52 Days of Disaster - Day 18
Sorry it's up late - again, edited for appropriate times.
This one was cowritten as an RP with the ever-awesome glasspyramids , and yes, that is what I actually planned to be tonight's Disaster right from the get-go. But we did run a trifle overtime (coughfourhourscough) because we were having so much fun.
Slightly modified from the original, which is here.
Watchmen/The Sandman
It's been a slow night, and cold, and windy, but at least it isn't raining for once.
Sometimes that's the best you can hope for, Dan thinks as he crouches, motionless, atop a roof and watches as two men enter the alley below. They're nervous, twitchy, and both keep checking over their shoulders, but like most people, they don't think to look up. He's waiting to act until whomever the thugs are meeting show up too - no point in collaring only half of the deal - and then he blinks behind the goggles that hide his eyes. He feels like he isn't alone, but he's just scanned the rooftop not thirty seconds ago to find it empty and silent.
That's the third time he's looked around the rooftop now, and he looks like he's about to look around again. Curious. But it's not like he can see her, after all. Not unless she draws attention to herself. People don't usually see what's actually there.
But it's been a while since she had a conversation with someone whom she wasn't due to pick up for a while yet. Perhaps it might be fun? A nice distraction, even.
"Cold evening, isn't it?"
Not that she'd notice, even in her current outfit. She stands behind and to his left, and the slight wind doesn't even ruffle her hair.
His reflexes aren't like Ozymandias' - no one's are - but Nite Owl still whips around with creditable speed, eyes narrowed behind the goggles, tense, ready to attack or defend. Then he blinks at the incongruity of the woman standing behind him and becomes Dan again.
"Uh. Yeah. It is." She doesn't look cold, and she ought to, as the breeze picks up and...doesn't touch her.
Okay, that's just weird.
She smiles, a bright expression that somehow doesn't have the comforting effect that it probably should. Her other smiles can comfort. Usually. But she's not here for him tonight, though perhaps because of what he will instigate later. Maybe. She's not her big brother, how would she know?
She sits down on the ledge casually, and kicks her feet in the air almost idly.
"Funny how they never look up, isn't it?"
Her voice is clearer than it has any real right to be in the rapidly rising wind.
Dan looks back over the wall at the two men, still looking everywhere but the right direction, and he can't help a tightly amused smile.
"Never quite figured out why. I guess most people think there's just not much that's interesting to see, looking up. It works out to my advantage, though."
He glances back at her, eying her posture, but she looks secure and confident enough, on the edge of the rooftop. Like she can take care of herself, or like she just arranges things so she doesn't have to. Something. "So, um. Are you a new vigilante?"
She gives a slightly softer smile.
"Vigil-ante," she says, as if tasting the word in the air. "Yes, I suppose you could say that."
It's true enough. Before the shemira, as the costumed hero beside her might call it.
"But then again, I might not be." She glances at him, a slightly impish look on her face. "What would you do if I wasn't?"
Nite Owl's cowl tips slightly to one side. You met all types in this business, but that had seemed like a thought-out answer, delivered impulsively.
"Well," he says slowly, "I'd probably ask if you would mind moving off the ledge. If you're a civilian. I wouldn't want you to slip off and get hurt, or anything."
"Of course, I could be a, oh, what's the word, a 'loony', who's managed to escape from some kinda institution and happens to have delusions about being a superhero or something. We won't know until something interesting happens, now will we?"
This is unexpectedly good fun. Certainly better than an evening in with the TV and goldfish.
Despite the...well, the persistent weirdness of this whole situation - what exactly does she mean by "something interesting" anyway? - Dan can't quite keep the hint of a smile away.
"Yeah, I suppose you could. Then again, wouldn't you, y'know, be having those delusions and not talking about them from the outside?"
"Not necessarily. I think it'd be interesting if you ever met my sister. Not that I think you will. Well. Not for more than a few minutes, anyway."
She stops kicking her feet, instead stretching them out straight in front of her, as if to scrutinise her rather heavily-buckled shoes.
"So. What do you think's going to happen tonight?"
The human perspective. It's almost twenty years before she's due another trip through that experience, she may as well start prepping for how to act like it now. She generally only meets people twice, after all, so any tips on how to pretend to think during the inbetween are a blessing.
