Well. If you want old men being sad and then boning angstily, you came to the right place, hunter.


There's a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision, caught with the eye that can still see worth a damn. What he manages to see is no more than a large shadow, there and then whispering away to vanish as he turns his attention to it.

Djura frowns down at the charred and smoking wreck of Old Yharnam, picking up no errant motion or odd sounds as he tries to follow what he thought he saw. It could easily have been nothing. Or maybe it was his death at long last. At this point he isn't completely sure which one he'd rather it be. His hands reflexively curl around his weapons as he gazes out, letting his eye go partially unfocused, more trying to pick up any hint of movement rather than specific things or features. The piston-powered blade in his right hand and the fearsome gatling gun resting under his left are his only allies against any would-be invaders of this forsaken section of the city. The only problem here is there is no target. Nothing has revealed itself amid the grey stone surfaces and sooty smoke oiling its way up into the sky. He resumes his watch, eye closing periodically and feeling the light wind tugging at his clothes.

He smells it before anything else, and amid the fright of being snuck up on, Djura has a moment to worry that he's losing his fine sense of hearing as well. It's the damp, rusty iron scent of blood. Inescapable in Yharnam, insinuating itself into every aspect of living, but now it's sharp and very near.

A low, flimsy chuckle travels over to him, "You're slipping."

Djura turns, keeping it slow and smooth, but can't keep his fist from clenching on his driver or the gasp he sucks in over his teeth as he sees the person waiting by the ladder.

Gascoigne is still passable as fully human, but it's getting to be a close thing, he can see it. It's in his posture, the way his feet splay out on the stone just so, the odd length and looseness of his limbs, the way his overlarge shoulders fill out his dark coat. A stranger might see nothing at all amiss, but for one that knows him and his body so well, it's plain that he's on the way. Has been for a while. Djura's ashamed at the fear he feels, but thinks it might be justified this time. Not so ashamed at the loathing and anger, however.

Djura's voice is blessedly even as he speaks, not betraying the sour anxiety he feels. "What are you doing here?" Besides skulking through the shadows like some great, shaggy bogeyman , he thinks to tack on but doesn't.

The big man shrugs airily, but the hard smile on his lips is anything but relaxed. "At times one misses the company of a friend."

"You and I aren't friends, Father." Not anymore.

The smile spreads to show off the big teeth. "You wound me, Djura."

Anger blooms at that; he doesn't want to play this coquettish little game. His own lips are rising as well, but not in a smile. Even now, after all this time has passed by, his fury and disgust for Gascoigne haven't faded in any way. His words come out evenly, but there's no mistaking the venom dripping from each one. "Perhaps a murderer deserves a few wounds."

Gascoigne chuckles, though the smile has left his face and the warmth is gone from his voice. "Hunting a few beasts does not a murderer make, my dear Djura. You think the creatures would extend the same kindness to you? You're so insufferably naive about them. Weak."

"It's not a weakness," he hisses. His body is tensing in preparation for something, and he knows Gascoigne can see it. He's mirroring it, after all.

"They were people once! They deserve our mercy." It's a useless protest; he knows Gascoigne will never see it the same way. Can't or doesn't want to. He shakes his head and finally says the thing that's been festering in his mind since it occurred. The thing that's going to make Gascoigne take those two big steps up to him and likely end him.

"And I meant Viola, you monster ."

A ripple passes over Gascoigne's face. Djura barely has time to see the outraged grief in the set of his jaw and the way his skin pulls back before Gascoigne is in motion, gnarled hands coming up and long legs launching him forward.

Djura brings up the blade of his driver and manages a hard swipe against Gascoigne's ribs before he's on him, ducking in close and wrenching the weapon out of his grip, the cuff ripping against his arm. The smell of blood and sweat and insanity is all around him as Gascoigne throws the both of them down to the rough stone of the roof of his lookout. Even though he's never seen the father fight without his axe, he knows he's more than competent with his hands. The thought's proved correct when a clawed fist slams into his face, mashing his lips against his teeth and crashing against his nose.

