notes:
Basically, you're getting these chapters as soon as
I've typed them out on my phone; usually while I'm
at my realpeople job, haha. What my phone browser
does not have, is spellcheck, so. That. And also
pardon awkwardness, errors, etc. This is now my
low-edit story, simply because its plotline has
haunted me every fall and continues to demand
writing even though I have zero time to do so artfully.
If anything stands out especially awkward or drags,
please tell me. I know the characters are all acting
out of sorts, and their situation is sort of being glossed
over for expediency, and the next few chapters are
going to try and explain that all. Hooray convoluted
drama! It's good to have you here.
Also RisingSmoke and other commentors you are the
spring in my step and the reason I get out of bed in
the morning (or at least the reason I stay in bed and
phonetype).
Also yes this counts toward NaNoWriMo wordcount
whydoyouask.
xXxXXxxxXXxXXXXx
Conrad kept his poise with the practiced ease of the veteran neurotic; he'd even managed to come off as somewhat cool and collected when he'd helped Worth, both times, setting aside the parts of him that wanted to shrivel up and explode in equal measure. He'd set a goal and met that goal and, other than a small slip where he'd given in to the usual hunger (and it HAD been a month since having the 'fresh' stuff and his stomach wound DID feel better and who else was he going to bite honestly - not like the man wasn't shoving it in his face every goddamn opportunity between them) - he'd done okay holding it all back.
Until Noah. Until the thing Noah said, and there Conrad had come into adulthood mooning over Sigourney Weaver in the first Aliens film, and then Serena Williams because he had a thing for legs, and while his late-twenties certainly had been a time for expanding his horizons (he'd liked Christina Hendricks, too, proudly enough by her more obscure pre-Madmen work), he was almost pretty sure his horizons weren't all that wide.
But then of course Conrad could never bring himself to date a real woman, face to face, nervous and self-loathing as he was. And then, that meant he often found himself in the company of men, though the sexes weren't that different if he really thought about it - and yes, he knew he had Mother Issues and had been working very hard to overcome those issues but - but he wasn't gay. He didn't desire Hanna, nor Hanna's body archetype - which he was to believe was the reason for his 'desire' to manifest in Noah the way that it, apparently, had.
Maybe he was just keeping Worth company in the whole cupid's-arrow-confusing-other-metaphysical-monsters area.
And Worth, what the fuck, way to surprise - though, again, it seemed fitting. Christina Hendricks' figure was nothing to sneeze at, and the man certainly didn't seem the type to discriminate by gender. This, somewhat, was a relief - but not the part where Conrad had made all that noise insisting on Noah's gender only to have it thrown out wide in front of Doc fucking Worth that the matter was one of - ugh - desire.
Thaaaat was going to take a lot of explanation, if it ever came up, which Conrad doubted it would because he was just going to crawl under the motel bed and turn into a fucking raisin, small and bitter and deaf to the world.
Conrad walked on numb legs, pale and silent and expressionless, screaming on the inside. What if he was gay-or-some-variation, and had just been too focused on his career to even notice? He certainly didn't mind Veser's less than subtle flirtation - it even made him feel kind of, maybe, cool? Whereas when Toni flirted Conrad felt his every nerve seize in an iron beartrap. And Sigourney Weaver was kind of a handsome woman, even back in the eighties...
Conrad eyed Noah with weighty suspicion, once the cabin down the west road came into sight and their trudging slowed.
Yeltzen/Tiffany/Gonzo handed a cell phone over to Worth, who grumbled a summary to the piping voice on the other end of the line.
"Time got a little screwy on us while we was here," Worth announced, snapping the phone shut and returning it to the zombie. "Hanner says yer little scooby-doo crew had ta spend the weekend biting their nails on yer safe return. They're driving up to the theater now."
Conrad hardly registered the new information, sharing a gaze with Noah, frown small and concerned.
Noah tried to smile, but glanced away with a pull of his chin, shoulder rolling in a shrug. "I can't change it on my own merits, so how about we stop staring at me like I just murdered your cat, maybe." He lifted his chin, nodding at the dull brass lamp set on a small damp barrel near a support post of the shack's overhang. "I'm not in control of much, actually. I can't even carry my own lamp;" a disgusted snort, palms out, "that's how I end up in places like this, out of the reach of mortals who would doom themselves with their own greed."
"Wull that sucks," Worth sympathized, attentive the way one might be to a very attractive woman. "Got someone we all know as what could help ya out with that." Worth stood with hands in pockets, hips leaned out toward Noah, leering crookedly.
