[open] a cat's the only cat that knows how to swing

[limbical]

WHO: Daan (limbical) & YOU!
WHAT: July catch-all. Event, non-event prompts, you know.
WHERE: A bank! A restaurant! Maybe the clinic!
WHEN: J-July
WARNINGS: Severe depression, alcoholism. CSA mention in the thread with Midnight, marked.



A. IN THE VAULT [event]

[With the possibility of a new place to explore reveals itself, it's only natural for the floodgates to open; there are plenty of people here, and Daan is but one of them, nosily investigating for any clues. Though typical as ever, there is nothing to reveal whatever secrets the city holds, or whoever their captors might be. No useful files, no names, nothing.

Then there are the keys.

Sorting through them is interesting at first, as he recognizes some of the names that they go to. They're names to people currently in the city. Which also means...

Yes. There is one for him too. Daan | Daniël is embossed on the tag, clearly indicating him. It's bothersome enough that the name he goes by mostly is there, but the other...

He scowls, plucks his key free without a word, and marches into the vault to find where it belongs. There are rows of safety deposit boxes, but finding the corresponding one isn't much effort at least. He opens it, and inside is a note. Something or other about sharing, which he pockets for now in case it does end up important. But the item inside...

How could he forget?

A little box is inside, which Daan delicately pulls out, his eye wide. His shoulders bunch, and he swiftly walks to a corner, as if he could steal the semblance of privacy. Lips quiver as he opens the box, revealing inside polished tools for sewing.

The sight of it almost seems to bring Daan pain and he shuts the box swiftly before he presses his forehead against the wall, shaking his head to himself. He always tries to keep his mind even and cool, even if it is a pretense, but it seems that this has successfully shaken him to his core. Absently, he whispers to himself:]

How the hell did they get this?

[And then the vault door slams shut, jolting him out of his thoughts.]


B. DRINKS ARE ON ME [post-vault]


[He couldn't rightfully call these his worst days. After all, Daan has lived through those; he's remarked that his time in this city so far has been more like a vacation in comparison, and frankly that is still true. However, that doesn't mean he isn't still miserable.

The weight of the little wooden box in his pocket indicates as such.

In one of the restaurants, Daan is behind the bar, mixing a drink for himself. By how much the whiskey bottle has been emptied certainly indicates how many he's had, but he isn't in the mood to stop. The bank and the dreams he's been cursed with both haunt him alike, along with everything else he's ever put up with, and he's had enough.

He almost misses the Pocketcat's ever closing in steps and rotten promises.

When you enter, he forms a smile that looks too sharp, almost cruel as he lifts a glass in some toast that only he knows.]

Shall I pour one for you? [And then he proceeds to drain his glass.]


C. WILDCARD [choose your own adventure]

[If you'd like a specific prompt, hit me up and I'll make it happen!]

Comments

[fanstheflames]

[ Tsuruno offers him a smile, nodding. ]

Yeah. And I'll do what I can for you, too. Since you looked like you were kind of upset when I came in.

[ A little. Maybe a little bitter. Perhaps. A tad. ]

[luciole]

... Daan.

[She clutches the bracelet in her palm and moves over to him, saying his name softly.]

What did you find in your deposit box?

[Calmly and cooly — that's how she should be approaching this. First, just say the items that their personal keys led them to, gave them a psychic vision. It's like having psychometry but the association was already inherent in the object, not the person drawing it out themselves.

(She will not grow meek from just remembering.)]

[limbical]

You don't want me.

[He sneers the words, practically bearing his teeth for all the good it would do him. The way Daan braces himself against the counter, peering at Midnight.]

You don't want my company. You know what exactly about me -- that I'm a doctor? That I can make a good drink? And then what? In that moment what did you even see in me?

[There is a part of him that knows that Midnight is being honest, but it's hard for him to believe, especially inebriated and mourning and wanting to howl and scream and refuse to ever be vulnerable for anyone else ever again. He wants to make it difficult, just to be.]

[limbical]

...Yes. Well.

You weren't the only one who found something a touch personal in the bank. I just handled it much more poorly than you.

[fanstheflames]

Was yours that bad?

--Okay, that might be a stupid question...

[unrequite]

You're accusing me of poor taste, doctor. I actually wouldn't argue that.

[ Midnight leans in as well, elbow on the bar, hand flat as he presses down for balance. ]

But I think you want me to know exactly who you are. At the rate I'm going, it's inevitable, isn't it? Might as well rip off the bandage. My little illusion of you can't last forever.

[ ... ]

Well? Go on. Make the worst thing happen. Please.

[limbical]

No, it's fine. You couldn't know. No one could.

[He rubs his eye, then reaches into his pocket, revealing a little blue box. Upon opening it reveals elegant sewing set.]