The momentary confusion is easy to see, even in the half-hidden face, and Dan is clearly starting to wonder if maybe this lady is a little crazy, but at the question he looks back over the wall at the two men. They're growing anxious, and angry; maybe they're getting stood up for whatever had brought them out tonight.
"Don't know what's going to happen with them," he answers with a half-shrug. "But the same things happen every night. It's why I'm out here." His tone is even, but quiet, edged with the resignation he isn't yet conscious he feels.
"You could die doing this," she muses. "One wrong move in a fight. Or they could figure out who you are, and hunt you down. Or your friends. Or your family. What would you do then? Would you stop?"
Dan is taken aback by the questions (not that they're any different than the questions he asks himself, every night, as he walks down the stairs into the converted basement) and after a moment, he reaches up to shift the goggles off serious blue eyes.
"No. I wouldn't."
He doesn't spend much time thinking about why that's the answer he comes up with, every night. It doesn't matter; what matters is that he asks, and he still puts on the mask.
She doesn't want to scare him, honestly she doesn't, but she looks into his eyes anyway and hopes that he doesn't flinch at what he'll see there.
"That's very brave of you. Most people are afraid of it all, and it cripples them, right up to the end. But it doesn't you. And I don't often get to say that, so thank you."
The smile is gone now, her voice is low - not a whisper, but not a normal voice either.
For a stuttering moment, as he meets the steady gaze, Dan isn't sure whether he should run, and keep running until she finds him again, or sling himself into her arms right now.
Then the wind whips across his face, and his eyes water from the cold, and he blinks, and it's past.
She isn't a vigilante, and he's increasingly sure she isn't a crazy. For one thing, the wind has picked up, and the muttering would-be criminals have walked off, and her hair isn't even stirring. And she seems...familiar, but he's sure he'd remember someone like her. Wouldn't he?
"Um. You're welcome. So...who are you?"
The smile is back; it's amused but somehow world-weary.
"I've met you before. We will meet again. Perhaps even more than once, who knows? And you just told me who I am. Vigilante - before the vigil, as it were."
She looks back down.
"It would appear those you are watching have moved on. I would suggest that we follow them."
It's automatic, the flash of concern in Dan's eyes at the look in hers, and he really can't remember meeting her, even though he almost can, but he doesn't pursue her cryptic words.
"Good idea." He rises to his feet, cape snapping in the sharp wind, and adjusts the goggles back over his eyes. "Nice meeting you, Vigil-keeper," he adds with a quiet smile.
She stands, brushing imaginary dust off the back of her pants.
"I did say both of us, did I not?" The question is wry. It's a precipice-time, she knows this now; her presence might be needed, it might not. Such moments do not often happen, but typically have a profound effect upon those involved.
It shall be his choices this evening that shape his life, a fork in her brother's book.
Still. It is the first time she has actually chosen to speak with one involved, and she almost wonders why.
Dan's brows rise behind the cowl, but he grins. "You did. My mistake," he answers with a grin. He has no idea why she wants to come with him, but this entire evening had been weird, and he's feeling pretty resigned about it by now.
"Better be going, then, if we don't want to lose them." He starts along the roof at a run, to clear the narrow space between buildings in a powerful leap, rolling with the landing and back to his feet. He slips to the edge of the roof and catches sight of the two men again.
Then he sees something that makes his heart sink. It's a woman, alone, huddled against the wind and hurrying home. Due to run straight into his targets.
She walks behind him softly, her footsteps not even there. He doesn't hear her land behind him, but she's there at his side again, leaning down to peer into the dark alleyway.
"Do you mind if I watch you work? It perhaps would not be a good idea to involve me so soon," she asks softly, noticing the woman's direction.
Dan gives her a long look, then nods shortly. There isn't time to discuss it, as he hears a surprised sound from the alley below. Without hesitation, he leaps lightly over the roof ledge onto the fire escape, then quickly to the ground, surprisingly quietly.
The fight is over quickly, both men forgetting about their would-be victim and rushing Nite Owl as soon as he appears, and neither one even close to a match for him. That doesn't make him pull back, however, and he knows he was vicious, as the last man crumples, unconscious, to the ground.