Conrad tried to picture Noah as a busty redhead, but found it infinitely easier to talk to the apparition of his persons as a Hanna-generation sweater-bro than it would have been if he'd been presented a Jessica Rabbit archetype, so, maybe the magic of the lamp (or whatever) actually knew what it was doing. Maybe what Conrad desired was actually just ease of relatability, nothing sexual at all. He hardly even looked at porn, much less at everyday people with pornographic intent.
You hardly lived when you were alive, the memory of the Boggart reminded viciously. Conrad felt his insides shrivel further.
The obsessive caught up with the compulsive, and Conrad found himself suddenly overwhelmed with the idea that he did desire Noah (and therefore Hanna) and just hadn't found out, specifically because he did not explore very much in dating or physical pleasure and indeed had devoted his passion to nobody but his career (just like the Boggart had said ohjesusfuckgoddammit). This last was blurted out loud, startling a group of hedgewitches gathered at a picnic table selling lemonade.
"Stub yer toe there, Connie?" Worth barked, pulling a clean shirt out of the duffelbag he'd left for safekeeping and buttoning it up, black and dark gray pinstripe because withdrawal did amazing things to core temperature and idiots like Worth were made impervious to jungle heat. Conrad didn't have a pulse and even he was stifled in anything as long-sleeved (and of course, remarkably, Worth shrugged on his coat overtop, furred trim listless in the muggy air).
Conrad was glaring at Worth from between the fingers he'd clawed down his face. "No," he grunted. "I'm fine. Thanks."
The Zombie strode ahead, lamp in hand as he settled a dry glove on Noah's shoulder. "We do know someone who can help you," he offered, eyes darting as if he couldn't quite focus on the Djinn in their midst. "If it's freedom you're after."
The smile shone in Noah's eyes though the rest of him slowed his walk, doubtful. Conrad studied this, trying to feel something about it. Pity, even, or... something. Maybe, like the Boggart said, there was something just wrong with Conrad and he just couldn't see anything likable in other people because he was petty and childish, and was going to waste his life wasting other peoples' time and -
"Hanna's gonna hear 'magic lamp' and throw a conniption, I bet," Worth gruffed, stuffed rucksack and duffel slung improbably criss-cross over his high-noon frame. "A good conniption," Worth clarified at the zombie's raised brow. "There's different kinds."
Hanna, Conrad's heart echoed. He bit his cheek and turned to start back toward the crossroads, wordless, hopelessly absorbed in the slow-motion mudslide that was his composure. He wanted Hanna. He wanted to sleep in that rumpled, thin-sheeted futon and glue himself to the friendly warmth. He wanted to watch the side of Hanna's face settle into seriousness as he worked; he was ready to rend himself fascinated to everything the man had to say about anything at all, even the light-hearted stuff - maybe especially the light-hearted stuff - and just -
Conrad inhaled sharply, taking the hard right down the south road back towards the theater doors. He was pacing at a quip, then jogging, chest bursting and collapsing at the same time, panic attack finally crossing the picket line of his control. Jungle turned to sticky linoleum under his canvas shoes and he collided hard with a warm body, arm snatching out to keep Veser from toppling over.
"Dude!" Veser squawked. "Don't come outta nowhere like that!"
"SOrRy," Conrad's voice cracked, breath broken and unnecessary, hyperventilation gripping lower when it could not stymie his dead lungs. "I'm fine," Conrad protested Veser's grunt of curiosity, pulling away to drift absently through the dark theater lobby towards the doors.
The clatter of Worth's luggage announced his arrival, the growling toe-to-toe between he and Veser over who should carry what to the van sounding hollow through the ruined building (and, unseen, was that Worth had dropped everything, panting from the jog after Conrad, and was in a particular bad mood as he followed on Conrad's heels because -)
Conrad brushed lazily past Mel's warning, both arms shoving out at the metal doors with a satisfying lunge, daylight flooding the atrium because timeline fuckery -
- and Conrad flinched under the arm and the flap of the coat front that muffled his bitten curse, pulled now sharply to the side as the heavy doors slammed shut on weighted hinges. Conrad exhaled as the flap of Worth's (fragrant) coat was dropped. Worth's arm remained in the air as if to stop Conrad from trying that again, hand jerking forward to ruffle Conrad's hair, lending immediate relief because now Conrad could be annoyed, not lost and desperate and spiraling and terrified.
Just. Annoyed. Conrad slapped at Worth's arm and hand. "Piss off," he imperiously commanded, turning to Melody, who had put herself in front of the doors. "How far away is the van?"
