"Here's the Kicker"
or
"I'll Never Let You Sweep Me Off My Feet"
A conworth fanfiction. Can also be found in a lamer incarnation: on DA, and the Hanna!Thread.
There's a lot in the world that Conrad doesn't think he'll ever understand. Why there's a tap-dance number in the middle of the musical horror Watch Out for That Ax, for example. But here's the kicker:
For brief moments, Doc Worth could be dashing. Doc Worth, the scourge of all cultured people everywhere- the very sound of his name and questionable title made rivers run with the frustrated tears of decent people. Conrad didn't like to dwell on it, or so much as consider it for that matter, but facts were facts. Though he couldn't begin to explain it, he thought he'd seen it.
The doctor could indeed be dashing.
Inexplicable as it was, evidence had proven that there was indeed some vestige of humanity left in the his rotten, smoke-blackened heart - buried very very deeply under the layers of sarcasm and callous antipathy. It didn't so much struggle to get free as cling viciously to the hidden corners, a bit apathetic itself, sliding into whatever cracks were closest... and perhaps napping. It hid quite well, allowing more aggressive portions of the doctor's psyche free reign.
But Conrad knew it was there. He'd seen it.
It was never a good sign when a man's conscience thought watching somebody fall down the stairs was funny. In fact, Conrad had taken the liberty of telling the doctor so, one evening as he popped his shoulder back into place—being in a state of undead limbo did help with that sort of thing, he had to admit—amid much cursing and so forth.
"Ain't my fault if y' can't handle a li'l love tap."
"Love tap! You don't have a loving bone in your cancer-ridden body!"
Worth grinned and tilted his head to one side, looking down from the top of the stairs on his sometimes-patient like a king looking down on a serf—or maybe a highwayman looking at his next meal ticket.
"No?" the doctor asked, sucking on one of his ever-present cigarettes. "'Spose not. Ain't got a lotta use fer love, y' might say."
A little bell went off in the back of Conrad's head, almost drowned out by the PAIN! signals his shoulder wouldn't stop sending. He'd look into it later.
"Well that's convenient," he spat back, "since you're certainly not getting much love from my direction."
The doctor raised a brow and went strolling down the steps, easy as you please, mocking Conrad's tumble of a few moments before. "Now why would y' say that?"
Just the opening he'd been hoping for. "Shall I count the ways? One, you're a dirty git. Two, you're literally a dirty git. Three, I've met steel wool less abrasive than you. Four, you're crazy as fuck. Shall I go on?"
"All true," Worth shrugged, "but nah, think I got the concept. Now, my turn."
Worth bent over his reluctant companion, pulled the cigarette from his lips and shook ash onto his face. Conrad nearly planted a fist in the older man's gut, and he would have too if it weren't for the rather distracting pain of that recently dislocated shoulder. He decided to give it a minute.
"You," Doc Worth informed him, taking the time to pronounce the full word, "'er a pansy-ass, purse-wavin' faggot with a dick the size of my li'l finger. An' if y' wanna go 'round insultin' me, I suggest y' find somethin' I'd actually take offense at, y'know?"
Although he was loath to admit it, that was actually pretty good advice—the problem was, Worth happened to be in possession of the most fucked up brain to ever (dis)grace humanity, and comprehending it was a task that would daunt even the most experienced psychologists, let alone the world's worst vampire. He'd always been a fairly rational sort of person, for an artist.
"Now…" the doctor said, extending a gracious hand up. Great timing, asshole.
Conrad ignored the hand and pushed himself to his feet, dusting off the front of his rather expensive shirt. Worth gave him a fleeting blank look.
"…Bitch."
Conrad spent about a minute fantasizing about what he'd do to the bastard if he had a pen on hand—it involved the creative use of ink and blood, for starters. It made him feel better, but it didn't get rid of the problem.
"If I'm so utterly repulsive to you, then why," he demanded, "oh my god, why do you insist on following me around? This isn't even your side of town!"
Worth grinned and slung an arm around his unwilling companion's shoulder. "'Cause yer funny, now stop twitchin'—y' look like a goddamn retard."
As the vampire struggled both with the bony hand gripping his arm and the many neuroses vying for his attention, they managed to wander into a part of town that Conrad was more than vaguely familiar with. In fact, he'd been to a couple clubs around here maybe two years ago, back when it was still cool to be depressing and one of his friends had been into the scene. These ventures had not been enjoyable.
"Oh, fuck."
The younger man struggled twice as hard to get free now, desperate not to get caught with someone as sketchy as Doc Worth in a place where people might possibly know him. For a moment, what little portion of Conrad's brain wasn't devoted to freaking out took note of the odd, genuinely happy vibe radiating off the doctor. But the moment passed when even that portion remembered what sorts of germs might be jumping ship onto his jacket, and he went back to fighting for his hypothetical life. The doctor, of course, just held on tighter and pressed his side up against Conrad's, like he wasn't covered in who-the-hell-knew-what or completely uninvited here.
It was in the midst of this great battle of the wills that things managed to get a lot worse in almost no time at all. Shockingly fast, an unidentified force jerked the vampire out of Worth's grip and into the shady embrace of an unidentified back alley. He spared a moment to wonder why he hadn't been able to pull himself away so easily—surely he wasn't that scrawny?
