whitetwoguns | But I ain't no madman.

[ Jaw tightening a little, he's still not sure why. It's just White. He doesn't try spacing away from him again for the moment, instead letting his gaze drift forward, shrugging. ]

Sorta. Not really I mean - [ Again the hand goes to the back of his neck. ] I sleep in, so.

[ Which just makes him mildly nocturnal, but that's not unusual for someone working night shifts. He'd sort of assumed White and anyone else working late did the same. Maybe not though? The slight agitation is stirring again, but he tells it to calm down. ]

Tired?

[ Maybe that's more what White meant, he figures, comment on himself rather than general statement. ]

That much is good.

[Brown eyes are fixed on him. Looks this way, that way. He can see the tension in his jaw.]

No. I feel pretty good. Strange shit.

[Mr. White isn't in the practice of talking about himself, but it's the tip of the iceberg.]

Neck hurt or just cold?

[Because unconsciously he licks his lips.]

Ah.

[ His eyes end up squinting at the distance though it's really in reaction to White's words which don't really tell him anything as far as strange shit, though he supposes he could be referring to the City's constant state of being. That'd be accurate.

Abruptly he drops the hand at his neck to his side again though, shaking his head, slipping the curl of his fingers back into his pocket. ]

What? No. It's nothing.

[ A bit cold if he was to be truthful, but that's not really why his hand was fidgeting there. He can't shake the nerves, which if anything only serves to annoy him more, but he doesn't much show it except for a blink of his eyes and the suggestion of a frown to his mouth. ]

[Hand off so easily? Larry cranes his neck to be sure. Nothing but collar and pale skin.]

I was about to recommend a good massage place.

[Someone who isn't Freddy. The old man should call him. Should. They're slowly heading past where he needs to be. It's more apparent as they walk in silence. Too late to realize that he's too hungry to wait. Passing an alley the old man grips Arthur's shoulder then the other and presses him to the wall. Hardly a word besides that as he presses his face to the mans neck to inhale.

No linear, logical thought is in his head right now. He's so hungry, it hurts. This supernaturally powered body has to act.]

[Arthur laughs briefly, perhaps half to alleviate some of his own yet unexplained unease.]

Not necessary, but thanks.

[Then they fall into silence but it doesn't last long. White is much faster than Arthur would have ever accounted for, though the strength actually isn't surprising. Well, maybe some of it. Arthur picks up the pattern immediately, but that doesn't explain anything to him. Both hands go up to shove against the other man's chest, leveraging the wall at his back for more force, figuring they can go from there.

He has nothing against White, White who went with Orange and Eames to get the water that turned him....into a girl, but also then turned him better again. Plus, if Eames was acting like this then it's a curse.

Fact of the matter is, he's not ready to bodily injure someone who helped him in a crucial way if he doesn't have to. It's only a dream, part of him points out, but the rest of him says but it feels real. He holds back.

Probably, he shouldn't have. ]

Hey! [ The shoving still going on here... ] Snap out of it! Jesus...

[ The last bit is more of a muttered thing, the way he doesn't mean to say it at all, more a manifestation of well fuck.

But speaking brought Eames out of a similar invasion of space, whatever weird mental possession. It'd be lucky if the same worked for White...too lucky, maybe.]

Edited 2011-10-25 03:36 (UTC)

[His broad body doesn't budge an inch backward at the shoving. In fact he finds it invigorating. Mr. White growls and he tilts his head to speak softly.]

It won't hurt. In fact, I think you might even like it.

[Pupils are so wide in his brow eyes they almost go black. Wet, hot breath---it might be the warmest thing about him--=ruffles against Arthur's collar.]

You'll see.

[Lips latch to his throat tasting for the right point. Any other day, any other time the old man wouldn't lay a hand on Arthur like this. Regardless of his trim frame, boyish serious face and clearly skilled hands. This isn't any other day. White is pressing against him so close that the man may have to splay his legs.]

