Angst verse, it was pre formatted so I might have posted it but I can't find it on here.
The hospital is lively at this time of day, visitors coming in after work, queuing at the desk to find out the room numbers or wandering off down the sterile hallways inspecting each of the plaques until they find their own. It’s not that he feels particularly comfortable here, the place rather painfully familiar, but nurses his coffee anyways, waiting.
It's almost impossible not to notice Zeph loitering in the reception room, even though he has his hat pulled down over his eyes, shoulders hunched to give the impression that he's actually shorter than he really is. He also might have been keeping an eye out for the man, considering who is waiting in the mortuary. Well, when he says waiting... He looks terrible to say the least, twitching away from anyone who brushes by before folding into a chair in an attempt to curl in on himself. Duncan tosses the coffee cup into the nearby bin.
"Hey." Zeph barely startles, just unfolds and looks down at him from within the dark shadow the cap casts on his face. He's not officially known to be associated to anything, at all, in any way, but it seems to be staring out of his eyes, a haunted look tinged with guilt and a mania that makes Duncan shiver. He’s seen that look before, in widows and widowers, those for whom the world has forever lost any meaning. It’s terrifying at the best of times but seeing it on a familiar face just hurts, a stab and twist of a knife to the heart. It’s a world’s difference between now and then, the last time they met in this building that he’d rather not dwell on. Duncan has no doubt as to whom the sniper was this time and if he did, this would be ample proof. That doesn't mean he needs to tell anyone just yet, or at all. It’ll come to light in its own time.
There's a vague, halfhearted cough and Zeph shuffles his feet, redirecting his stare towards the floor. "I'm.. family. Of…" he starts, playing a role that hits so close to home that words fail and he mouths two syllables before looking down in panic at the floor.
"Ah. Here to claim the body?" He throws the line.
Zeph looks back up, back to reality, almost surprised at the sudden assistance, shifting his stance uncomfortably, hands in his pockets. "No. Just... visiting."
"Alright. We’ll just skip the paperwork, won’t we?" The heart-wrenching look of pleading is enough for Duncan to reach out to place a hand on the other’s shoulder. Zeph doesn’t flinch away this time, some of the deer like vulnerability fading from his eyes. It's a fair walk between reception and the morgue but it's passed in silence, their footsteps echoing off the tile walls, audible even over the hum of conversation and hurry. It's still the same as it was several years ago, the layout, the four steps down under the sign and the strong smell of antiseptic rolling off the white tile. Nothing's really different but the several officers standing by the double doors, guarding a dead body. And that makes everything so very strange. It seems to inspire false hope. Zeph's stance seems to switch again, drawing him out from his head. What are they guarding, then, if there's no soul in the body? Might the bullet have missed it's mark?
No, Duncan sighs to himself as he nods to the two on guard, who are already looking twice at the tall, dark man who has no title but 'family'. They're here so no one tries to abscond with the corpse. To think otherwise would be a false hope that he's not sure Zeph's broken state can handle. He pushes the door open anyway, watching the shade of a man walk past him and into the bright, impartial lights of the morgue rooms, half expecting him to flicker and disappear, or make a run for it, out back into the dim evening air.
Zeph simply waits for them to fall in step with each other, following without question or comment until they reach the table and Duncan takes one step back. He can't leave, by protocol, and he's not quite sure he wants to. There's no mortician around for whatever reason. Suddenly the odd timing doesn’t seem as odd anymore.
The man’s hands are out of his pockets and trembling like autumn leaves, slowly tracing along the edge of the table considerately padded with a thin mattress for the relief of one who doesn’t need it. The man’s hurting and it shows, hurting even more than the last time they were here. There’s no more driven revenge, no more anger and Duncan can’t even imagine what it’s like, to stand there over the body whose life you loved, loved and ended. Zeph’s fingers catch on the edge of the white fabric, drawing it back, waiting for the reveal, the magician’s prestige, that the man isn’t there, instead watching, laughing at them from some hidden place.
