weaponwithoutpurpose

weaponwithoutpurpose

voice . text . video . action

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

sixfeetofdirt

He was never a good listener.

How are you feeling?

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

Like hell.

You alright?

From:

sixfeetofdirt

No. But I imagine I have that in common with most of our fellow travellers.

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

that's for damn sure

sorry I couldn't stake him for you

From:

sixfeetofdirt

I have no idea what you were thinking, but regardless, I appreciate the thought.

Did your sister cause any trouble?

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

[There's no answer for a long moment as he gathers his thoughts coherently enough to put in words.]

i was thinking that you deserved to have someone talk back to that fucker

that you went through too much shit for me to be silent

no one deserves that

she was fine

only tried to stab one person

From:

sixfeetofdirt

How restrained.

[ ... ]

Thank you.

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

yeah

you want to come over?

this fucking thing gives me a headache

From:

sixfeetofdirt

[He absolutely could use the distraction. Any distraction, really.]

Nothing would please me more. Where's your room?

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

second floor, room 18.

From:

sixfeetofdirt

Astarion arrives only minutes later, tapping lightly on the door. Thankfully, he always looks pale and washed out, so any physical signs of feeling like absolute shit aren't really visible!

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

Jacob, in contrast, is a little more gaunt and pale then normal, but at least he's upright. He opens the door to his room, a rather standard hotel room, though there's a cage in the corner for the puppy, who is currently not in the room.

Jacob has the lights off, but he doesn't need them to know who's at the door.

"Hey. Come in."

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"Thank you, darling."

He closes the door behind him, quietly, and lets his shoulders drop.

"...Gods. What a fucking mess of a week, hm?"

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

He can only nod as he walks back to his bed and sits down heavily on it. He's not in his fatigues now, just a t-shirt and jeans, and that's only because Astarion's over. The rumpled mess of bedsheets hasn't been made all day.

"Yeah. A fucking week. I got stabbed, turned into the bitch who isn't my sister, and - well, least I got to yell at someone."

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"And to spit on him, no less. You've fulfilled a long-held fantasy of mine."

He sits down on the bed next to him.

"Who stabbed you?"

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

He laughs, leaning on him slightly.

"Cain. He was here for Abel. Abel and I got into it in the gym and I guess Cain took offense to that. Shoved a knife on my shoulder. John healed me...not that it mattered in the end."

From:

sixfeetofdirt

Astarion, of course, does not catch the reference to an unfamiliar religious text in those names.

He leans back in kind.

"At least he didn't turn you," he murmurs. "Dying isn't a picnic, but coming back to life while you feel the bones of your skull changing shape is just...insult to injury."

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

He shakes his head. "Why the fuck does your skull change shape?"

Because he's pretty sure that his head is going to explode even without that.

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"Because it has to make space for this."

Astarion curls up one lip, the better to show him one fang when it extends downward in a quick, mechanical sort of motion.

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

It isn't hard to see the movement, even in the dim light of the room, and he sighs.

"Yeah, figure that would hurt, then. Still, would rather have no fucking death toll."

He eases himself back onto the bed, his whole body aching, though he rests a hand still on Astarion's.

"What happened to him? In the end?"

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"Not very much. A few people picked fights or had choice words."

John had reached into his head and used what he'd found to terrorise him, but he hadn't even said Astarion's name. He might not have done anything at all if not for his precious Arthur being the one Cazador had picked on. Fuck. What does he even care?

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

"And so he disappeared into the fucking ether," he mutters, feeling that anger well up in him again, hot and furious, for half a second. It wasn't fair.

And then it's gone.

None of this made any fucking difference. He's just one loud mouth in the sea of picked fights, and, in the end, no one got what they fucking deserved.

"What a cunt."