(no subject)
Characters: Grift (grinninggrifter). If anybody cares enough to check on him or enter the bar without permission, they're welcome to tag in if they like.
Date/Time: Tuesday, July 20th
Location: Smoke's
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Chapel goes missing. Grift misses him. Gratuitous baww and the revelation that, "Hey, this is how everybody feels when their friends go missing! Damn, no wonder they whine!"
Chapel going missing was never a thought that had occurred to Grift before. Dying in front of his eyes perhaps, perishing in fire or flood or bafflingly, of old age. Nobody here actually died of old age, so he never knew why the thought came to him suddenly in the night, of those around him turning gray and decrepit and their creaky bones coming to a halt, but it did. Somehow, in this visions he himself remained young. The elderly around here were few, and the few were spry but that didn't mean all were. He instinctively drew away from them, feeling irrational fear for the arthritic fingers that could not curl around his neck, for the milky eyes and the sunken eyes, the hollowed cheeks and the fragile sinews. They frightened him.
But this was different. He had popped open a bottle of champagne, insisting to Chapel that since he arrived in this wretched bubble a full year ago it was time to celebrate his not dying. After all, he had joked, what better to celebrate in a place like this than the mere fact that they were still alive? They had bantered back and forth for a moment, and just as Grift reached out with the glass of champagne, Chapel disappeared.
There was no smoke, no pop, no great magical pronouncement of a marvelous trick, but simply the mere fact that one moment his friend was there, and the next, he was gone. Carefully, Grift set the glass on the counter and groped around the place where Chapel was, becoming visibly more upset as the evidence suggested that he was gone.
Just like the others had said, people disappeared in front of their very eyes. He would have preferred that he was left with the charred or swollen remains, not mystery, not nothing.
"Chapel?" He called out, but without much hope. He knew how the song and dance went. He had never felt much sorrow, nor much sympathy for others who had dealt with his current quandary, but was now suddenly feeling a pang deep in his chest, a hurt that was unfamiliar and unwelcome. For a moment, it overcame him, swelling and entering his throat, jabbing at the backs of his knees until he was forced to sit down on the couch and come to terms with the fact that the only man he felt he could trust in this entire city had just disappeared.
"Jesus. Oh, Jesus. What the fuck is going on here?" He pushed one hand to his forehead, then squeezed at the bridge of his nose. He was becoming increasingly more convinced that this place was not ruled by Gods, but by Lucifer, Satan, the devil, for why else would a God take the holy man away? Shock quickly gave way to anger as he snatched up Chapel's champagne glass and hurled it at the wall as hard as he could, relishing the sound of shattered glass and the liquid that sloshed across his floor.
He wandered into Chapel's room and sat down beside the Cross Punisher, running a hand down it as he had many times before. It belonged to him now, he supposed, and his wheedling to Chapel to leave it to him in his will suddenly became a lot less funny. His apartment in Section 4 was spacious for two, and seemed positively cavernous for one. Taking out his journal, he scrawled a quick note and watched the predictable replies flood in.
Sorry. Sorry for your loss. Sorry.
Fuck that. Fuck this. He was at once ashamed and bewildered at the rush of emotions flooding him; he felt like running down the street and shooting in every window, felt like walking up to the first pretty woman he saw and giving her a kiss, felt like taking down the bar and breaking the glasses and pouring out the booze and then sitting down to cry.
But he wouldn't do any of those things. At the same time, he couldn't stay here. The entire space was toxic. He'd go to Smoke's. He'd know what to do when he got there. He stumbled out of his home and onto the street, staggering down the familiar roads and rudely elbowing everybody who got in his way until he entered the bar, not bothering to lock the door behind him. Once he sat down at the bar, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, the typical drink for manly angst. He had seen it enough. Men with five o'clock shadows, probably fancying themselves cynics of the land, policemen, detectives, criminals, wondering how hardboiled and world-weary they appeared when hunched over a glass of whiskey. Grift always thought they looked like fools. Why go to a bar if all you wanted was to be left alone?
Hah. Now look at where he was. Grift understood now why they had drank but didn't understand why so many got attached to so many others. He didn't know why he got attached to Chapel in the first place. It crossed the line, the rules that he unknowingly put down for himself, but... oh, what was it that that man had written in his fits of illness? Something about an island, something about how man was not meant to be alone. Maybe they were! Life was so fleeting, and the pain of loss so strange to him was so keen.
