bakerstreet | Denny's

[Gerard comes to the understanding of what this must look like - what he must look like a moment later, all that fire quickly tempered down. Doesn't help anyone to go off half-cocked. If you're right, do you really want to bait something dangerous in the middle of a place full of people?

Or, okay, there's maybe five people in the whole restaurant including the staff, but the point remains. If you're right, that's just going to make things worse, and if you're wrong that's a whole different kind of mess and problem and being an absolute shitheel.

Terminus? Viscera? The Hunt? The Slaughter? He feels like if he can just make eye contact he could figure it out. Even that accent is slippery. American, yes. Southern, yes. Then- the rest just gets lost in the reeds. An unfamiliar forest at night with too many echoes. Not like his own, a particular mix of high class and low class English that mostly gives him away, accent apparent no matter what language he's speaking.

Weirdly, there's something about that bemused frown from the man that reminds Gerard of his mother in a way that sends a shot of ice down his spine.]

My apologies.

[He's always so bad at this. Arguably enough eyes for the both of them and then some, hands covered with stark black lines of eyes along his knuckles, every other joint, the flash of the ink on wrists when his sleeve moves enough to show.]

You don't sound like you're from around here.

[ The Corinthian doesn't lift his expression; Gerard isn't spared from the lines of inconvenience on the corner of his lips, the silent judgment wondering what's to stop him from killing the man with a mix of accents and conflicting needs – and if he'd do it for pleasure or punishment. They're not mutually exclusive. It's just a matter of what would come first.

Seemingly uncaring, aware of each grain of sand around them walking, working, chatting and dreaming – of going home, of better food, of a different job – the ambiguous grimace keeps Gerard waiting to see what his grain of sand reveals. It's all about picking intentions from behavior, and after a century's worth of cultural, political and technological change, the rogue nightmare has found that people are the easiest to decipher because they're the last ones to change.

For example: it took John Dee less than a dozen people to cause a bloodbath in a diner, and all he had to do was let the truth flow from their mouths and hands. That poor freak could sit at the counter with another large tub of ice cream and let it play out behind him all over again, the differences would be practically cosmetic.

As for the Corinthian, when confronted, it's by someone well-prepared or in over their head. He has his own method to get the truth; it requires a little more action and a lot less subtlety, however, and the irony of it is sketched all over Gerard's skin.

When he apologizes, the Corinthian smiles. The slight isn't forgiven. ]

Is that right. [ And then he shows teeth. Comfortable. Confident. Condescending. ] You must not get a lot of visitors.

((I've seen all the netflix eps and read the comics way back when, too, so I'm good with all spoilers.))

[There is so much stubborn hope in the human heart, as the saying goes. So much fear - raised by it, shaped by it, by a mother with her sharp knives who took whatever lives she cared for, seeking out the things that were the primordial fears for more power. That had been Gerard's life - dragged into a world of nightmares, if there was ever a time he wasn't entrenched in it he could no longer remember. Now marked as he was by his patron there was no escaping it.

He still believed, though. In goodness. In the idea that it existed in the world, even having never really seen or experienced it himself.

The smile at the apology, it's all Mary Keay. The corner of his mouth twitches, blue eyes remaining trained on the man across from him.]

Not many like you, I think.

( ooc: Thank you! And I'm sorry for taking so long to tag back. )

[ Showing Gerard a smile is like shedding skin, stepping into something fresh without changing everything that came before. Different treatment, the way it should be, gets Gerard better results; the only question is: for how long? ]

Well. Clearly the last guy wasn't as nice as I am.

[ Fingers intertwined, resting on the table, he leans properly, positioned to engage. It's a matter of letting the words flow, responding to what he's given, his own voice used as a cushion to be heard and make the other person feel like they're being heard, too. One has to make up for the lack of eye contact, after all. ]

Let's make things right.

(ooc: No worries at all, just excited you did! :) )

[More flies with honey than vinegar, as the inaccurate but well repeated saying goes. Depends on the flies. Depends on the vinegar. Gerard's skills at talking to people were never about being charismatic, about being liked. He was regularly found off-putting and strange, his skill was in convincing authority figures that even if he was a problem he wasn't their problem. Of finding out truths people already knew in their heart and the right words to get them to listen to it. Which was usually along the lines of 'something is hunting you, you must be cautious to escape it'.

What he needs is to find out if that's the case here. If anyone here is in danger. If it's here, where he is, then it's his problem. ]

Clearly. How do-

[Before he can finish that thought he also loses the staring contest that maybe wasn't even happening, blue eyes looking away and aside to the waitress coming by with a pot of coffee and a curious if mildly suspicious impression. Right. He did make a scene... Gerard's smile is awkwardly apologetic to her as he holds up two fingers and murmurs a polite 'please', following it up with a 'thank you' when she gets two mugs and fills them with the fresh coffee for the both of them.]

