’s less than cozy, himself. This article of furniture was definitely designed by ill-natured, envious dwarves. Or perhaps by Tomás de Torquemada.

Speaking of torture. He gives Liam a look just short of another eye roll, then relents enough to remove his chin, instead resting his forehead against a collarbone. "I wouldn’t dare.” No. The first thing he’s going to do is stare and gape when he realizes Stark’s roommate is nothing but an animated head on a Regency-era hover-board. "He can tell you all the stupid shit people called me in high school, too. He’ll be giddy.“ Finally conceding victory to the too fucking small couch, he plants a hand against a cushion and sits up. "My turn. Can we go upstairs?” Not that he’s actually waiting for a response to his question. He drains the liquor from his coffee mug and grabs the bottle as he regains his feet, waits for Liam to join him, at least, before heading out of the room.

Teasing his groaning wrests another groan from the kid, deliberate and pointedly so, as if he was trying to prove a point with his guttural noise. It likely falls flat considering the overall atmosphere of departure. With the weight lifted from his chest, Liam takes a deep breath, but almost instantly misses Stark dreadfully. Bereft of their embrace he shuffles into a sitting position, waits for the older magician to drink up, then gets to his feet himself, towering over Stark from his elevated sofa-position. “Yeah, We can go upstairs”, he agrees, “Vamos!” - someone’s learning.

That someone also proves to be particularly clingy; Liam snakes his arms around Stark’s neck, allowing him a full second to accept his fate of giving a grown-up demanding little shit a piggyback ride, before he jumps off the sofa and wraps his legs around either side of the yank’s waist, clinging to him tightly with his thighs. “My turn now” - it isn’t. There’s like an 80% chance the turns the younger mage claims aren’t legitimately his. He doesn’t seem to give a fuck though. “Tell me more about yer Hogwarts years, will ye? Gimme all the details.”

A suspicious look is revealed when he finishes drinking, as if maybe Liam’s been able to understand Spanish this whole time and concealed it. More likely he watched a Speedy Gonzales cartoon. Any interrogation the older magician plans on the subject is interrupted by the arms around his neck. Even if they aren’t tight enough to choke off his breath. He submits complacently enough, however, just mutters an “Ay, el gordito,” and hooks his free hand beneath a knee. Hands the whiskey bottle up to his passenger before continuing, since its safety is of paramount importance.

“Bullshit! It is not your turn.” Indignation causes Stark to revert to a language they can both understand. “You just asked like four or five questions in a row.” Not that he went so far as to answer all of them. He doesn’t do so now, but neither does he pose any of his own, rather focusing on the stairs. Reaching the murkily lit bedroom - the overhead light having been another on the list of regrettable casualties - he turns his back to the bed. Doesn’t wait for Liam to climb off, just drops back and spills both of them onto the mess of blankets and once again keeps the little Limey pinned with his own weight. “Why, you wanna know who caught my golden snitch?” He’s never actually seen a Harry Potter movie - missed that whole fad while he was Downtown - but evidently has picked up enough to make inappropriate innuendo.

Naturally Liam reverts to utter a simple “Oi!” as he fails to extrapolate the meaning of Stark’s show off Spanish. It’s not like there’s enough potential for misunderstandings already when both stick to the same language. ‘Same’, as it is a loose concept. Stark handing him the booze, however, admits of no doubt. Dutifully he clings to the bottle of whisky with one hand, while his other trails down a scar intersecting with the mark Aelita’s angel sword had left on the nephilim’s chest and covers it with his palm. “For as long as ye got no evidence it didn’t happen”, the fingersmith denies his compulsive turn-theft, heavily pleading the usualin-dubio-pro-reo bullshit he’s always gone for.

With Stark acting judge and jury, copper and witness, too, his scam has no reasonable chance of success and hence he soon finds himself detained, sandwiched between linen and lover. An arrestment he can get accustomed to, for once. After bedding the whisky in a nest of blankets, he feels out a pillow somewhere behind him, grabs a corner and reels it in. Almost comfortable now he can fully appreciate Stark’s quip, possibly making it all the while more uncomfortable for the yank with his human-pillow shaking with laughter. “Yes, squire! Spot-on. Don’t leave out the naughty bits.” Eventually his chuckle dies down when the joke’s novelty effect has worn off. “Can’t imagine what it’s about, really.”

"Squire?“ A confused murmur is succeeded by a hissing sigh, like the effort of recall is just too much. "There were so many of ‘em. Don’t think I can remember all their names.“ Unlike a lot of the bullshit he comes out with, the emphasis here makes the statements’ sarcasm obvious.

Though the tremors of amusement don’t bother him, Stark squirms lazily, like a tranquilized eel, never actually lifts himself any, but manages to turn in place to face Liam. One arm slides beneath him, the ball of one foot finds traction on the edge of the mattress, and they’re both propelled further onto the bed so Stark can - finally! - stretch his legs out entirely. With that accomplished he resumes his earlier position, but this time he considerately crosses an arm over the kid’s chest before resting his chin on it. "What what’s about? Classical hoodoo training?”

Unwritten, yet undeniable its existence, the law that in the rare case Liam finally settles, Stark has to resume writhing and squirming to make up for the Limey’s temporary lack of restlessness. “Fuckin’ -ell” is muttered, yet he’s learned his lesson downstairs and refrains from groaning, despite that his meticulously placed pillow now supports his back rather than his head. Uncomfortable much. Hence he laboriously feels for a fistful of casing, unearths the trapped pillow from underneath the magicians’ weight and has it repositioned to his liking. Ah! Finally comfy again. Time to move around some.

Peripatetic fingertips explore mounds of muscle and streets of scars on Stark’s arm, only pausing to underline his sarcastic retort: “Nah. Catchin’ yer snitch.” He lets that sink in for a heartbeat before he continues his explorations as well as his reply: “Dafty. Of course I meant classical hoodoo training. What did ye do? How was it? How often did ye get yerself suspended from school? Ye know, all that kinda stuff. Intrigues me.”

While the Limey wriggles about to make himself comfortable - again - Stark ignores the implied complaint and reaches for the bottle. With one thumb he dexterously unscrews the cap, lifts it for a long swallow. Not to pay for dishonesty, but because there’s whiskey going ignored over there and he’s Stark. He does have to use both hands to replace the lid, and while that’s a great argument for emptying the entire thing instead, he closes it and sets it aside.

Settling to watch Liam’s thin fingertips play Connect the Scars, the older magician shrugs a shoulder. "It was…not as exciting as I’d hoped. Kinda tedious, to tell the truth. Lots of reading, not much spellwork. Almost all the other kids were from Sub Rosa families and they knew a fuckton more theory than I did, but I could always improvise the same results without doing shit the orthodox way. Plus, everything we learned was lame-ass milk-and-cookies hoodoo.“ While speaking, his free hand has sought the hem of Liam’s cavernous t-shirt and snuck beneath it, fingertips now mimic the other’s actions in grazing aimlessly along the bare skin. "Still better than staying in public school and bein’ the class freak, getting kicked out for charming the cheerleaders’ spankies to be see-through.”

When Stark takes a sip from the penalisation bottle Liam’s jaw clenches involuntarily, adding to the overall look on his face screaming ‘You stupid fucking idiot’ - and that’s not for the older magician. No. He’s shown unanticipated cunning in introducing rules and punishment which left him victorious no matter what. You stupid fucking idiot, why haven’t you realised sooner the only one who dreads the whisky is you? “Next time ye’ll -ave tea”, is muttered quietly and with the last scarcely audible syllable breathed, the brief peak of vexation is done with.

Mainly because Stark’s caress has the Manc relax into his touch and his reply demands his full attention. Not as exciting, huh? He could’ve dealt with a little less putting-your-life-soul-and-sanity-at-stake-in-exchange-for-a-lousy-lesson-in-hoodoo-101, but Stark’s depiction still strikes him as somewhat underwhelming. School’s school after all. Adolescent antics included. So he snorts a laugh, though less at schoolboy-Stark’s capers, than at the vernacular in use. “Spankies?”, he can’t even pronounce the word without heavy undertones of immature cackling. Doesn’t help he initially misspells it as ‘spankee’ in mind, even if the sentence per se allows for deducing its meaning quite fine. “What’s that? Some kinky knickers ye wear to a good ol’ caning?” A chortle. “And I guess ye stopped charming the cheerleaders’ undies because Hogwarts had none, right? How old were ye anyway when ye changed school?”

The threat turns Stark’s heavily-lidded gaze to a squint of suspicion, a minute change that would be easy to miss if they weren’t so close. "Over my bleeding dismembered body.“ Not dead, though. Even his virulent hatred for tea doesn’t go that far.