[Hedged between White's words, Arthur actually curses. ]

White, - what're you even... fucking fuck this isn't -

[ It's not only because of White's clear lack of normal mentality (whatever serves as it day to day) but for the way his body seems to have gotten the better of him, an upperhand all metaphorical since neither of his hands are doing any good.

White presses forward and Arthur couldn't push further back into the wall unless he suddenly attained the ability to walk through it; it doesn't happen. Instead he spreads his legs as if accommodating the other man, and he's flashing back and forth from interest (which makes no sense except that the strange growl in White's voice reminds him maybe of a rumble that only feels right through a different skin and form) to rejection. I won't like it he thinks, annoyed but not at White so much as himself, because he's hard, impossible to miss how close they are but no one's been able to get his interest in years, so now makes no sense.

He doesn't want to want anyone else.

But the body says different, says he went abruptly back to nothing and it's showing now.

If it was possible, he'd claim mental whiplash. Might still.

Right now his hands fist, crushed between their torsos in a way that's not going to let him get good hit in at all. When he swallows, he sucks in a breath that's sharp and smoky, seems to crowd against the roof of his mouth, confuse his thoughts more than they already are and the one clear thing besides embarrassing arousal is how cold White is. Everything but the mouth on Arthur's throat and that maybe only by comparison, the spike of his own temperature. ]

Ssssh. Sssssh.

[Arthur for all of his stern and serious nature is responding and quickly. It's impressive. So the man is alive under that suit, he does have a wild side. That's what Larry wants to taste.

There. There it is. He found the right spot. One more lick, like he's marking the spot with an x before digging. Teeth first, not too deep. Enough to have a steady flow. These instincts are unconscious. Or maybe it is transferring the knowledge of a gun toting killer to a fang baring one. It only takes a little bit. The old man draws blood and at first taste moans. That hunger and pain in his gut is going to stop. Hot, coppery and flowing blood that runs where it will. How un-Argyle like.]

[To call it a wild side would probably make anyone who knows him laugh, unless the wild side refers to the mind crime they're supposed to excel in, though apparently not enough. He lets the held breath go like a shot, like a kick, his fingers twisting in White's shirt and his knees locking because his body accepts what's going on here even if his mind refuses it - impractical, which is more a sign of Arthur's disorientation than anything else. It's a violent release, all against trousers he'll just throw out rather than get cleaned - same with his shirt that's sticking suspiciously to him.

The smell of blood is one he knows but it registers second to coming in his pants like the stereotypical adolescent he never was. He's too old to be mortified about it, but sense has left the building. The way he squirms against White is the shaken effort to get away - shaking rather, he can feel it in the shiver through his spine.

But he's dizzy and though White doesn't seem like he's moving for anything, Arthur aims to hook his leg around White's as if to pull him off balance. It's uncoordinated but he does it figuring maybe White is so busy sucking his blood (holy shit we need to wake up what the fuck whose dream is this what the fuck ) the little interrupting action will work anyway. Maybe not. Don't know if you don't try though.

Er, possibly he should consider what it might be like to have fangs ripped out of his throat if White does stumble or whatever, but he's not, he's just thinking: off.

Well that and breathe through your nose, moron because having air pass through his throat is a choked, strange feeling he doesn't want to invite more than he already has. ]

[What? Is criminal activity not considered something ballsy and uncivilized? Truly Mr. White is of an older generation if that is no longer true. He can taste the desperation, the want, the frustration. Arthur can squirm if he truly wants to, this body that has him pinned to the wall shows no sign of moving whatsoever.

That hooked leg, that's unexpected. Larry takes a hold of his knee and nestles fly to fly with his wrecked trousers. He isn't hard but that can be arranged. That, well, ALL of this is very, very unexpected.

Against the bleeding neck he growls and moans between licks and sucks, slowly getting his fill.]

