cottoncandypink | (no subject)

Wilford bends to pick up his puppy. "What are you crying for? You let him in," he says, assuming the dog is just annoyed that someone else that wasn't Wilford was in his room.

He moves over to sit down on the bed.

"Looked like it. I didn't see any wanted posters up or anything, but it might be worth hiding out for a while."

He's no newcomer to laying low, so he gets comfortable and lights another cigarette. He feels nauseas and shaky, but better than he did the day before.

Cassidy puts the ashtray on the bed within reach.

"Good idea. If Bernard had just bought us the beer without making a big stink, he never would've ended up on his arse," he huffs. "Did you check what's in the flask?"

"Oh." He'd forgotten all about the flask, having stuffed it into his inventory in his quest to stay out of jail. He pulls it back out, as if to materialise it from thin air and gives it a little shake.

There's an inscription on it that he pays about three seconds of attention to. 'To Bernard, all my love, Emma'

He doesn't care. He opens it and takes a swig. More whiskey, but not a brand he can immediately recognise. It's also awful, so he tosses it down to Cassidy.

"Whoa," Cassidy mutters with a surprised blink.

How what how --

He catches the flask. The inscription also gets his brief attention, before he takes as swig as well.

"Ugh, that's shite. About as cheap as Ratwater, I'd say."

But he's getting used to it, probably far quicker than any normal kid should.

"Hey, how did you-- do the thing--?" He waves the flask in a kind of magician's gesture.

The only reason Wilford hasn't stopped trying is because he knows it probably shouldn't taste like shit.

And yet, it does.

Although, Bernard's budget for booze is probably much tighter than Wilford's.

"It's just my inventory," he says. He demonstrates by pulling out everything else he has tucked away in there - a large switchblade, a .44 Magnum revolver, and a leather-bound journal. The first two get tossed onto the bed, but the journal disappears again.

"He's probably full of rocks," he says, pointing at the puppy.

Buster thinks this is a command, and indeed, spits out a rock onto the bed.

Cassidy watches with astonishment (tinted with a growing tipsiness) as the items appear out of thin air.

"Holy shite."

Then the dog follows.

"Okay, that was gross."

Cassidy picks up the switchblade to examine it, flicks the blade out, and snaps it back in. Definitely real.

"Can everybody in your world do that?"

The gun is also real. And it's loaded.

"Yep. People, dogs. Sometimes other animals, like horses and shit."

Buster picks his rock back up, and doesn't eat it, but it does disappear again.

"I don't know how people get by without having an inventory."

"Heh, I sure as hell could use one."

It would be a great way to carry his stash. (Once he replenishes it.)

Cassidy has never had much use for firearms, or weapons in general, really, so he leaves the gun alone, setting the switchblade down beside it.

"Where are you from, exactly?"

"From? DC," Wilford says, flicking his cigarette ash into the ash tray. "Just moved out to Los Santos a couple of months ago, if you've got that where you're from."

It's weird, and he can't quite understand it. Most places where there are humans from earth will have a Washington DC, but they'll have never heard of the state of San Andreas. He has an idea of why that is, but he still doesn't understand it.

"What about you?"

"Oh, DC, yeah, never heard of Los Santos, though. That out west?" Sounds like it ought to be in California or the Southwest somewhere.

"Me, I'm originally from Dublin, but I've been living all over America for a long time now. Right now I'm in Texas, a small town called Anneville, like practically in the middle of nowhere. I doubt anyone's heard of it except for the people who live there."

"West Coast, yeah," Wilford says.

The weather's awful there, and he hates it, but it's good for business.

"The fuck are you doing out there?" he asks, reaching down to get the flask again so he can take another drink.

Ye gods, is that shit awful.

"What is this? Turpentine?"

"Eh, well, it's kind of a long story," he says, taking a drag off his cigarette and reaching for the flask again for another sip.

"An' I've tasted turpentine. This stuff's just slightly less corrosive."

Is he joking? Is he not joking?

"All I wanted was some beer, and we still never got that."

Fuck you, Bernard. It's all your fault, somehow.

"What the hell were you doing drinking turpentine for?"

He didn't see what happened when Cassidy tried to follow him outside, and somehow, certain subjects have never come up. So he's not quite up to speed on the full picture.

Totally Bernard's fault.

"'Cause I ran out of proper liquor," he replies. And he realizes how absurd that sounds to a person who can't drink cleaning products and survive. Ugh, okay, things are actually getting more complicated the less he says.

"All right, look. There's a reason I didn't follow you when you ran outside, but just-- don't shoot me or stab me, okay?"

The look Wilford gives Cassidy is very much the sort of look someone who is suspicious of monsters in the closet, because it is a thing where they are from would give someone who's about to admit to being a monster they might one day find in their closet. Even on Wilford's twelve-year-old face, it comes across very plainly.

"Depends on what you're about to say."