...This was my wife's. My late wife. Elise.

cw: csa mention, not graphic

[limbical]

[Midnight isn't incorrect. He wants to bear the ugliest part of himself, reveal that part, prove everything wrong and right and see? See? I knew it all along.]

And what part of me should I share, hm? I've worn many masks. Perhaps the unspeakable things I've done to survive? After all, in order to use Sylvian's skills, you must have an affinity with her. Do you know what that means, Midnight?

It means showing love. That's a broad definition, you would think, but for most people that's easy. It's just sex. And I was certainly encouraged to have her gifts when I was a boy. When they disappeared on me one final time, I used those gifts to get by.

You think you want me. But you don't. Not really. I've afforded myself to love once and even then, it wasn't enough. [Daan reaches up and touches his eyepatch. His hands are steady, even if the rest of him trembles.]

It never is. What a fucking sham.

[limbical]

What?

[For a moment, he almost doesn't hear Lucinda. Daan looks genuinely confused before his eye settles onto her. She... asked him a question. Right, the thing he found--

Daan grips the tiny box tighter and suddenly finds himself feeling overprotective. Like a stray cat backed in a corner, he wants to scrunch up and hide himself away. Look bigger, act meaner.]

You first.

[luciole]

[She reads his body language and reacts accordingly. Lucinda doesn't protest and doesn't try to pry anything else from the doctor. There's a nod.]

Here. This is what I found.

[She doesn't have anything to hide though the way she draws out her jade bracelet is deliberately slow. Even under the dull lights, its surface is smooth and its hue a lovely pale green.]

... The little gold character, here. [She points to the Chinese script carved from gold.]

It means "good fortune."

[The irony is palpable so she doesn't make light of it. Unlike Daan who clings to his box, Lucinda looks and sounds as if she's trying to detach herself from this piece of jewelry.]

I don't like wearing jade anymore though.

cw: the therapist part of being a slutty therapist isn't fun, aka self harm mention, not graphic

[unrequite]

[ If the question is, "Would Midnight love me, even with this?", the answer is: of course. But he sees these things a bit differently. He understands that he does, has always needed to pick through the contents of a heart carefully in response to his deep pit of wretched, consuming desire to give. Less for their comfort, more because Midnight knows that he can rip through hearts like a typhoon through rice paper. He doesn't have to try. He generally tries not to. (He fails, sometimes.) ]

Talk to me. Another mask. Put it on. Hurt me.

[ He's watching Daan with patient eyes, even if his words are rather steely. He's had people try to hurt themselves before, back when he hadn't realized how much people hurt when they spoke with him like this. He'd rather not repeat the experience of calling hospitals, patching up teethmarks and scratches, especially when one of only two doctors he knows personally in this city is standing in front of him. ]

[limbical]

[It's a beautiful bracelet, but clearly its existence brings her pain. Daan gazes at it, listening to her voice, recognizing enough that this item has done something to her, or the memory of it.

But he is a man who was trained to believe in equal exchange.

So he does.

With surgeon steady hands, he opens the tiny box, revealing the elegant sewing tools inside.]

...This belonged to my wife.

[Belonged.]

bruh midnight please have standards

[limbical]

[What the hell is this? What is he trying to accomplish? He doesn't understand, but Midnight is looking at him unwavering, ready to receive whatever words await. Why? All Daan can wonder is what he wants, what does he get out of this? Isn't it always about that?]

What the hell is your problem?

[It's asked sharply, cat's claws and fangs, hissing and spitting. Still cautiously trying to protect himself. I have the final mask you'll ever need to wear, old sport.

Out from his pocket, he sets down the item he received from his safety deposit box. He opens it, revealing the sewing kit inside, the engraved tools with more flourish than is functionally necessary but the von Dutch household wouldn't really spare any expense.]

The first and only person I let myself love owned this. My wife. Elise.

I killed her.

[Half-true. All true. True once in Prehevil. Guilt in the Kingdom of Rondon. How does he explain how a person dies twice? Daan, can you diagnose--]

[fanstheflames]

Your--oh.

[ Her eyes go a little round, owlish but concerned. ]

Well, of course you'd be upset!

[limbical]

[There's a lot he can't tell her. In part because he doesn't understand all of it himself, but primarily there are grim details he would spare her.

But this much is true:]

Yes. ...I miss her dearly, and I can only hope she's resting peacefully.

he will do that as soon as he unpacks his daddy issues, which will be (checks watch) Never

[unrequite]

[ It's a lovely thing. Midnight pulls it toward him. One finger down, a deliberate move. He inspects it for a moment, watching the light glint off the metal. ]

And knowing nothing, I must assume that she deserved it.

[ Midnight looks at his doctor, but is otherwise completely still. ]

Or perhaps you deserve the guilt. The grief. Is that what you want me to say?

[ Because it's out there, now. He doesn't doubt that this is about the worst thing that could happen, but he's steeled for something beyond this. A fist. Teeth. Blood.

