Black As A Lifestyle Choice
It's dark under the railway bridge. Not that it's much brighter out there - the effect of really overcast days, the type LA never experiences. In Britain, sometimes, the sun seems like a far-away prospect. Memories intrude of riding a train up north, stuck next to a man from Africa - he can't remember where, the only real impression the man made was his endless questions and intensely irritating personality. The man asked questions about the land they were passing through, asking who owned it, and why it was so green. The short answer? Because it rains. Very simple. If you want a green and pleasant land, you have to accept that you'll get regular rain and overcast skies. It's worse out west; he knew a girl who lived in Cornwall for a while and now nearly never moves outside without an umbrella if there's more than three clouds in the sky. She's still the least likely to complain about rain, though, and the last to put up an umbrella. He shakes his head. Shouldn't be thinking like this, but she's late.
Ten minutes passes in a haze of train rumbles and the occasional passerby, who never look into the shadows under the bridge. Eventually his quarry arrives, joins him under the bridge. "You're late." He states, not looking at her.
She leans her head back, rubbing the kink out of a muscle on her neck. "Got into a disagreement."
"Dare I ask?"
"Orgath demon."
"They're rarely aggressive."
"They are if you bump into them and spill their coffee. One lousy cup of Starbucks tainted water on the floor and he's yelling at me like it's the end of the world. I'm telling you, that guy has to seriously think of investing in chill pills. Couldn't get away." Small period of silence while a train rattles overhead, drowning out any possibility of conversation. "So what you got for me?"
Wes pulls out a flyer from a pocket. "Heard of this?" The flyer's advertising a club night on the other side of the river.
"Yeah, I seen the smaller versions tacked up on poles. They're not being real subtle about it, are they? All you can eat buffet, stupid goths the main meal."
"Look closer. See anything different about it?"
"I -" Faith frowns, studies it. Hanging around Wes rubs off on you. He makes you learn things, look for the details. Different from your usual watcher/slayer deal, but most watchers didn't spend a few years in the detective agency business. Most slayers don't spend a few years in prison, either, time off because half the prison got massacred by a coterie of demons that regarded a bunch of incarcerated women as an all-you-can-munch buffet. Wes... well, they kind of got thrown together. Too many bad memories in the US for them to stay. Tilts the paper sideways. Something in the pattern... "Fuck."
"Exactly my thoughts."
She traces the lines of the glyphs entwined in the artwork. A little like the old thieves' sign Wes showed her - it's still used in some places - and a little like the glyphs they used in Blade. A vampire film Faith really gets. No angst, just one long fight. Sometimes the media gets a little bit right, but you can never tell whether it's by sheer dumb luck or someone knows a bit and is desperately trying to teach, or flaunt it. "The goth thing's a cover, right? It's a call. But what for?"
"Unfortunately, they were inconsiderate enough not to include that information in the flyer." Wes replies dryly.
10pm, there's people milling outside the club. Lots of black and purple and red, but not in the way you'd see it on regular clubbers, the ones that go out to get high and dance all night. This is black as a lifestyle choice, because ennui and poetry and the romance of vampirism are obviously the sane way to lead your life. Not that the observers of this scene could comment on the sanity of their decisions, but at least they know fully what they're doing. He scans the crowd cooly, maybe a little hint of contempt lurking at the corners of his expression. Goths never made sense to him, but that's probably because he was brought up with the notion that vampirism kills. A disease to be eradicated rather than fŽted and worshipped from afar. The despised pox rather than the romanticised tuberculosis. And getting bitten hurts. He's never heard anyone describe the bite of an animal in poetic terms.
Faith speaks up from beside him. "What a bunch of losers." Hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, sneer on her face. Black as a lifestyle choice again, but because she knows it looks good and gives her that edge. Tight, not flowing. "What's the plan? Go in, massacre the vamps, party the night away?"
"Reverse the last two and you might be closer. We'll need to establish ourselves as relatively harmless." She makes a disbelieving noise at that statement. Harmless. Not in your wildest dreams. "Go in, dance, scan the place as we do so. Watch for them. We don't want a bloodbath."
"Dustbath?"
"Not on the dancefloor. Insulated from the real world they may be, but I'd prefer not to have their cosy little illusions be shattered just yet. I want this relatively quiet."
"You ever interested in the big bang, Wes?"
"Contrary to popular belief, that type of tactic normally achieves very little. Headlines may trumpet the fall of a figurehead, but there'll always be back-up to take their place. Think of it in the terms of drugs."
