Even with how firmly Grayson wants to keep his head buried in the sand, blissfully ignorant of the supernatural goings-on of London, he never quite manages it. Partly, it's because he deals in magical trade. Partly, he's convinced that the smell of corrupted magic draws things to him like a beacon. Mostly, it's just because once you've immersed yourself in that world, it never quite leaves you alone. It clings, even when all you want to do is be alone in your shitty empty apartment above the empty shop you still own.
Talamasca is one of those things that's been at the edge of Grayson's awareness for some time now, but he's never had dealings with. Typical human organization, thinking they can control the balance between the human world and the supernatural world, and probably doing a shit job with both. And yet, he's not even remotely surprised when one of them comes after him when he's on the way home from the shops.
His first clue? When a rubbish bin clocks him over the back of the head with a mighty clang. Grayson goes down, managing to catch himself with his hands at the last moment before he face-plants, skins his palms on the rough pavement. Shopping bags of sad bachelor food, dropped at his side. He twists his head, manages to catch sight of her ⸻ he recognizes the face, knows she's Talamasca, but he can't put a name to the face. Anyway, he's too busy dodging a telekinetically thrown brick to struggle with things like names.
The thing is, Grayson isn't a fighter. He has a lot of rotten magic cooped up inside of him, but none of it was ever used to fight. And so the Talamasca agent has... an unfortunately easy time of it. She conducts the stage like an orchestra while Grayson just gets shoved around like an idiot, and before he knows it, his back is against the alley wall, and a massive dumpster is flattening him against it.
Yeah. That hit sucks.
He can smell the approach of a vampire before he hears it ⸻ great, some carrion feeder come to feed on the corpse after the Talamasca agent is done pancaking him, cool ⸻ but he hears a scuffle. Something goes wonky. Magic flares in the air, and then he can hear the Talamasca agent running. Grayson finds the concentration to reach deep into himself and snag some werewolf that he consumed, channeling their strength into his right arm, just enough that he can shove the dumpster away. It goes skidding across the alley for a few meters, just enough so that Grayson can unpeel from the wall and collapse down onto his knees with a gasp, hair hanging in his eyes, chest heaving in a cough that has blood spattering down his chin.
He's survived worse. The magic he stoles seethes and hates, would never let him die this easily. But it still sucks. He's got broken ribs at best, his collarbone isn't happy, his other arm is broken, and his wings where they got smashed against the brick wall⸻ even the brace he cages them in and the trenchcoat he's wearing to cover them couldn't protect them fully. Grayson manages to lift his chin to look at his saviour, and doesn't recognize him. He's a vampire, that's obvious enough. Grayson has a nose for these things.
"There's probably easier ways to find a meal than taking it off a Talamasca agent," he says, wry and hoarse. "Should I be thanking you, or should I start running?"
The dumpster goes sliding, almost cartoonish, and what's behind it—
Jasper half expects him to stay on theme. Pop up and out from the wall, one gnarly jack-in-the-box. But he isn't truly surprised when the dude just crumbles to his knees, because he can see he's a goddamn mess. Hell, he's been smelling it, even before his own power disengaged enough from fucking with Bella to let him refocus. It'd take a nuclear bomb detonating, maybe two, for him not to smell blood of any kind.
Yet the blood-scent coming off this one, it's—Jesus, it's like—
If you've ever been to a restaurant that serves good grub, straight-up mouth-watering stuff, but it's not quite the classiest place around, like the money's rolling in but they're not managing it real smart, so some basic maintenance gets pushed down the line—and you took a walk round to that restaurant's back lot, where there's grease leaking out of cracked disposal containers, and trash bags with not only uneaten good grub, but rotting grub, putrid grub, plus a heaping splash of whatever vile toxins they're using to disinfect the toilets—
And your stomach did a roll and a roil, 'cause it's obviously hurl-worthy, right? But then—stupid, traitorous stomach—it rumbles. See, the good food smells still come through, between all that other junk. Your stomach's super confused, and pretty grossed-out, but it also can't help itself.
Yeah. It's kinda like that.