He stared down at the glass, held it up to his nose to take a whiff and set it down. Drinking was for celebrations, just as he had proclaimed but an hour ago. So that he wouldn't waste it, he sipped calmly at the glass, looking for the world as he was simply enjoying a drink off-duty if one didn't notice the glassiness of his eyes or the heaviness of his fingers and feet, so often dancing and tapping.
A wake was when you stood awake over the corpse, wasn't it? Chapel may not have a corpse, but he could stay up all night. That, he could do. Once he finished the glass, he pushed away, deciding not to drink anymore if he wanted to give his friend one last honour. It made sense, didn't it? It was to... watch over his spirit? Or something? He wasn't sure. This was what Chapel was around for, to answer questions like these.
He moved over to the small booth that he and Chapel had set up in his bar and sat there, clasping his hands. Should he pray? What did he say? Was there a God listening? There had to be. He believed firmly in a God, believed firmly in fate, believed in all the holiness he did not possess. Closing his eyes, he went over the words that he felt were familiar.
Ave Maria--no! Dies irae dies illa--no! Omine Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, salva nos ab igne inferiori--no. Close, but no. Nothing was quite right. He put his gun on the table before him as if for protection and tucked a bottle of whiskey underneath his desk in case he changed his mind about drinking.
Tomorrow, he would drink his brains out. He would not return home for another week, not till Chapel's soul had been expelled and the champagne evaporated. Instead, he would seek solace in the bodies of others, wander the streets in one of his guises, as a simple, faceless stranger, he would sleep in another's bed each night, he would drink, he would disappear. He could disappear forever, if he wanted to. He entertained this notion for but a moment, but cast it aside as mere fancy--he would not leave this comfortable life, not for the sake of only one soul.
Tonight, he would stay awake and himself for his friend. It was only right. He had experienced loss before, he knew it in his shriveled soul, but this was the first time he had felt it so keenly here. This place had served to him as a Paradise, a place without fear or obligation or responsibility, but it would no longer. He had not sinned much yet in this place, having little reason to.
Maybe that would have to change.
Date/Time: Tuesday, July 20th
Location: Smoke's
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Chapel goes missing. Grift misses him. Gratuitous baww and the revelation that, "Hey, this is how everybody feels when their friends go missing! Damn, no wonder they whine!"
Chapel going missing was never a thought that had occurred to Grift before. Dying in front of his eyes perhaps, perishing in fire or flood or bafflingly, of old age. Nobody here actually died of old age, so he never knew why the thought came to him suddenly in the night, of those around him turning gray and decrepit and their creaky bones coming to a halt, but it did. Somehow, in this visions he himself remained young. The elderly around here were few, and the few were spry but that didn't mean all were. He instinctively drew away from them, feeling irrational fear for the arthritic fingers that could not curl around his neck, for the milky eyes and the sunken eyes, the hollowed cheeks and the fragile sinews. They frightened him.
But this was different. He had popped open a bottle of champagne, insisting to Chapel that since he arrived in this wretched bubble a full year ago it was time to celebrate his not dying. After all, he had joked, what better to celebrate in a place like this than the mere fact that they were still alive? They had bantered back and forth for a moment, and just as Grift reached out with the glass of champagne, Chapel disappeared.
There was no smoke, no pop, no great magical pronouncement of a marvelous trick, but simply the mere fact that one moment his friend was there, and the next, he was gone. Carefully, Grift set the glass on the counter and groped around the place where Chapel was, becoming visibly more upset as the evidence suggested that he was gone.
Just like the others had said, people disappeared in front of their very eyes. He would have preferred that he was left with the charred or swollen remains, not mystery, not nothing.
"Chapel?" He called out, but without much hope. He knew how the song and dance went. He had never felt much sorrow, nor much sympathy for others who had dealt with his current quandary, but was now suddenly feeling a pang deep in his chest, a hurt that was unfamiliar and unwelcome. For a moment, it overcame him, swelling and entering his throat, jabbing at the backs of his knees until he was forced to sit down on the couch and come to terms with the fact that the only man he felt he could trust in this entire city had just disappeared.