(Honestly, he's ready to snap them both out of this little drunken fugue, but he wants to make sure that he hasn't cut the heart out of this man first before he leaves. Because it's there. He sees it, or at least the remnants of it, even if Daan doesn't.) ]

BUDDY

[limbical]

[There's the urge to swipe, backhand the man, how dare you. But no one is saintly, not even her. There are parts of the whole, nuance, and even doesn't know the whole story. Was it entirely the baron's fault? Was she in on it? Would she ever tell her precious father "no"?]

I don't know.

[And that is the most raw, most truthful answer he can give. Because the lack of knowledge kills him the most.]

I don't know if it was... deserved.

[Well, at least it doesn't seem like he's trying to pick a fight with Midnight now. Instead, Daan seems more defeated and exhausted than anything else.]

🤡👍

[unrequite]

[ There. Midnight lifts his finger, points at Daan's heart. ]

There. The part of you that still grieves. Even without answers, even when it no longer makes sense to linger, it grieves.

[ He drops his hand, puts it to his glass, and finishes his drink. ]

You were asking me what I saw. Now we both see it.

[ It takes this much to show one's heart to someone who is this determined to hide from it. If only such a demonstration was easy. Midnight wishes a lot of things were easy. ]

does it take two clowns to have a circus

[limbical]

[Quietly, he buries his hand against his own face, fingers outlining his eyepatch. Sacrifices, sacrifices, amounting to nothing, and nowhere to return to.]

So you see some fucking depressed man, is that it?

[He isn't even trying to bite with words. He's just exhausted and drunk and sad.]

it's enough for a clown car at least. a clown tandem bicycle. ✌️🥹

[unrequite]

Well, that too.

[ Midnight laughs, pushes his empty glass to the side, then peers at Daan. Drunk, tired, emotional. Midnight's bread and butter. He tries to treat them gently. Less like food items, more like people. (Does Daan need to lie down for a bit? Midnight has done more drunk herding than one might think, and there are plenty of booths available for a quick breather.) ]

I did my best not to lie, but I do apologize for speaking so lightly of your past. That wasn't my intention when I approached you tonight, believe me.

[ Midnight has quite a few thoughts about what Daan had to say, but discretion is the greater part of valor. Also, he's not in the habit of kicking a man while he's down. ]

[luciole]

[Ah. Her dark eyes scan the sewing tools, taking in their intricate design and elegant shapes.]

... I see.

[A widower. Sadly, that is not uncommon in Lucinda's experience. What she is experienced in are the words she practiced when addressing those who grieved, wrecked by loss, wanting to pay anything just to share one more moment with them.

... And at that moment she's weighed by the shame of not being able to muster anything meaningful. She hasn't been a proper medium in a long time.

Lucinda closes her eyes. Opens them again and gazes at the doctor unwaveringly.]

You love her still.

[Not a question. The woman moves to the side where the vault door is, with one hand tracing the seam and the other by her side with the jade bracelet barely hanging onto her fingers. They're stuck and all they have are tainted treasures in their hands.]

Was there anything else in your box? I'll doublecheck mine.

[She goes to retrieve hers and as she picks it up, she ruefully remarks.]

This wouldn't be the first time I was unwillingly stuck in a room.

[fanstheflames]

...

Daan-san, am I allowed to hug you?

honks sadly as we share the clown bike

[limbical]

At least you're honest.

[And it doesn't offend him. Really, right now, Daan just feels worn out. He's remarked how being stuck in this city is akin to a vacation, but really it's just a new prison. Calmer on the outside, but he is so, so far away from ever finding the truth of Elise's death now. So he turns the facts over and over in his head, wishing he could piece together the truth.

And it kills him not knowing.]

Mm. You couldn't have known where my head's been at. Practically falling off my shoulders, so to speak.

[Daan touches his own forehead with a sigh. He could get away with using Loving Whispers, but... no, that feels like a shitty idea right now after everything he's just thrown at Midnight.]

But you made sure I could speak frankly. Angrily. Trying to look out for your doctor, are you?

[limbical]

[The fact that she asks actually puts him at ease a bit. If it'd come out of nowhere, he might have stiffened up and froze on the spot.

But this is better. Daan gives her a small nod.]

I stink of whiskey. But if you can tolerate that... then sure. You can. If you want.

[limbical]

Yes. I do.

[Despite everything. Whatever the truth is. Will he know? Will he ever know? The body is more muscular than typical, but that isn't unusual--
Here we are again, old sport.

Wait, Lucinda asked him a question. He's unraveling again. Daan takes a moment to breathe, wishing desperately that he was anywhere but trapped with someone else. Alone, given a moment to think, have a drink or ten.]

There was a note in mine. I didn't think much of it at first.

First mistake, hm?

[He offers it out to her.]