#this is a rly bad reply but reviving old threads hard and also i haven't written them in... like a year

[sunlessea]

london does not love its masters. no matter how dearly select few of them may love it. a city is made of its people, rather than the industries of the one percent that rule over it. what comes with hatred comes with revolution tenfold, and with love among the most hated, so too danger. if adrien were able to get a word out, he'd probably laugh and say he's not even surprised. four times he'd nearly been killed by fires' direct actions, either as part of the masters or its own individual folly. the one time he hadn't even thought about it would be the one time god would mock him with success. he should've prayed harder for forgiveness, when he gave up on a heaven among the stars and settled for one in the arms of something alien. if he hears its quips or its reassurances, he doesn't let onto it. by time it's taken him into its arms, he's unconscious, blood that isn't his marring its cloaks, but destroying his clothes more than. he was already dead. now he seems a bit deader.

and were it that ruckus could come with a warning! the doctor knows of chaos before it ever reaches them, the voices that whisper a symphony in their ears barely able to utter a word before the streets of london are alight with screams and screeching. mr fires doesn't even have to make it close before they know, and by that time, mr plagues is standing at the head of their own clinic, a huddle of other guests downtrodden hidden behind the curtains at the back. too injured to run from the incoming danger, but too scared to come out of hiding. they don't even stop them. it's probably for the best!

and there it is. a roaring pyre, a flame fit to its title. the eyes on plagues' mask flicker red, a simulated blink as they shift their own black cloaks, beak parted in mock gasp.

"you could have just opened the door, mr fires. there was absolutely no reason for you to be so brutish. you will be paying for damages." this is no time for quips, they can tell. rarely ever has london ever seen fires at its full fury, they would guess — even when rock had split from ceiling and allowed beams of light down 'pon its populace, it hadn't been so violent. but it will not kill nor hurt them. clearly it needs their help. fancy that! plagues' attention falls to the dying caitiff. dead? dying. dead? well. at least it chose a cot for him. whoever it belonged to now, cowering in the back of the infirmary, would certainly not complain, lest their head be separated from their neck. "you are fowl—" plagues huffs indignantly as it whips around, drags them! and yet, even as they stumble, their tone of voice betrays their own madness, "—get it? like a bird. anyways, you're rude! the nerve of you to barrel in here and demand my services! i work with the poor and downtrodden."

they throw their arms out as they circle the occupied cot, gesturing vaguely in adrien's direction. he's remarkably peaceful for a dying man. dead? dying. dead! not a single trace of pain left on his face. porcelain, if it weren't for all those unseemly freckles. "which does NOT constitute you, now does it? your little light is hardly a pauper under your care! hmph."

... they wouldn't turn him away, of course. they're miffed by the lack of delicacy, though. the masters are terribly brutish. disgusting things. oh, but what a poor boy, the other one! their eyes flicker again, then they turn to look down at him proper. they hardly have to look far. it's pretty clear he'd been shot. enter wound, no exit. a bullet to the heart? ah, likely a silver bullet. inquisition! no. sherlock.

back and forth, voices in their head. cassius ashburnum? no! never! he wasn't the revolutionary type. cassius married irons, burned down his old life, set off anew — framed. starboy, this one. taking the brunt of a sin not his own.

the doctor stays silent for longer than anticipated, and one would think the damn caitiff would just bleed out at that point. but he's a kindred, so it doesn't really matter. he's good as dead. dying. already dead. nothing brings a vampire back from a stake to the heart, be it wood or silver. "what exactly do you want me to do, mr fires? i am a doctor, not a bloody miracle worker. you know what happens to kindred whose hearts are harmed. short of bringing the judgements themselves down here, you may as well kiss him goodb—" they trail off, staring a little harder. judgements? gods. the gods. london has gods, but not judgements, not on paper. but they're not different. just different societies. all holy. " ... hm. now there's a thought."

they're clearly not listening to fires or its threats! they mumble to themselves for a mite longer, and then— "you idiot!" they raise their hand and slap it down on fires' head. "don't touch him! hurting his physical body isn't going to do you any favors! if you're going to take out your anger, do it to something else!" it has bad bedside manners! dead or no, it shouldn't be throwing his arm around! "i can't heal dead, fires! and your little friend here isn't like other londoners. when kindred die down here, we don't come back." that's to say... get out of their way! they push fires back, then whip back around, rolling him over to look at the wound. he's definitely dead. or about to be. "do you know silas elial edwards? of course you do! he hates adrien, married to the prince of london, etcetera, etcetera. write a note of summons and give it to the dove on my door plate. tell him if he doesn't come within ten minutes of receiving said summons, i'll have him assassinated in his sleep. you can find my wax stamp for identification purposes on my desk in the backrooms, past all the ladies and gents cowering from you in the back. shoo, shoo. be quick."

in tandem with speaking, they've taken to tearing at adrien's shirt, head cocked as they examine the wound. the way they move, they're intending to remove the bullet, clearly. for all the good it'd do. at least it wouldn't be in him, though. now, they're mumbling to themselves.