The shadowy figure standing in front of him seemed to have more immediate concerns.
"Gimme your wallet," his assailant ordered, no more than a vague figure standing a couple feet away. Contrary to Hanna's belief, vampirism had not helped his sight in the least.
Conrad crossed his arms. This guy sounded like a twenty-year-old punk with a shot of whisky rerouting his neurons, and Conrad didn't think he'd actually do anything. He'd fallen for this prank before—fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, get the fuck out.
"Bugger off. I've got bigger fish to fry than some pissant chav."
The flash of switch-blade sized steel had him instantly regretting that insult.
"Oookay," he said, suddenly wondering where Worth had disappeared off to. Probably wandered into the nearest bar just when his company might have been helpful, the useless bastard. "So, uh, we got off on the wrong foot? I… don't have my wallet, actually, so maybe you, uh, can find somebody else."
The thief took a step closer. Conrad swore under his breath—tonight was so not a good night. He needed something, something to defend himself with, because he point-blank refused to get ripped off in an alley like some drunken teenager, shit no. Only, there was really nothing on hand that could match a knife and knife beats fist nine times out of ten. Son of a bitch.
Maybe he really was screwed.
And that was when Worth came stalking up past him, shoulders stiff and narrow eyes dripping murder. Conrad had about half a second to register that the doctor was standing almost protectively in front of him, suddenly so much more imposing than Conrad had ever seen him- and then that psycho bastard sank a scalpel into the punk's neck. The scent of blood was everywhere in seconds, crazy good smelling in the darkness and it made Conrad sick. The doctor pulled back and slammed an arm into his victim's stomach, toppling him so that now he was curled wide-eyed-gasping on the asphalt, leaking blood into the cracks of the pavement. Light from the street hit his face just so, revealing startlingly ordinary features.
There was a moment of silence while Conrad tried to process what just happened; part of him couldn't help but groan at the waste of blood, part of him couldn't quite get past the part where Worth saved him. Rewind, somebody, re-the-fuck-wind.
The older man, wiping the edge of the murder weapon on his jacket, turned and squinted at Conrad. His expression was beyond reading, so Conrad focused loosely on the smoke winding out of his cigarette instead. What...
Still inscrutable, Worth took a step towards him—then another, until he was about an inch away and examining the vampire with the sort of contemplation you'd expect from the respectable doctor Worth had never been.
"'Ey," he murmured, grabbing the younger man's chin, "'Ey, y' okay?"
"You… killed him…" Conrad managed, still in a state of shock.
"Mebbe." Worth seemed to look through him for a second, dark-rimmed eyes focusing on something only he could see. "Some thin's you juss don't mess wit', Connie."
If he hadn't been contemplating the first murder he'd ever witnessed—barring his own—Conrad would have asked what those things happened to be, if only because that gaze was just a touch too dark and the thin fingers around his face were just a touch too tight. But as it was, there were more important things to be considered, mainly how the heck he was going to deal with reality once it set in.
"You killed him," Conrad repeated, then gathering himself up pretty bravely: "What happened to the Hippocratic oath, you quack?"
And just like that, the dark look was gone. "Ah ah ah, I ain't taken 'nything of th' sort. B'sides, I only did what you shoulda done 'nyway. Some vamp y' are."
The world seemed to stabilize a little bit, steadying itself with Doc Worth as the focal point. The younger man ripped the fingers from his chin. "So you took the hypocritic oath, did you? Fucking psychopath."
"Shame y' couldn't juss bite th' guy," Worth simpered, all fake pity. "But o' course, y' don't have enough teeth for that, do y' princess?"
Conrad finally snapped and planted a fist in Doc Worth's jaw. It felt good. In fact, it felt great, up until the bleeding mass on the ground moaned and shattered the darkness with pain and murder, and oh fuck what was he going to do? The vampire felt his face contort in horror. He couldn't be an accesory to homicide!
And of course, the doctor noticed. God, the Doc could read him like a book.
"He ain't dead yet. Juss call a mutherfuckin' ambulance, christ," the doctor said, spitting it around a mouthful of pain- or at least, logically it would be pain, though from the way he was grinning who the fuck knew?
But that was...
That was a good idea, actually. Conrad dashed out of the alley and left one bleeding body behind him—he liked to think that the kid hadn't actually died, just lost some blood—and made a quick anonymous call while his obnoxious companion immitated him in a high pitched voice. Real pleasant. Worth followed him all the way back to his apartment, in fact, ostensibly to make fun of what an utter failure his patient was, though he'd been quick to catch Conrad when his shock-worn body stumbled on the stairs. Locked the door behind him too, and you might have thought he actually cared if you didn't know what a dick he really was.
So.
As far as the vampire is concerned, it was just another eventful night that he would have been better off spending in his apartment, getting some work done for once in his afterlife. It meant nothing. The kid probably didn't even die, and nothing got stolen from anybody involved. In the end, not really a big deal.
The only thing that really keeps him up at night, surprisingly, is the memory of Worth holding his face, searching him for some unnamed thing, lit black and white and dull orange in the dim light of the city.
And, you know, he wonders sometimes, when it's late and sleep buzzes just out of his reach, what that look had meant. Or why the only word that he can think of when he remembers Worth cutting in, scalpel shining and eyes blazing, is… as cliché as it sounds…
Dashing.