He can rule out one thing, only because his dog hasn't tried to rip Cassidy's throat out. But that's just one thing of very many.

Cassidy reads the look on Wilford's face just fine.

"No, no, c'mon now, don't be like that," he insists, holding his hands up. Shit. It's just this sort of reaction that keeps Cassidy from telling people what he is. "I've not done a thing to you, have I? I even looked after your dog, he likes me. Right?"

Right, Buster?

"That just means you're not a werewolf."

Buster fucking hates werewolves. Even at this size, he'd probably have a good go at tearing Cassidy's throat out if that's what he was.

"I haven't shot you yet, have I?"

The gun is still sitting on the bed, with Wilford making no moves to reach for it. He feels like he knows what Cassidy is going to say, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. Even if he does seem like a pretty cool guy so far.

Cassidy can't help snorting a derisive laugh at that.

"No, not a werewolf."

He's not even sure if they exist in his world, but he still wouldn't want to be one.

"No, I'm-- I'm a vampire, okay? I'm actually a hundred and nineteen years old, I do drink blood but I don't bite people, sunlight burns like a bitch, garlic an' holy water are bullshit, an' I don't sleep in a coffin or turn into a bat."

Infodump?

Edited 2017-11-09 01:40 (UTC)

Wilford keeps giving Cassidy that Look, all through his speech. It's probably not as much to take in as it should be, only because most of that seems to line up with the way vampires work where Wilford's from as well.

"That's fucking gross," is all he has to say about that. Because it is.

But whatever. He's getting better at tolerating this nonsense, even if it is kind of, sort of technically his job to do something about it where he's from.

Cassidy blinks a few times, rapidly.

Well, his brains haven't been blown out. So that's good. He can take it, sure, but does Wilford really want the mess?

"I'm not exactly thrilled about it either, but that's what I am anyway," he retorts, sinking back down onto the floor and sitting with his legs crossed.

"Mostly I just drink blood to heal from stuff. I don't get, like, cravings or whatever."

Not really.

"An' that's why I can drink all sorts of shite, an' do all sorts of hardcore drugs without overdosing. That part's pretty fun, actually."

No, he really doesn't want the mess. He lost his housekeeping, remember? He'd be responsible for picking brain matter out of the carpet. And he's far too important for that.

Also, that revolver would probably break his wrist right now.

"That's still gross," Wilford says. It's the whole 'drinking blood' thing he can't quite get over. "Bite my dog, and I'll fucking kill you."

He only said he didn't bite people, after all.

"I won't! I swear, I won't."

Stray pets were usually a last resort. Stray pets, and rats. So.

"I take it you have vampires in your world or is it just the mythology?"

Nobody reacts that strongly if it was just stories.

"You batty fuckers are the least of my worries on my side of the door," Wilford says.

It's true, if only because most of them have learned to keep their heads down if they want to survive.

"But I'd be lying if I said a few of your comrades didn't have one or two of my bullets inside them. Never been bit by one of you though. Been bit by a werewolf. Wendigo got me once. Plenty of demons and evil spirits. My own damn house had to be exorcised when I moved in."

Fuck. all. of it.

"Jaysus," he mutters. That's way more than he knew ever existed.

"Sounds like you deal with-- that sort of stuff on a regular basis. An' stop that, they're not my 'comrades,' I don't fucking know them, we're not related. I don't have some sort of allegiance or whatever. In my world I haven't even seen another vampire for a very, very long time, an' I'm okay with that." Even if it does get lonely.

"If I bit you, I'd mean to either kill you or turn you, there's no in between. An' I would never do either."

Wilford isn't sure what to do with that outburst, but it does offer some odd amount of reassurance. He's not even sure why.

"I've got saves, man. You bite me, and I'll just reset to the day before and shoot you before you have the chance to think about biting me."

It's why he's not a (currently) a pile of bones on top of some stupid Canadian mountain.

Cassidy blinks, frowns, tilts his head as if he didn't quite catch something.

"--What? What d'you mean, 'saves'? 'Reset' how?"

Wilford finishes off his cigarette and lights another one. He doesn't feel quite as shaky as he did this morning, so maybe good old fashioned nicotine withdrawal was part of his problem after all.

He takes a moment to think about the best way to explain it. There's a way, that might make sense, but he refuses. That way means thinking about things he'd rather not think about. So he pulls the journal out of his inventory again and tosses it over.

Inside is just an endless list of dates and times. The most recent ones are almost daily.

"You fuck something up, or you get hit by a bus or whatever,and you just go back and do it again."

Still frowning, Cassidy takes the journal and flips through it to the last marked page.

What.

"So...what, it just happens? The resetting? An' you just-- go back to the last date you've written down?"

"That's about the gist of it."

Wilford holds his hand out. He'd like his journal back, please.