"Always someone ready to sell their mother for the next hit. Gotcha." Faith's never done drugs aside from alcohol. Slayer high's far and away better than what any other chemical could give her. Adrenaline's all you need when you're a slayer, which is why their mantra is nearly always 'live fast, die young'. Nothing can compete with the high.
"Not precisely, but we're getting there."
Go into the crowd, mingle a little to give the impression of being just another kid wanting to get off. Though whether they want to be associated with kids that wear victorian-style undertakers' hats is another matter. Bouncer lets them through with barely a cursory check, just a nod of the head. No tingle of magical wards, or that nails-down-the-blackboard feel of the telepathic. For all that was encased in the flyer, they're being pretty lax on the security. Vampire hunters - the few that there are - look for this kind of thing. Either they don't know or they don't care. From what's stirring somewhere inside she's guessing they couldn't give a stuff about the possibility of some jumped-up idiot with a stake and an attitude. Most of those die very, very quickly.
Wes slides through the crush at the bar. Not a matter of being skinny. It's a matter of knowing how to move through crowds with minimum fuss. Look for the tiny gap, turn your body and slide in. Go with the flow but move upstream, and never, ever jostle. He's seen six-foot-five rugby players do it just as well as skinny little girls who barely reach your shoulder. Gets to the bar, waits for the barman to catch his eye. "Vodka and coke and -" Scans the fridge behind the bar. Bottles. Faith has an unquestioning attraction to something that you can sip easily and doesn't splash when someone jostles you slightly. "A heineken." Barman nods, gets the drinks, Wes hands over the money and gets change. More than he expected. Maybe they've understood that the patrons will drink more if you don't overcharge them the first time.
Faith's scanning the building, looking for doors and windows, any way out of here. Occasionally her assessment falls on the crowd and the balcony above, settling on the odd vampire in the crowd, or the ones that practically beg for someone to bite them. Victim written all over them. When Wes gets back over to her, she takes the beer from him, takes a long drink, looks out over the crowd, thumb rubbing the edge of the label. "Seen anything?"
"Not of significance, as yet. You?"
"Lot of vamps. God, some actually dress goth. Think I saw one in something approaching Lestat gear."
"Camouflage." He replies, slightly amused turn to his lips. "Probably started as one of them."
"Scary thought, huh?" She puts the bottle down as a beat starts; something to dance to, and the dancefloor's filling up. "C'mon, let's go do our own bit of camouflage making."
"Faith -"
"Shake your booty, Wes, or I'll start wondering what you've done with the real you." She grins. "I want to dance." Pulls him out onto the dancefloor, they dance, drawing admiring glances as one of the best-looking couples on the floor. Not to mention that they can dance, giving themselves up to the music and grinding against one another as they do so. Dance and people just notice you as dancers, there for a good time and nothing more. They don't see the glances you'll make towards the doors and bar, seeing just who's going in each place. No-one's noticing you as an observer, unlike the people who just hang around on the edges and rarely venture onto the dancefloor, if ever. Certainly not the vampires, the ones who have an air of businessmen or the higher class of thug - the type who'd have razors sewn into their lapels and still ring their mothers every sunday.
Wes leans in to make himself heard. "Time to make a break for it."
"One of these days I'm just going to ignore you and make us stay on the dancefloor instead."
"We can do that on Saturday. Tonight we're working."
"Okay, okay, let's go kick some butt."
Three am, they're back in the flat. Faith switches the kettle on. "You want one?"
"Not especially, but go on."
She shakes her head. "Don't know why I bother even asking."
"Habit, presumably." He replies, removing his jacket and putting it on the coat rack by the door, walking back into the kitchen and pulling the milk out of the fridge. The kettle boils, she pours the water into two mugs, Wes adding milk and sugar after she's removed the teabags. Lean against the side to sip them quietly, not speaking. Wes finishes his first, heads toward the bathroom, pulling off his shirt on the way and depositing it on the chair.
Faith appears behind him while he's brushing his teeth, touches his back, pressing on one spot. Wes winces slightly at the pain. "Thought so. The one with the bad dye job, right?"
"Correct." He replies, spitting into the sink, passes her her toothbrush.
Faith finishes up in the bathroom, pauses at the door to the bedroom. He's sitting up in bed, reading something with latin in the title. Figures. Undresses, gets into bed and lays her head on his shoulder, hand brushing over the scars on his stomach. Some of them hers, some the job. He's got more than most, and no slayer healing to go with it. "You ever read anything that doesn't smell of dust?"