The woman is long gone as Dan goes down on one knee, heart in his throat, strips off a glove, and feels for a pulse at the throat of the man who had landed badly.
She is standing at the man's feet, and looks at the almost-ghost.
"I have to say that I wish this were not happening," she says, to someone that Daniel cannot see, but if he glanced up, would spy reflected in her eyes.
"But...he didn't even hit me that hard... And anyway, the only mask that kills is Rorschach. Right?"
"Brain tumour. Not that it matters now, but one little tap and you were done for anyway. A golf ball would have done it."
She waves a hand, and he fades away as she walks back over to where her new friend is feverishly beginning CPR.
"I'm sorry," she does whisper this time, her tone gentle. "He's gone."
She presses a hand to his shoulder, and waits for him to slow.
Dan could feel his heart racing, trapped against his ribs, but the small hand on his shoulder draws him out of the fevered repetitive motion and he sits back, staring down. His eyes are already starting to glaze and Dan feels a bit sick as he reaches out to close them, lips moving in Kaddish without realizing it. It's been years since he's even been to synagogue.
"I must have hit him wrong," he whispers and swallows, leather creaking in protest as his hands tighten into white-knuckled fists.
"No. Anything would have killed him at this point. He got a lifetime, that's all anybody ever gets."
He hasn't struck her, lashed out, asked why, though surely by now he has realised what - who she must be.
This is the lesson from this precipice, then, the simplest lesson of them all. Sometimes actions have unintended consequences.
And sometimes even the worst of the unintended consequences can help.
"Had he not died now, he would have died twenty years from now. And there would have been fifty other women in those years, starting with that one you just saved."
She keeps the hand on his shoulder, grounding him. It's perhaps good that he said the prayers; the man's father was born a German Jew. She knew. She'd been there.
Dan pulls Nite Owl's goggles up again, blinking in the sudden darkness. He can't see the man's face anymore, which wasn't really why he'd taken them off. He'd just wanted to be Dan again.
He doesn't ask how she knows any of this. He doesn't ask why she's done any of this: why she spoke to him, why she followed him. Why she's still there. Thousands of people die every day, thousands more watch them.
There's nothing special about this, he thinks. It's just as he'd said: The same things happen every night. Well...almost.
She pulls out one of Del's handkerchiefs from her pocket, and wipes away the tears that she can guess he doesn't know are streaking his cheeks.
"Accidents, consequences, life, death, good, evil, dark, light, my brother's hope and my sister's despair," she shakes her head. "For what it is worth, I am deeply sorry that this happened."
She means the words, but is not apologetic for the death (a lifetime). She is sorry that it had to be at this man's hand, un-meant or otherwise. But thus is her presence, and he shall walk away with something else from this.
Dan blinks, genuinely startled at the unexpected gesture. It's late, and dark, and he takes the risk of pushing back his cowl to reveal a boyish face; Dan Dreiberg is twenty-one tonight.
"So am I," he answers quietly, looking down at the dim outline. He takes the handkerchief absently, then looks at it as it...keeps coming. It's a magician's handkerchief, knotted-together silk slipping out of her pocket, and despite the death, despite everything, he smiles.
"Thanks," he says, and means it. He extends the end of the loop of handkerchief back to Death, because that's who this is, he knows now.
"Keep it. My sister tends to avoid cursing those who recall her gifts with fondness."
Her sister? Dan's brows furrow as he absently folds the cascade of color into a small, neat stack and tucks it through his belt. He hadn't really thought of Death having a sister.
"Who-" he begins, curious, but falls silent as her fingers tousle his dark curls (gentle, just enough to comfort), and he ducks his head with a sheepish smile. He's young, he knows, especially for this job, and especially alone, and usually he dislikes it being noticed or acknowledged. He doesn't mind so much this time.
"This is the first, isn't it." It's a statement, not a question, because she knows the answer. How could she not? Dan nods after a moment. This is the first fatality in Nite Owl II's career - he prays not the first of many - and he needs to accept that and move on.
It's just gone past three-fourteen.
He stands with a pensive expression, and then his eyes widen as she leans up.
"Perhaps slightly inappropriate, however. Happy Birthday," she murmers, pressing the back of his head foward slightly and kissing his forhead gently. He can feel his face flood as her lips brush his skin.
