Voluntary Visitation

Richard rolled his eyes slightly, making a mental note to start locking his door. Maybe after he got his face smashed against a door that failed to open as he tried marching in, Disaster would change his mind about basic manners.

...What?

"I beg your pardon?" He stared at the man in indignant disbelief. He would - and did - look perfectly fine in armor. How dare Disaster say otherwise? But, perhaps, that was okay... Perhaps that worked in his favor. The times were different. He shook his head slowly.

"You should start the process of adjusting to your humanity with something that would considerably prolong your life expectancy." he said dryly, gaze flickering between the man's face and the offered hand. "Being less insufferable."

Now where did he stash that brandy...? He turned away partly to look around the room, furrowing his brow in thought. Was it back at his quarters? That would be most inconvenient.

"So," he said absent-mindedly. "why are idioms a problem? Are you not a native speaker?" Clearly, it was not something he was very interested in, the question of the hidden bottle a much more important one. After a second, though, he froze up a little and looked to Disaster again cautiously.

"What happened to Dopamine?"

The man pouted slightly, lowering the offered hand. "There's no reason to be mean about it. Was it what I said about the armor? Come now; I'm sure you'd look fine in . . . whatever you wore for your century." He examined the vampire up and down, nearly laughing in the process. Richard was many things, but heroically fashionable was certainly not one of them.

Vernal's face went slightly pale the following questions, though; good thing the vampire was distracted with other things. He scolded himself for such a slip-- he had seen the counselor through more than one session. People came in pleasantly enough, but soon, they were spilling out their innards to the vampire's pleasure. One wrong move, and it was all over. Not him, though. Slide off the question and it'll be like nothing happened.
"Don't be ridiculous," he answered with chagrin, composing himself enough to slide off the questions with a roll of the eyes.

The question of Dopamine was a God-send, if such things still existed.
"Laughter can take care of himself," the familiar face grinned knowingly, allowing himself for the first time since the fall to tune into Their voices. It was all white noise, really; for as many years as he had to deal and be with Them, Disaster was able to organize well enough as a mortal. "I suspect he's listening in right now--"

--Damn right I am, a familiar voice rang in his mind, his words even now reminding Vernal of birthday cakes, balloons, and stupid common sense. What were you THINKING, going in for a drink?

"Yep." He raised his voice and cupped an ear, over-exaggerating the 'strain' of listening to Them. He wanted to milk the scene of all its worth. "What's that, Dopamine? Sending your best wishes to the vampire?"
. . . What? I guess I wish him the best tolerating YOU--
"Aw, that's sweet. Have fun Up There!"
What are you--? Damn it, Disaster, don't you DARE tune me out--!

"He's fine," he concluded with a grin, uncupping his ear and instead fiddling with an earring or two. "He's rather underestimated by the rest of Them."

(( Laughter finally gets a font color! : D His first post: http://www.lillegardisland.com/t298p30-battered-and-bruised ))

"I'm not--" he started to protest, before cutting himself off. Mean. Such a childish word to use. Contesting it would end up in a "nah-ah"-"yah-ah" style argument. "It's not." he said curtly. Disaster had no idea, so his opinion was irrelevant.

Richard hummed, taking a step in the direction of the cabinet he got the wine out from. No, it certainly wasn't there, he wouldn't hide another in the same location... Distracted by the man's antics, he watched him skeptically; not because he doubted Disaster was actually having a conversation, but because he doubted the side of the conversation he was witnessing painted the right picture of it. He smiled sweetly. "That's good. I am relieved to hear that not all of you are dangerously incompetent." Okay, maybe he was being a little mean. Suddenly, he slapped his fist against his palm. "I know."

As he walked over to his desk, his mind went back to Disaster's problem with idioms. Had he just admitted that he wasn't a native speaker, Richard probably would've just nodded and let it slide, but his reaction was peculiar enough for the counselor to be curious. He stole a longing glance at the newspapers, then leaned down to open the desk's storage cabinet and disappeared briefly behind it to reach to it's very back.

"So," he said, shuffling around some papers. "Are you saying that you find idioms hard to grasp for no particular reason?" He stood up again, holding a bottle of brandy. His triumphant smile faded as he looked to Disaster with incredulous concern. "Or are you just ashamed of your origin? You shouldn't be." Richard winced a little, having to literally bite his tongue to not say 'you have better things to be ashamed of'. Contemptuous remarks clearly weren't leading anywhere. "It's not like it's something you chose, is it?"

