o12 ♣ tell me something dangerous and true [ location :: wayne manor ] [ morgana, bruce, angelus ]
The past weeks have been- well, they've certainly been, haven't they. Petra's spent much of her time at work with one thing or the other, but it was with no small amount of relief that she left the direct handling of their prisoner in the hands of Jack Benjamin; certainly she's still holding his leash, but she's very interested to see how the young ( Read more... )
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Petrana, fear, white, purple, light.
It's all she can remember and she feels like she's staring at a ghost.
"What are you doing here?" She sounds like she's having difficulty breathing.
Petrana, fear, white, purple, light.
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Not precisely the reaction she was anticipating. Petrana frowns as the door shuts behind her, crossing the room and (purely on instinct) pressing the back of her hand to Morgana's forehead to check her for a fever. "Morgana," she says, in a firm and sensible tone of voice, "I promised you that I'd visit and here now, I've come. What's the matter?"
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Petrana, fear, white, purple, light.
Why can she not remember more?
She takes a closer look. Petrana's in red and gold. She holds on to one of the Countess's sleeves with her right hand. The material is rich, and heavy, and neither purple, nor white.
"I'm sorry." She sound frustrated, but it's clearly not directed at the Countess.
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"No matter," Petra tells her, reassuringly, after studying Morgana's face a few moments. She sits down, close since the younger woman's hand is on her sleeve and she's making no present move to reclaim it, still openly concerned. "Do you need anything?"
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Despite the disquieting beginning and end of her visit with Morgana, the Countess does leave Wayne Manor ensconced in her palanquin, the curtains ajar to let in the dim late afternoon light. It always feels like such a lazy way to travel, carried about like some woman of leisure- she supposes she'd appreciate it better if she were a few years younger and a good deal more romantic.
Morgana's pleas hadn't fallen on entirely deaf ears, but there's so much to be done- she had to go, she reminds herself, nevertheless unsettled as the palanquin proceeds away from Wayne Manor.
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Taxon's resident big, bad vampire was not a happy camper, to say the least. He should've killed Buffy when he had the chance, drained her dry instead of saving the rest for later, before Harris and his band of slay-happies had burst in and stolen the goods. And now, he was left without anyone to eat and while he could simply hatch some human blood, that method of cheating isn't striking his fancy at this point in time. Nor does picking off an Extra. They were too docile, like tamed deer so sure the hunter wouldn't shoot them, and they tasted like stale leftovers.
He wants something fresh, something alive and warm and ( ... )
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No, that isn't the slightest bit subtle; Petra frowns slightly as she tries to place the face, but Angelus's snide remark had got lost in the midst of everything else on her mind with the Doctor's business and while he's discomforting, she doesn't see an immediate reason to dismiss him out of hand. She's tolerated the unpleasant company of men before, and expects to do so again.
All the same, she doesn't gesture for the Extras to slow down, either. "My home requires upkeep, and they seem pleased to have purpose. We each have the best of the arrangement."
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"Ahh, the hired help," he says with an air of reminiscence, falling into step easily with the Extras. "We had some of that back in my day. Did well to keep the place clean--" And here, just because he could and so enjoys messing with people (he could almost hear Darla asking him if he'd ever learn not to play with his food), he slips into the Irish accent Angel had taught himself not to use. "--while Da was at the market and my mother was off seeing to the maintaining of her social life. Left me alone with my sister, 'course I was more interested in the maids."
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Once the master of the house leaves to fetch Petrana, Morgana cannot stop going over the details, and snippets of information she knows, or logically, if incorrectly, assumes. Her racing thoughts require some sort of action, more so than relying on Mr. Wayne to both believe her, and be fast enough.
Someone wants to harm the Countess, and there is only one possible suspect in Morgana's mind, and while she can't physically help Petrana, perhaps she can convince the suspect that it would be within his best interests to halt any and all plans.
She opens a channel to the Doctor, but does not think to set it to private. Her voice is full of rage, a similar level to that which she felt at the Sanctuary for all, when she was too weak to throw a proper punch.
She is not that weak right now.
"Doctor, whatever you are planning to do to her," he would know exactly to whom she is referring, "if you do not call it off immediately, I will kill you. If anything happens to her, I do not care how long I have ( ... )
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He flips up the screen. He looks tired and drawn, the energy he acquired from Helen all those weeks ago finally wearing thin.
"What, exactly, do you think I'm about to do? And to who? Because the only plans I have right now are a long lie-in in my favorite room."
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Here's the rub: Morgana's not entirely certain what it is the Doctor's plotting to do, just that the Countess is going to be injured, and she is sure he's the one to be held responsible.
So she goes with what she knows. The slight pause in answering does not, in any case, lessen her anger, "Whatever you are planning to do to the Countess, whatever personal dislike," she makes personal dislike sound like a synonym to homicidal intent, any harm caused to her will result in your death."
And any circumvention of whatever legal process the people of Taxon might be planning. One does not ask to kill and animal that's gone mad.
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"You mean my Warden?" he asks. "I'm not planning on doing anything to her." He considers. "Who told you I was? The Master? Whatever he's been saying, it's rubbish! I wouldn't want to hurt anybody! Every injury in this city was an accident!"
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