"A gift? Call me should you need me." And she knows he never will.
He knows if he speaks, he's just going to sound ridiculous, so he stays silent.
She draws back after a slow moment, then pulls his cowl up for him, pushing the curls under the leather gently, but doesn't bother with the goggles just yet.
"Hm. I suppose that gives an entirely new meaning to my kissing anybody," she suggests, and the smile is back because it has to be.
"Well, I haven't heard much about the kiss of Death that made me figure it'd be like that," Dan admits with an answering grin, adjusting the hood self-consciously. The air of surreality was such that if it weren't for the scraps of silk tucked in his belt, he'd wonder if it had happened at all.
"Thanks. Um, again. For the good wishes. And for this," he adds as his ungloved fingers touch bright yellow lightly. Then he unhooks a small metal crescent from his belt - bronze, with polished and sharpened edges, well-balanced - and holds it out. "Here. Just in case." He shrugs with a self-deprecating smile. "You never know."
A gift. For her. A weapon, true, but a gift unsolicited, given without thought to recompense or bargaining...
She strokes the bladed edge, for it cannot so much as harm her, and knows its quality. She doesn't need it, but it may be the kindest thing that anybody has ever done for her, including that nice old Emperor and his hat.
Dan's eyes are intent as she examines the crescent - he'd made it by hand, of course, to his own design - and the boyish grin flashes again as he sees how much she likes it.
For such a thing, it is still beautiful, and she looks into his eyes again.
"I thank you greatly for the gift, my friend. We will meet again, I promise. Perhaps even under better circumstances than this."
"I wouldn't mind that," he answers, feeling his cheeks warm just a bit again at my friend. "Take care," he adds, and again, he means it.
Then, because he ought to, he takes a step back, nods to her, and turns to disappear into the darkness, back on foot toward the Village. One hand is pressed against the silk, keeping it in place protectively; it's a gift, from someone important, no matter how silly it might seem to anyone else, and he doesn't want to lose it.
"It was nice meeting you, Daniel Dreiberg."
There is the faintest feel of a hand upon his shoulder again, and then she is gone.
This one was cowritten as an RP with the ever-awesome glasspyramids , and yes, that is what I actually planned to be tonight's Disaster right from the get-go. But we did run a trifle overtime (coughfourhourscough) because we were having so much fun.
Slightly modified from the original, which is here.
Watchmen/The Sandman
It's been a slow night, and cold, and windy, but at least it isn't raining for once.
Sometimes that's the best you can hope for, Dan thinks as he crouches, motionless, atop a roof and watches as two men enter the alley below. They're nervous, twitchy, and both keep checking over their shoulders, but like most people, they don't think to look up. He's waiting to act until whomever the thugs are meeting show up too - no point in collaring only half of the deal - and then he blinks behind the goggles that hide his eyes. He feels like he isn't alone, but he's just scanned the rooftop not thirty seconds ago to find it empty and silent.
That's the third time he's looked around the rooftop now, and he looks like he's about to look around again. Curious. But it's not like he can see her, after all. Not unless she draws attention to herself. People don't usually see what's actually there.
But it's been a while since she had a conversation with someone whom she wasn't due to pick up for a while yet. Perhaps it might be fun? A nice distraction, even.
"Cold evening, isn't it?"
Not that she'd notice, even in her current outfit. She stands behind and to his left, and the slight wind doesn't even ruffle her hair.
His reflexes aren't like Ozymandias' - no one's are - but Nite Owl still whips around with creditable speed, eyes narrowed behind the goggles, tense, ready to attack or defend. Then he blinks at the incongruity of the woman standing behind him and becomes Dan again.
"Uh. Yeah. It is." She doesn't look cold, and she ought to, as the breeze picks up and...doesn't touch her.
Okay, that's just weird.
She smiles, a bright expression that somehow doesn't have the comforting effect that it probably should. Her other smiles can comfort. Usually. But she's not here for him tonight, though perhaps because of what he will instigate later. Maybe. She's not her big brother, how would she know?
She sits down on the ledge casually, and kicks her feet in the air almost idly.
"Funny how they never look up, isn't it?"