[ Eames had been keeping an eye on Arthur off and on, instincts that he couldn't really identify as his own urging him on to do so. Considering their estranged relationship, it wasn't something he'd normally do - but between the night and the increasing danger the City had been representing this past week with the supernatural and otherwise, there were some things he just couldn't let idle, and that was the restless anxiety that came with his eyes being off Arthur. He'd kept his distance for the most part, though, and he's regretting it now - by the time he manages to catch up, Arthur is already pinned under White, a mixture of musk and blood in a way that stings his nose. ]

Oi!

[ It comes out like a bark more than anything else, half of a snarl as he's sprinting forward - his bones are snapping into place in a way that cuts through the air, clothes ripping, and he doesn't really know what's happening to him other than he feels larger, faster, reaches them much more quickly than he would have been able to otherwise. His teeth sink into White's clothes as he slams into him at full speed, tearing him away, the both of them skidding into the pavement several feet away.

Shoving his paws down on White's broad shoulders, the large black wolf snarls down at him. Smelling Arthur's blood on his mouth has his hackles rising, and he's making to lunge down at him, going for the throat. ]

Shit - [ It's more a hiss of sound than the actual word but the sentiment is the same, his breaths defaulting through his mouth in short jerking exhalations. Leg intervention not having gone how he'd wanted it either, he's trying to focus on another rebuff - something, anything - while his body shudders, back to pushing against White for what little (no) good it does him.

Then a familiar voice shreds through the muffled haze and then a snapping noise and that's all the warning he or White have really before something (Eames? It sounded like Eames.) something slams into White, knocks him off of Arthur who isn't ready for that either. There's a yell but that's his voice, he just doesn't realize it until he feels the hoarseness and he's clutching his hand to his throat, sliding to the ground while he tries to reorient himself.

Something. A dog. A dog that sounded like...

No a wolf.

And... ]

Fuck.

[ Apparently he's been reduced to expletives.

Because that's Eames. That explains...well, it explains some things. Vampires. Werewolves. Where's the exit?

Bright side: once this is over, if it ever is, they'll be able to take any job and laugh. What could be difficult after this? He shoves himself to his feet with his free hand braced on the wall. He has to get Eames off of White.

Not that White doesn't seem able to fend for himself. Not that Arthur, human and useless for it, can think of anything off the top of his head. This can't really get worse though.

Right? ]

[Impact after impact are a harsh jolt. Teeth tear into him and blood is flowing again. His own blood, blood he took from Arthur and Freddy's blood that he took before that. Slammed flat to the pavement (another suit ruined tonight) and staring into sharp teeth framed within a snarling muzzle there are very few options.]

I'm not scared of you, you piece of shit.

[He may not have as many fangs but the old man is baring them. Shit this wolf is heavy. ...Since when does Arthur have the ability to call animals. A second ago---oh. Wait.

Looks like Mary Poppins is having a hairy time. Son of a bitch. The only other weapon that Larry thinks to use right now is his fists.]

[Freddy had every intention of getting to the casino on time to walk Larry back but something happened before he could leave, something that made him realize not even years of watching movies and reading comic books could help him prepare for it. He had to tell the guy as soon as possible before they could make another mess in the kitchen. That's why he's late, precious minutes late, and already down on all fours when his ears pick up an altercation. From several blocks away.

Huff huff. Pant pant.

It's not Mr. Orange who shows up last to the party but another beast filling up the mouth to the alley with a snarl that warns: "STOP YOU DOG." Growl. That's for you Arthur, it means move bitch, get the fuck out of my way as he lunges for the black wolf attacking Mr. White.]

[ Woah motherfucker. Excuse you. Eames is interrupted in his precious attempts to nom the shit out of the fist punching him in the muzzle before he's being knocked off of Mister White entirely. They go rolling, jaws snapping at each other as they vie to get the upper hand on one another. The smell of Arthur's blood still freshly pooling is the driving force behind Eames' aggression and this new puppy dog his target, can easily sniff out the association between him and Mister White so that it doesn't matter who he gets his teeth into, as long as it's one of the two. ]

[ Things happen a lot faster than Arthur can account for, though he's standing now and not stupid enough to run forward but the dark makes it necessary to get closer, so he does, just a touch, just in time to hear a snarl distinctly from the other direction and a growl. Arthur instinctively ducks, goes flat near the ground and eyes the leaping form of another wolf. Deductively this ought to be one person but he's not exactly chummy with White so maybe White has other friends who'd go to bat for him like this. Arthur can't be sure.