"Haven't met anyone else around here with saves." He's met Vyvyan, but well. He's in a class of his own.

Cassidy obligingly hands it over.

"Huh. Well. That's cool. That means it'd be impossible to kill you. Or at least, make you stay dead. Right?"

"Nah, people die all the time. And stay dead. You just never know when it'll happen like that. But if people didn't stay dead, I'd be out of a job."

90% of the news is usually because somebody, somewhere, has died for some reason.

"Okay..."

He'll take Wilford's word for it. His world sounds insane enough to not bother with some sort of rational explanation.

"What d'you do?"

Pixie magic, man. Who has time for that shit?

"I'm a reporter."

He looks at Cassidy, still not entirely sure how he feels about having a vampire in his room.

"There much work out there for someone in your shoes? Outside of night shift at the drive-thru?"

Well, that explains that.

"Oh, you'd be surprised. My last job was at a casino in Vegas. It's totally possible to never hafta set foot out in daylight in a place like that. Plus, it's Vegas, man." He shrugs and grins. Toothily.

"But I take any odd job that comes along wherever I go. Right now I'm doing repair work in a church for me friend, he's a preacher, see, but not one o' them arsehole-y relgious types, he's actually kinda cool about shit."

Edited 2017-11-09 03:41 (UTC)

"I didn't think those were two groups of people who were meant to get along," Wilford says.

Then again, he's met plenty of religious folks who were apparently spawned straight out of Satan's asshole, so what does he know?

"What? Priests an' vampires? Dude, I met 'im in a bar fight, he kicked like four guys' arses. I helped. We got arrested together. He's totally cool with what I am."

Sure, Cassidy told Jesse while he was completely drunk, but still.

"Anyways, the real reason why I'm staying in this tiny hole in the ground of a town is 'cause some vampire hunting religious nutjobs might come back to get me. They're the real threat, they already tried to kill Jesse 'cause he was in the way. You come after me friend with a chainsaw, there's gonna be a problem."

Edited 2017-11-09 11:37 (UTC)

Wilford shrugs.

"Fair point. The last priest I met put three rounds in me."

Him and his gang of rednecks.

He reaches for the flask again and finishes off the last of the swill left inside. He feels sick, but that's not going to stop him from trying.

"Ugh. Someone get that man a budget for proper booze."

"Aye, well...I s'pose there's all kinds," he says, more contemplative than he'd intended.

He's not the kind of vampire people assume he is. Then again, he's not the kind of man they want to think he is.

He digs into his back pocket and pulls out a cigarette, straightening it out before offering it to Wilford.

"D'you want me last smoke? It was your money an' the venture was partially a bust, so... I don't get withdrawals or hangovers."

"That's your last one already?" Wilford asks.

Christ. He's chain smoking a bit right now, but he's still got enough to last him at least a few more days. A week, if he keep an eye on it.

"What did you do, eat them?"

"What? I got bored."

Cassidy is not an expert at conserving his resources.

Wilford is an expert at conserving his resources.

"Keep it. You might get bored later," he says.

He gets up and opens up the door to peer outside. Everything seems quiet - or as quiet as this place ever gets - and experience has told him that if security didn't see it happen, they don't care.

"I think it might be safe," he says. "And I need to take him outside." He nods back toward the puppy, who is chewing on his own foot.

"Oh, all right, then. Thanks."

He hops up onto his feet and stuffs the cigarette back into his pocket. If it doesn't sustain him, he's sure he'll find something else to smoke.

"Think I'll head up to me own room for a bit. No use both of us bein' found back at the scene of the crime."

Scratching the silly puppy behind the ears, he says, "See ya, ya wee bugger."

And then he gives Wilford a clap on the back. "Hey, we should do this again some time!" That toothy grin of his is exponentially unnerving when he's an adult.

Buster nips at Cassidy playfully. He likes his new friend!

At first, Wilford almost blows off the invitation to hang out again as just everyday politeness, but he thinks better of it.

"You ever been to a vespa race?" he asks.

"A vespa race? Uhh..."

He thinks for a moment. There are a lot of things he's done in his lifetime, a good many of which he doesn't recall due to intoxication levels, but he's pretty sure he hasn't been to a vespa race.

"I once knew a stripper in New York named Vespa, but no, never been to a vespa race. Is it fun?"

"Hit me up when you're feeling like yourself again. I think you'll like it."

It's been a while since he went out to go play a few street games. And it's always so much more fun with a friend.

"Awesome! Will do. Already lookin' forward to it."

Cassidy steps out into the hall with a cautious look left and right, then turns to Wilfred with a thumbs-up.

"Later, mate!"

And he heads off toward the stairs.

So the cigarettes-and-beer venture didn't go as expected and he'll probably get in trouble later. And Wilford had a less than favorable reaction to vampires. But hey, Cassidy still has a cigarette left, and an invitation to visit another world. Not everything's all that bad.