Obviously his distrust doesn’t run any deeper than the little Limey’s annoyance, since he drops back to his more languid expression easily. A faint grin echoes Liam’s amusement. "More or less, yeah. Little shorts they wear under their skirts, supposed to preserve their modesty.” Because skimpy skin-tight briefs are less scandalous than panties, somehow. "Never said I stopped. Just didn’t get kicked out for it. But you’re right. No football in magic school, so no cheerleaders. We played other games.“

It has not escaped Stark’s notice that the kid is exceeding his allowance of questions on pretty much every turn. While he goes along with it, mostly because it’s easier to answer than to think of questions that won’t ruin Liam’s mood, his pride will not let him not make a token protest now and then. He rocks his head to the side so his cheek rests against his forearm, narrows just one eye this time. "You know you owe me an entire fucking interrogation session by now, right? I was fourteen.”

It’s plainly too tempting to keep abusing his (most recently hijacked) turn especially when he’s got a chance to close a knowledge gap on something he’s always lusted after until he let himself get absorbed by envy and decided that magic schools are in fact only for tossers. With Stark’s general attitude he knows he won’t have to fear some deriding pseudo-elitist bollocks, so naturally Liam has the next question on the tip of his tongue. Questions. Plural. Because what Quidditch-games they played isn’t the only thing he’s interested in. The naughty capers of teenage Stark are just as intriguing.

Yet another question is long in coming. Instead he wraps his slender fingers around the arms they’ve been exploring and tightens his grip as if to mark the sudden turn of events, accompanied by an impish smile that plays around the corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t be me first”, he states, challenging. “Bring it. Show off yer mad baddie copper skills.”

The amazing, astonishing, in-fucking-credible thing is that Liam is interested in these stupid stories and inane anecdotes. That he actually wants to know about Stark, is intrigued not only by the gruesome tale of his grand infernal tragedy or his Hellion party tricks, but also by all the dumb little details that make up his life. After his time Downtown, this peculiar intimacy is not something the older magician expected to experience again. Ever. With anyone. Sex, yes. LA is full of freaks; even someone who looks and acts like Stark can get laid easy enough. But not this. A priceless gift he never would have asked for and doesn’t believe he earned. Usually the debilitating gratitude just lurks in the background, but then the kid does or says something that should be unremarkable and it comes back suddenly. Hits hard, leaves him feeling dizzy and weak and speechless. Even if all this ends tomorrow - or if he ruins it tonight when he goes after Vidocq alone - he knows he’d still be grateful for it.

Luckily for everyone’s dignity, the embarrassing influx of emotion doesn’t show much on his face. He just looks down, smiles a little and shakes his head at the kid’s challenge. Only the way his left hand becomes a claw to grip harder at Liam’s back gives him away, and even that can be taken as a mimicry of the tightened grasp on his own arms. When he’s sure he can talk without croaking around the tightness of his throat he replies. “Maybe later. I left my billy club downstairs.”

Trying to move casually, like he’s succumbing to laziness and a desire to be closer andnot afraid to look the kid in the face right now, Stark lets the arm slip off his chest, rests a cheek against his sternum instead and tucks that hand under his shoulder blade. To further the cause of deflecting notice, he manages to come up with something to ask. “Do I get a turn now? Tell me why you hate your names. Or name…I guess I get why you don’t like Donovan so much.”

The bait is taken. No questions asked - literally. For all the wariness the younger mage greetsstrangers … respectable members of society … people with, he’s quick on letting his guard down when feeling comfortable around another. Hence the feint is mistaken for affection, and Stark collecting himself for a pause for thought. When contemplation yields an inquiry at last, there’s little time to doubt the ever on-going rearrangement of body parts anyway. The first answer Liam is willing to give is wordless, as he brings one hand to the back of Stark’s head and buries his fingers in his hair, then he continues verbally:

“Ugh”, he bemoans the mention of his detested middle name. Mercifully the inquiry is reduced to a single name subject eventually. A welcome opportunity to avoid answering why he loathes the Talbot-portion of his name as much as the Donovan-stigma. “It’s not like I hate it. It’s just a really shit name”, William commences and pauses there for a moment while he brings his right leg to lock with Stark’s and brings them one step closer to human-pretzel-formation.

“William’s a soddin’ generic old people’s name” - (arguably it’s a classic) - “Used to get called Billy when I was little - Don’t. I’ll jimmy ye if ye billy me - But, right, once I’ve outgrown the cute” (debatable) “I decided Liam was the best ye can make of a wanky name like mine. Only bleeders call me William. Cause it’s some authoritarian bollocks or they’re disrespecting me or they’re, well, just wankers. I don’t hate William, I hate people calling me that and the circumstances that make them think it’s okay to do so.”

For a change, Stark doesn’t meet Liam’s movements with his own or raise him any extra squirming, unless you count the way he rubs his cheek against the kid’s chest while giving an approving hum half a step from a moan. Maybe his seemingly-uncharacteristic clinginess was mostly an evasion, but he is unusually content like this. The little Limey can imitate any twisty baked goods he wants just as long as he stays near.

“I’m not gonna billy you, don’t worry. ‘least no one ever called you Jimbo.” Shit! Why the hell is he admitting to that without being asked?! He does give a low laugh, not at the name itself, at the involuntary mental image that forms of ‘Little Billy.’ “You were probably a total brat, weren’t you? Contrary and demanding and Against All Authority. Bet you put your parents through hell.” It’s not like the brattishness is really past tense, any more than the cuteness has been outgrown. And not like Little Jimmy has much room to talk when it comes to bedeviling guardians.

For a moment there he quirks a brow, doubtful he’ll be spared the Billy in days to come - it’s not like the william-ing hadn’t been very real in the past and a very well deserved punishment for gleefully disclosing he’s picked up the uber-secret ‘Jimmy’-nickname.. This time though he only giggles, knowing better than to taunt, and continues to absentmindedly pet Stark’s head as if he was a cat perched on his chest. If cats were able to paycompliments.

“Oi!”, Liam protests, “Flatter me left and right, charmer. What makes ye think I was?” Trick question. Everything about him practically screams ‘brat’ - even if Little Billy had been a timid child until he learned to stand up for himself; and he never backed down since. “And let me get this straight: Authority’s all against me. I act in self-defence.” But he did put his mother through hell - there’s no denying that, corrective justice or not. “Yeah, me mum was dead chuffed” - sarcastic tone applied - “Constantly. Could never please her anyway, so I guess I gave up on even trying.”

It’s safe to assume that Stark only meant he won’t be billy-ing the kid right now. No promises for the future. He’s not any more prone to dispensing compliments than a cat, and he gives an (incidentally appropriate) exasperated hiss for Liam’s complaints. "‘cause you still are, brat.“

During the elucidation, the blind exploration of skin continues. Fingertips aimlessly trace the ridges of ribs until they run out, then glide in towards the spine at the small of his back. A noise indicative of understanding and sympathy rumbles in the older magician’s throat. He can relate to the need for self-defense, though it usually seems like Liam gets prematurely defensive, in anticipation of attack.

It’s not difficult to make assumptions based on what little the kid has said before, combined with the lack of a mentioned father. Since he feels he’s already risking the destruction of Liam’s contentment with this topic, Stark doesn’t see a need to question it. Instead he follows prior examples in extending his own turn to ask: “She kick you out, or did you run away?” A guess, but not a wild one. Someone with a basically stable and safe home life doesn’t end up squatting in a place like this with a person like the absent Oz - or like Stark himself, for that matter - at such a tender age.

“Walked away.” It’s said with unusual perspicuity and emphasis, an almost mature reply if it wasn’t for Liam’s index finger to get flicked against Stark’s forehead as an act of revenge for the brat-insult. “Head held high, mind you. I’m not runnin’ away from anythin’.” Except responsibility. And commitment. And coppers. Come to think of it he’s made quite a habit out of his now you see me, now you don’t because I’m already fifty miles the other way-act. The surprisingly good news are that he doesn’t consider it an option with Stark. No running away from this. No. Cling to it, hold onto your luck with both arms and wrap them around his neck. Stark’s not going anywhere either, if he can help it.

“Ye’re satisfied, DI Dishy Devil? Interrogation’s over”, Liam announces - aware things would only grow more uncomfortable if they kept following the current directions, a street he likes to avoid travelling for as long as he can - or remains semi-sober. “It’s me turn again”, and the faster he talks and asks away the less noticeable it’ll become that he dodged the last question in addition to speaking untruth. “That’s a good one” - or at least it’s what an intoxicated mind thinks about the upcoming spin-the-bottle question - “Name one of yer kinks.”

Since his face isn’t visible, Liam misses out on the incredibly dubious expression that crosses it in response to his assertion. To the best of his memory, the kid was running away from something when they met. Nothing he’s seen since has convinced him to the contrary. But he’s smart enough to know he’s already pushing it, so doesn’t express his doubts aloud. Only turns his head slightly and nips at Liam’s chest with sharp canine teeth, revenge for the obnoxious head-flicking, then tightens his arms like he’s reinforcing the unstated intention of not running away. He’d be a damn difficult person to run from, anyway.

As per usual, Stark has trouble deciding if that moniker supposed to sound offensive. DI isn’t a common cop-talk abbreviation in Yankland (or if it is, no one’s told the screenwriters yet), and dishy joins pawky and all the other adjectives whose meanings he can’t guess at. So he responds to the part he can comprehend. “Damn, tough guy, suffered through all three minutes of my interrogation. Color me impressed.”