Standing up again - suit more certain to be thrown out than before - he makes for White, assuming he's out of the fray - not the wisest thing but maybe the other man will at least know if that's Orange, or if it's some random dog turned to take up his side. He keeps a couple feet between them. Maybe he can call him off - doubtful - or maybe he can grab him - possible, if the gauging of his strength was accurate just moments before.

Arthur's sure it was.

His stomach twists in a wholly different way nervous and sick not (entirely) from the wound on his throat - more from the way the wolves have obviously decided to tear into each other not like men in the bodies of animals, but simply as animals.]

[Punching a wolf in the face is not an easy, pain free activity. All sorts of smells are now in the air. Larry recognizes this motherfucker now by smell and sound. Who else would it be gunning for Arthur so damn hard? The same man who had not one but two treks up a mountain for a sick "friend"...

His still pretty wide eyes are now on the newcomer. Fuzzy and furious this one is a smell he recognizes instantly. Oh shit.]

F-[don't say his name!] Fuck!

[A glance at movement. Oh. Arthur. A sneer is on his lips. Good job, Dimick. This is all your fucking fault.]

Stay here.

[Hopefully the man will listen. One injury is enough. Larry throws himself at the blur of sandy color and pitch black fur. He gets thrown off once in the fray to pry on in again. It's not smart. And he's getting decent bites. It's not enough to stop him.]

[He's younger and smaller than the darker wolf but what the sandy one lacks in size he makes up for with some uncanny ability to twist, wriggle, turn, and roll. Not without destruction to public and private property of course. Crates are being smashed, dumpsters are banging against the wall. Something overturns and rats skitter out in a smart attempt to steer fucking clear of the two. Freddy's trying to sink his teeth into the weakest of Eames' four legs, he knows which side to target on instinct if only he could twist just right--

Hey. Snap! Freddy takes a snap at Larry because the old man don't seem to know you never stick your hand in a dogfight. There's some tumbling involved to throw the vampire off, more rolling, until they manage to rumble out towards the wider street. Good. More fighting room. Snarl snarl. Orange is already bleeding from a bite delivered right to his face that miraculously didn't take off his nose, lips, or green eyes. There's blood on his teeth too and chances are it ain't all his. He's making to lunge again.]

[ Fighting with this wolf is like trying to fight with a snake (if Eames had any experience with snake battling, he imagines), and he's several bite marks along his front shoulders and neck, trying to go for the other's jugular but having to defend his weaker leg in the same breath. Occasionally cold hands or arms or a broad back is getting in the way, but Eames has no qualms in dealing in damage where he can, though for the most part it's in warning and his attention is wrapped up in the other dog instead.

When the other wolf lunges, they collide at the shoulder, Eames attempting to throw all of his weight into it to pin him to the ground - or at least wind him. They're loud as hell - snarling and growling at one another, trying to regain their dominance in the field. ]

[ Werewolves. Vampires. Too fast to follow effectively; he doesn't think there's a 'safe' window anywhere in here to jump in. But Arthur is grateful for the distraction of building annoyance again, staying as directed while White heads into the fray but it seems like even the third party doesn't register much - Eames and presumably Orange only throwing intermittent snaps and snarls of interest at him. Then the unholy trinity of what-the-fuck bowls out of the alley and Arthur follows because what else is he going to do?

What do you know about werewolves Arthur? Um. Silver bullets?

...

Right. Because he carries those on him all the time.

(Maybe he will after this though.)

Okay.

What do you know, period? Eames attacked because of White, one. The other wolf interfered undoubtedly because of White because he didn't go for White or for Arthur, only seemed to be interested in Eames, which could be some kind of pack hierarchy shit but Arthur isn't sure that applies to individual citizens turned...wolf..ish. Hardly look like they'd run together even if they were normally like this.