Instead his face collapses onto itself, reverting to a blank slate as he freezes, taking in every detail of a masklike face, pale and discoloured. Knuckles skate gingerly over sallow, clammy skin and twitch away. There’s no life there anymore. Zeph’s eyes are wide when he looks up.
“Do you… want to talk about it?” Duncan offers, wondering if small talk can even hope to save a man from a spiral of despair.
“No,” the other whispers, voice hoarse, eyes seeking out something in the empty room, returning to him every couple of flickers. “I never… I didn’t think I’d have to. I didn’t…” So much for not talking about it.
“It’s not your fault.” It kind of is, but he hasn’t the heart to say so. In jail is better than dead, after all. Curse ever present vanity. “Look, you didn’t betray his trust. He’d thank you for making a quick job of it, I’m sure.” Zeph chortles but the sound is twisted, anguished and Duncan flinches. That was probably the wrong thing to say. “Just… It’s over now. The whole story is under wraps, isn’t it? You can move on, hopefully stay out of trouble?” There’s an accusation in the glass eyed stare he’s on the receiving end of. “Stop that, you knew I wasn’t going to do anything, that’s why you came here in the first place. But the strings will come together soon enough. Leave now, and as long as you don’t come up on my radar again, I’m not going to come looking for you.”
Another sick laugh and now there’s a determination in those eyes that chills him to the pit of his stomach. “Thanks for that. I’ll make sure that never happens then, shall I?” A mad grin and Zeph takes his chance to walk out, with one last flick of the sheet, as a wave of dread freezes Duncan in place, a thousand scenes, welling up in his mind.
He wouldn’t actually- He lurches from his place, fast enough to catch a softer smile as Zeph strolls out of the morgue. What was that supposed to be, an apology? “Shit, don’t make me arrest you!” His only answer is the swing of the double doors. “Stop!” Out and through but the alarm comes too late. The building and surrounding streets have been all but quarantined yet there’s no sign of the man and Duncan’s left in the midst of bustling evening traffic, a powerless fixed point in the hub of the hastening life around him, looking, looking.
It's almost impossible not to notice Zeph loitering in the reception room, even though he has his hat pulled down over his eyes, shoulders hunched to give the impression that he's actually shorter than he really is. He also might have been keeping an eye out for the man, considering who is waiting in the mortuary. Well, when he says waiting... He looks terrible to say the least, twitching away from anyone who brushes by before folding into a chair in an attempt to curl in on himself. Duncan tosses the coffee cup into the nearby bin.
"Hey." Zeph barely startles, just unfolds and looks down at him from within the dark shadow the cap casts on his face. He's not officially known to be associated to anything, at all, in any way, but it seems to be staring out of his eyes, a haunted look tinged with guilt and a mania that makes Duncan shiver. He’s seen that look before, in widows and widowers, those for whom the world has forever lost any meaning. It’s terrifying at the best of times but seeing it on a familiar face just hurts, a stab and twist of a knife to the heart. It’s a world’s difference between now and then, the last time they met in this building that he’d rather not dwell on. Duncan has no doubt as to whom the sniper was this time and if he did, this would be ample proof. That doesn't mean he needs to tell anyone just yet, or at all. It’ll come to light in its own time.
There's a vague, halfhearted cough and Zeph shuffles his feet, redirecting his stare towards the floor. "I'm.. family. Of…" he starts, playing a role that hits so close to home that words fail and he mouths two syllables before looking down in panic at the floor.
"Ah. Here to claim the body?" He throws the line.
Zeph looks back up, back to reality, almost surprised at the sudden assistance, shifting his stance uncomfortably, hands in his pockets. "No. Just... visiting."
