More random bits of story (in progress, to be added to when I have internet access)
More Shawn's Body stories. Just thinking. Also, I apparently no longer have internet at my apartment, so sorry if anybody for some reason has been trying to reach me through IM.
It's almost dawn, and Victoria has finally run out of Kleenex to shred. It's a nervous habit she picked up as a child whenever her parents fought, and she figures she's allowed some quirks, especially considering who she married.
Hours have passed since the last phone call from the SBPD, letting her know that they still haven't heard from Carlton, and she has long since changed into a comfortable pair of pajamas and settled on the sofa to wait. After her fifth cup of "soothing" tea, she'd gotten sick of it and snagged the kitchen tissue box on her way back to the living room, finally giving in to her worry.
---
There's a sharp thud at the door, jolting her out of the fitful doze she'd fallen into. She freezes and listens. It's still not quite light out, so it's too early for the morning paper. After a moment, it happens again, this time followed by a soft scraping noise, like fingers dragging along the door. She's on her feet and almost to the door before she realizes it, hope clenching her chest. In her haste, she doesn't even peek through the peephole, simply swinging it open to reveal a ragged-looking Carlton. She stops short of completing her original intended actions of sweeping him into a hug, though, her neck prickling in warning that something isn't right. He's wearing his spare set of clothes, not the ones he left in, and he's barefoot. His holster is missing; she can see the outline of his gun through his untucked shirt, carelessly shoved into the waistband of his trousers like the wannabe gangsters he always mocks. His hair is faintly damp, and there's a smear of what can't be blood tracing from behind his left ear down to below his chin, as if he'd missed it while washing up. His expression, though, is what sends a chill racing up her arms. His eyes are empty, blank, and he's staring at her almost like he doesn't even recognize her.
"...Carlton? Are you all right?" No response. She gestures half-heartedly back at the living room. "The station called... said you were missin--" He brushes past her into the house as if she's speaking a foreign language. "Carlton?" She turns to follow him, belatedly remembering to close the front door behind her. When she approaches the breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living room, he's already on the other side, next to the sink, dismantling the roast she'd made for dinner. Juice drips from his hands and runs down his arms as he shoves a slice whole into his mouth, not even chewing before he swallows and grabs another piece. "Carlton!" She's afraid again. He may have strange habits sometimes, but he's always a fastidious eater. At her voice, he finally looks up. His irises are strangely light, almost indistinguishable from the whites of his eyes, and are barely more than rings around his massively dilated pupils. He locks eyes with her, and she's reminded that pupils aren't really black, but rather holes. There's nothing of her husband in them. "...Carlton?" she whispers, creeping closer while trying to keep eye contact with him. At his name, she'd swear that something moves, somewhere behind the surface of his eyes. He gags as if choking, even though he'd stopped eating. Before she can do anything, he shifts, heaves, and vomits harshly into the sink. It's bizarre and unreal, inky black as if he'd been chugging gasoline, and somehow she gets the impression of spikiness, even though that makes no more sense than anything else that's happened so far. He heaves again, coughing, and looks up at her, black on his lips making his skin look even paler. She opens her mouth, not sure what she's going to say, and abruptly his eyes roll back into his head and he crumples to the floor, out of her sight.
---
They figure later that he must've been drugged by the mystery cultists, since he shows only a trace of the head injury he mentions as being his last clear memory, not enough damage to cause a concussion. He testifies haltingly of wandering through the forest in a daze, tripping over branches, of hearing strange noises and drifting in and out of awareness. Washing himself off with the jug of water in his trunk and changing clothes, but instinctively aware of being in no condition to drive, and somehow finding his way home.
When the search dogs find the remains of the cultists in the forest, Victoria thanks her lucky stars that he'd gotten away.
***different story***
[Lassiter worries about leaving fingerprints at meal scenes]
There's an alien sense of amusement, and a sudden knowledge that feels almost like thought, but deeper. With a quick burst of pain, the increasingly familiar talons sprout from his fingertips, their sharp lower edges neatly bisecting his prints. See?, the voice asks, and he feels himself smile.
