Sorry for the wait! RL has been very hectic with work, and I caught a horrible stomach bug. I hope you enjoy!
Haytham wasted no time in packing away his belongings. It was more difficult than he'd anticipated, considering that he could only identify about a fifth of the things in the room as his own. Either he had left his previous location in a hurry, and had to buy new clothes and equipment here, or he only stayed here occasionally, and bought new items as and when was needed.
He could hear the murmuring of voices downstairs again, and he could feel the rage building up. How dare they speak about him behind his back like that? They were probably laughing about their stupid, stupid attempt at a joke.
He was examining an expensive-looking coat, wondering if it belonged to him or not, when he heard a soft knocking at the door.
"Haytham, it seems we need to talk," Charles said, from the other side of the wood.
Bastard, bastard, bastard! No, they did not need to talk. And even if he did need to speak with anybody, at the moment Charles would be the last person he would want to talk to. Clearly he was in on this blasted joke.
He didn't answer, and threw the coat over his arm. He glanced around- ah, that was his trusty pistol, and those were his good leather gloves. Was that his holster? He didn't remember the second ammunition pouch…
"Haytham?" Charles knocked again, and opened the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Haytham could see Charles hesitate, taking in the scene before him. "Haytham, what are you doing?"
"Packing," Haytham answered. "I'm going back to New York first thing in the morning. Didn't Connor say?"
"I thought he was exaggerating. You can't leave, Haytham."
"And why not?"
"Well," Charles seemed thrown by the venom Haytham had put into that question, or possibly by the fact he'd even questioned him. "Well, for a start that thing is out there--"
"Ah, the monster you've shown me no evidence of? I don't necessarily disbelieve you, but I hardly think I'm in any dang--"
"--And we're meeting the others tomorrow," Charles interrupted Haytham's speech. "Johnson, Hickey, Pitcairn, Church. They're coming here, we agreed to meet after the reconnaissance mission. And besides, your New York residence is still being rebuilt--"
"Rebuilt? Why is it being rebuilt?" Haytham demanded.
"Because it burnt down," Charles said, as if that were obvious. "There's been a string of arson attacks in the city, we've got men working on finding the culprit."
"I'm homeless?" Haytham asked, in disbelief.
"Only temporarily," Charles replied. "Put down my coat, will you?"
Oh. He was still holding it, wasn't he? Haytham lay the garment on a nearby chair, and turned back to Charles.
"You forgot to mention that earlier," Haytham said. "And a number of other things, as well."
Charles grimaced.
"Look, we had a lot to discuss, it's been a somewhat eventful year and a half. There'd be no sense in overwhelming you with so much information at once. We thought it might be best to take things slowly. Ease you in."
"I'm not an invalid, and I detest being treated as such!" Haytham snapped.
"I'm sorry, I just didn't want to upset you," Charles said, in the kind of placating voice people reserve for lovers and family. Haytham gritted his teeth.
"Don't talk to me like that," he said. "You're my subordinate."
Charles looked like he'd just been slapped. He regained his composure remarkably quickly, and looked away. When he next spoke, his voice was quiet.
"Of course, sir. I didn't mean to offend you, sir."
Haytham nodded, and took a deep breath.
"I think I'd like to speak with Connor again."
"He's gone out hunting, sir. He'll be back in a few hours."
Haytham sighed. He was starting to feel a little guilty for being so rude to Charles. Only a little guilty, but guilty all the same. The man was obviously quite upset- and so he deserved to be, after that bloody joke he'd tried to pull. Still, Haytham could not help but feel his words were a little harsh.
"I, ah, apologise," he said, with difficulty. He did not have much practice in apologising, he was the one who tended to be apologised to. "I shouldn't've been so rude. It's been something of a bad day, you see."
He expected one of several reactions from Charles. A sombre nod, perhaps. A quiet "yes, sir". No answer at all. What he did not expect was a bitter laugh.
"A bad day? Well, that excuses everything, Haytham."
"Excuse me?" Haytham managed. Charles was not the type to snap back.
"Would you like to know how awful my day has been?" Charles demanded. He continued without waiting for an answer. "Imagine you loved someone. Adored them. Idolised them. No, don't you dare say a single word, Haytham--"
Haytham shut his mouth. He'd intended to stop Charles, argue with him, but clearly this was not an option.