If he were liable to point out Liam’s evasiveness, the rapid-fire demand distracts him, even to the point of making him laugh. “Look, I only lost my virginity a few days ago. You really expect me to’ve figured all that shit out already?” But this is preamble rhetoric and token protest. “Do firearms count, or is that too obvious?” Probably.“How about scales? I mean people with scales. Kinda-people. Not lizards. Ordragons.” Perhaps closer, yet more a fetish than a kink and surely not what Liam’s looking for. So Stark casts his mind back to a time before he was entirely warped, tries to find something to fit the bill. Something more commonplace, even something boring. “Sex in stolen cars. Or not-stolen cars or other vehicles, except city buses. Never again.”

Sarky, aren’t we? Liam pouts as he gets his reward for sissy-ing out the interrogation session. His vindication instantly follows suit: “Ye’re not intimidating enough to provide an incentive.” Which is debatable as most people might object and claim that Stark actually is intimidating; maybe just not when he’s that larger than life battered alley cat catching up on caress he’s gone too long without. Come to think of it, cuddling or drenched in blood wielding deadly weapons - it doesn’t matter to Liam. Above anything else he feels safer with Stark than without. And not in a ‘fight my battles for me I wait over here’ kinda way. Being understood is all the comfort he needs. That and a thousand other things he can come up with when he feels particularly demanding. Again.

Right now though, he can only come up with demanding more details, as Stark’s elucidation is lacking in depth and flourish, while simultaneously nurturing his curiosity beyond bearable. “Ye mean, I practically had ye at first sight?” - Safe for the scales, obviously. But fire arms and stolen cars…? Check. “Hang on, what’s yer beef with city busses? Ye can’t just do that all the time; be all The Sun and give me huge, bold baiting headlines and then expect ye get away without disclosing the article.” Yeah, that’s one way to justify massive turn theft. It doesn’t cover it though. “So ye got caught? ‘s that it?”

Not intimidating enough? Stark’s mouth curls up irrepressibly and when that’s not enough, he laughs. Again. Twice in one minute. That’s gotta be some kind of record. Blame it on fatigue and booze and sudden (temporary) release from stress, and don’t mention the unfamiliar giddy lightness of mood. Actually, safest not to mention any of it. “I got your incentive right here.” Since he’s lying on his stomach, he doesn’t bother completing the cliché retort by grabbing his crotch.

He makes a dubious humming noise. “I didn’t see any scales, and I know damn well you haven’t got a clue what to do with a firearm. Guess it was just your sweet, obliging personality.” And it looks like the kid is racking up dues for another interrogation already. Maybe he has a point, but still. If he weren’t so comfy Stark would get up and find something on which to keep a tally of answers owed.

“No, we didn’t get caught. What do you think magic’s for?” Facilitating acts of public perversion, evidently. He goes on in a bland, matter-of-fact way: “They’re fucking filthy - and this is me saying it - goddamn uncomfortable, and their suspension is non-existent. All that bouncing around totally threw off my rhythm. Explaining the dislocated hip to the ER nurse wasn’t fun, either. But the worst part was, nobody managed to get off. In retrospect, it was a bad idea from the start.” Before Liam can break in with yet another request for elucidation, he adds, “Since we’re on the subject, what’s the most awkward place you’ve had sex?”

Is that so? Liam bids defiance to Stark and his hackneyed response, delivering an on point look of provocativeness until that roguish smirk is conquered by the infectious laughing disease and he, too, finds himself chuckling gleefully. Astounding what alcohol could do to someone, isn’t it? Increased susceptibility to laughter, a sudden flush of heat, that deafening roar of a rushing pulse of blood in his ears drowning out everything but his words. It might just as well have nothing to do with booze at all.

Likely because of that Liam takes a mental memo to do something about his underwhelming weapon-skills; which falls short - however - once it’s overwritten by the far more pressing need to ask what exactly he was to Stark then. But that’s an inquiry to make after at least four more gulps of whisky. Then postponing it for another month or so. Yeah, that’s a sound plan. Maybe he should refrain from making plans at all - try adding that to the mental memo-list.

“Of course” - yeah, of course, that’s obviously what magic is for. Stealth-mode shagging in the plain open, but fucking up a regular B&E. Liam doesn’t even notice how burglary has become something filed under regular, instead he wonders whether there’s more sex-related magic trickery Stark has kept from him so far. And he would’ve asked if he wasn’t busy pulling that fake ‘Poor Pussy’ face while petting the bus-victim’s head. “Oh, poor sod, you”, that’s as far as he’s allowed to get before Stark ensures no more turns are hijacked in this round.

What was the most awkward place indeed…? Awkward sexual encounters he’s had a few, though hardly any were linked to a specific location. Or… hang on. After an awfully long time of silently overthinking he comes up with an answer: “Public toilets in train stations. Talkin’ of filthy. And being desperate”, he frowns, “Cramped in a loo cubicle with yer face pushed up against the wall so ye can see a dyslexic moron’s felt tip scribbled fortune cookie wisdom just from the corner of yer eye. And it worms itself into yer brain. It has to, so ye can ignore the stench and the buzzin’ halogen lamp and the velcro-sound yer shoes make on the dried up piss on the floor. And when ye’re just about trickin’ yerself into false belief ye’re somewhere else, some fuckin’ wanker marches in. Then ye just hold yer breath and clench yer teeth tryin’ not to make a bloody sound. And ye pray that tosser’s just come to take a piss. Fuck yer life if he decides to take a shit instead. Or shoot up. And before ye ask, no, I did not get off.”

A strangled groan is either stifled laughter or, more likely, inexpressible disgust. Stark turns his head a little, presses his face to Liam’s chest with eyes shut tight. As if that will get rid of the horrific mental image the kid is painting with his words. Far too easy to picture, the description is almost familiar - particularly when the last bit about shooting up is added - but after the first mistake, Stark always avoided even pissing in the bathrooms of the Daly City station for fear of slipping in vomit and stabbing himself with a discarded dirty needle. Actually fucking someone in the junkie haven? Nobody would be that desperate.

“Jesus, and I thought the bathroom here was low-class.” Well…it might have been insanitary, but wasn’t so bad, back before the counter acquired at least three new fissures and the towel rack was left hanging by a single rusted screw. “Please tell me you’re lying. Even if you’re not lying, tell me you’re lying. The most wretched lot lizard in Hollywood wouldn’t expose their cheapest date to that sort of horrorshow.” Actually they might do worse, but fortunately he has no first-hand experience of Hollywood whores.

Whether Liam is lying or not, Stark raises his head and finds the whisky. Takes a big gulp, as much to distract himself as anything. Who knew Sandman Slim could be so sensitive to atmosphere? Then again, maybe it’s not just the very detailed imagery; maybe it’s got something to do with the idea of Liam being exposed to that sort of horrorshow, by fuck-knows-who for fuck-knows-what-reasons. Definitely doesn’t make the thing any easier to imagine. And it isn’t jealousy that renders it so disturbing.

After recapping the booze Stark plants his head back on the kid’s chest and slinks both hands beneath him, between shirt and skin. The fingertips of the left stumble over a trailing edge of scab almost immediately, stutter to a stop. A timely reminder that he hasn’t always been exceptionally careful with Liam, either. His own wounds from that dungeons-and-dragons escapade have long since become more scars, even that gruesome hole in his thigh, so maybe it’s understandable that he forgets it only happened around a week ago. After a moment, one finger tentatively traces beside the mostly-healed gash. “How’s this now? Does it bother you?” The ax-blade fortunately didn’t bite too deeply, and later healing spells negated any need for sutures. Still, preventative antibiotics wouldn’t have been superfluous.

No. Nonononono. That’s not how it was supposed to go. Liam’s been anticipating the laugh he’s grown too fond of in the past few minutes. Anything. An attempt to turn his experience into ridicule. A joke about how Stark would have to strike that one off the list for future dates. But nothing. Liam waits a little longer. And longer. Perplexed and dumbfounded, rethinking his approach while Stark already helps himself remedy his shock with whisky. “No lies”, the Manc’s reply comes out toneless, reflecting its meaning away from ‘I didn’t lie.’ to ‘I regret telling the truth.’

You had something to hide, should have hidden it, shouldn’t you? Now you’re not satisfied with what you’re being put through.

Liam’s head flops to the side and while his gaze is fixed upon fingers deftly screwing the cap back on, his mind’s too preoccupied to make any sense of it. “Sorry to burst yer bubble”, he shrugs as to physically kickstart life and wit and playfullness to imbue his prosody with, “I am that low-class. I just happen to look like fuckin’ royalty.” There, he manages a smirk. If anything else fails, be bloody sarky.