It's almost dawn, and Victoria has finally run out of Kleenex to shred. It's a nervous habit she picked up as a child whenever her parents fought, and she figures she's allowed some quirks, especially considering who she married.
Hours have passed since the last phone call from the SBPD, letting her know that they still haven't heard from Carlton, and she has long since changed into a comfortable pair of pajamas and settled on the sofa to wait. After her fifth cup of "soothing" tea, she'd gotten sick of it and snagged the kitchen tissue box on her way back to the living room, finally giving in to her worry.
---
There's a sharp thud at the door, jolting her out of the fitful doze she'd fallen into. She freezes and listens. It's still not quite light out, so it's too early for the morning paper. After a moment, it happens again, this time followed by a soft scraping noise, like fingers dragging along the door. She's on her feet and almost to the door before she realizes it, hope clenching her chest. In her haste, she doesn't even peek through the peephole, simply swinging it open to reveal a ragged-looking Carlton. She stops short of completing her original intended actions of sweeping him into a hug, though, her neck prickling in warning that something isn't right. He's wearing his spare set of clothes, not the ones he left in, and he's barefoot. His holster is missing; she can see the outline of his gun through his untucked shirt, carelessly shoved into the waistband of his trousers like the wannabe gangsters he always mocks. His hair is faintly damp, and there's a smear of what can't be blood tracing from behind his left ear down to below his chin, as if he'd missed it while washing up. His expression, though, is what sends a chill racing up her arms. His eyes are empty, blank, and he's staring at her almost like he doesn't even recognize her.
"...Carlton? Are you all right?" No response. She gestures half-heartedly back at the living room. "The station called... said you were missin--" He brushes past her into the house as if she's speaking a foreign language. "Carlton?" She turns to follow him, belatedly remembering to close the front door behind her. When she approaches the breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living room, he's already on the other side, next to the sink, dismantling the roast she'd made for dinner. Juice drips from his hands and runs down his arms as he shoves a slice whole into his mouth, not even chewing before he swallows and grabs another piece. "Carlton!" She's afraid again. He may have strange habits sometimes, but he's always a fastidious eater. At her voice, he finally looks up. His irises are strangely light, almost indistinguishable from the whites of his eyes, and are barely more than rings around his massively dilated pupils. He locks eyes with her, and she's reminded that pupils aren't really black, but rather holes. There's nothing of her husband in them. "...Carlton?" she whispers, creeping closer while trying to keep eye contact with him. At his name, she'd swear that something moves, somewhere behind the surface of his eyes. He gags as if choking, even though he'd stopped eating. Before she can do anything, he shifts, heaves, and vomits harshly into the sink. It's bizarre and unreal, inky black as if he'd been chugging gasoline, and somehow she gets the impression of spikiness, even though that makes no more sense than anything else that's happened so far. He heaves again, coughing, and looks up at her, black on his lips making his skin look even paler. She opens her mouth, not sure what she's going to say, and abruptly his eyes roll back into his head and he crumples to the floor, out of her sight.
---
They figure later that he must've been drugged by the mystery cultists, since he shows only a trace of the head injury he mentions as being his last clear memory, not enough damage to cause a concussion. He testifies haltingly of wandering through the forest in a daze, tripping over branches, of hearing strange noises and drifting in and out of awareness. Washing himself off with the jug of water in his trunk and changing clothes, but instinctively aware of being in no condition to drive, and somehow finding his way home.
When the search dogs find the remains of the cultists in the forest, Victoria thanks her lucky stars that he'd gotten away.
***different story***
[Lassiter worries about leaving fingerprints at meal scenes]
There's an alien sense of amusement, and a sudden knowledge that feels almost like thought, but deeper. With a quick burst of pain, the increasingly familiar talons sprout from his fingertips, their sharp lower edges neatly bisecting his prints. See?, the voice asks, and he feels himself smile.