"--Imagine this person was perfect. You'd die for them in a heartbeat. Do anything for them. But you can't act on your feelings, so you busy yourself with trying to make them happy in any way you can. You fool yourself into thinking that's more than enough, even though it's not. For some reason, they have to travel a lot, so for several years you hardly see them and you forget what it was like to have them there."
Charles paused for a moment, thinking about how to continue. His voice was shaky, but he spoke quickly nonetheless.
"They come back, and they're barely a shell of the person you knew, the person you loved. Even though they're snappish and moody and simply horrible, you persevere with helping them as best you can. And eventually your efforts pay off and you can start to see the person you loved in them. And, after quite some time, everything you dreamt of falls into place. Despite the horrible situation you both face, they love you right back. For the first time in a very long time, you're happy."
Haytham opened his mouth again, only to close it at the ferocious glare Charles shot at him. Surely the man couldn't be serious? Oh, but it took a more talented liar than even Charles and his silver tongue to tell such tall tales with such raw emotion.
"And then something happens. They're hurt. You stay by them every second you can until they wake up, and when you do, they're not your lover any more. They're not even the person you adored. They're just a ghost again. A shadow. Nothing. You can't let your heart break, you've got too much work to do, important work at that. So you keep calm and carry on and hope that what you had isn't gone forever. Believe me, Haytham, I've had a far worse day."
Charles stopped, finally, and took several deep breaths. Haytham, feeling some kind of contribution to the conversation, spoke.
"Charles, I… I don't know what to say--"
"There's nothing to say, Haytham!" Charles snarled, absolutely livid. "You're a ghost! You're not the real you, and it's not bloody fair!"
Haytham blinked. He'd never had the misfortune of being on the receiving end of Charles' infamous fiery temper.
Before he could open his mouth, there was a movement from the other side of the window, and a thud from the balcony outside. There was a rattling at the door before it opened, and Connor tumbled in, slamming his body against the door to shut it. The lad was hyperventilating, shaking. Before either Charles or Haytham could demand to know what was going on, Connor spoke, stuttering, sounding fearful.
"It is here!" the assassin managed. "The-- the Slender Man, it is here!"
He Lives In The Woods 6/?
Haytham wasted no time in packing away his belongings. It was more difficult than he'd anticipated, considering that he could only identify about a fifth of the things in the room as his own. Either he had left his previous location in a hurry, and had to buy new clothes and equipment here, or he only stayed here occasionally, and bought new items as and when was needed.
He could hear the murmuring of voices downstairs again, and he could feel the rage building up. How dare they speak about him behind his back like that? They were probably laughing about their stupid, stupid attempt at a joke.
He was examining an expensive-looking coat, wondering if it belonged to him or not, when he heard a soft knocking at the door.
"Haytham, it seems we need to talk," Charles said, from the other side of the wood.
Bastard, bastard, bastard! No, they did not need to talk. And even if he did need to speak with anybody, at the moment Charles would be the last person he would want to talk to. Clearly he was in on this blasted joke.
He didn't answer, and threw the coat over his arm. He glanced around- ah, that was his trusty pistol, and those were his good leather gloves. Was that his holster? He didn't remember the second ammunition pouch…
"Haytham?" Charles knocked again, and opened the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Haytham could see Charles hesitate, taking in the scene before him. "Haytham, what are you doing?"
"Packing," Haytham answered. "I'm going back to New York first thing in the morning. Didn't Connor say?"
"I thought he was exaggerating. You can't leave, Haytham."
"And why not?"
"Well," Charles seemed thrown by the venom Haytham had put into that question, or possibly by the fact he'd even questioned him. "Well, for a start that thing is out there--"
"Ah, the monster you've shown me no evidence of? I don't necessarily disbelieve you, but I hardly think I'm in any dang--"
"--And we're meeting the others tomorrow," Charles interrupted Haytham's speech. "Johnson, Hickey, Pitcairn, Church. They're coming here, we agreed to meet after the reconnaissance mission. And besides, your New York residence is still being rebuilt--"
"Rebuilt? Why is it being rebuilt?" Haytham demanded.
"Because it burnt down," Charles said, as if that were obvious. "There's been a string of arson attacks in the city, we've got men working on finding the culprit."