((Woo! xD Baby pink, how... fitting.))

While Richard was above such bickering, Vernal certainly wasn't. He stuck out his studded tongue at the word 'incompetent.' "Meanie."

--THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING!
"Oh, shush," He turned towards the infamous chandelier, continuing to hold out his tongue for several more moments before retracting it. His own tongue tasted weird now-- ew. After fiddling with the suddenly alien muscle in his mouth, he turned towards Richard once more, noticing with new found joy that no, the alcohol did not dry out. The questions, sadly, were still in full stream.

"Chose? Perhaps not," he frowned, picking up his glass once more and offering it to Richard expectantly. "Deny? Yes." Richard already knew too much to be left completely in the dark; the best the man could do now was give the vampire a little, but not too much. Satisfy the blood-sucker's thirst before he sucked him dry. "Besides, no one believes me when I tell them."

. . . He did not just say that. He did not just bait the vampire. This was the opposite of what he wanted! And yet, it was all so tempting, to let his guts spill out, to let the vampire watch as the man's life flashed more and more before his eyes . . . before Their eyes. He had to remember the key difference between him and the counselor's other guests. While other students only knew of one pair of ears, Vernal knew of the actual hundreds, literally thousands just waiting for that one wrong move. And, he just made it.

Disaster dared to say no more, struggling with his mouth as to not utter another syllable. He twiddled with the broken diatoma with one hand, stretching the other palm in-out, in-out. A bag of nerves. A broken man who knew his mistakes when made.

Deciding it was better not to comment, Richard gave the offered glass a flat look. Drinking brandy from a wine glass, and one that has been used already to boot? Not on his watch. He turned around to take two snifters from the small cupboard that stood behind his desk, hesitated, then took out a bottle of coke as well. It wasn't too fine a brandy to be mixed. Discreetly pouring Disaster a smaller portion of alcohol in proportion to the soft drink than for himself, he looked to the man with an amused smile.

"No one? Let me guess..." He glanced aside, as if in deep thought, then back to Disaster with a raised eyebrow. "You were born in a small African village?"

Richard shrugged casually, then walked back to the couch arrangement, handing the ex-deity his glass on the way. "Drink this slowly, okay, and relax. You don't need to tell me anything, if you don't want to." he reassured, sitting down again. "It is none of my business."

Curiosity about why Disaster's past was such a sensitive matter itched terribly, but Richard was patient. Insisting would do no good, and really, he was in no rush. Subtlety was key... Eventually, he would find out, in one way or another.
He took a sip of the drink, rolled the flavor around in his mouth then cracked a smile. "Still, whatever it is, I'm a hundred percent certain that I've heard stranger things confessed to in this very room."

He watched the vampire carefully, fearing the worst from him. The pause in thought, the aversion of the eyes-- he had to know by now that he . . . that he was--!

--African? The vamp was kidding. It . . . was a joke.
Even after the relief of Richard still not knowing, Vernal's hands shook while taking up the glass of brandy, not noticing the slight-of-hand in its preparation. While the words with the drink tried to be comforting, the truth prevented them from being so. He took a small sip of the brandy, regardless, careful with setting down his old glass on the table and sitting down with his new one. The small glass was clasped in both ringed hands carefully, thoughtfully. He stared into the alcoholic reflection . . .

"Your percentages would be wrong, then."

Disaster did not feign a smile or attempt a light air with the statement. He was too tired for that. Recent events, the more-recent scare, and the idea that Richard was that one step closer to finding out his past, persistently weighed on his shoulders. It was taking all he had just to keep his guts inside; to put up the usual facade, as well, seemed just too much in that singular moment. He was tired. He was tired, but he was determined in the silence.

The man took a deep breath in . . . and bore a fool-hardy grin once more.
"I believe the darling would take first-place for your stranger confessionals. That's my completely biased opinion, anyways."
Yes. Talk of the darling. Such thoughts dulled the panic within. . . .

Noting the trembling hands, the obvious stress, and then the answer that seemed to beg further questioning, Richard shook his head slightly. Honestly, it was almost as if Disaster was teasing. Or as if, subconsciously, he wanted to blurt out everything, just to be free of the burden of having to keep a terrible secret. As if having it out in the open would be easier to bear... Which could very well be the case.

But the counselor still didn't want to push him.