Mouth curling in a scowl again he pulls his hand away, sticky and red and eyes it thoughtfully just for a second, gaze quickly shunting back toward the rumble of fur and fangs, stepping closer. Not too close - he thinks. Somehow shouting does not seem likely to get through. Depends on how much of Eames is cognizant. White is obviously trying to hold on to the other wolf, which is sort of helpful, but he's got more power packed into his frame than must be normal. Arthur doesn't. He figures it's best not to have any illusions about Eames recognizing him through the haze of aggression; maybe he would but maybe not fast enough. Eames' bad leg carried over into the transformation though. Arthur can see him favoring and he's worried.

Shouting at him might just break his attention in a crucial moment, so he decides not to after all, but if White hasn't magically (vampirically) rolled the other wolf off enough to be called civil, Arthur keeps his eyes peeled for even the suggestion of a moment where he could do something very stupid but very well meaning - tossing one's arm in amongst wolves tending to be the kind of thing that leads to certain stuff...like losing it, for one.]

[Thrown out of the fray again! And noisely at that. Of course someone has to put their garbage out but come on. Tossing a food wrapper off of his sleeve, Mr. White resolves to go on in again. He's not bled out yet. The same can be said to the two furry foes.

Jesus Christ above that's Freddy. Green and caramel brown eyes are the dead giveaway if there was any uncertainty left. What the fuck is happening to them all? Yeah. That'll be for another thoughtful session. The old man dashes out again. Rather than trying to pry in between, he grabs a hold of the back legs of the sandy colored snapping machine. One and two.

AND PULL.]

Get. Back.

[Now his own voice is taking on an animalistic growl. If Eames so dares to make a lunge when they're trying for retreat he'll really have trouble on his paws.]

[Shoot somebody, Arthur. Unless he thinks a bullet will do more harm than good. The quadruped body check literally throws Freddy a few feet back to crash on his side but he's rolling right on up to lunge in for more...except yipe. Those hands grab him prompting the orange wolf to turn and snap at White. Too bad he's not as effective when he's got only two legs free. Freddy tries to kick Larry off, squirming and scrabbling for release to no avail.]

[ There's a spark of confusion when the other wolf appears to be moving backward instead of following through on the lunge, and while Eames doesn't move to attack, he certainly doesn't look satisfied, teeth bared with a low snarl. His head is kept low, stance wide with his shoulderblades a sharp arch above him. ]

[ With White dragging the other wolf back, Arthur throws remaining hesitance out, steps forward - not getting directly between but sidestepping along Eames' left. His voice normally low anyway is emphatic but hushed, the stern sort of snap in his tone almost military with a hand raised, palm forward, the other brought back to his throat. ]

Eames! Hey. You in there? Look at me!

[ Look at me.

And it's still more about the increase in volume and the weight thrown into the command than the words, really.

In his peripheral vision he keeps note of White still going at a retreating pace - not slow but not too fast either, understandable with the squirming tangle of limbs and fur in his hold. But they're far enough away that Arthur moves further, slightly in front of the forger, repeating his name and hey, hey just on the basis of keeping his attention.

White being vampiric, well, he's better equipped to take care of his canine problem than Arthur is, so he trusts him to it, having his own to deal with. ]

[Seeing blood in that sandy colored fur makes the old man not give a fuck about what happens to the other men. This was a fucking stupid mistake. A stare at Arthur who appears to have some sort of upper hand. He is a smart enough man not to get mauled.

The more pressing matter is this wolfish Newendyke. Fast, cold hands hold him at the scruff of his neck and on his muzzle.... Even like this the kid wouldn't eat his face would he?]

Enough, you hear me? Enough.

[To put a punctuation on this point he hauls him even farther away. The lack of gentleness is only because of concern and desperation. If Freddy were to break loose again, someone is going to die.]

But I ain't no madman.

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