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

Entry tags:

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

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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Ah, here they are again indeed. If it's fate, then it's twisted up in a wretched knot; his pocket burns with weight, the reminder prickling at him. Daan lets out a loose, cold laugh before he finishes the contents of his glass.]

Of course.

Any requests, or shall I surprise you?

You did say your specialty was an old-fashioned, didn't you? I'd like to try that.

[ Well, this is the second coincidence, but it's their third meeting proper. Out of the three Daans he's been acquainted with so far, this is the first one he's seen in a certain mood. Something unsympathetic, if Midnight had to put a word to it. This Daan is different. It's good. It's good because it's different. (It's also a little frightening, but that's par for the course.) ]

That I did. An old-fashioned it is.

[For him, these are old practiced motions. Maybe not quite as long as he's been a doctor, but he wasn't always a doctor either. A bit of sugar, water, and proper whiskey with ice, added with an orange peel and a cherry.

Only, Daan makes two, because one is for him.]

Do let me know what you think, old sport. Cheers.

To you.

[ Midnight raises his glass to Daan and takes a sip... then another. He looks in his glass, eyebrow raised a bit. ]

You're not wrong. This is lovely. [ ... ] You'd give many a bartender a run for their money.

[ It's a compliment. He means it. It's not all that common to be more than one thing at once. ]

I should hope so. Mixing drinks is much easier than healing people.

[The grin he wears continues to lack any real mirth, almost a frustration to it. And how so little he smiles to start with, only to be all edges. An abandoned cat in an alley, ready to hiss and swat anyone who gets near.]

Ah, maybe that's how it should have stayed. Better a butler than whatever the fuck I became.

[He has a drink from his glass.]

[ Midnight hums, continuing to nurse his drink. It really is perfect. Among one of the best he's ever tasted. ]

It bears mentioning that whatever you became, it ended with you here, in a position to help me. When it comes to what you could or should have been, I like that you're here now. I'm a bit biased, in that respect.

[ It's a bit merciless, relies on his ignorance, but still completely honest. Without knowing more, what else can Midnight be but grateful? ]

Stop that.

[Abruptly, his glass sets down sharply. Not enough to break, but loud enough to clack against the counter. His eye is narrowed as he glares at Midnight.]

Who the fuck do you think I am, Midnight? A selfless doctor? You hardly know anything about me, and yet the way you looked at me is seared into my memory.

I've seen dozens of patients look at me with such longing after I used that spell. That's what it does. But you, you just--

[He grips his glass tightly.]

What do you want?

[ — Ah. So he did notice. Midnight looks at Daan for a moment, single visible eye wide in surprise, before looking down and back at his drink. ]

I'm very capable of getting everything I could possibly want, doctor. Practicably speaking, this includes you.

[ Absolutely, maddeningly self-assured. Psychopathic, honestly.

Midnight takes up his drink and sips again. ]

I'd like another one of these, though. And your company. [ Midnight looks up at Daan again. ] How do I get that, doctor? Tell me. I've many options, but I'm open to suggestions.

[ The timbre of Midnight's voice is calm, his eye contact is steady. He's telling the honest truth.

(He has many, many options. The old ways. Options that smell like fear and blood on mountaintops.) ]

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.]

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.

[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.

[ 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. ]

[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--]

[ 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.) ]

[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.]

[ 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. ]

[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.]

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. ]

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?

[ Another smile. It is, indeed, another "yes" kind of smile. ]

I'll be better prepared, next time.

[ There's so much to say, but none of it fixes anything, even if words could. Mostly, it all comes off as confessions. Divulgences of a type only guilty men carry with them.

But there's something to be said about a guilty man. One that sees guilt for what it is, anyway. Better than one who doesn't understand the weight of their own sorrow at all. ]

Have you been drinking water?

[ Is what he says instead. It's necessary, at least. ]

Ha. Ideally, there won't be a next time for you to be worried about...

[Being vulnerable is a difficult thing for him. Especially since there are so many questions still lingering that Daan isn't sure he'll ever have answers to.

But there is something for him to know: Midnight does have well meaning intentions, even if he should probably know better than to fall for someone like Daan.]

Only if you count the water in an old-fashioned.

Well, I'd drink to this being a one time event, but, ah...

[ He gestures to his glass, then... Gets on the bar. Just sort of shifts forward, turns and hops up there, sitting and reaching for the glasses backward, looking around for the water dispenser. Sorry if this was sacred ground, but Midnight is very used to getting exactly what he wants, when he wants, and what he wants is for his doctor to not turn into a kitty themed, liquor soaked raisin. ]

I'd like another drink with you at some point. I'd also like to talk to you about my mother.

[ — Ah. Midnight pauses, glass in hand, then cracks up. ]

Oh. I was doing so well.

[listen here man he'll always be in furry hell

Anyway, Daan is going to lean back a bit and give them like. An inch between them. look there's no a lot of room behind the counter]

Right. Another drink, probably when I'm not already a few in.

[Honestly, he still doesn't quite know what to make of Midnight in some respects, but ultimately he's already decided that he means well, so. There's that.

Anyway what]

What about your mother, exactly? [why are we talking about parents]

[ Midnight's still laughing to himself, filling up a couple glasses of water for himself and Daan, but after he pushes Daan's toward him, he'll balance a bit, stick a hand in his pocket, and pull out a small, off-white envelope from his pocket, waving it in explanation. ]

Now, this had me in quite the state when Lan Xichan handed it off to me yesterday, but after the one time, I'd already had quite my fill of divulging my past to others. The past belongs to the past, and so on. I dropped it off at my place before running errands and thought nothing more of it... But it is from my mother, so I've had it in my pocket the whole day today.

[ Midnight slips off the bar and goes back to his stool, sticking the envelope back in his pocket. ]

I just cannot stop talking about her with everyone I've encountered. I rather think it's got some Arts to it. I'll be going home after this to drop it off, but you must understand that I don't usually lead into conversation topics about my mother. I do apologize.

Now, let's see...

[ Midnight hums, thinking. The easiest way to dispel this compulsion is to reveal at least one thing about the item that Midnight would rather his conversation partner not know. For Midnight, though, that's pretty much everything, so it's taking him a moment to come up with something specific. Yes, seriously, this is how Midnight figured out the secondary effect. He just does not talk about his past, ever, so narrowing down the culprit was pretty simple. ]

Stop.

[There's an annoyed sigh that escapes Daan. To Midnight's credit, he decides to have a drink of his water, though it's certainly going to take more than that to really do anything about the effects of all that drinking he'd done earlier. He pauses, rubbing along his eyepatch before he continues.]

How the fuck do you think I feel about it? Spilling my guts about my wife. I even told you about my parents to some degree, which is not a topic I'm thrilled about either. And here you are pussyfooting around what to tell me.

I'm a man who was taught to understand equal exchange. If you don't think you can bother with that, then don't tell me a single thing.

I've had my fill of... half-truths, as it were.

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw: csa mention, not graphic

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

bruh midnight please have standards

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

BUDDY

🤡👍

does it take two clowns to have a circus

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

honks sadly as we share the clown bike

💀 honk... honk.....

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

Sorry about the wait, August was very busy for me!

oh you're fine!! life, uhh... finds a way

just like mold, cockroaches, and midnight's grip on life 👍