As he stared at the tattered individual slumped in his couch, it was hard not to let sympathy cloud his judgment too much. But it was hard. He smiled a bit sadly in response to the forced grin.

"Indeed. His was definitely one of the more peculiar stories..." He paused for a moment in thought. Well... Disaster used to be part of Them, yes; he knew what happened in Ambrose's presence, and it seemed that he knew more than Ambrose himself did. But surely he wasn't saying that the redhead's story was the strangest because he could compare it to others...?

"Clear something up for me, won't you?" he said, looking intently straight into the ex-deity's eyes, as if to miss no hint of dishonesty. "How much do you know?"

Why the hesitation? Vernal managed to straighten out his back, slowly recovering his charade of an appearance. Clearly, the darling was the best! As the vampire explained such pause, though, confidence surged back into the mortal. Ahh . . . He still had that knowledge, didn't he? Which meant he still had some form of theoretical power left, as slight as it was.

"Mmm." He pondered the idea for a while, his smile growing wider by the second. "Many things, my dear vampire. Ever since Ambrose's visit, I have payed particular attention to this very room. Don't worry." The man leaned back with a happy sigh, clasping his hands in front of his face. "I won't tell anyone about that bottle of ink in your drawer."

Oh, he knew. He knew much of the castle and its inhabitants.
True, the details were slightly hazy-- back when he was Up There, back when he was perched high in the sky, all of the actor's stories were as clear as day. Being on the stage itself, however, fogged things up; conversations were fragmented, faces a blur, and the particulars nigh-reachable. He remembered most of it, though, though not enough to say 'all.'

The familiar face took a victorious sip from his glass, eying the certain drawer to prove his point. He could sympathize with the girl involved with such a creature-- the scenario was all too similar to Ambrose's as to not care-- but, he had power. And power, as They knew well, was meant for abuse. Nothing else.

The smile was unsettling, the words that came with it even more so. Bottle of ink...? Richard glanced back to the desk as the dreadful realization hit him. How terrible for the poor kids' sensitive secrets to end up in the hands of somebody like that... And if Disaster started prattling on about things only Richard should know, the counselor's trustworthy reputation would be compromised. Quite a nightmarish scenario.

But he seemed to be unaware that Jami took the bottle with her. So... thankfully, he didn't know everything.

He looked to the ex-deity again, concern slightly creasing his brow. "I strongly suggest that you keep your mouth shut, then. For your own good." He smiled wryly. "Many of those kids are dangerous in one way or another. If somebody started spreading hurtful, embarrassing, and, what's worse, true rumors about them, they might not be so forgiving... and I might not be there to stop them from showing you just how fragile and mortal you are."

"I won't spill any secrets if you won't," Vernal hastily promised, spreading his palms out in mock resignation. Despite the threat of vengeful students, though, his statement was not entirely true; if such a situation arouse that it would be better to spill than to keep, there was really no point in playing heroics. Whatever would better him and the darling was the right move, regardless of casualties.

He took a gentle sip of the brandy . . .
"That is: if you don't spill any of my secrets. The darling's . . ."

It tore him up inside to ask this. Vernal was used to just knowing what was going on in Ambrose's life; now, he didn't have a clue. Was he still asleep? Was he awake, roaming the school alone and without guidance? How was he? Did he notice a change yet, good or bad? He hoped it was good. He hoped-- he could only hope.

The man jostled the ice in his glass a little, still finding the right phrasing.
"If Ambrose comes to you instead of me . . . You'll tell me, right?" The vampire had to know by now he meant no harm to the darling-- quite the opposite, in fact. "You'll tell me what's wrong, so I can help?" He fixed his mouth to a hopeful smile. Surely . . . he was an exception?

That sounded good enough, despite all his doubts in the reliability of Disaster's words. Richard would believe him for now - what choice did he have, really? As helpless as the human would be if he wanted to dispose of him, Richard really didn't like the idea.
And besides, They were watching.

At first, he wanted to simply scoff at the sole idea of telling anybody anything, but then he seemed to lapse into deep thought. Sanctity of confession was terribly important, but there were exceptions... Still, even if Ambrose got into some deep trouble, Disaster had some peculiar ideas on how to resolve things, as Richard was very well aware. And he wasn't that keen on having the results of the frizzy haired man's meddling on his conscience...

He nursed his drink slowly. Well, he'd have to be careful.

