what_wings_dare | Never meant to be one step down on the podium.

"Bromley? There's no such thing," he answers confidently, because well with the amount of semi-illegal medical machinery cached downstairs, he knows that sort of thing. It makes him wonder where, after all, the stranger hails from. A madman? Some sort of genetic experiment? It seems silly, but not implausible.

"Not that I don't appreciate your reassurance, but I'm not the one backing up."

"That can't be. I was there just a half hour ago. Bromley Pharmaceuticals. New York City."

If this man isn't going to help him, then the smart thing would be to leave. Leave before there's a murder on his lips, one that would stain his conscience for an eternity. And that's not even a hyperbole.

Ed steps back again, but this time with every intention of leaving the room.

"You're a long way from home."

This, at least, isn't boring, which explains the tight smile ghosting across his lips. For every step back he rolls forward, not threatening of course, but curious. Pressing the inexplicable advantage, one might say.

In the darkness of the hallway, Edward's eyes flash a disconcerting gold. The monster has had enough of its conscience's pitiful tug-of-war, and thus has usurped its lesser servant. The monster stamps out all sense and control, replacing the doctor's thoughts with the deranged symphony of Eugene's pulse thrumming in his ears. The lull of it pulls him now forward, and he takes a step toward the cripple, the first step in a chain of motions that may lead to Eugene's death.

He says nothing.

The shift in posture is subtle; he keeps eye contact, puzzled but not properly frightened by the luminescence of those eyes. Lowers his chin, slightly. Folds his hands in his lap. It isn't that he can't sense death in the air; only that Eugene has lived with death for years now, side by side, and even his recent renewed interest in the living hasn't granted him any horror of the prospect. But duty does call.

"If you're planning to hurt me, I should like to write a letter first. I have nothing that will do you any good."

If Eugene is expecting words from the vampire, then he's quite mistaken. A predator doesn't have reason or time for conversation, when his sole objective is to set his teeth against that warm fount of blood. Edward's movements, while not graceful, have a force behind them that transcends the everyday motions of the human form. Powerful, strange.

In a split second, Edward dives toward the other man, knocking him out of his chair and onto the floor in a noisy clatter. The way he pins down his prey is rough and ungainly, burrowing an elbow into Eugene's stomach, legs locked against the other's useless lower limbs. Edward presses his fingers against the crook of Eugene's neck, twisting it to the side to bare the flesh. Teeth hover inches away from a familiar artery, close enough that Eugene must feel Ed's breath and the slightest pinpricks of those tiny teeth.

"No," he growls, "No, No, No--"

Just as suddenly as he came down, he rips himself off of the man, staggering backwards. Edward's thoughts and senses collide in a sudden paroxysm that has him cradling his head and taking unnecessary, heavy breaths.

"No," he repeats once again, this time the word coming out as a broken sob.

Though he doesn't struggle against the grip he does brace himself for the fall, catching his weight on an elbow and the heel of the opposite palm, flinching at the hard twist of his wrist. Eugene won't give his attacker the satisfaction of showing fear, jaw locked in a stiff grimace, neck straining to turn back because, by God he means to look his end in the eyes. He is a man, he deserves at least that much.

It's enough to get a better look at what he's facing, and for the first moment he does feel a cold, creeping doubt. The natural fear of the unnatural, the subtle wrongness of Ed's bloodless heart and cool skin. When the vampire pulls away, he wastes no time in scrambling away himself, his arms more than sufficiently strong to carry him the short distance and right his chair. Clambering into it is a little trickier, but he's had practice.

"Some kind of," he huffs, breathless as he settles, keeping his distance, "mutation? Certainly you're not going to try and tell me you're some fairy-tale monster."

He fixes his tie, because dignity is the last thing he has and the first he's intent on reclaiming. What he won't say-- won't show, to save his life (perhaps a poor choice of metaphor)-- is that the fairy-tale explanation seems almost likely at this point.

There is something pathetic about attacking a man who can barely defend himself. Ed feels more like a vulture than a predator, but overall he feels sick, like there's poison pushing through his veins; cold blood flooding cold veins buried within chilled flesh, numbing the higher senses of a mind that's already become more animal than human. More than ever, he feels like the monster he is. Because it's more than the teeth and the eyes and the skin, the virus changes you down to every snap of a neuron, down to the very nucleus of each cell.