Or just learn to shut up and savour the moment. That might be another option. The better in any case. Hence Liam closes his eyes and visualises the path tender caress paints on his back. And he relaxes into the touch. “I’ll live” - stop being sarcastic! - “Yeah, it’s itchy as fuck, but it heals, right? Won’t complain. It’s not like I have forgotten I’d be a two-part puzzle if it wasn’t for me knight in shinin’ …leather.“ His eyes fly open again. “Does it bother you?”

As always, the kid disobeys his simplest commands. All Stark can do is groan when the terrible nostalgia is asserted as truth. “C'mon. I didn’t take you for a pampered prince, but that’s a whole new level of low-class. I hope you were really young.” Liam might still be considered ‘really young’ so there’s a good chance.

"Trust me, you’re enough of a puzzle in one piece.“ Does it bother him? By raising his chin (and neglecting to actually lift his head) Stark ensures that Liam gets the full benefit of his bemused expression. It’s easy to forget how perceptive he can be, when he’s not being blindly obstinate. The look changes to something more thoughtful before a shoulder is shrugged minutely. “Not too much. Like you said, it could'a been worse. I’m just not used to being around anyone so fragile.” A brief but brilliant grin displays his foreknowledge of how little Liam will like that descriptor.

This could be a great segue into how and why he’s not invited to this evening’s rescue attempt - but Stark knows ahead of time how the kid will take that, too. Whether it’s cowardice or plain selfishness, he isn’t ready to disrupt the morning’s peace in such a spectacular manner. Yet maybe - just maybe - he can guide the conversation in a direction that will make clear the logic of his decision to go alone, before he reveals that decision…?

Fuck it. Liam’s sure to be furious either way. The older magician’s fingertips continue slowly traversing the injury’s path as he considers options, up and then down, nails scraping gently to counter the mentioned itch. “I never did get around to telling you how the whole healing thing works, did I?” Stark’s at least clever enough to know that while logic won’t work against Liam’s impenetrably stubborn nature, he is unable to resist information given unprompted. “Think you got distracted when I said I’m workin’ for the person who killed me.”

Since when does a younger age render a terrible choice of shagging location more acceptable…? Liam clearly missed that memo. “Yeah, like little fifteen”, his murmur is imbued with sarcasm. Doesn’t matter he’s spent his fifteenth year of age in sweet, sweet virginity - or that choosing a much younger age for his retort would’ve conveyed his sarky attitude even better, but he’s never been one to pass up a chance for a Depeche Mode reference.

Speaking lyrics might add to his puzzle-qualities, but clearly: that’s rich coming from the walking-talking enigma Stark poses to him. Hence Liam furthermore wears an expression of knitted brows as he finds himself inept to not doubt the nephilim’s words here. Of course it’s not long until a pout adds to his look, taking it from ‘really?’ to ‘really??? ye’re better be takin’ the fuckin’ piss right now!’.

“Fragile.” How could he not react exactly as predicted? With the monotonous tone of resentment seeping into his prosody that’s supposed to sound somewhat matter-of-factly. It doesn’t. He screams defiance with every fibre of his very being. “Sod you”, and then the tonelessness is abandoned in favour of the best example of a teenage-truculence-tirade, “Fuckin’ fragile me arse! I can take a bloody lot more than ye think I can;thankyouverymuch. Bet everyone else ye bother with is made of soddin’ stone then.”

Or blessed with superhuman healing capabilities. “Eh? Right”, and back to placable confusion with curiosity on top. Talking about mood swings. Maybe the back rub helps as well, seeing that the kid can’t suppress a satisfied humming noise to answer Stark’s soothing scratches. “Still don’t get that though, but right, enlighten me, please.”

Youth may not make it acceptable, but lack of experience makes it at leastunderstandable - and in some ways ignorance goes hand-in-hand with youth. As does desperation for a semi-private place to screw. Stark doesn’t spend any time puzzling over the lyrical reply, merely takes it at face value in spite of the sardonic tone. Fifteen definitely seems young and ignorant enough for that kind of awful mistake.

The previous wolfish grin makes an unrepentant return when Liam behaves as expected. It’s nice knowing that he can sometimes foresee the reactions he’ll get from the kid. “Yeah, brimstone actually.” Obviously, he was not referring to his friends back in LA.

“Arrite.” Not bothering to clarify his reasons for working for Aelita - or reason: if he’s being honest it comes down to the cash - Stark pushes up with his free hand, draws his knees beneath himself to sit perched over Liam’s legs. “You got that pig-sticker on you?” He takes it upon himself to frisk the kid, pats at his pockets and digs into one when he feels a likely outline. Unearths not only the jack-knife but a couple of random bones. Metacarpals, maybe? One eyebrow quirks for a second before he replaces the human remains, without question, then he pats the pocket softly again as if saying ‘you just keep those nice and safe.’ Finally he unfolds the blade with a practiced motion, flips it around to offer the handle out. “Cut me.”

Brimstone. Yeah, of course. What else?! Unable to distinguish between the truth and a wind-up, Liam decides to play it safe and leaves the retort entirely uncommentated. Not least because the prospect of another punishment from the bottle is more than just merely undesirable at this point. Even though - faulty logic applies - the causticity takes place outside of the initial game, which rules fairly ever are adhered to anyway.

Yet it does nothing to mitigate the look of utter confusion playing on the younger mage’s face. A look he’d have to amplify to correlate with the growing feeling of puzzlement as the scene unfolds. Alas, he can strain his facial muscles as much as he likes, the wrinkles on his forehead won’t deepen any furher (give it another fifteen years, kid) and there’s ever so much a limit to how arched an eyebrow can become. Hence words are needed to convey he’s long lost the ability to keep up with Stark. “Oi!” - alright, not much of a word there, but suddenly finding himself subjected to a body search (the one time a strip search may be favourable) leaves Liam with no alternative. The “Oi!” is as reflexive as it is reiterated for emphasis.

“Back to playin’ copper, are we?”, he teases, hands up in surrender. Though while the finding of the bones is met with an apologetic, yet blithely shrug, Stark’s demand has the kid sit up in an instant. Bad idea. Laboriously he has to blink the splotches of shadows from his vision. “Ye want me to do what?” - Cut him. And before he knows it, Liam already holds onto his knife. “Hang on, that wasn’t listed in yer kink-catalogue.” No, it wasn’t. But the outcome will be listed in Liam’s, so there’s probably no need for further procrastination. However, the Manc remains doubtful.

“Right, ye’re gonna show off yer awesome healing powers. I know ye’re bad-ass, ye don’t have to brag”, Liam clarifies, but no less, he seizes Stark by the wrist and begins inspecting his forearm. With the tip of his blade as a pointer he indicates where he intends to cut. Though seeing that he actually likes the pattern of scars there, he doesn’t dare interfere with a masterpiece. Pity. He could’ve taken a shortcut and learn all about the wondrous armour quality of Stark’s scars right away. Instead, Liam twists the arm around, finds some rare unmarked territory and bends down to kiss the untainted skin with his lips, before it’s kissed with the knife shortly after. Afterwards he has to misuse his shirt and dab off the blood to reveal the two intersecting lines forming an ‘X’. “It’s a kiss” - and probably the only love bite that’ll ever last. “Ye’ll be fine, right?”

“You heard me.” Watching the kid blink and sway, Stark steadies him with his free hand. The opposite continues holding the knife out until Liam takes it. “Figured it went without saying.” Riiiight. If he did get off on being carved, the last eleven years would have been much more enjoyable. And if Liam’s counting on a little bloodplay, he’s going to be disappointed.

His badassery is not the point he wants to make, yet he neither corrects or brags more. Only observes Liam’s search with one corner of his mouth tucked back, allows his arm to be twisted about. uncomplaining.

It is tempting to overplay it and pretend that the incisions really fucking hurt, but when the kid finally gets around to it, instead the smirk spreads into a genuine smile. “Better than. Sweetest wound I’ve ever gotten.“ Leaning closer, he cranes his head down to plant a kiss in return on Liam’s forehead. Then, lacking one of his own, he also uses that shirt - probably not Liam’s in the strictest sense of the word - to wipe off the last small measure of blood, before displaying a pair of fully-healed, thread-thin new scars. Now, for the grand finale: "Go over it again to make sure it stays?”

It’s a trick, of course; while the new marks aren’t thick enough to stop a bullet or bigger blade, there is no chance that little knife can penetrate the tissue again.

Is it too naive, too easy an explanation that whatever just happened Liam deems it the result of a clandestinely woven healing spell? What else if not magic? Amazed and fascinated he reaches for the novel scar, fingertips but a hair’s breadth from the reverent touch he craves, as if contact could force healed over wounds open or destroy what still seems like an illusion. “How did ye do that?”, the whisper’s not a result of misplaced caution - more like evidence disclosing his personal kink-catalogue might turn out a little bit awkward.

Once his scar-fetish is conquered and suppressed, the younger magician is receptive for sensory input of the more trivial kind; receiving orders included. He can appreciate scars all he wants, being instructed to cause them still leaves him doubtful. “I didn’t blink. I saw what happened”, he argues. Although, no, he actually has no clue what just happened, nor what would happen if he just - for sod’s sake - would do as Stark asked him to.