"Jesus. Oh, Jesus. What the fuck is going on here?" He pushed one hand to his forehead, then squeezed at the bridge of his nose. He was becoming increasingly more convinced that this place was not ruled by Gods, but by Lucifer, Satan, the devil, for why else would a God take the holy man away? Shock quickly gave way to anger as he snatched up Chapel's champagne glass and hurled it at the wall as hard as he could, relishing the sound of shattered glass and the liquid that sloshed across his floor.
He wandered into Chapel's room and sat down beside the Cross Punisher, running a hand down it as he had many times before. It belonged to him now, he supposed, and his wheedling to Chapel to leave it to him in his will suddenly became a lot less funny. His apartment in Section 4 was spacious for two, and seemed positively cavernous for one. Taking out his journal, he scrawled a quick note and watched the predictable replies flood in.
Sorry. Sorry for your loss. Sorry.
Fuck that. Fuck this. He was at once ashamed and bewildered at the rush of emotions flooding him; he felt like running down the street and shooting in every window, felt like walking up to the first pretty woman he saw and giving her a kiss, felt like taking down the bar and breaking the glasses and pouring out the booze and then sitting down to cry.
But he wouldn't do any of those things. At the same time, he couldn't stay here. The entire space was toxic. He'd go to Smoke's. He'd know what to do when he got there. He stumbled out of his home and onto the street, staggering down the familiar roads and rudely elbowing everybody who got in his way until he entered the bar, not bothering to lock the door behind him. Once he sat down at the bar, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, the typical drink for manly angst. He had seen it enough. Men with five o'clock shadows, probably fancying themselves cynics of the land, policemen, detectives, criminals, wondering how hardboiled and world-weary they appeared when hunched over a glass of whiskey. Grift always thought they looked like fools. Why go to a bar if all you wanted was to be left alone?
Hah. Now look at where he was. Grift understood now why they had drank but didn't understand why so many got attached to so many others. He didn't know why he got attached to Chapel in the first place. It crossed the line, the rules that he unknowingly put down for himself, but... oh, what was it that that man had written in his fits of illness? Something about an island, something about how man was not meant to be alone. Maybe they were! Life was so fleeting, and the pain of loss so strange to him was so keen.
He stared down at the glass, held it up to his nose to take a whiff and set it down. Drinking was for celebrations, just as he had proclaimed but an hour ago. So that he wouldn't waste it, he sipped calmly at the glass, looking for the world as he was simply enjoying a drink off-duty if one didn't notice the glassiness of his eyes or the heaviness of his fingers and feet, so often dancing and tapping.
A wake was when you stood awake over the corpse, wasn't it? Chapel may not have a corpse, but he could stay up all night. That, he could do. Once he finished the glass, he pushed away, deciding not to drink anymore if he wanted to give his friend one last honour. It made sense, didn't it? It was to... watch over his spirit? Or something? He wasn't sure. This was what Chapel was around for, to answer questions like these.
He moved over to the small booth that he and Chapel had set up in his bar and sat there, clasping his hands. Should he pray? What did he say? Was there a God listening? There had to be. He believed firmly in a God, believed firmly in fate, believed in all the holiness he did not possess. Closing his eyes, he went over the words that he felt were familiar.
Ave Maria--no! Dies irae dies illa--no! Omine Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, salva nos ab igne inferiori--no. Close, but no. Nothing was quite right. He put his gun on the table before him as if for protection and tucked a bottle of whiskey underneath his desk in case he changed his mind about drinking.
Tomorrow, he would drink his brains out. He would not return home for another week, not till Chapel's soul had been expelled and the champagne evaporated. Instead, he would seek solace in the bodies of others, wander the streets in one of his guises, as a simple, faceless stranger, he would sleep in another's bed each night, he would drink, he would disappear. He could disappear forever, if he wanted to. He entertained this notion for but a moment, but cast it aside as mere fancy--he would not leave this comfortable life, not for the sake of only one soul.
Tonight, he would stay awake and himself for his friend. It was only right. He had experienced loss before, he knew it in his shriveled soul, but this was the first time he had felt it so keenly here. This place had served to him as a Paradise, a place without fear or obligation or responsibility, but it would no longer. He had not sinned much yet in this place, having little reason to.
Maybe that would have to change.