Ed barely hears Eugene's question, head still buried in quivering hands as he takes useless breaths to calm his hunger. His teeth feel sharper, longer than ever. When he finally looks up at the cripple, perhaps they draw attention from the unnatural glint of his golden eyes.

"Mutation?" he pauses to chuckle wryly. "You mean a disease. But you know that already, don't you? There isn't anyone who wouldn't know."

Edited 2012-11-15 18:53 (UTC)

"Clearly I don't," he answers, managing somehow to make his tone vaguely insulting-- as though Ed's the ignorant one here. "And as you're in my house I think it's only reasonable that you owe me an explanation."

The other man-- if he is a man; some sort of faith-birth aberration or something stranger still-- looks completely out of sorts, which makes Eugene feel a bit more in control of the situation. His hands aren't shaking as he moves to fish a cigarette and book of matches from his pocket. It's slightly squashed at the end.

"So, let's have it."

The insult hits him like a fly crashing into a brick wall. Ed has run the gamut when it comes to insulting himself, the self-derisive bastard. His fangs, longest as they've ever been, catch against the meat of his tongue tongue, and Edward tastes the slightest tang--

He's not going to growl, he's not going to growl.

"I'm a vampire." he declares, his voice hollow, exhausted. "If you weren't living in dream land, you would know that you're a minority, and that most of the world's dead."

Ed's eyes shift, if only for a moment, away from Eugene's neck, staring enviously at that packet in his hand. God, he wants a fucking cigarette.

"Of course," he says almost gently, faintly patronizing.though, surprisingly, not disbelieving. There's evidence enough that something is wrong with this man; if he wants to insist upon a child's story, so be it. Eugene can play along.

Actually, it gives him an idea.

Cigarette clenched between his lips, he wheels to the edge of the stairs and slips out of the chair with a practiced motion to sit on the top step. He might be any man pausing there, perched while he finishes a smoke.

"Take that downstairs, will you?" There is a quiet air of command to the request.
"The small door is a bathroom, if you'd like to clean yourself up." Maybe splashing water on one's face is less effective for the undead. It doesn't matter; it's another coded order. With Vincent, he wouldn't care, but Eugene doesn't want an audience for his own descent.

Judging by his tone, Eugene doesn't believe him. There is nothing more he can do to prove his case, save for showing him intimately what happens when one invites a hungry vampire into his home. It's not like Edward's fangs aren't exposed or anything. How could have gone so long without knowing, and more importantly, without being eaten?

The notion that this is another universe still escapes him.

Edward answers Eugene's request with a nod, taking hold of the chair with one hand and starting down the steps with it. The coded message is easy to parse out, as the former doctor understands the importance of pride in a situation like this; moreover, Ed's thankful that he can have a moment's reprieve from temptation. A brisk snap of water might temporarily break his fixation.

Assuming he can get the water cold enough to feel it.

"Thank you. I'll do that."

Personal problem, that. Honestly, Eugene couldn't care less about what Ed gets up to, he just needs a few moments' privacy to finish regaining his composure, finish his cigarette, and get downstairs.

Fortunately, that doesn't take terribly long. By the time Ed gets out, he'll be settled again, apparently none the worse for wear from his trip down the staircase. Or from Ed trying to kill him earlier. He's seated calmly in front of a pair of enormous stainless steel doors, arms folded in his lap.

Whenever Ed returns, he'll be greeted with a faint smile-- born more from politeness than anything. Squint and you could call it a grimace, easily.

"I won't have it said I'm a poor host," he says simply, and opens the door. It's a surprisingly complex maneuver on wheels, pulling it whilst pushing away from it, but there's almost a practiced showmanship to his motion.

The refrigerator-- for that, of course, is what it is-- billows a cloud of frosty air, but it's obvious before the smoke clears what's housed within it.

Blood. Lots of it, sealed safely and hermetically in little plastic packs. This would be a fortune, where Ed is from; and because it's Eugene's, it's worth quite a bit here as well.

Leaning in, he pulls one from its place and holds it out, still not sure if this is real or if he is humoring a madman. Either way, appeasing him seems safer than trusting his clearly wavering resolve.

[ n a m e ; ]	(Jerome) Eugene Morrow
[ c a n o n ; ]	GATTACA
[ g a m e ; ]	homeless now and probably forever

Never meant to be one step down on the podium.

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