“Alright”, he surrenders. Technically drawing blood with a knife’s cut should be something inherently trivial for a practising magician anyway. Determined he steadies Stark’s arm with one hand and brings the blade back to repeat his previous cutting - pauses for potential retraction. No objection. Fine. So be it.

Should have been anyway. But he can’t seem to breach the skin barrier; gives up after he applied enough force and pressure for the knife to be embedded deep enough to cause severe harm, only that it doesn’t - it’s as good as trying to cut through concrete with a cotton bud. “Fuckit. I hope for ye it’s a shielding spell and ye didn’t just ruin me knife.” Just to make sure he makes the smallest of cuts on the tip of his index finger - taking the bead of crimson for evidence that the latter’s not the case. “Right. How did ye do that now?”

Stark can’t help grinning for the enraptured whisper. With Liam’s capacity for wonder it’s doubtful he’ll ever get tired of showing him new tricks. "I didn’t do anything.“ Once more, he waits with uncharacteristic patience for the kid to get around to complying with his suggestion, refrains from arguing in return. The evident confusion and frustration as he tries futilely to retrace the ‘kiss’ bring that grin back again.

“Neither one. Your knife’s fine.” Though saying so doesn’t prevent him from injuring himself to double-check. "Wanna try it somewhere else?“ Stark offers the opposite scar-laden forearm, but this time he doesn’t wait for Liam to go ahead. "It’s not a spell. Like I said, it started when I was in Hell. I mean, it might'a worked before then, but I didn’t get hurt enough to tell. Being in the arena is what made it really noticeable, ‘cause I started to heal quicker and quicker. Then when some asshole would come at me with a blade and tried to stab me somewhere that was already scarred over…” He trails off, and although the conclusion is evident, he demonstrates it: Taking the pocket knife from Liam, he shoves the sharp tip against the mass of hypertrophic tissue covering his heart - to no effect whatsoever. "The Hellions weren’t happy when they caught on. Demanding to know how I kept getting stronger. When I didn’t answer, they tortured me, which just made me even stronger…they aren’t the best at figuring out cause and effect.“

Lips around the tip of his bleeding index finger Liam tries to pull off a mien screaming reluctance and qualms about resuming the knife work, but chances are sucking at your finger doesn’t help convey any of it. Instead he’s left to look lewd or like a lunatic. Or a lewd lunatic. Audibly removing his finger then just to observe a new bead of blood forming and laughing in his face, he decides that - while he’s lacking awesome healing skills - he won’t die from blood loss, so leaving bloodied fingerprints for another half minute might be tolerable after all.

His momentary indecision though is enough to have his right to wield the knife revoked. Not a theft that couldn’t be remedied in re-theft, but no matter how closely Liam’s been paying attention to Stark’s disclosure, the act of self-daggering leaves him absolutely horrified. Belatedly his reflexes kick in and grasping at nothing but thin air instead of seizing the nephilim by his wrist is what’s his reward. Naturally harm is prevented either way. As was the whole purpose of this demonstration. Liam clenches his hand into a fist and punches Stark in the chest. “Don’t do that, ye twit! Wanna give me a coronary?” He nicks his knife back and folds it away at last. It’s one thing when it acts the needle to his junkiedom, but he’s not prepared to watch Stark brag about his scar-armour and accidentally hit that one vulnerable spot.

“I’m so sorry” …For how he had to find out about it? The torture? Or that Liam’s got no clue how to handle this? It would’ve been helpful if he - just once - could clarify what he’s apologising for. Just as obscure are his actions, although sincere, when he follows one of the many teflon scars on Stark’s chest with his finger, leaving the faintest trails of fresh blood on the ridges of a wound long healed over. “Does it haunt ye?”

While Liam’s face is one of the more expressive he’s seen, no, none of that is clearly expressed. It mostly looks comical, adding to the entertainment value of what comes after. Maybe Stark ought to apologize for trying to stab himself. Since it would come across as somewhat insincere when he’s already laughing at the kid’s protective reaction, he skips it. At least he doesn’t laugh off the punch itself. Instead he leans back a bit, lifts his free hand to a defensive position then raises three fingers mock-solemnly - yet he’s still grinning. “Never again. Scout’s honor.” He allows the knife to be taken away, hands dropping to rest lightly on either of Liam’s hips once it’s clear no more attacks are forthcoming.

A moment later his amusement morphs to something between confusion and discomfort. “Sorry for…?” Oh, Christ. It’s not an apology. It’s pity. Discomfort gains ascendancy rapidly; Stark has no more idea how to handle things right now. This wasnot what he was aiming for. He uses the touch on his chest as an excuse to look away, watches the tracing of that scar while stumbling through a reply. “…no? I mean, I think about it sometimes. But I wouldn’t say…” The irresolute words break off abruptly, paired with a single impatient shake of the head. “How ‘bout you don’t do that? I’m not telling you ‘cause I’m looking for sympathy. You don’t need to play therapist. The point is, when I say shit like that, call you fragile, I don’t mean it. It’s not 'cause I really think you’re weak. You’re just not me.”

Or, perhaps it should be added, a magnesium-and-brimstone-blooded Hellion. Or a two-hundred-year old alchemist/cavalryman/duelist, or a psychotic angel with her own army, or a fallen archangel, or a retired archangel, or a professional zombie killer, or a human-eating Lurker, or a resurrected dead man’s head…come to think of it, most of his contacts on Earth are preternaturally tough. So it’s better if he doesn’t mention all that and feed into the kid’s insecurity and fear of inadequacy. Score one for shutting up. He should try it more often.

Mockery’s met with an expression distantly related to impatience and newly wedded to disbelief. The result? A visible translation of ‘Are ye quite done yet?!’. And how wonderful it had been if no, he wasn’t. Eventually everything comes to an end though. Stark’s mocking is no exception. And when Liam fails to handle things it’s no wonder the older magician’s reaction is pushing the kid further from his comfort zone. Expressions shift anew and although Liam tries his best to keep a poker face (he can’t - not ever) it’s clearly visible how beneath the surface his emotions fight for mastery. In the face of emotional mayhem he decides upon taking the road of passive-aggressiveness to make his points clear and sarcasm serves as trade language:

“Don’t do what? Don’t take an interest in ye? Don’t care for ye? Oh, yeah. How about I just don’t fuckin’ do that?! Wouldn’t that be cushty?!” He finishes with a pout and crosses his arms before his chest. Now that’s just a prime example of huffiness. Apparently his emotions are done fighting. And we have a winner…!

“Fuck, ye just told me that because…?”, Yeah, that is pretty much still a mystery isn’t it? “Because fragility is bound to be subjective? And ye’re special while I’m…”, he pauses in want for a proper adjective; doesn’t find one so he goes with: “…not…?” Nah, that’s probably not it. His questioning tone makes it all too obvious he doesn’t believe in his own theories. “I’ve been called worse than fragile and you’ve clearly endured worse than someone taking to ye. Just fucking bear with me, alright? Dunno what ye expect of me.”

“How about you just don’t fuckin’ take the worst possible meaning from every damn thing I say?!” That is too much to ask, of course; the kid goes on willfully misinterpreting things with blithe unconcern. Never mind that he’s proposing interpretations that even he isn’t convinced by. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. You’re - “

The closing statements stop Stark cold. Head tilts to the side. Eyes narrow suspiciously. “…did you just try to reason at me?” At me, not with me. The latter would mean he’s on board with this reasonable attitude, too, and he’s quite plainly not. However, the simmering ire is successfully cooled. “Sneaky. I told you so maybe you won’t worry so much, next time my head gets broken or I take a giant dragon horn through the leg.“ Or when he gets injured again, in whatever way, this evening. While Liam’s left behind waiting.

Assuming he will wait, that is…

Stark’s hands reflexively tighten in place, as if preemptively restraining the kid to keep him from storming off in anger. Nope. Still not ready to bring that whole subject up. Instead he drops his line of sight to watch his thumbs sweep back and forth repeatedly, tracing the ridges of hipbones hidden beneath Liam’s clothes. “You know, I do…appreciate…you ‘taking an interest’ and all that. But for the record, I don’t expect pity.” Don’t know how to handle it, moreover.

Reason is a one-way street. Or so it would seem with only ever one of them venturing down the narrow path of common sense. Which usually isn’t Liam either. Having been spared the trouble of treading the unfamiliar path so far, he finds himself tempted to stray ever so often and hence is left unwilling to shed the underlying sardonic tone as he dabbles in reasoning: “Alright then; next time ye’ll get hurt I’ll help meself to a bag of popcorn and just watch ye squirm and writhe. No worries. It’ll heal.” - Yeah, and it would help if he could bite back on the cutting sarcasm. A little at least. “Ye’re not fuckin’ indestructible. Don’t assume I’m daft enough to fall for that. Not after ye told me ye actually died before.”