[ The deviation from Gerard to the waitress is smooth, positive attention transferred to her and back. The charm that draws some in and keeps others thinking about it, lips lined with just the right kind of approachability. Maybe not the kind that invites others every single time, but certainly the kind that makes it okay if he sticks around. ]

Thank you so much.

[ She's more open to his manners, and he's the one that didn't make a scene, so he's the one who gets a smile back. She picks up the empty mug and walks off; he picks up the fresh coffee and leans back. ]

You were saying—?

[It's annoying, okay. Very annoying. Annoying because it really drives in how much more shit Gerard is at this, and also - attractive fit guys should not also be charismatic and radiate nightmare bullshit. That's just unfair.]

… I was going to ask what you were intending about 'making it right'.

That's a very good question.

[ And how productive of Gerard to ask. Leaning forward to set the mug back down, he arches his brows and pretends to think for a moment. Or maybe he's giving it actual consideration — it doesn't end well either way. ]

You already apologized. [ That's step one. ] How about you tell me your name next.

[Gerard's lips form a thin line at that question. He hates giving his name. Sometimes people recognize it because they knew his mum, but usually if they recognize it, it's because of the whole 'weren't you the guy who killed his mother?' thing.

He didn't, but his innocence wasn't a factor in his arrest or release. 'Contaminated evidence', 'have to drop charges'. The few papers that reported his release definitely didn't care to make it sound like they believed he was innocent, either. The accent isn't local, though, and it wasn't big enough news to make out of the country really unless you were one of those true crime obsessives.

He takes a sip from his coffee, keeping it black.]

Gerard Keay.

Gerard Keay.

[ An Americanized rearrangement of the name, off enough to make it sound like it's someone else, laid out in the Corinthian's voice like he's going through the pages of a book. Furrowed brows, chewing on the inside of his cheek, he takes another short break to think.

The name does sound familiar. From those circles that he orbits but avoids unless it gets him somewhere, perhaps: Burgess. Constantine. Cripps. Keay. ]

Lead with that, next time. You'll make more friends.

[ The more genuine he sounds, the more insulting it is. ]

[ There's so very many ways that could be an insult depending on context for his name, too. Which, probably, says a lot about him as a person and the life he's lead. So it's with a flat look and a tone to match that Gerard replies- ]

I promise you, it does not.

[ But he doesn't really try to make friends anymore for a reason. There's only so many times you can throw yourself at a door that refuses to open because you never got a key. ]

Do you have a name or something else you're called that you'd be willing to share?

[ He expects a 'no', here, but he has to ask. Sometimes it helps figure out what exactly he's dealing with. Even the ones that say things like 'I am not a who I am a what' answer with their non-answers, give more clues to pinpoint what fear they're aligned to. ]

[ Sounds to him that Gerard's got deeper issues to work on, then, but that's something he keeps to himself. Because he knows how to make friends.

He knows how to trick people into thinking that, rather.

Over the rim of the mug, brows arched: ]

Are you gonna look me up after you get back home?

[ Oh, he's got many issues. More than he really has time left to deal with though, so as it turns out the ignoring them until they go away is in a roundabout way his best plan. No sense in trying to fix a bridge when a flood is coming, not that he's aware of that.

He taps his fingers on the table before taking another sip of coffee to distract from nicotine cravings. ]

Why, you got an OnlyFans you're worried about me finding?

[ Pause. He doubts it's relevant beyond the purpose of banter, but still, ]

A what?

A ...

[ Okay maybe he misjudged the guy. Also now he has to admit he does know what it is. Give him. A second here.

He drinks his coffee some more, hoping the color high on his cheeks can be mistaken for a response to heat from the coffee. Yep, that's what it is. After a few moments that stretch on for a goddamn eternity while he has a whole face journey of brief suspicion, then back to embarrassment as he wonders if the Corinthian is just fucking with him does he talk again. ]

OnlyFans, it's a site that sex workers post racy pictures on. For money.

So the reason I offended you so much is because you think I look like a sex worker.

[ He's pursing his lips slightly, skepticism in the wrinkles across his forehead. There's a sense of victory to take from Gerard's embarrassment, derailed from any semblance of confidence he had moments ago, and it's generously coated with amusement. Watching that reaction never gets old.

His back is straight against the seat. Let's stretch this out some more. ]

And here I thought you caught me doing something wrong, Gerard. People your age are supposed to be more tolerant than that.

[ Tsc, tsc. ]

That is not what I meant.

[ His face is still pretty red though, and his eyes go to the door as he considers if this is even worth it, if he really should just go. Jesus. Things normally don't go well for Gerard but this is shaping up to be the biggest trainwreck that doesn't involve him actively bleeding. ]

Denny's

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spoilers - let me know if you'd like me to edit

it's wonderful you're wonderful

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