"I'm homeless?" Haytham asked, in disbelief.
"Only temporarily," Charles replied. "Put down my coat, will you?"
Oh. He was still holding it, wasn't he? Haytham lay the garment on a nearby chair, and turned back to Charles.
"You forgot to mention that earlier," Haytham said. "And a number of other things, as well."
Charles grimaced.
"Look, we had a lot to discuss, it's been a somewhat eventful year and a half. There'd be no sense in overwhelming you with so much information at once. We thought it might be best to take things slowly. Ease you in."
"I'm not an invalid, and I detest being treated as such!" Haytham snapped.
"I'm sorry, I just didn't want to upset you," Charles said, in the kind of placating voice people reserve for lovers and family. Haytham gritted his teeth.
"Don't talk to me like that," he said. "You're my subordinate."
Charles looked like he'd just been slapped. He regained his composure remarkably quickly, and looked away. When he next spoke, his voice was quiet.
"Of course, sir. I didn't mean to offend you, sir."
Haytham nodded, and took a deep breath.
"I think I'd like to speak with Connor again."
"He's gone out hunting, sir. He'll be back in a few hours."
Haytham sighed. He was starting to feel a little guilty for being so rude to Charles. Only a little guilty, but guilty all the same. The man was obviously quite upset- and so he deserved to be, after that bloody joke he'd tried to pull. Still, Haytham could not help but feel his words were a little harsh.
"I, ah, apologise," he said, with difficulty. He did not have much practice in apologising, he was the one who tended to be apologised to. "I shouldn't've been so rude. It's been something of a bad day, you see."
He expected one of several reactions from Charles. A sombre nod, perhaps. A quiet "yes, sir". No answer at all. What he did not expect was a bitter laugh.
"A bad day? Well, that excuses everything, Haytham."
"Excuse me?" Haytham managed. Charles was not the type to snap back.
"Would you like to know how awful my day has been?" Charles demanded. He continued without waiting for an answer. "Imagine you loved someone. Adored them. Idolised them. No, don't you dare say a single word, Haytham--"
Haytham shut his mouth. He'd intended to stop Charles, argue with him, but clearly this was not an option.
"--Imagine this person was perfect. You'd die for them in a heartbeat. Do anything for them. But you can't act on your feelings, so you busy yourself with trying to make them happy in any way you can. You fool yourself into thinking that's more than enough, even though it's not. For some reason, they have to travel a lot, so for several years you hardly see them and you forget what it was like to have them there."
Charles paused for a moment, thinking about how to continue. His voice was shaky, but he spoke quickly nonetheless.
"They come back, and they're barely a shell of the person you knew, the person you loved. Even though they're snappish and moody and simply horrible, you persevere with helping them as best you can. And eventually your efforts pay off and you can start to see the person you loved in them. And, after quite some time, everything you dreamt of falls into place. Despite the horrible situation you both face, they love you right back. For the first time in a very long time, you're happy."
Haytham opened his mouth again, only to close it at the ferocious glare Charles shot at him. Surely the man couldn't be serious? Oh, but it took a more talented liar than even Charles and his silver tongue to tell such tall tales with such raw emotion.
"And then something happens. They're hurt. You stay by them every second you can until they wake up, and when you do, they're not your lover any more. They're not even the person you adored. They're just a ghost again. A shadow. Nothing. You can't let your heart break, you've got too much work to do, important work at that. So you keep calm and carry on and hope that what you had isn't gone forever. Believe me, Haytham, I've had a far worse day."
Charles stopped, finally, and took several deep breaths. Haytham, feeling some kind of contribution to the conversation, spoke.
"Charles, I… I don't know what to say--"
"There's nothing to say, Haytham!" Charles snarled, absolutely livid. "You're a ghost! You're not the real you, and it's not bloody fair!"
Haytham blinked. He'd never had the misfortune of being on the receiving end of Charles' infamous fiery temper.
Before he could open his mouth, there was a movement from the other side of the window, and a thud from the balcony outside. There was a rattling at the door before it opened, and Connor tumbled in, slamming his body against the door to shut it. The lad was hyperventilating, shaking. Before either Charles or Haytham could demand to know what was going on, Connor spoke, stuttering, sounding fearful.
"It is here!" the assassin managed. "The-- the Slender Man, it is here!"