A/N: My first Ples-centric fic. I've been wanting to write one for a long time, but I didn't want to make any assumptions to his character. But now that he's been formally introduced into Hanna, I have nothing to fear! For the record, the title is a reference to Stephen King's "It", which is what Ples is reading!
The gentle ticking of the clock, along with the occasional whimper, is the only sound underlying his voice as he reads. He reads with a quiet passion, a hint of amusement at parts that would disgust others. "Over his head, a grim gust of October wind rattled the trees, now almost completely unburdened of their freight of colored leaves by the storm, which had been this year a reaper of the most ruthless sort."
A dry chuckle, and the dull thudding of the book as it closes. Dull green eyes look up, tired but eerily aware of all that went on around him. As he ceases to read, the ticking around them grows louder, courtesy of the many clocks lining the walls - and of himself. "I'm so glad you're allowing me to read to you," he says as he sets the book down, standing with a flourish. "It's so hard to find lovers of literature these days, wouldn't you agree?" Reaching for a glass of scotch, he quirks an eyebrow and takes a sip.
"Mmrmmph," his companion replies.
Ples Tibenoch grins, taking a deeper drink this time: "Too true." He sets the glass down and approaches the other, pausing to reflect on the artistry of it all. The way the other man's arms stretch out across the wall like Christ on the cross, the damp rag shoved into his mouth and tied like a bow. "Did you know you're dying right now? I coated that rag in aconitum - wolfsbane, if you aren't too educated in plants. Very potent stuff, indeed." The wrinkles on his face deepen as he frowns. "I think I might have inhaled some, too, before I put my mask on. But unlike you, I'm fairly certain I'll survive."
The man hanging from the wall struggles, his brown hair sticking to his tanned, rugged face.
"I left it overnight, so you can probably expect death in the next... four hours, fifty-six minutes, and ten seconds." Ples smiles, tapping the pocket where he keeps his watch. "I'm very good with time, as you can tell." He steps closer to his captive, resting his pale hand on the black leather jacket that has a smell he adores. "Sorry it can't be sooner, Micheal."
"Mrrmr! Mmphmmn!" Micheal screams through the rag, flailing as the hand reaches up to touch the rough stubble on his chin.
Ples sighs melodramatically, taking in the scent of musk and leather. "I might have to acquire your jacket after this. It smells quite good. And I like to keep souvenirs." Looking up, he blinks. "Oh, I'm sorry. Were you talking? Here, let me -" He reaches up and forcefully removes the rag from Micheal's mouth, taking a large step back to avoid any attacks.
"Y-you crazy a-asshole!" Micheal sobs, his voice sounding raw and unfamiliar amidst the ticking. Ples merely blinks, reaching for an unmarked bottle on the end table. "Wh-what did I do?"
"Nothing," says the Englishman, taking a swig from the bottle and gargling it before he spits it back into an empty cup.
"Then why am I here? You're fucking si-"
Ples crosses over to grab Micheal by the jacket, pull him down towards him, and kiss him. All Micheal can taste is motor oil, scotch, and something else. He fights, but it's useless, since it only lasts for a good few seconds before Ples pulls back and shoves the rag back into Micheal's mouth.
"I couldn't resist," he chuckles, muffled with whatever he had gargled as he goes back to take a drink of what looks like water with a shudder. He wipes his mouth and gestures to the unmarked bottle. "Olive oil. I suppose I'm being paranoid, but you can never be too careful, am I right?"
Micheal starts to protest, but feels bile start to gather in the back of his throat. Before he can stop himself, he vomits, the rag keeping it backed up in his throat. Ples winces, turning away. "Ew. I forgot that was a symptom of poisoning." After a second of contemplation, he laughs, as maniacally as the killer in a slasher flick, while downing the rest of his scotch. "Oh well. I hope you had a good dinner last night. You're going to be tasting it for a while." And he departs, happily singing along to the ticking of the clocks.
When Ples comes back in the morning, Micheal is still hanging, motionless and limp. The Englishman tsks and shakes his head, walking over to remove the rag. He steps back as leftover vomit spills onto the floor, tinged with blood. After frowning at the puddle, he looks up and takes in the almost pained, yet peaceful, expression on the corpse's face. Reaching up, he runs his bony fingers through damp, sweat-stained hair, slowly moving downwards to the leather jacket.
Carefully, ever so carefully, he releases Micheal from his restraints, removes the jacket, and slides it on over his own t-shirt. While he buries his short-time companion, he feels remorse start to creep through his chest. His good side's starting to come through again, and that notion by itself irritates him. So when he finishes, he goes back inside, pours himself some butterscotch schnapps, and waits.
Ples Tibenoch wakes, sitting in a chair, and fights to keep tears from escaping his clear green eyes. It's always the same.