[ On better days, running into Makoto's retainer makes for quite the amusing experience. J had caught onto the reasoning behind his choice upon their first encounter with the ease of looking through a pane of glass. No matter how others may perceive his protégé as some incomprehensible fiend that can never be puzzled out, comprised of opaque smoke and mirrors that reflect nothing but deception, the owner of this lair is practically transparent to him. Why wouldn't he be, when J was the one who had taken Makoto by the hand and led him every step of the way to becoming who he is today?
As J's entry is momentarily barred, it's not the first time he weighs the pros and cons of helping Vandy instantly shed some extra weight, by evicting his thick skull from its body. In a moment hedged by questions unanswered and contact severed days ago, the demon is hardly in a magnanimous enough mood to tolerate being restricted access to his own ward. An aggravation worsened by someone who cannot suffer speaking through more than a crack in the door. The fact Makoto is cognizant of the tension and calls off his guard dog possibly spares the interior a quick redecoration.
Crisis averted, J slips into the room without paying his fill-in much ado and instead zeros in on the one he'd been combing the streets of Venera for, to no avail. ]
There you are. [ His master affords Makoto a long leash, with the latter dictating the terms by which J can reach out. Whether it's done out of sportsmanship or for the sake of humoring a child's game, J has refrained from using Communion when it trespasses upon an intimate sense of self his ward balks at inviting him into. So, in playing along, he's been kept in the dark as to the lion's share of what happened to him since they parted ways.
There's no need to ask about Makoto's well-being when his ward's sedate and bandaged state, eerily too bedridden for his traditional greeting, tells J that it resides at the cross streets of wounded and mending. A victory in itself when the traitors and captives from this recent venture may not escape it quite so unscathed. And it's with that thought that an unrealized knot gradually comes loose in some distant corner of J's mind. His exasperated concern is swept under the rug, in favor of a more typical and breezy response. ]
I'd say you're a sight for sore eyes, but- [ With a sweep of his open hand to indicate the noticeable gloom they've been cast within, J points out why that's an ill-suited greeting. ] The whole Ominous Gothic Deathbed mood you've got going on here kind of spoils the chipper sentiment.
[ The benefit of J's extremities is that they don't disrupt whatever atmosphere of quiet respite Makoto has set up for himself. (His mouth, however...) There's no jarring scuff of shoes or heavy thud of boots that might stomp about if any with the Archduke's size were to traipse through the space. All that sounds is the shuffle of feathers. Their rustle announces him with a softer alert than footfalls when J is apt to prowl; weaving liquid-like through the darkness. ]
Yes, what is it? [ J purposefully slots himself in the space where outstretched hands reach for him. Slender fingertips brush by the fabric of his shirt but don't manage to successfully grasp what eludes them; so close yet still so far. With the right of his hands grasping the headboard, J uses it to loom over the bed Makoto's small frame barely fills. It's more than apparent what Makoto wants, but J's conditions for fulfilling his requests have rarely deviated from their original pattern. If Makoto desires something from J, he should know better than to utter anything vague or indirect. Or maybe he's simply being decisively petty in retaliation for the last few days, now that J believes his little troublemaker is safe. ]
cw: fantasized decapitation, violence and blood
As J's entry is momentarily barred, it's not the first time he weighs the pros and cons of helping Vandy instantly shed some extra weight, by evicting his thick skull from its body. In a moment hedged by questions unanswered and contact severed days ago, the demon is hardly in a magnanimous enough mood to tolerate being restricted access to his own ward. An aggravation worsened by someone who cannot suffer speaking through more than a crack in the door. The fact Makoto is cognizant of the tension and calls off his guard dog possibly spares the interior a quick redecoration.
Crisis averted, J slips into the room without paying his fill-in much ado and instead zeros in on the one he'd been combing the streets of Venera for, to no avail. ]
There you are. [ His master affords Makoto a long leash, with the latter dictating the terms by which J can reach out. Whether it's done out of sportsmanship or for the sake of humoring a child's game, J has refrained from using Communion when it trespasses upon an intimate sense of self his ward balks at inviting him into. So, in playing along, he's been kept in the dark as to the lion's share of what happened to him since they parted ways.
There's no need to ask about Makoto's well-being when his ward's sedate and bandaged state, eerily too bedridden for his traditional greeting, tells J that it resides at the cross streets of wounded and mending. A victory in itself when the traitors and captives from this recent venture may not escape it quite so unscathed. And it's with that thought that an unrealized knot gradually comes loose in some distant corner of J's mind. His exasperated concern is swept under the rug, in favor of a more typical and breezy response. ]
I'd say you're a sight for sore eyes, but- [ With a sweep of his open hand to indicate the noticeable gloom they've been cast within, J points out why that's an ill-suited greeting. ] The whole Ominous Gothic Deathbed mood you've got going on here kind of spoils the chipper sentiment.
[ The benefit of J's extremities is that they don't disrupt whatever atmosphere of quiet respite Makoto has set up for himself. (His mouth, however...) There's no jarring scuff of shoes or heavy thud of boots that might stomp about if any with the Archduke's size were to traipse through the space. All that sounds is the shuffle of feathers. Their rustle announces him with a softer alert than footfalls when J is apt to prowl; weaving liquid-like through the darkness. ]
Yes, what is it? [ J purposefully slots himself in the space where outstretched hands reach for him. Slender fingertips brush by the fabric of his shirt but don't manage to successfully grasp what eludes them; so close yet still so far. With the right of his hands grasping the headboard, J uses it to loom over the bed Makoto's small frame barely fills. It's more than apparent what Makoto wants, but J's conditions for fulfilling his requests have rarely deviated from their original pattern. If Makoto desires something from J, he should know better than to utter anything vague or indirect. Or maybe he's simply being decisively petty in retaliation for the last few days, now that J believes his little troublemaker is safe. ]