He could've tried already to peer inside this mess's head, and into the magic oozing off him. (Couldn't miss that, either; he'd have to be deader than dead.) Instead, the vampire just keeps his mental shields firmly in place. Getting an up-close assessment, here, however pathetic the sight, has in no way convinced him that Bellis' beaten foe is totally benign.
"Not in it for a meal, buddy." Jasper takes a couple slow, purposeful steps closer, but stops well short of boxing the guy in. Wounded animals and all. Then he kneels, so they're more on a level. In the alley his eyeshine is a beacon, no matter how well one sees through the dark.
"Can't tell if I'm more curious what you did, or are, to get her panties in such a wad—or if you're actually capable of that, right now. Running," he adds helpfully, at the last.
Well, he might be able to. He's not sure he'd make it very far with the broken ribs ⸻ and actually, now that he's trying to pay attention to every part of his body and not just whatever organ might be punctured by said broken ribs, something's off with his left ankle as well ⸻ but he could make a valiant effort. He's stubborn enough. He could maybe reach down into his patchwork soul and grab some essence of werewolf or something similar to make himself stronger for a bit, but that wouldn't help much with the injuries.
You know what would help? If the angel grace he stole healed him in any way. But it doesn't, because it's pissy like that. Loves to help other people, though!
He pushes off the pavement, and back into sitting against the wall, punctuated with a grunt. And then, his good arm reaching up for a handhold of a plumbing pipe sticking out of a brick wall, Grayson hauls himself upright, still heavily leaning against the wall, one hand spread over the left side of his ribcage and dug into his t-shirt. It hurts like hell, but he can stand. Maybe he can even work on walking, in a minute.
For now, his wary green gaze goes to the vampire. Tall, grey hair, eyes shining in the dark like an alley cat, the kind of face that looks like he's got a million secrets⸻ handsome, in the way that's interesting more than magazine-cover-worthy. Grayson has no idea who the fuck he is. (But then, Grayson has no idea who the fuck most people in London are, so. That's not unusual.)
"Who says I did anything? Maybe she was just in the mood to flatten someone," he bites, lips thin. Grayson turns his head just enough to catch a glimpse of his canvas shopping bags, still laying at the entrance of the alley. "If I'm not your next meal, mind doing me a favour, and grabbing those for me? Not sure I can bend over right now."
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Talamasca is one of those things that's been at the edge of Grayson's awareness for some time now, but he's never had dealings with. Typical human organization, thinking they can control the balance between the human world and the supernatural world, and probably doing a shit job with both. And yet, he's not even remotely surprised when one of them comes after him when he's on the way home from the shops.
His first clue? When a rubbish bin clocks him over the back of the head with a mighty clang. Grayson goes down, managing to catch himself with his hands at the last moment before he face-plants, skins his palms on the rough pavement. Shopping bags of sad bachelor food, dropped at his side. He twists his head, manages to catch sight of her ⸻ he recognizes the face, knows she's Talamasca, but he can't put a name to the face. Anyway, he's too busy dodging a telekinetically thrown brick to struggle with things like names.
The thing is, Grayson isn't a fighter. He has a lot of rotten magic cooped up inside of him, but none of it was ever used to fight. And so the Talamasca agent has... an unfortunately easy time of it. She conducts the stage like an orchestra while Grayson just gets shoved around like an idiot, and before he knows it, his back is against the alley wall, and a massive dumpster is flattening him against it.
Yeah. That hit sucks.
He can smell the approach of a vampire before he hears it ⸻ great, some carrion feeder come to feed on the corpse after the Talamasca agent is done pancaking him, cool ⸻ but he hears a scuffle. Something goes wonky. Magic flares in the air, and then he can hear the Talamasca agent running. Grayson finds the concentration to reach deep into himself and snag some werewolf that he consumed, channeling their strength into his right arm, just enough that he can shove the dumpster away. It goes skidding across the alley for a few meters, just enough so that Grayson can unpeel from the wall and collapse down onto his knees with a gasp, hair hanging in his eyes, chest heaving in a cough that has blood spattering down his chin.