"In general... no." He raised an eyebrow. "I don't see why should I entrust you with something that he wouldn't entrust you with. See, trust is very important in those situations... and there is very little between us, no?"

The words sank in slowly, cutting up the man bit by painful bit. The seconds ticked by, but time never made vampire's answer acceptable. It wasn't. It simply wasn't.

"The darling . . . he always trusts me," Vernal hoarsely replied, his panic made clear to all who observed: shaking hands, wide eyes, the brandy's ice jostling in their container. He had lost sway over Them, lightning, his fate in general-- but, not him. Loosing his little control over Ambrose was too much. He had to gain back his appearance, make it seem okay, despite everything. He tried to take in a deep breath, but even his mortal body --save for the now-eerie grin-- had slipped out of his grasp, not allowing him the luxury to breath. Perhaps it merely forgotten how.

Panic: a contagion to the entire system.
He managed a breath. Short, but efficent.

"Shouldn't-- that should be enough," he pressed, "to trust me. I trust you because the darling does. You trust me because the darling does. That's how it works, right?"

Doubt: a malicious, flesh-devouring disease.
He had to cut off the infection.

"That's how it works."
That's how it needed to work.
"If that's not enough . . ." He had to know. He had to know what was going on with Ambrose. The darling wouldn't talk to him; he never had. Always, it was through observation. He needed to know, though, using any methodology neceesary.

"What will make you trust me?"
Any.

As he watched the struggle, Richard found himself feeling sorry for the man again; but his anger having been spent, this time it only amused him in a somewhat sad way. Sighing, he leaned forward slightly in his seat, and for the first time that night, gave Disaster a kinder look. "No, dear. That's not how it works." He smiled wryly. "Trust is earned, not bought, bartered for, blackmailed into or forced upon."

He tried his best not to seem like he was pitying the man; it would just be adding insult to injury. After a moment, he cleared his throat and spoke in a fairly neutral tone.

"Anyhow, your logic is flawed. If Ambrose trusted you, you wouldn't be needing to ask me for this - he would tell you yourself."

It wasn't just the physical aspects of humanity that eluded Disaster, it seemed... Poor man. And poor Ambrose, if that's what awaited him if he didn't find a way of avoiding that fate... Richard's gaze fell briefly to the broken necklace. He sighed again. Then looked up to the chandelier, in a questioning, rather than accusatory way. Hesitation passed through his face and he brought up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Well, he did feel bad, but...

"Fine." he said finally. "I'll give you a chance. A good first step would be to show that you trust me."

Of course trust was bartered for. Of course it was bought, blackmailed, what-have-you-- anything to get the job done. Anything to get any job done. Sometimes, trust could be gained naturally . . . but, that could only happen once, twice in an existence. True trust took ages, and that was time he suddenly did not have.

He knew his logic was flawed; he didn't correct the vampire otherwise.

The man watched the counselor's deliberation carefully, glancing briefly upwards with him. The eventual answer was not met with joy, as it should have been, but utter dread, the feeling creeping up his spine a centimeter at a time. He knew exactly what would prove such sentiments, knew that he had little choice but to satisfy the vampire's thirst. There was but slight hesitation in the actual decision; now that the darling was involved, there was little true deliberation. Still . . .

"I . . . haven't told anyone this."
He set the brandy down before it could slip from his shaking hands. Somehow, he managed a deep breath, satisfying the need for air while suffocating him all the same. The disease was coming back. He didn't know if he could to this: not for Ambrose, not for anyone--!

A resounding slap filled the air. A patch of Disaster's face was now a vivid red. He retracted the ringed hand, massaging the often unused weapon with the other of its pair. The rest of his face . . . was amazingly calm. Unfocused. Dead.

Hide everything, and the world would follow suit.

"I was born the 25th of April, 1935, in Munich, Germany."

It worked.

Richard covered up his mouth as he coughed, since his satisfaction would not be kept from spilling out in the form of a smirk. It seemed that he would know sooner rather than later.

When Disaster raised his hand suddenly, Richard quirked his brow, then leaned back a bit at the slap, even though he could have seen it coming. Shifting in his seat, the counselor wondered what could require such measures to spit out - and cause such a blank expression upon being recalled...

The first sentence the man uttered wasn't that... bad, after all, being born in rather volatile times in Germany didn't have to mean anything in itself, but combined with the sheer terror Disaster was showing... well, Richard felt a little apprehensive himself. He felt like this would be a peculiar story. And, he felt a sudden craving for popcorn.