He huffs in anger resignation frustration - his mind a bloody emotion-lottery once again - and frowns; with the exception of his lips which seem to have put in a request to go into business for themselves, curling into a smile to stand out on his otherwise mask of pissed-off-ness. Alright, this is the wrong time to feel ticklish, clearly. Smiling when disgruntled is as horrible as crying when angry. No one takes you seriously. But even worse; the expression is contagious. He can feel his frown ease and vanish. Unsure as how to cope or how to even face Stark now, his gaze, too, drops to those hands at either side of his hips.

“Noted. Pitying was a dick-move” - everyone, bust out your pens and markers and highlight the day Liam Talbot admitted he did wrong - “Didn’t know how to act, but I sure as fuck know ye don’t change how much I worry. Ye may not like it - tough. I don’t like ye gettin skewered or whatever.” Placably Liam places his hands on top of Stark’s, mirroring his thumbs’ drawing patterns with his own on the back of scarred hands. Then he adds a little teasingly: “Ye should be thankful I don’t turn full mother hen on yer sorry arse like some of us would, innit though?”

The mention of writhing and squirming is annoyingly apropos; Liam definitely witnessed one of the indestructible one’s weakest episodes after his dragon battle. Having it brought up now makes him internally writhe with chagrin. And that’s just counting the bits he remembers. No telling how much more pathetic he behaved when the delusions sank their claws in.

Yet the reminder only renders Stark more defensively insistent: “Yeah. I ‘died’ - for all of ten minutes tops, by the way - because an actual no-shit angel stabbed me through the heart with a goddamn celestial Gladius that was. On. Fucking. Fire! How many times you figure I’ll run into that scenario?!” Given how he is - and what he is - the answer’s likely not ‘once in a lifetime’ - but he goes right on pressing his point instead of admitting the little Limey has a point as well. “And now that she did, I could probably take a damn anti-aircraft missile in the chest and walk it off.” Right hand lifts briefly, taps bare sternum hard with a drum-like thump. Indicating the legacy of Aelita’s attack and its inherent protection. Then it drops back to the corresponding hip.

Encouraged by that poorly repressed smile and by the kid’s minor relenting, Stark’s intense expression eases. “Believe it or not, I don’t like gettin’ skewered either. I know you won’t totally stop worrying. Just keep it in mind. I’ve dealt with a lot, lots worse than the stuff I’ve seen with you, and I came through it all whole. Mostly whole.” Just have to assume he means (mostly) whole in body, because emotionally, mentally? He’s nowhere near complete. Missing vital parts all over the place.

His capacity for being protective and concerned over those he cares for, however, remains intact. A rueful chuckle is drawn out when Liam goes on. When covered by smoother ones, rough hands squeeze slim hips in gratitude. They relax, drift north slowly, thumbs skimming beneath the hem of that cavernous t-shirt. “What can I say. You bring out my inner worrywart.” A beat, then softer, more candid (and coincidentally contrite) he adds: “I hate seeing you hurt, especially when I know it’s my fault.”

Liam cocks a brow in an ‘Oh well, excuse me. My bad.’-way; the irony edition. Since when’s death classified a triffle? Oh, maybe since the brain only remains perfectly intact for up to six minutes after cardiac arrest. Must’ve been something about those last four minutes that he doesn’t agree with Stark about shrugging it off like it’s nothing. Luckily none of the kid’s musings make it into spoken form, for which his tongue biting technique comes in handy, but ultimately it’s another question raised that simply poses too much a diversion anyway.

How often? Considering everything that has happened in the past couple of days it’s likely something along the lines of “Every other Tuesday.” Which is exactly what Liam mutters trying his best to sound as unimpressed as he would have to mirror the older magician’s shrug-of-the-shoulders attitude. An entirely hopeless endeavour. He’s as as astounded as he’s distraught, as inexperienced as he’s excited. No denying that. And he doesn’t quite know where to file the info that this is all but the tip of the iceberg.

“It’s not only a question of whether it’ll heal”, tender fingers perambulate a landscape of scars; from the back of the hand they head north, crest elbow peak and there they dwell for a moment, caught in an absently soft drumming. “Or when and how and how well.” Eager repatriates now, finger nails leave their faint marks in southward scrapes. Once destination is reached, wrists find themselves embraced by long fingers. “What until it is healed? Ye know, the bit where ye act about twice as narky than usual. Do I get a free-pass for worrying on that at least? Or are ye gonna tell me once a hobgoblin pinched ye in the bum and now ye can’t feel pain either? I call bullshit on that” - he calls bullshit on a lot of things Stark utters, despite him falling for one or the other tall tale about twice a day still; but his confession? Liam can’t help it, he just knows it’s sincere.

The knowledge wrests an abashed smile from his lips. “Get stuffed”, while it’s said amiably, it’s still meant to translate to ‘shut up’, “Why would it be yer fault?”

Best efforts suffice to contain a laugh, but not to conceal an unwilling grin. “Just how many angelic nemeses do you imagine I’ve got?” Well, strictly speaking, all of them - including most of the fallen ones - so maybe ‘every other Tuesday’ isn’t far wrong. Fortunately the majority are too busy polishing their halos and tuning their harps to hunt down a stray Abomination.

Stark’s hands pause in their trek to watch those on his arms while he focuses on the conversation. The following scratches make an unintentional shiver crawl down his spine, fingers tensing against Liam’s ribcage. "Narky…that translates to charming and irresistible, right?“ Yeeeeah. Precisely how one could describe that vomit-and-hallucination episode in Wales. Not to mention the cracked-skull-and-migraine incident in Bath. The kid’s certainly endured enough whining to call bullshit on any supposed sky-high pain threshold. “No, being hard to kill doesn’t mean I don’t feel pain. Just means I get to feel it more of it, past the point when a human would’ve passed out. So yeah, you can worry. Or you can skip watching me act like a little bitch, knock me out ‘til it is healed. Your call.”

A stiff shrug answers the following query, and Stark draws his lower lip between his teeth. Gnaws at the flesh for a long moment before freeing it to speak. “You wouldn’t be caught up in this shit at all if it weren’t for me. Then again…” He lifts his eyes to meet Liam’s, an eyebrow arching wryly. His sincerity quota has evidently been exceeded for the time being. “You also wouldn’t be caught up in it if you hadn’t stolen the car I was driving, so I guess I won’t feel too guilty.” Nevermind that the car was nothis in the first place; he’s never missed an opportunity to bring up that infamous kidnapping and he isn’t about to start now.

Liam remains somewhat doubtful about the difficulty getting oneself an angel nemesis - hey, even he had one, although said angel-copper’s only ever aimed to sent the defiant thief to the nick and make him see reason (good-fucking luck with that). Judging by this equation Stark probably has at least ten-times as many winged wankers getting on his wick. All of them though seems a number too extreme to come to mind. Narkiness and all aside, Liam can’t deny Stark the acclaimed charm and irresistiblity. But what would angels know?

Maybe at least they might’ve guessed it’s not what ‘narky’ translates to. “Guess again”, the kid retorts without providing an explanation. The word in itself is quite onomatopoetic enough to give a hint, and Stark concluding he’s acting like a little bitch at times isn’t too far off a proper interpretation either. Yet the final suggestion in itself seems more than just counter-productive. At least given how every time he does knock out the Nephilim the real bitching is only about to commence.

Hence it comes to no surprise Stark still has the capacity to bitch about his first UK.O. as he brings up the kidnapping for the umpteenth time. “Oh, come on! Really?! Ain’t that bollocks time-barred yet?” Liam rolls his eyes and sighs theatrically; all to emphasise his annoyance - a feeling that is visibly conquered by a pleasant realisation. Puckered lips yield a smirk when he announces gleefully: “Damn bloody right though; I knocked out the indestructible one-man-army.” (Twice. Not like he fancies bringing up the morning-after-incident just now.) “Wings and fire have nuthin’ on me. And I’m not gonna apologise for nicking that motor. …From a car thief.”

“Clever and witty? Cheerful? Sensual? Powerful and intimidating? Cuddly?” Stark is only too glad to ‘guess again,’ spitting adjectives to distract from what just slipped out. Hearing his own words aloud - when a human would’ve passed out - made him realize the truth they imply. Fortunately Liam doesn’t notice. Opts to throw the predictable tantrum while he fails to grasp the suggested meaning. Stark is not certain he’s ready to talk about his lineage; merely thinking about it is as yet unsettling.

Relief lends itself well to the grin that tantrum provokes. “Are you fucking joking? Not even close. It’ll take at least a year to live that down.” How nice, Liam’s anniversary present will be Stark finally ceasing to complain about being carjacked. Provided he sticks around so long. But the older magician refuses to think about thateither. Pushes it from his mind just as his hands push farther up Liam’s sides. Wrists catch on the hem of his shirt and draw it higher.

The grin grows to a short laugh. “Think our conversation illustrates how I’m nowhere near indestructible, but sure. Props to you.” It’s more like two conversations are being carried on: One verbally, playful bickering and sardonic one-ups-manship; the other physically, as Stark’s fingertips trace the grooves between the younger mage’s ribs, nails scraping, higher, around back to his shoulder blades. Both conversations are interrupted, for the moment, when Stark grasps the bunched fabric and draws the t-shirt over the kid’s head. “Maybe someday you can pull it off when I’m not off-guard or already asleep.”