He's survived worse. The magic he stoles seethes and hates, would never let him die this easily. But it still sucks. He's got broken ribs at best, his collarbone isn't happy, his other arm is broken, and his wings where they got smashed against the brick wall⸻ even the brace he cages them in and the trenchcoat he's wearing to cover them couldn't protect them fully. Grayson manages to lift his chin to look at his saviour, and doesn't recognize him. He's a vampire, that's obvious enough. Grayson has a nose for these things.
"There's probably easier ways to find a meal than taking it off a Talamasca agent," he says, wry and hoarse. "Should I be thanking you, or should I start running?"
no subject
Jasper half expects him to stay on theme. Pop up and out from the wall, one gnarly jack-in-the-box. But he isn't truly surprised when the dude just crumbles to his knees, because he can see he's a goddamn mess. Hell, he's been smelling it, even before his own power disengaged enough from fucking with Bella to let him refocus. It'd take a nuclear bomb detonating, maybe two, for him not to smell blood of any kind.
Yet the blood-scent coming off this one, it's—Jesus, it's like—
If you've ever been to a restaurant that serves good grub, straight-up mouth-watering stuff, but it's not quite the classiest place around, like the money's rolling in but they're not managing it real smart, so some basic maintenance gets pushed down the line—and you took a walk round to that restaurant's back lot, where there's grease leaking out of cracked disposal containers, and trash bags with not only uneaten good grub, but rotting grub, putrid grub, plus a heaping splash of whatever vile toxins they're using to disinfect the toilets—
And your stomach did a roll and a roil, 'cause it's obviously hurl-worthy, right? But then—stupid, traitorous stomach—it rumbles. See, the good food smells still come through, between all that other junk. Your stomach's super confused, and pretty grossed-out, but it also can't help itself.
Yeah. It's kinda like that.
He could've tried already to peer inside this mess's head, and into the magic oozing off him. (Couldn't miss that, either; he'd have to be deader than dead.) Instead, the vampire just keeps his mental shields firmly in place. Getting an up-close assessment, here, however pathetic the sight, has in no way convinced him that Bellis' beaten foe is totally benign.
"Not in it for a meal, buddy." Jasper takes a couple slow, purposeful steps closer, but stops well short of boxing the guy in. Wounded animals and all. Then he kneels, so they're more on a level. In the alley his eyeshine is a beacon, no matter how well one sees through the dark.
"Can't tell if I'm more curious what you did, or are, to get her panties in such a wad—or if you're actually capable of that, right now. Running," he adds helpfully, at the last.
no subject
Well, he might be able to. He's not sure he'd make it very far with the broken ribs ⸻ and actually, now that he's trying to pay attention to every part of his body and not just whatever organ might be punctured by said broken ribs, something's off with his left ankle as well ⸻ but he could make a valiant effort. He's stubborn enough. He could maybe reach down into his patchwork soul and grab some essence of werewolf or something similar to make himself stronger for a bit, but that wouldn't help much with the injuries.
You know what would help? If the angel grace he stole healed him in any way. But it doesn't, because it's pissy like that. Loves to help other people, though!
He pushes off the pavement, and back into sitting against the wall, punctuated with a grunt. And then, his good arm reaching up for a handhold of a plumbing pipe sticking out of a brick wall, Grayson hauls himself upright, still heavily leaning against the wall, one hand spread over the left side of his ribcage and dug into his t-shirt. It hurts like hell, but he can stand. Maybe he can even work on walking, in a minute.
For now, his wary green gaze goes to the vampire. Tall, grey hair, eyes shining in the dark like an alley cat, the kind of face that looks like he's got a million secrets⸻ handsome, in the way that's interesting more than magazine-cover-worthy. Grayson has no idea who the fuck he is. (But then, Grayson has no idea who the fuck most people in London are, so. That's not unusual.)
"Who says I did anything? Maybe she was just in the mood to flatten someone," he bites, lips thin. Grayson turns his head just enough to catch a glimpse of his canvas shopping bags, still laying at the entrance of the alley. "If I'm not your next meal, mind doing me a favour, and grabbing those for me? Not sure I can bend over right now."