"Alright. We’ll just skip the paperwork, won’t we?" The heart-wrenching look of pleading is enough for Duncan to reach out to place a hand on the other’s shoulder. Zeph doesn’t flinch away this time, some of the deer like vulnerability fading from his eyes. It's a fair walk between reception and the morgue but it's passed in silence, their footsteps echoing off the tile walls, audible even over the hum of conversation and hurry. It's still the same as it was several years ago, the layout, the four steps down under the sign and the strong smell of antiseptic rolling off the white tile. Nothing's really different but the several officers standing by the double doors, guarding a dead body. And that makes everything so very strange. It seems to inspire false hope. Zeph's stance seems to switch again, drawing him out from his head. What are they guarding, then, if there's no soul in the body? Might the bullet have missed it's mark?
No, Duncan sighs to himself as he nods to the two on guard, who are already looking twice at the tall, dark man who has no title but 'family'. They're here so no one tries to abscond with the corpse. To think otherwise would be a false hope that he's not sure Zeph's broken state can handle. He pushes the door open anyway, watching the shade of a man walk past him and into the bright, impartial lights of the morgue rooms, half expecting him to flicker and disappear, or make a run for it, out back into the dim evening air.
Zeph simply waits for them to fall in step with each other, following without question or comment until they reach the table and Duncan takes one step back. He can't leave, by protocol, and he's not quite sure he wants to. There's no mortician around for whatever reason. Suddenly the odd timing doesn’t seem as odd anymore.
The man’s hands are out of his pockets and trembling like autumn leaves, slowly tracing along the edge of the table considerately padded with a thin mattress for the relief of one who doesn’t need it. The man’s hurting and it shows, hurting even more than the last time they were here. There’s no more driven revenge, no more anger and Duncan can’t even imagine what it’s like, to stand there over the body whose life you loved, loved and ended. Zeph’s fingers catch on the edge of the white fabric, drawing it back, waiting for the reveal, the magician’s prestige, that the man isn’t there, instead watching, laughing at them from some hidden place.
Instead his face collapses onto itself, reverting to a blank slate as he freezes, taking in every detail of a masklike face, pale and discoloured. Knuckles skate gingerly over sallow, clammy skin and twitch away. There’s no life there anymore. Zeph’s eyes are wide when he looks up.
“Do you… want to talk about it?” Duncan offers, wondering if small talk can even hope to save a man from a spiral of despair.
“No,” the other whispers, voice hoarse, eyes seeking out something in the empty room, returning to him every couple of flickers. “I never… I didn’t think I’d have to. I didn’t…” So much for not talking about it.
“It’s not your fault.” It kind of is, but he hasn’t the heart to say so. In jail is better than dead, after all. Curse ever present vanity. “Look, you didn’t betray his trust. He’d thank you for making a quick job of it, I’m sure.” Zeph chortles but the sound is twisted, anguished and Duncan flinches. That was probably the wrong thing to say. “Just… It’s over now. The whole story is under wraps, isn’t it? You can move on, hopefully stay out of trouble?” There’s an accusation in the glass eyed stare he’s on the receiving end of. “Stop that, you knew I wasn’t going to do anything, that’s why you came here in the first place. But the strings will come together soon enough. Leave now, and as long as you don’t come up on my radar again, I’m not going to come looking for you.”
Another sick laugh and now there’s a determination in those eyes that chills him to the pit of his stomach. “Thanks for that. I’ll make sure that never happens then, shall I?” A mad grin and Zeph takes his chance to walk out, with one last flick of the sheet, as a wave of dread freezes Duncan in place, a thousand scenes, welling up in his mind.
He wouldn’t actually- He lurches from his place, fast enough to catch a softer smile as Zeph strolls out of the morgue. What was that supposed to be, an apology? “Shit, don’t make me arrest you!” His only answer is the swing of the double doors. “Stop!” Out and through but the alarm comes too late. The building and surrounding streets have been all but quarantined yet there’s no sign of the man and Duncan’s left in the midst of bustling evening traffic, a powerless fixed point in the hub of the hastening life around him, looking, looking.