contractuallybinding | (no subject)

How irritatingly smug. He puts the telescope aside and decides to check under the bed.

There's a disappointing lack of bodies, weapons or other incriminating evidence. Or honestly, anything at all. If the other man had existed before the moment (Jon) woke up... it's hard to tell. There's not even dust down there.

There goes all the patience he has for investigation.

... He yanks the bedclothes wrinkled before he leaves.

Petty, petty. Hardly becoming of you.

When the feral Blank leaves, he practically runs into Bastard and Wisp out there, as Bastard starts verbally trapping Wisp into going out.

"Ah, our third. What should we call this one. Ideas?"

Wisp continues to be painfully unhappy with this entire scenario, top to bottom. But as soon as Bastard even hints at the thought of naming this other man, he flares with instinctive protectiveness.

"You - you're not naming him," he says.

He scowls. "And what are you two called?"

"I'm not?" Bastard smirks. Then... no. No he's going to make Wisp introduce himself. "Careful, he named me Bastard. I suppose it will be a black mark upon me from the very onset."

He doesn't seem that put out.

Predictably, Wisp reddens terribly at that. Social pressure is as pure a compulsion as anything else for him, after all. "Because you named me something terrible," he spits back. "You - you named me Wisp."

It probably doesn't seem terrible. In fact, it might just feel entirely and perfectly fitting, like Bastard couldn't possibly have named him anything else. It's all this man is now.

Yeah, he looks between the two of them and snorts. "Well, accurate so far."

"Now, now, no need for name calling." Bastard says, striking up an absolutely reasonable tone. He glances at Wisp, then slides a glance back at this unknown, unshaped person. There's something to that, isn't it? A blank slate waiting to be written on. "Unless there is. But if you can't think of anything, I'm here for you. Happy to pick up the slack."

Wisp stiffens with horror. It's one thing to be named himself, but letting Bastard do this to someone else is unconscionable. He sputters a moment, knowing he's being manipulated even now, but unable to do a damn thing about it.

"No, I - I've got it. I'm great at naming." He says this while looking at the other man, and ... drawing a ferocious blank. He doesn't look like much? Or - well, okay, he looks like quite a bit, but not like anything nice that Wisp would name him. Scar would be too cruel on multiple levels. Instead, Wisp's eyes track the trail of white spots dimly visible on the other man's skin. "What - what about Fawn?" he says, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

"Like - like the baby deer?" It's hard to tell if me's more offended or baffled: He hasn't seen his own face to be able to ken to the association.

"On second thought, it's good enough you've both got one. I believe I can do without."

Edited 2020-04-05 03:43 (UTC)

Perfect.

"Fawn it is."

Wisp flinches a little at the rejection, but. It's a name that Bastard didn't give him, and that little confirmation doesn't seem to have had the same effect. Small mercies. He'll take it. "It's - it's of the marks," he adds, feeling foolish. "Can't you see them?"

Fawn spares an extra bit of glare for Bastard before turning with exasperation to Wisp. "See what? What marks are you talking about?"

... They're all down his arms, evidently he just hasn't looked down.

Oh good lord. Wisp is fed up just enough to reach out and poke one of Fawn's arms (gently) right on one of those spots. "The extremely obvious ones right there? All over you?"

Fawn brings his arm up to see. "-O, oh." And after turning it for a full view, he notices his hand, the whole palm scared with more wrapping around the back. "-Oh. A-all over you, said...?"

Fawn touches his face - with the burned hand; he has to switch to other hand to actually feel the spots on his face. He looks quite disturbed. "What on Earth..."

"Well, we don't know about all. But it does seem.. comprehensive." That Bastard says. His tone isn't particularly suggestive, merely fond of pointing out technicalities. It is good to be CORRECT, after all.

"It may be that you're suited to losing. Or surviving. We'll find out."

Wisp regrets having pointed this out in such a brusque way, but ... what else can he do, really? And he made his point. But he still looks dimly embarrassed watching Fawn discover all the marks on him. "Good at surviving," Wisp insists firmly. "And - and I don't think they look bad anyway. Distinctive."

Fawn's hand drifts towards the hem of his shirt, but he quickly thinks better of checking with the other two men here. His fingers fidget instead, worrying at the fabric.

This time Wisp gets the more baleful part of the glare. "Like a bloody dalmatian. If the two of you are finished wasting time on trivialities, could we get on with things?"

The Bastard steps aside with a sweep of his hand towards the yet-unexplored front door, making way for Fawn and Wisp to go first. "After you, gentlemen."

"Dalmatians are cute, though," Wisp mutters under his breath, not really loud enough for anyone else to hear. It's not important anyway, and he'd rather not get glared at again. Compared to that, the outside feels appealing. "Right," he says, a little more loudly this time. "Do we - do we want to stay together? Split up?"

He's already moving to open the door into the cave beyond.