Her voice is clearer than it has any real right to be in the rapidly rising wind.
Dan looks back over the wall at the two men, still looking everywhere but the right direction, and he can't help a tightly amused smile.
"Never quite figured out why. I guess most people think there's just not much that's interesting to see, looking up. It works out to my advantage, though."
He glances back at her, eying her posture, but she looks secure and confident enough, on the edge of the rooftop. Like she can take care of herself, or like she just arranges things so she doesn't have to. Something. "So, um. Are you a new vigilante?"
She gives a slightly softer smile.
"Vigil-ante," she says, as if tasting the word in the air. "Yes, I suppose you could say that."
It's true enough. Before the shemira, as the costumed hero beside her might call it.
"But then again, I might not be." She glances at him, a slightly impish look on her face. "What would you do if I wasn't?"
Nite Owl's cowl tips slightly to one side. You met all types in this business, but that had seemed like a thought-out answer, delivered impulsively.
"Well," he says slowly, "I'd probably ask if you would mind moving off the ledge. If you're a civilian. I wouldn't want you to slip off and get hurt, or anything."
"Of course, I could be a, oh, what's the word, a 'loony', who's managed to escape from some kinda institution and happens to have delusions about being a superhero or something. We won't know until something interesting happens, now will we?"
This is unexpectedly good fun. Certainly better than an evening in with the TV and goldfish.
Despite the...well, the persistent weirdness of this whole situation - what exactly does she mean by "something interesting" anyway? - Dan can't quite keep the hint of a smile away.
"Yeah, I suppose you could. Then again, wouldn't you, y'know, be having those delusions and not talking about them from the outside?"
"Not necessarily. I think it'd be interesting if you ever met my sister. Not that I think you will. Well. Not for more than a few minutes, anyway."
She stops kicking her feet, instead stretching them out straight in front of her, as if to scrutinise her rather heavily-buckled shoes.
"So. What do you think's going to happen tonight?"
The human perspective. It's almost twenty years before she's due another trip through that experience, she may as well start prepping for how to act like it now. She generally only meets people twice, after all, so any tips on how to pretend to think during the inbetween are a blessing.
The momentary confusion is easy to see, even in the half-hidden face, and Dan is clearly starting to wonder if maybe this lady is a little crazy, but at the question he looks back over the wall at the two men. They're growing anxious, and angry; maybe they're getting stood up for whatever had brought them out tonight.
"Don't know what's going to happen with them," he answers with a half-shrug. "But the same things happen every night. It's why I'm out here." His tone is even, but quiet, edged with the resignation he isn't yet conscious he feels.
"You could die doing this," she muses. "One wrong move in a fight. Or they could figure out who you are, and hunt you down. Or your friends. Or your family. What would you do then? Would you stop?"
Dan is taken aback by the questions (not that they're any different than the questions he asks himself, every night, as he walks down the stairs into the converted basement) and after a moment, he reaches up to shift the goggles off serious blue eyes.
"No. I wouldn't."
He doesn't spend much time thinking about why that's the answer he comes up with, every night. It doesn't matter; what matters is that he asks, and he still puts on the mask.
She doesn't want to scare him, honestly she doesn't, but she looks into his eyes anyway and hopes that he doesn't flinch at what he'll see there.
"That's very brave of you. Most people are afraid of it all, and it cripples them, right up to the end. But it doesn't you. And I don't often get to say that, so thank you."
The smile is gone now, her voice is low - not a whisper, but not a normal voice either.
For a stuttering moment, as he meets the steady gaze, Dan isn't sure whether he should run, and keep running until she finds him again, or sling himself into her arms right now.
Then the wind whips across his face, and his eyes water from the cold, and he blinks, and it's past.
She isn't a vigilante, and he's increasingly sure she isn't a crazy. For one thing, the wind has picked up, and the muttering would-be criminals have walked off, and her hair isn't even stirring. And she seems...familiar, but he's sure he'd remember someone like her. Wouldn't he?
"Um. You're welcome. So...who are you?"
The smile is back; it's amused but somehow world-weary.
"I've met you before. We will meet again. Perhaps even more than once, who knows? And you just told me who I am. Vigilante - before the vigil, as it were."
She looks back down.