Whether it’s down to the one feigned, one actual gulp of whisky or due to a more general inability to properly process percepts and feelings, Liam once more struggles not only with what to reply, but how to feel about it, too. Is he annoyed? Yes. Is he amused? Well, undoubtedly, since that stupid half-grin has been practically cut into his face with the knife called “soppy for Stark”. But what to make of it? If anything he can decide on it’s that he’s emotionally confused. Constantly.

The diversionary manoeuvre proves a thorough success; too many adjectives and the mere idea the older mage keeps his guesswork up wrest an are-you-taking-the-piss look from the Manc. One which only intensifies over learning about the statutory period of limitation for kidnapping badass magicians in their own stolen cars. “Bugger me.” That’ll make for tough 50 more weeks.

But just as he thought he couldn’t strain his facial muscles any further, alternating between a cocked brow situation, frowning and squinting, he pulls a wry face and retorts: “Don’t do that.” Context pending. Naturally. Liam lifts his arms to aid Stark getting rid of his tent of a shirt and greets him with a mock-scolding look once the fabric has been successfully pulled over his head. “Don’t sell yerself short just to do me down, ye twit.” And there Stark earns himself a poke in the arm, the only physical correlation between what he’s saying. Almost instantly his fingers resume the gentle caress, painting invisible patterns mirrored on both upper arms.

“Who says I can’t malificent yer arse into dreamland right now, Sleepin’ Beauty?” - he probably did so himself, but, right, change the rules, kid. It’s not like that wasn’t something he’s been doing since the beginning of their drinking game anyway. “Ye really think I’m bloody toothless, don’t ye?”

“Sure, but maybe some foreplay first?” The kid was asking for it, especially when you add in his own quips whenever Stark lets slip a thoughtless ’fuck me.’ The t-shirt is balled up, tossed at one of the piles of clothing that dot the floor like an archipelago of menswear in varied states of destruction amid a sea of scuffed and stained hardwood.

“I’m not selling myself short.” His hands go back instinctively to Liam’s sides, return to aimless exploration. “Pay attention. What I’m telling you is, I’m a colossal fuck-up. I didn’t suffer some radioactive accident in a lab or gain the favor of the gods. I got my superpowers by getting my ass handed to me again and again. The only good thing is each time I do, it means the next guy’s gotta try that much harder. By this point I’m running out of people who can keep up.“

Stark exhales a derisive snort, but the following accusation makes him squint with suspicion. "Hell no. We are not having this argument again. Last time you almost walked out on me then paralyzed my tongue.” Which makes another time the little Limey bested him, proving someone’s point. He doesn’t remember whose just now. Was he supposed to be making a convincing case for what an impervious badass he is, to prove he doesn’t need backup tonight? …Damn. Clutching Liam’s body with his knees, arms secure around him, Stark tips to the side, turns the maneuver into a barrel roll to end on his back with the kid above him, bracketed by his bent legs. “I know you’re not. No one that’s met you would deny your offensive abilities.”

Hang on, this isn’t foreplay…? Liam furrows his brow for his best sceptic look - keeps it up for the duration of the inconsistent elucidation. “I am” paying attention; it’s muttered impatiently, sulkily while the explanation’s still in full play, almost as instantly as his initial defiance comes his objection once Stark’s done talking: “No. Ye’re telling me I’m not weak, because ye’re just simply better, next thing ye’re suddenly a fuck-up and ye expect me to feel chuffed about what that’ll render me as. I can keep up, fuckin’ thanks for nuthin’.”

He’s definitely up for renewing that argument - although he remembers the matter(s) of dispute a little differently; and most certainly he should not feel as proud about throwing a hex at people’s faces, but the novelty feeling of remorse has long worn off and the knowledge he bested the one-man army once again was truly too good a feeling to not let it blossom. Not like any of it matters now.

From one second to the next he finds his world turned up side down. No, not upside down, round and round, and it keeps on spinning moments after they’ve settled in their new configuration. Laboriously blinking the dizziness off the younger mage loses his train of though and with it dies his belligerence. …or does it? “Oi! What’s that supposed to mean?!”, he demands to know, placing his hands on the knees on either side of his waist. A gentle push is enough for him to break free and collapse onto the taller magician beneath him. It’s a tough cheek bone versus clavicle stand-off, eventually they both survive, though the encounter still wrests a pained grunt from the kid. Stupid idea. “Am not offensive. Get stuffed.”

Of course this isn’t foreplay; no one’s bleeding yet. Oh, wait… Stark grunts in disgust at that (mis)interpretation. “I am stronger. That doesn’t make me better. With your latent power and undying curiosity, if you’d had my training you’d be fuckin’ unstoppable.” He’s speaking here of his magical training, rather than the decade of education Downtown. And he certainly did not mean he was running out of people who can keep up with his mental convolutions. That’s not the sort of race he can brag about winning. “Christ.” He tilts his head back, sighing with a hiss. “You’re doing it again.”

Nascent irritation derailed by the little Limey’s crash-landing on his chest, he echoes the grunt and raises a hand to the back of Liam’s head, scrapes his fingernails affectionately over his scalp. The opposite arm drapes lazily over his back. “’course not. Never defensive either.” While that brand of offensive-defensiveness might serve him well in winning arguments (and starting them), it wouldn’t do so well to keep him alive if faced with another priory situation. And Stark’s less than confident about his ability to do the same when he’s got Vidocq to worry about, as well.

“Crawler” Immediately Stark finds himself accused of courtier-y behaviour. Because, right, no matter what approach, Liam will ultimately see fault in everything once the argument is in full swing. Which - for someone who’s at constant war with the world - might even translate to ‘always’. Always, but not while those questing fingertips range the thicket of his mouse brown hair; their tracks besoothing, and dreaded the moment when the wanderers reach their destination. Hence the defensive offender, offensively defying his own nature, leans into the desiderated touch and hums in approval. His own hand travels North, index finger drawn to a thin line of scar, and with its devout disciples to follow, the hand pursues the path of the stigma towards the sternum. It pauses. Reverent. Irresolute? Liam tries to lift his head as cautiously as possible to not rouse the soothing, exploring fingers, while yet he needs to reestablish eye-contact.

“Bloody right. I’m neither”, while the cockiness is undeniable in his prosody, his voice is but reduced to a mere whisper. “Oi, don’t blame me. Ye started it.” Not really, no. Somehow the whispering does belie his position, as if not even his voice wants to participate in this petty falsehood. Exhausted from straining his neck, he beds his head on Stark’s chest again and continues with a somewhat firm voice: “I’m not you. Yeah, right. Yer strengths ain’t mine, but I’m sure there’s plenty vice versa.” Like obscure knowledge of 80s New Wave bands for example. “Can we like not talk about it though?”

The epithet causes Stark to squint in confusion. Last time he checked, ‘crawler’ was the term for one of a particularly pungent tribe of water-nixies that live in the sewers of large cities. He doubts that’s what Liam’s accusing him of being, but that doesn’t clarify what the hell he does mean. Instead of asking, at the risk of opening a whole new argument, the older magician mentally shrugs it off. “If you say so.” Unknowingly, he keeps the likelihood of another argument at the lower end of the scale as his fingers continue to comb aimlessly through Liam’s hair, interrupted once to pick out a stray blueberry.

They pause again, without retreating, when he lifts his head. And since he went to so much effort, Stark does the same, but - naturally - he cheats, folding his left arm back to prop his head up. He eyes the digits tracing the legacy of his Hellion vivisection until the kid speaks again. A very unconvincing defense that causes one eyebrow to raise. Even Liam doesn’t seem to believe it, and Stark only mutters a tolerant “Did not. You’re full of shit.” So there’s at least one ‘strength’ they share, then.

At least, he doesn’t demand any whisky forfeit for the outright lie, feeling like their game was paused a while back. Merely resumes the scalp massage and lets his eyes shut. “Yeah. We can like not talk about it. We can like, not talk about anything, if you come here and let me kiss you.” For encouragement, as if any were needed, he untucks his arm-pillow and returns it to its previous place, clasped around Liam’s waist to try to draw him upwards.

A low guttural growl’s certainly not an appropriate - least of all romantic - reply to being invited from cuddles to kisses, but it translates Liam’s displeasure about moving like no syllables ever could. Physical activity! What the fuck even? And yet he succumbs to the lure of his tempter, starving for the promised kiss. So his fingers abandon traversing lines of scars and wander past prominent collarbone to dive into the yawning abyss and land on crinkled fabric - not sure whether it’s sheeting or duvet cover he gets hold of. Once his grip is firm and tight, the younger mage commences pulling himself upwards, feet shoving and kicking for a pathetic support. Skin over skin, bones over bones, he painfully drags himself inch by inch closer to the promised kiss.