He made himself comfortable, leaning back onto the couch, took a sip of the drink, then folded his hands in his lap and inclined his head to give Disaster a reserved, but curious look.

"Well? Proceed."

The vampire had won. There was no denying his thirst now.
The man shifted in his seat slightly, his entire appearance still as dead as could be. Slowly yet surely, though, as he spoke through the tale, the dreaded accent seeped in, eventually and regrettably leaving a thick layer over the entirety of his speech. Everything was falling to pieces. The facade he had worked so hard on over the centuries crumbled.

". . . My grandparents were Jewish.
"My parents abstained from most religious practices, but they didn't care. Different 'they,'" he was forced to note for clarification. "I didn't know the other one for quite a while." He attempted a smile out of mere habit, the mechanics so deeply embedded into him that it was impossible not to. The grin faded after but a second. He continued.

"We were ordered, like sheep, out of our homes and into the ghettos, out of the ghettos and into the carts, into the land of grey. Color to grey-- weiss, schwarz, und grau . . ." German. He was getting worse. The man took a deep breath in before continuing: "I was but nine at the time and managed to adapt quickly enough; I convinced the Gestappo that I was fifteen, able for work. They believed me readily enough. Despite trying to stay together, my family and I vere separated, although I heard of their fates soon enough. The smoke looked like storm clouds.

"We moved forward like the sheep vee vere.
"And, that's ven Materiality came.

"She vas color. She vas superficial color, but color nevertheless: layers of dyed skin, haar, clothing, and the like . . . I vas entranced.

"One faithful day, she offered to give me things.
The blondest blond hair.
Bright blue eyes.
To be older. Taller. Stronger.
After all that, I asked vat now seemed like a trifle: to get out.
And, out I am."

He took a deep breath in, the long talk being exhausting in one way than one. The numbness subsided; he bit his tongue hard to get rid of the accent once and for all, squirmed in his seat, and figeted with the diatoma yet again. Eventually, he faced Richard once more, bearing the usual forced grin.

"I await your applause."

The atmosphere was heavy, and the first sentence Disaster forced out caused Richard to raise an eyebrow; he held himself back from forming an opinion, though, and just listened, engrossed, to the man's tale. He sat still, mostly unblinking, only a trace of amusement passing briefly though his face when more and more of the accent seeped in.

He did not clap. He wasn't sure who, or what, he would be applauding.

A victim of circumstance, like all of them... and perhaps, all of Them as well. A deal with the Devil to save them from hell on Earth.

A part of him wanted to let go, to not pry further, to leave the man to his memories. But why should he? Just because this story felt more human, more real, less like a movie than the other Richard had heard out within the confines of his cozy office? Just because he could picture the grey Disaster spoke of perfectly well? No.

As he returned Disaster's gaze, he seemed focused, perfectly sober and attentive, letting no other emotions show. Aloof, almost. He had things on his mind more important than maintaining his image.

"Warum" he said slowly. "bist du noch... in Verstack?" His German was broken, he knew it, he never was a great linguist. But it would have to do. He would not let go of it so easily.

"Bist du schämen?" He tilted his head a bit, inquisitive and uncertain. "Schämen, das du noch lebendig sind... und sie sind nicht?"

"Nicht schämen," Vernal responded automatically and quickly. He shook his head, maintaining the perma-smile with some difficulty. "Sie hat sterben verdienen, sie wen sind--"
The man stopped his words, freezing at the familiar language before turning towards towards the vampire once more. Though Richard simply had to be amused by the slip, he himself certainly wasn't. Not at all.

He hadn't even noticed the slip of language. He was loosing it, and fast.

". . . We shall speak only in English," the man clarified for the immortal, making sure the rule was absolutely clear. He regained the smile only after the statement, a smirk more than ever. Yes. Pretend the confidence, and it would come. "Besides, your Deutsch is abominable." 'German'-- he meant to say 'German'! A well-placed dig of the fingernail into the palm of his hand quickly fixed the panic, though. Move on, move on. Don't let the vampire break you more than he had already.

"No. No, I am not 'ashamed' of anyone; I barely remember those people, and even if I did, there was little attachment to us, anyways. I was young, I did what I had to to survive. No regrets." None at all; the memories were to faded to hold any such feelings. So he told himself, anyways. "As for 'Verstack' . . ." He had to let out a chuckle for this one. "I honestly have no idea what you were trying to say. You're accenting's horrible, even for a Brit."