"The windows aren't covered," Melody hedged, shrugging bare shoulders. "Toni's on the horn with the rental place right now; we'll hafta go by bus or plane if her credit doesn't clear." A sour curl of the lips, "Again."
"Looks like yer travelin' bat," Worth suggested, cigarette cherry glowing in the dark, arm still hovering despite the distance Conrad had put between them with a venomous thanks.
Veser waves his flashlight beam, "We'll have to smuggle you somehow, if we go by bus or plane. Or hafta register you as live cargo, because bat 'n all."
"I could just fly," Conrad mused, the layers of his composure settled like a film of mud after a heavy rain, vulnerable in its shift. "Was going on holiday soon, anyways. Are we still checked in at the motel?"
Veser stepped out of the way as Brittany/Harold/Obi followed Noah out from the nothingness. "Whoah," Veser breathed, glancing between Noah and the rest of their party, as if to ask each one if they were seeing what he was seeing.
"Um," Mel agreed, blinking slowly, a spot just below her neck going red, the blush spreading up as she took keen interest in the double doors behind her. "Who is that," she gritted under her breath, fervently trying to catch Conrad's attention. "Do vampires just hang out around here, or what?"
"Djinn," Conrad corrected. "And I guess he's supposed to be whatever you would desire him to look like." Then, just for example, "Worth sees him as Joan Holloway."
Worth shoves at Conrad's shoulder in passing, "I'd like ter keep that unner the lid," he argues lightly. "I oughter be an enigma shrouded in mystery to erryone in this goddamn building, not to mention random fuckin' Hanna groupies I don't know from Eve."
Melody's voice went deep and flat with anger, "Excuse me?"
The bickering that ensued was comfortable, familiar. Conrad could immerse himself in the noise, trying to drown out his disorder with routine anger, until his eyes met Noah's and his stomach flipped and he shivered and tensed and did not look away, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. If he desired something or someone bad enough, could he use that to pull himself up from his own misanthropy? Save himself, maybe, from the constant terror that had come flooding back into his day to day after the whole being dead thing interfered with his medication's potency?
"You could travel in my lamp," Noah offered quietly, appealing to the zombie to bring the vessel forward. "As I'm to travel to your wizened man for my freedom. We might travel there together, yeah?" At reading Conrad's expression, "It's perfectly safe. And please, I am in an eager hurry to meet Mr. Cross in person, so if we might...?"
"Of course," Conrad blurted, defying his usual reticence to accepting help. He stared Noah down as if he was a charging bull, and not some starry-eyed stranger with a posh colonial accent. It was time to live, Conrad reasoned, stepping forward with a nod. It was time to spit in the very fucking face of the death he'd already suffered, before his next death could crow victory over his lifelong inaction. Noah didn't provide the gut-punch of feeling that Hanna evoked; nor was he the buzzing draw of Worth's blood or the easy loping admiration in Veser's conversation.
What Noah was, was there. Smiling like he couldn't help it, and smiling back at only Conrad when it was everyone else in the their group smiling at Noah, seeing what they wanted to see. Noah was smiling back and Conrad wasn't even smiling in the first place, but Noah was smiling back. And maybe Conrad wasn't seeing what he wanted to see (Julia Stiles when she guest starred on Dexter) but maybe he was seeing what he needed to see, and that was an unthreatening handsome-ish sweaterfag in hipster shoes, smiling.
"I'll... what, do I click my heels three times?"
"You sure we'll get you back?" Veser interrupts, nervous at the pre-occupation Conrad seemed to have with Noah, when he knew for damn sure Conrad never had a pre-occupation that didn't come from a computer or phone screen. "I mean, you'll come back on your own, right, even if that's like, a genie's lamp and full of like, I dunno, cool shit and fancy pillows and stuff - Iknowyalikefancypillows, is all -"
Noah's shoulder rolls, eyebrows arching. "I don't know," he answers Veser (who sees a flat, athletic woman with broad shoulders and a mohawk) without looking away from Conrad. "I might want to keep this one, fancy pillows or no." Noah holds a hand out to Conrad, as if to shake in parting.
Conrad spares a warning frown at Veser, whose jealousy rang a little too obvious and added a double layer of discomfiting speculation. "I'll only be in there to sleep."
"Can I come?" Veser cracks, but the joke is far-away, muted.
Conrad is reaching out, but the world has already started to swirl, fade. By the time his fingertips brush Noah's palm, the walls around them have solidified to carved, undecorated sandstone.
x