And once he’s made it, too much out of breath for a ridiculous exercise of this proportion, his face hovers over Stark’s, eyes locked and their breathing’s all to fill the silence. A hundred and a hundred more words Liam keeps at the tip of his tongue; eventually he swallows hard on any soppy confession he’s been holding back. Only an enamoured idiot’s half-choked chortle remains and his lovestruck smile to find its end in the kiss he’s longed for for so long. Not talking never solves problems. But it makes it so much easier to pretend there are none at all.

In all of creation, nothing matters but this; lying in a rumpled bed in a sordid house at the arse end of the world. Wind howling and the first raindrops hitting the window ledge before the downpour commences and drowns out the wind in a thunderous drumming. As the rain begins to fall Liam breaks the kiss and sucking on his lips savours the taste of their whisky-flavoured intimacy for just a moment longer. Then he commits the sacrilege of breaking the silence: “Oi. Dunno if y’even deserve it”, he tries to act cocky and challenging, but his own neediness is seeping into his looks like ink drops falling into clear water. Clouded his sight at first until desire dyes his vision black and he remains silently pleading for more. Neither might deserve this, but they both need it.

Of course it has to become a whole production. Were his eyes open, Stark would be rolling them; instead he gives a huffy sigh. Not a second later his fabricated annoyance evaporates as he realizes that, actually, having the little Limey drag himself laboriously along his body is far from unpleasant. So he lets a contented sound rumble in his throat, only once the destination is reached and movement stilled, opens his eyes. They meet Liam’s unhesitating, unguarded and unfiltered. It wouldn’t be difficult, based on his expression and the prolonged silence, to hazard a guess at his thoughts. With Stark’s demi-clairvoyant advantage it’s still easier. The words being kept back practically echo inside his skull. Or is he just imagining a wishful mimic to his own thoughts? Either way, the sense of them causes his own breath to gain pace - half excitement, half trepidation - and in the end, he’s glad the silence persists. Hands lock onto Liam’s slender waist as Stark cranes up, meets him halfway.

Another gratified growl forms, escapes his mouth this time to filter into the one attached, as his hands loosen to rove idly over bare skin. When the kiss is broken he looks back at Liam with nickel-gray eyes half-hidden in a way that would look languid, were they not so watchful. Maybe now the kid will voice those unspoken thoughts? Nope. Not even one. What he says instead makes Stark grin crookedly then shake his head. “Nah. I definitely don’t.” Yet his fingers claw possessively into Liam’s sides, thighs clench inexorably tight around his hips. Voice lowers to a hoarse murmur, even as that grin widens. “But I’m gonna take it anyway."

He doesn’t initiate the conquest immediately, holding back from claiming the other’s lips in favor of brushing his own over them tauntingly, side to side, parting them after an extended moment only so his teeth can scrape gingerly in their place. However, his point is emphasized in a more blatant manner: While his right hand remains at the small of Liam’s back, describing small distracted circles, the left traverses past his waistband without hesitance, along his tailbone. Lower. It traces the center seam of his jeans, nudges between his legs - lower - finally curls securely there with the tip of the long middle finger resting just behind his balls. Abruptly the pressure increases, those fingertips clench decisively and haul upwards while the palm pushes down on his coccyx. Simultaneously Stark tips his chin up and bites forcefully into Liam’s lower lip, just shy of breaking skin.

As expected, Stark is more than willing to commit insurgency upon fate’s miserly merit. A promise falls from his lips. A threat? Yet despite his words and despite the yearning Liam cherishes a believe he’s descried in the nephilim’s expression, an immediate deed is not what he’s presented with. Instead he falls for the bait and the bait after the bait and after that, accepting willingly, hungrily what littlest precursor of a kiss he’s lured with. He moans quietly, half in frustration, half consumed by his own craving. Quivering his bottom lip, having experienced too much and yet not enough attention by those teasing teeth.

And the quivering, trembling spreads. It runs down his spine, a wildfire following the descending fingers’ path and setting his entire body ablaze. The hands leave seats of fire in their wake, from the idle circles to the one just right t h e r e and - Liam inhales sharply. He breathes in the toxic fumes of pheromones building up in the air around them. It burns down his throat, fills his lungs and when he finally can’t hold it for any longer, his hot breath comes faltering, stumbling over his maltreated lips to - on his turn - act but a teasing ghost of what could be a fiery kiss.

Restraint ultimately proves to be a dried up leaf. Brittle from the start, soon consumed by the flames and burned away to nothing. He arches his back, involuntarily, instinctively, desirous to feel more of his blazing lover’s body. So soft his whimper which escapes his mouth, so brutal the hands that claw at Stark’s scalp. Nails find ridges of old scars, strands of hair get tangled around ravaging fingers. His left falls, scratches down behind the ear and down the side of the throat. The thumb, unwontedly gentle, brushes past the adam’s apple to establish a firm, yet light grip. “Do yer worst”, the Manc challenges with a smirk blossoming on his tortured lip, “Take me.”

No need now to divert his mind from the things he doesn’t want to talk about. Just like that Stark’s thinking part shuts off, like a switch is thrown in effect of the quiet beseeching sound the younger mage makes. Too, he can feel the faint tremors in the muscles he touches, can sense the sudden if incremental increase of body heat, can hear the effort required to take breath. All cues that tell him what he’s doing is right, is desired, and for all he’s regained more confidence since the first time they were together that’s still a reassurance he needs. After all, the kid’s already seen his worst. Maybe he didn’t entirely embarrass himself, but he hopes he can continue to do better than that first night.

The challenge and accompanying smirk is matched with a thin, sharp grin. His chin lifts slightly, head tilts back and throat pushes against the gentle hold. A silent but obvious invitation for it to tighten. “I think I will.” Whatever levity his habitually flippant tone implies is cancelled out by the blatant lust in his eyes.

Yet, again, it seems he’s in no hurry to make good on his promise/threat. The lower hand may retrace its path, but only a small portion of it: Fingertips reach the tip of tailbone then drag back down, stroking, taunting though not lacking in force. The opposite makes more noticeable progress as it skims to Liam’s side, nails scraping, and edges into the practically nonexistent space between their bodies.

It’s difficult to keep focus. The void of craving inside him that the younger man’s suggestive demand hollowed out is rapidly being filled with a desperate heat, caused in turn by the way his actions make Liam writhe atop him. By the yearning noises he produces, heard however restrained they are, however loud the downpour on the roof. By the understated but unmistakable spill-over of his arousal into Stark’s consciousness, intensifying his own. So yeah, it’s difficult, but he’s managing. Dexterous digits work to unlatch the fly of Liam’s jeans, then snare the fabric, tug it away along with that of his underwear. Inch by inch, one sharp hip is revealed. Cherished by heavy caress, then abandoned when those fingers relocate to expose the other. When both are bare, the hand returns to his back, slips beneath the waistbands to shove them down. Stark draws in a deeper hard-to-catch breath in order to request (at least, he meant for it to be a request): “Get rid of this, Liam. All of it, everything.”

Fingers strain and the grip is tightened, carefully overseen by a lusting gaze thirsting to wrest pleasure from the firm grasp around the throat. Daylight, though dulled by a veil of rain and dulled by the window’s coating of dust, assails the kid with unwonted impressions. Where he’s used to feel and listen in the dark, he now lays eyes upon all he yearns for. For the one words yet fail to express his feelings. For the mirror of his own desire, yearning, need. For those hands exploring known new-land and unreconnoitred familiar ground. As his gaze falls to follow the daring explorers, his own grip loosens, and he observes with a quivering lip, desperate to get out words of approval and syllables of praise, how the uncovering commences. Half-word, half-whimper he sends flying to encourage the undertaking - yet words more clear, more bold and pronounced cut him off and lay the revealing into his own hands.

A tongue darts out between parted lips, painting on a playful smile as it scrapes past the upper row of teeth. “I think I will”, words are mimicked, though as roguish as they may seem, the whisper voice he shrouds them in bear witness to his increasing difficulty to retain rationality when everything is consumed by desire.

And yet he manages to move back a little, depriving himself of the touch he longs for. Reconfigured to now kneel beside Stark, eyes drinking in the sight of the older mage in the linen, getting drunk on his expectations, Liam slips his thumbs beneath the waistband of his jeans to pull them even further down, quickly, and just as quickly he’s rid of them entirely, even if not as gracefully as he would’ve liked to. With his briefs, naturally, he’d turn it into a whole performance: No matter how much he longs for liberation, for closeness renewed and Stark’s hand praising the subject of this unveiling. He prolongs exposure, disclosure where the bulge of his pleasure leaves no doubt about what lies beneath.

It hurts. And it hurts good to take his time. But once the fabric is pulled down enough to hang loosely around his thighs, all the aching seconds, every heart beat he’s held out before, come crashing down on him. Time regains integrity; were it stretched out before, it runs all the faster now. In a hurry Liam kicks off his pants and dives down to reunite with Stark, a kiss for their reunion, as he denies him the sight of his naked body - yet pressing into his side to let him feel even more of it.

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