"It would appear those you are watching have moved on. I would suggest that we follow them."
It's automatic, the flash of concern in Dan's eyes at the look in hers, and he really can't remember meeting her, even though he almost can, but he doesn't pursue her cryptic words.
"Good idea." He rises to his feet, cape snapping in the sharp wind, and adjusts the goggles back over his eyes. "Nice meeting you, Vigil-keeper," he adds with a quiet smile.
She stands, brushing imaginary dust off the back of her pants.
"I did say both of us, did I not?" The question is wry. It's a precipice-time, she knows this now; her presence might be needed, it might not. Such moments do not often happen, but typically have a profound effect upon those involved.
It shall be his choices this evening that shape his life, a fork in her brother's book.
Still. It is the first time she has actually chosen to speak with one involved, and she almost wonders why.
Dan's brows rise behind the cowl, but he grins. "You did. My mistake," he answers with a grin. He has no idea why she wants to come with him, but this entire evening had been weird, and he's feeling pretty resigned about it by now.
"Better be going, then, if we don't want to lose them." He starts along the roof at a run, to clear the narrow space between buildings in a powerful leap, rolling with the landing and back to his feet. He slips to the edge of the roof and catches sight of the two men again.
Then he sees something that makes his heart sink. It's a woman, alone, huddled against the wind and hurrying home. Due to run straight into his targets.
She walks behind him softly, her footsteps not even there. He doesn't hear her land behind him, but she's there at his side again, leaning down to peer into the dark alleyway.
"Do you mind if I watch you work? It perhaps would not be a good idea to involve me so soon," she asks softly, noticing the woman's direction.
Dan gives her a long look, then nods shortly. There isn't time to discuss it, as he hears a surprised sound from the alley below. Without hesitation, he leaps lightly over the roof ledge onto the fire escape, then quickly to the ground, surprisingly quietly.
The fight is over quickly, both men forgetting about their would-be victim and rushing Nite Owl as soon as he appears, and neither one even close to a match for him. That doesn't make him pull back, however, and he knows he was vicious, as the last man crumples, unconscious, to the ground.
The woman is long gone as Dan goes down on one knee, heart in his throat, strips off a glove, and feels for a pulse at the throat of the man who had landed badly.
She is standing at the man's feet, and looks at the almost-ghost.
"I have to say that I wish this were not happening," she says, to someone that Daniel cannot see, but if he glanced up, would spy reflected in her eyes.
"But...he didn't even hit me that hard... And anyway, the only mask that kills is Rorschach. Right?"
"Brain tumour. Not that it matters now, but one little tap and you were done for anyway. A golf ball would have done it."
She waves a hand, and he fades away as she walks back over to where her new friend is feverishly beginning CPR.
"I'm sorry," she does whisper this time, her tone gentle. "He's gone."
She presses a hand to his shoulder, and waits for him to slow.
Dan could feel his heart racing, trapped against his ribs, but the small hand on his shoulder draws him out of the fevered repetitive motion and he sits back, staring down. His eyes are already starting to glaze and Dan feels a bit sick as he reaches out to close them, lips moving in Kaddish without realizing it. It's been years since he's even been to synagogue.
"I must have hit him wrong," he whispers and swallows, leather creaking in protest as his hands tighten into white-knuckled fists.
"No. Anything would have killed him at this point. He got a lifetime, that's all anybody ever gets."
He hasn't struck her, lashed out, asked why, though surely by now he has realised what - who she must be.
This is the lesson from this precipice, then, the simplest lesson of them all. Sometimes actions have unintended consequences.
And sometimes even the worst of the unintended consequences can help.
"Had he not died now, he would have died twenty years from now. And there would have been fifty other women in those years, starting with that one you just saved."
She keeps the hand on his shoulder, grounding him. It's perhaps good that he said the prayers; the man's father was born a German Jew. She knew. She'd been there.
Dan pulls Nite Owl's goggles up again, blinking in the sudden darkness. He can't see the man's face anymore, which wasn't really why he'd taken them off. He'd just wanted to be Dan again.
He doesn't ask how she knows any of this. He doesn't ask why she's done any of this: why she spoke to him, why she followed him. Why she's still there. Thousands of people die every day, thousands more watch them.