"hunters! well, mr fires deserves this. not you, though. how very sad, they've dragged you into all this. cassius, she called you. oh, you've been betrayed."

what a lovely evening it'd been, compared to most. it'd been so long since they had time for a proper outing ... much as it had begged at its own behest, it needn't matter how much it pushed and prodded : they would be halfway out the door and he'd wrestle free from its grip, and it'd complied, always, accepting another night in together instead. it'd grown fond of their strolls through the sidestreets since their wedding. he'd gotten significantly less nasty glances, in any case. at least that it'd been able to notice. but that was lovely! a sweeter change of pace, a newfound sense of peace where they both had been so sorely without. it really can't help itself, the way it tugs him closer, vying always for affection he'd begrudgingly give to satiate every lopsided grin. it does the same now, bumps the side of his head with its nose, ears flicking anticipant under its cloaks; quivering with excitement and ecstasy. and it is greeted with a warmth it does not expect, when it bows its head, nuzzling its cheek up to his own. wet, and warm, and red.

blood splatters.

there is a moment of pause; of bleary recognition where stunned into a chilling silence—it freezes entirely. and perhaps that is a sight more horrific than its blood-spattered lover, where it is often so quick to turn to explosive anger : the twitch of its claw outstretched, moments away from curling around his cheek, the slow shudder of a chill that should not exist creeping up its spine, body quivering against every slow, careful blink. it is a ticking time bomb, and everyone knows it. the crowds react before it does, arm it had already kept snug around his waist suddenly an anchor to deadweight. around them, the citizens of the neath scatter like rats, none lingering more than a spare glance out of a shuttered window or peeking around curtain layers out of a morbid curiosity to see what would follow. once a crowded street lay nearly deathly-still, with only the master of embers and its caitiff partner half-dead and slumped over in its tightening grip. when it speaks, at last, its voice trembles. a grating sound, its shrill whisper : " adrien—? "

it clicks all at once. and it must have screamed his name after, a shriek not unlike those that fled where it whips around to cradle him, push his weight over the bulk of its shoulders where he can still bear to stand : but the rest is such a blur. adrenaline it does not know—or hasn't felt in quite some time. he's still warm, as much as that matters for kindred ; but it is a miracle for it, who clings to the feeling still of his fingers grabbing onto its cloaks, the trace hints of his heat through the fabric where the iron-sting of his blood for once instead makes its stomach turn like a ventrue's. there's no telling what would come when the candle flickered out, or if he would fall unconscious before the spell released its grip, but there's no time! a luxury even london's masters could not afford in their finer moments, and certainly not now, here.

" shut up! " harsh words, perhaps, to a wounded man, let alone one it loves so dearly. but the growl to its voice is no more directed towards him, himself, than it is a means of assuring itself. silence to the nagging voices that beg remind it that these things do happen, would happen, for having the gall to believe it could have fallen in love, and more than that, that it was worthy of keeping it. " . . . save your breath, little light. i promise i will not let you fade. " it doesn't expect him to respond to its pleas, most murmured, where it isn't hissing or spitting vitriol at every passerby. in truth, it doesn't want him to : it just wants him to survive. just look at me.

the masters do not deserve to know its tragedy : and they will know, but not all of them must—only one, in particular, matters in the moment. where it weaves between what few people remain littering the streets, and the streets themselves at a pace notably inhuman. it's no wonder his feet can hardly keep up, laying half-dead aside. it has to scoop him up in its arms eventually, when its pace outmatches what his body can bear, and where it cannot allow itself flight it makes the most of its speed otherwise; eyes darting to every suspicious shadow in pursuit of two drastically different individuals. the first : their hunter. his hunter. his blood is no longer hot against its cheek, though it seeps uncomfortably against the front of its cloaks, how it has him cradled against its chest. but the second ... is much more difficult.

" plagues! " its voice is a roaring pyre, loud and unmistakable itself if it hadn't practically barreled its way into their office. and it may as well have, the damage its kick has done to it. not that it matters, its trembling in fear and anger alike by time it has cleared off a cot, the only care given to adrien himself—set down gingerly despite its shaking claws. there is not a hint of the hesitation it held before : it whips around near immediately, grabbing the newest master by their own cloaks to drag them—much like it had the one currently curled up in on themselves—to his side, throwing them forward to make their own assessments. " hunters, " it hisses, though it's anger is a flickering flame; it is its own distress that is much more palpable, features twisting in a similar agony where its claws curl around one of his arms. he's getting colder. " you're a doctor, aren't you? fix this! " it doesn't mean to be so harsh, not to grip him so tightly or throw his arm down when it flails its own outward in broad, exaggerated gesture. " to be quite frank with you, i don't care what you have to do. but if he dies, it is your head as much as it is his killer's—do you understand? "