"On occasion." He replies, glancing down at her. Couple more pages and he puts it down, removing his glasses and turning off the light.
Morning is announced by a shaft of light coming through the curtains and hitting him square in the face. He blinks awake, wincing at the glare. Turns his head to get away from it, face brushing against Faith's hair. She grumbles in her sleep, shifts slightly, rubbing her leg against his hip. Bringing his hand up to shade his face and squinting at the alarm clock reveals there's plenty of time to lie in bed for awhile. Turns away from the light, hand coming down to rest on her arm that's across his stomach. Closes his eyes to doze again.
Blur of motion past him as Faith rams a vampire into the table, grabbing his hair and smashing his face into the oak, worn smooth by centuries of use and varnishing. His acquaintances in the great institutes of the land and the more protected members of the Watchers' Council would pale at the abuse he's seen happen to ancient furnishings in his time on the front line; in a past life, and when he's thinking about it in those few purely academic moments he's allowed himself, he would too. But when you've a monster at your throat, you don't give a fuck about the age of the nearest blunt instrument to hand.
Wes turns his head to lessen the impact of the blow aimed at his head so it glances off his cheek, following it up with a Glasgow kiss to his assailant's forehead. Forceful enough to give you a slight headache, but nowhere near the pain and dizziness the recipient of it feels. Wes pushes him to the side, making for the safe, relying on Faith to keep the others off his back in the thirty seconds he needs.
When he next wakes up it's to an empty bed, but the former occupant is standing in the doorway watching him, grinning. "What?"
"Anyone ever tell you sometimes you look so cute when you're asleep, Wes?"
"Not that I recall. And not in that tone." He replies, fumbling for his glasses on the table.
"And what tone's that?" She chuckles.
"The one accompanied by that kind of expression. And certainly not when I've got two days' stubble on me."
"What can I say, I like a bit of rough." She replies as he swings his legs out of bed, heading for the shower. "Paper's on the table."
Explosion of dust as one gets too close to Wes. Faith tucks the stake back in her trousers, kicks another. Just got to keep them off long enough. She knows they agreed as little stakage as possible - this is an information gatherer, not a cleanser - kill these ones and there'll just be more to replace them - but sometimes you've got to. She likes him alive, thankyou. Finally Wes gets whatever it is he wants from the safe, they make a break for it. Running and punching as they go. She doesn't want to think about the retribution they could be bringing down on their heads; vampires of the organised crime type tend to be at least a little methodical in their methods. Head for the fire doors, slam through them into the night air. Alley behind the club, littered with the usual broken glass and occasional discarded condom. The pounding of feet behind them lessens. Looks like they're not too interested in the two smash-and-grab thieves.
Wes pants "They appear to have better things to do than chase us at the moment."
"No shit, sherlock. Home?"
"The long way."
"Well, duh."
Wes comes into the kitchen, rubbing a towel over his hair. "What is it you're doing today?"
"Going to work. There's this thing called a pub that people buy drinks and food at. I checked your mail, someone wants you to go do a bit of consulting on some weird stuff at the ICA. Sumerian, something like that."
"Sumerian? Interesting. Were they specific about the type of item?" Museum work helps with the rent; he's become the person to see about any potentially risky items with a possible occult connection, as well as a consultant on obscure languages that the average museum wouldn't necessarily have an expert in. He started with a couple of consulting jobs from old acquaintances, and the word spread from there, especially after that one in the V&A which prevented the destruction of a set of rather valuable Hyskos-era statues and the Japanese tourists near them. He's got a feeling the museum was more concerned about the statues, as the tourists are replaceable.
"Read the note, Wes. Give me a heads up if you need any help, will you? Only try and keep it to my lunch break." Faith says, picking up her coat.
"Heaven forfend that I disturb your attempts at a normal life." Wes replies, getting interested in the contents of the bread-bin. Frowns. "Did you finish the scotch pancakes?"
"Yep. They were getting stale. My normal life pays for things like food, Wes, don't knock it. We can't all be big-time educated scholars with friends in museums. Eat the crumpets for once, Wes, they're not going to kill you."
"I have my doubts about that." He replies, dropping them gingerly into the toaster.
Faith trails her fingers across his cheek. "See ya later." The door closes behind her. The toaster pops. Wes glares at the crumpets and reaches for the butter.