Never meant to be one step down on the podium.

[prettier_eyes]

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

{ ACTION / NETWORK / VOICE / WHATEVER WELCOME }

Comments

action; if misery will get me tags i will be more miserable all the time >>

[prettier_eyes]

"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."

[nosferotofu]

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.

[prettier_eyes]

"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. 

[nosferotofu]

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."

[prettier_eyes]

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.