He didn't seem amused at all, nor particularly satisfied about his "trap" working; rather, he still had that concentrated look as he silently mouthed Disaster's words, trying to understand. He wasn't... sure if he got them right... but no, he was pretty certain that he did. Curious. The remarks about the quality of his German were disregarded, being both unimportant and nothing he had not heard before. He glanced down to Disaster's hands at the quick gesture. Such stress. But he wasn't letting go just yet.

As he tried to figure out the correct wording, he stared through Disaster, rather than at him. Verstack... Verstack... Ach, ja.

Richard cleared his throat. "Ich weiß dass mein Ger... Deutsch... schrecklich ist. So, gib mir eine Chance es zu trainieren." And surely enough, with every word he seemed to speak more confidently, if still with a strong accent he wasn't bothering to hide. "Ich glaube, es keine Problem ist, da du bist nicht schämen, ja...?" He trailed off casually, raising an eyebrow slightly as if expecting Disaster to agree; but then he looked into his eyes with an intentness that demanded an answer. He uttered every word carefully and clearly.

"Was ist der Problem? Warum bist du noch in Versteck?"

And yet, the Deutsch remained. Despite all efforts, despite all wanting to put on the usual front and carry on as if none of this happened, he couldn't deny it. He couldn't deny the tongue, he couldn't deny the argument, and he couldn't deny the deliberate disobeying of an order. More and more, the man was falling out of power. This order, though, would be obeyed, one way or another.

"Keine Chance," the mortal growled, the words flowing out with horrid ease, "oder Versteck oder . . . das Problem," he emphasized, more annoyed than ever at the misuse of the language he had disowned. "Ich wenn gib eine Anweisung, du befolg. Da ist keine eine 'Chance' für das Gespräch setzen in Deustch fort! Keine eine Chance! Und jetzt, du setz in Deutsch fort. Warum?" He banged his hands on the table in front of him in utter frustration at the mere concept. "Für welche Zweck!?"

All in perfect Deutsch, yet again. German.
The man breathed heavily in and out, not used to yelling so loudly when needing air. And since when was he standing? But standing he was, up from the couch and in a fury. He was no longer mad at the vampire, though, but at himself yet again, infuriated that he had caved and used Deutsch once more. German. GERMAN! His hands curled into a fist, his fingernails digging into his flesh without remorse. He was better than this. He was better than Richard and his mind games.

He turned towards the door, remembering for the first time that he entered this room that he could leave. He could leave, and the vampire would be obligated to let him go.
It was tempting. But then, there was the darling.
The man simply stood there, eyes fixed on his escape. Ambrose was the most precious thing he had, but if the vampire was going to be this infuriating . . . perhaps he would be more of a nuisance than help.

Richard leaned back slightly as the man blew up. Well, it seemed that he'd managed to push some buttons. Whether those buttons did what he wanted them to remained to be seen. But he had to play this carefully. He wanted to know, and he wasn't about to let go, and precisely for those reasons he had to slow down; he didn't want to lose that so fast. Sometimes to keep moving forward one had to take a step back. Plus, the yelling had to go. It was painful.

"Aber-- no." He shut his eyes for a moment. "You're right, that was not an invitation for me to push you in this way. I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt you."

And, frustratingly enough, it was true. He didn't like Disaster, and most likely never would. He was simply the type that got on Richard's nerves: too flamboyant, too pierced, too cocksure. The trousers themselves were deserving of capital punishment. And yet, he couldn't help but sympathize, both with the story and the current situation the ex-deity found himself in. Silly human notions...

He sighed, gesturing towards the couch opposite him, then raised his glass to his lips, hoping to diffuse the tension somewhat with the casual gesture.
"Come now, sit down." His voice was gentle, coaxing. "If you storm out now, all of this will have been for naught."

He took a step at the 'aber,' making true on his threat-- but, with Richard's apology, froze in his tracks. Now, the immortal was apologizing. Now, he saw the destruction of his words. With his continuing words, though, the wounds were slowly but surely healing. Deutsch . . . German. He knew the vampire just wanted to continue their dialogue, to continue drinking his story vein for vein, drop for drop, but . . . at the same time, one couldn't help but trust that same vampire. In all the watching over of the counselor's room, he never understood the entrapment Richard brought-- until now. He was the singular opportunity to get your story 'out there,' to scream it only for his ears and never have it brought-up again. He was a confidant, a savior of sorts. Vernal had to acknowledge that the thirst did some good.