Without his weapon he has less than no chance and he can do nothing but thrash in Gascoigne's grip as pain spreads over his face and into the little needle-points where he's being held down. He knows he's bleeding everywhere. The claws prick into him deeper as Gascoigne squeezes. He wants to groan at the pain but doesn't. Won't let himself.

Breeze whips up through Djura's dark hair and he realizes his shoulders are pressed down against the small guard wall and his head is hanging off into empty space. Although he's seen it many times, he can't resist a quick peek down to the ground far below, always fascinated by the deadly drop. Gascoigne drags him back to rest fully on the roof and impatiently knocks the ragged hat from Djura's head to better look at him. The set of teeth with the newly long canines is right in front of his face as Gascoigne speaks again. The thick lips twist around his words and it's making Djura remember things he doesn't really want to think about at a time like this.

"Killing Viola was an accident , damn you." He at least had the guts to say what he'd done. "I lost control." The lips hang inches from his own, and the dips in the crossed dirty bandages covering Gascoigne's eyes seem to be staring through him. "You see what's happening to me, I know you can, beast-lover. The same thing that will happen to us all, in time. It's taking me bit by bit and sometimes it just snaps out." Gascoigne clicks his teeth together for emphasis.

And he's right, that single glance at the father had told him everything. But the bestial physical traits had come long, long after the first emotional ones. Djura's face heats as he remembers the very first time Gascoigne propositioned him. Pressing him against the jagged wall of a house and palming him through his pants even as Djura squirmed and breathlessly asked, "What about your wife?" The heavy grunts as the big man crushed against him, hot tongue slipping up his neck and whispering, "You're all I need."

Gascoigne has a hand on his chest, keeping him pressed down as he kneels over him. The other moves over Djura's jaw, stroking the short grey beard for a distracted moment and then resting under his chin, keeping it tipped up to look at him. Everything's coming crashing back to him and Djura's revulsion renews itself. Knows what this strange body and volatile temper are capable of. What they want. He closes his eye and hopes for mercy, knowing it isn't likely.

"What were you trying to goad me into?" Gascoigne mutters. The huge body is burning with heat, the voice getting hoarser even as it quiets to almost a whisper. "Killing you? I've never known you to be suicidal."

His face is lowering, down to the blood that's spouted from Djura's nose and leaking sluggishly from his lip. A slow, thoughtful graze of his tongue over Djura's cheek sets his scalp and back prickling. "Was it this?" A hand turns his jaw and Gascoigne's reddened lips cover his.

Djura jerks away, trying to at least appear to put up a fight of some kind. "Stop it," he grunts. It's a token effort. He hates it but knows he's slipping back into the old familiarity. The touches and the smells are too much.

The father smiles again, teeth huge and sharp and now smeary with blood. He lifts up and laughs and it sounds like howling. "You say stop but I know you, Djura." Teeth snap shut centimeters from the skin of Djura's jaw and he can't stop the moan that comes out. Abject fear and arousal, did they really sound so different?

"Kiss me and it can be like before," Gascoigne says.

He reaches up to pull his own dark hat off, silvery hair now free to shift around in the wind racing over the tower. Then a finger slides under the bandages covering the top half of his face and pushes them back, uncovering the damaged skin and milky white eyes that can no longer truly see. Djura knows what they look like; his own right is similar. The knowledge still doesn't keep the sad gasp from spilling out. The eyes blink once. Slowly, deliberately.

"Or don't... and I can finally let go, right here. It'll be a relief to me, but you'll scream. Likely cry. I might kill you."

Just like Viola , Djura thinks bitterly. This was what it came to. "This is why you're here now, isn't it? Your last chance before it takes control and you can't stop it?"

Gascoigne just looks at him, eyes unreadable. "Make your choice, hunter."

Djura chooses. Of course, it's really no choice at all. His lips are tilting up and sinking against his own slick blood on Gascoigne's mouth. It feels like coming home for the last time.