There's nothing special about this, he thinks. It's just as he'd said: The same things happen every night. Well...almost.
She pulls out one of Del's handkerchiefs from her pocket, and wipes away the tears that she can guess he doesn't know are streaking his cheeks.
"Accidents, consequences, life, death, good, evil, dark, light, my brother's hope and my sister's despair," she shakes her head. "For what it is worth, I am deeply sorry that this happened."
She means the words, but is not apologetic for the death (a lifetime). She is sorry that it had to be at this man's hand, un-meant or otherwise. But thus is her presence, and he shall walk away with something else from this.
Dan blinks, genuinely startled at the unexpected gesture. It's late, and dark, and he takes the risk of pushing back his cowl to reveal a boyish face; Dan Dreiberg is twenty-one tonight.
"So am I," he answers quietly, looking down at the dim outline. He takes the handkerchief absently, then looks at it as it...keeps coming. It's a magician's handkerchief, knotted-together silk slipping out of her pocket, and despite the death, despite everything, he smiles.
"Thanks," he says, and means it. He extends the end of the loop of handkerchief back to Death, because that's who this is, he knows now.
"Keep it. My sister tends to avoid cursing those who recall her gifts with fondness."
Her sister? Dan's brows furrow as he absently folds the cascade of color into a small, neat stack and tucks it through his belt. He hadn't really thought of Death having a sister.
"Who-" he begins, curious, but falls silent as her fingers tousle his dark curls (gentle, just enough to comfort), and he ducks his head with a sheepish smile. He's young, he knows, especially for this job, and especially alone, and usually he dislikes it being noticed or acknowledged. He doesn't mind so much this time.
"This is the first, isn't it." It's a statement, not a question, because she knows the answer. How could she not? Dan nods after a moment. This is the first fatality in Nite Owl II's career - he prays not the first of many - and he needs to accept that and move on.
It's just gone past three-fourteen.
He stands with a pensive expression, and then his eyes widen as she leans up.
"Perhaps slightly inappropriate, however. Happy Birthday," she murmers, pressing the back of his head foward slightly and kissing his forhead gently. He can feel his face flood as her lips brush his skin.
"A gift? Call me should you need me." And she knows he never will.
He knows if he speaks, he's just going to sound ridiculous, so he stays silent.
She draws back after a slow moment, then pulls his cowl up for him, pushing the curls under the leather gently, but doesn't bother with the goggles just yet.
"Hm. I suppose that gives an entirely new meaning to my kissing anybody," she suggests, and the smile is back because it has to be.
"Well, I haven't heard much about the kiss of Death that made me figure it'd be like that," Dan admits with an answering grin, adjusting the hood self-consciously. The air of surreality was such that if it weren't for the scraps of silk tucked in his belt, he'd wonder if it had happened at all.
"Thanks. Um, again. For the good wishes. And for this," he adds as his ungloved fingers touch bright yellow lightly. Then he unhooks a small metal crescent from his belt - bronze, with polished and sharpened edges, well-balanced - and holds it out. "Here. Just in case." He shrugs with a self-deprecating smile. "You never know."
A gift. For her. A weapon, true, but a gift unsolicited, given without thought to recompense or bargaining...
She strokes the bladed edge, for it cannot so much as harm her, and knows its quality. She doesn't need it, but it may be the kindest thing that anybody has ever done for her, including that nice old Emperor and his hat.
Dan's eyes are intent as she examines the crescent - he'd made it by hand, of course, to his own design - and the boyish grin flashes again as he sees how much she likes it.
For such a thing, it is still beautiful, and she looks into his eyes again.
"I thank you greatly for the gift, my friend. We will meet again, I promise. Perhaps even under better circumstances than this."
"I wouldn't mind that," he answers, feeling his cheeks warm just a bit again at my friend. "Take care," he adds, and again, he means it.
Then, because he ought to, he takes a step back, nods to her, and turns to disappear into the darkness, back on foot toward the Village. One hand is pressed against the silk, keeping it in place protectively; it's a gift, from someone important, no matter how silly it might seem to anyone else, and he doesn't want to lose it.
"It was nice meeting you, Daniel Dreiberg."
There is the faintest feel of a hand upon his shoulder again, and then she is gone.