Dead of Night 34-.-.-.-.-.-
Luce came back that next night, on Halloween.
He was clean-shaven, which was strange. He was tired, which was also strange; the sag of his fur-crested shoulders was too loose to be sullen, and the vampire himself was perversely unobtrusive and indisposed to his usual snappy name-callings and gleeful aggravations. He spent an inordinate amount of time in the closet and seemed to have lost his appetite, at least where Conrad was concerned. He obliged the coroner with another much-needed magical vampire spit treatment of his leg, but that was it. In fact, Conrad was relatively sure nothing short of pricking his finger and shoving it into Luce's mouth would get a response, and wasn't inclined to try it out for fear that the vampire's unnerving apathy would break into something startling and violent.
But the strangest thing was not the vampire's baby-smooth face or his quietness or his willful isolation, but the fact that Luce Worth returned t
Dead of Night 33-.-.-.-.-.-
The morgue was completely silent.
Even if it meant he could hear every click of every meticulous metal tool and every subtle fleshy noise, Conrad had never liked working to music. It was a bleeding of two separate areas of his life: work and pleasure, because he took his music very seriously and, conversely, taking toxicology samples from the gut of a dead woman was very much work. It was also the third night since he had been shot and, though his leg wasn't actually the pillar of fire and pain he had expected, he wanted to be able to hear every sound in case the source happened to be of the 'things about to kill him' cast.
In this state, at least, he needed a hell of a head start.
The coroner worked quietly and quickly, wondering what the hell had driven him to come in to work at all that afternoon besides the madness of staying inside because something was outside. He fought his exhaustion to finish up quickly, because it was almost
Dead of Night 32-.-.-.-.-.-
Supernatural Meet and Greet
He was in the grey again.
He only looked left and right, then stopped, knowing with a chilly certainty that there was nothing more behind him. Someone had brought him here. The very stillness of the place spoke of it. He tried to prepare as best he could and found he could do nothing but wait, hands empty at his sides.
The woman with the green eyes came to him through the mist, her body blue and walking along some continental shelf that solidified beneath them with every soundless footstep. They were somewhere deep. Somewhere sharks dreamt.
A mirroring fear, low and dark as they, gripped him, and he tried to look and prepare as he never had. She was fainter, somehow, or flickering jarringly between states of solidity and evanescence that left her energy all the sharper, all the more bitterly aware of time. She was fading, and it cost her something to move through the heavy water in front of him. There was a hyper-cyan glow about her,
Dead of Night 31-.-.-.-.-
Rinse Lather Repeat
Flipping on the lamp, Finas sat back on their deflated couch and flipped through his book until he found his place, settling into the thick stacks of text. It had been a quiet night in the apartment. From sunset, Cas proved sluggish and unwilling to face the below-freezing temperatures, spending a record amount of time rooting in his bed and grumbling and sighing as loudly as he could. Finas, as usual, was content with whatever option was left. He took the opportunity to unobtrusively clean house-slash-guns and catch up on his reading.
After his partner finally parted himself from his bed (albeit with trailing sheets and a borderline glorious rooster bed-head), he even made some tea, but Cas had always been one for the high-cost, high-effect path, and whiskey worked far faster than tea for cold bones. And it was, technically, after five-o-clock.
Currently, Cas was bent over the bathroom sink, having a squinting contest with his reflection. He pic