But then, there was Their ears. There was no confidant, no savior, no assurance that the past wouldn't come back to haunt him. Already, They were talking. He tried not to pay heed to Their words, as he had trained himself to do, but soon, a pair of voices pierced through the madness, one hurting him more than it should--

Why didn't you tell me?

--and, of course, another, that of the familiar ching-ching-chang of purchases, Materiality.
Cat's out of the bag, ain't it?
The only person who saw what it was like would offer no help. She never would; everything she was in, she was in it for herself and herself alone.

The man was still breathing hard, but his gaze lowered from the door, completely at a loss of what to do. He focused on the voice of helium and carnivals for support, and support he gave. He was always the more reliable of the duo.

Just . . . Don't go yet. Please. Vernal could only find consolation in not seeing the still-deity's face; his perma-smile would ruin the desperation in his voice. The vampire's on our side, and you know that. You don't have to talk more about your past-- God knows I wouldn't-- but, just . . . relax. Breathe. Sit down.

The voice of reason.
The man, after a long pause, finally sat back down in his chair, taking in a deep breath of air. Wow. That actually did the trick. His hands were still shaking slightly, but Vernal's composure had mostly return, enough to snatch up his drink once more and sip on it lightly. The alcohol did his nerves some good.

Without a word, he would stay. The rum was too good not to.

He said nothing more as he watched Disaster struggle with, undoubtedly, both his own demons and Them alike. It made him wonder what was it that the latter were saying... And how many were there, anyway? What were they like? Did each have an equally dramatic tale to their name, equally tragic reasons to hand over their human soul in exchange for the power to change their miserable fates...? Perhaps that's exactly how They operated - like a cult, targeting people at their most vulnerable... Curious, curious. and as interesting as it was, he was glad to conclude that it was actually none of his business.

Richard smiled slightly when the man sat back down, happy about it but not really having expected any other outcome; after all, what choice did Disaster have? The smile grew wider, adopting a somewhat amused air at how the alcohol was clutched. Certainly, it was a consoler superior even to himself. Well. Good thing it was in no short supply.

"Thank you." he said, then paused, just looking at the ex-deity for a moment as he pondered over what would be an appropriate thing to say in that odd situation. The answers he desired were so close, and a small part of him he rarely gave voice to wanted to just interrogate; but he figured he would just wait and let Disaster speak again in his own time. He wouldn't be escaping now.

THANK you, Laughter echoed. Don't make me come down there.

To this, the former Disaster sipped his glass once more, finding the drink rather soothing. I call your bluff.

If the deity Up There could frown, he would be doing so at this moment. It was hard to imagine even for Disaster, but tried he did. It was a playful frown, though. Really-- CARD analogies? I've never gambled, you know that. And, it's not a bluff.
BS. Take the pile, Vernal thought back with a content grin showing on his face.
Okay, he chuckled not out of his own choice, no more sympathy for YOU.
And, that's exactly what the human wanted. With a deep breath in, Vernal Equinox had regained all of his composure, able to converse externally once more. Able to tease once more.

"So." He rolled the glass around and around with the wavering of his palm. "I've shared my story." Nothing more was going to be said on it either-- the man was determined of that, despite all other pressures. "That's proof of trust enough, surely?"

It didn't have to be. It didn't have to be the last of his past. And, while there was still a small part of him begging to continue in the tale, it didn't matter. Only the vampire could decide what was 'enough.'

The changes of expression on Disaster's face made it rather clear that he was conversing with somebody, and as he waited, Richard's gaze occasionally wandered off to the chandelier, then back to the man. It was slightly irritating, really, to be watched by somebody you couldn't see or hear, and surely get commented on as well. What was up with that grin? Still, whatever it meant, it was probably a good sign. A sign of recovery.

He finished off his brandy and leaned forward to place the glass on the table, then sat back up to give Disaster a thoughtful look and an impartial 'mhm', folding his hands in his lap.

"To some degree, yes, and I do appreciate it." he said carefully. "You have shown to trust me enough to share your story with me. However, I don't see how that should convince me to pass Ambrose's confessions on to you." He raised an eyebrow. "Unless you mean to imply I am free to share this with him, as well."

He was very well aware that Disaster didn't mean that; but perhaps that would make him realize what exactly he had requested.