fluxscape | Closed - Everybody wants to get evil tonight

Entry tags:

alan wake - mister scratch

Closed - Everybody wants to get evil tonight

Who: Scratch and Zoey
Where: The Streets and Alleys of Haven
When: Late night, June 27th
What: Scratch is drunk and disconnected and looking for someone to blame.

CW: Aggression, stalking, drunkenness, violence, depersonalization. Will add as needed, Mister Scratch is a mess.

The last couple of days have sucked ASS.

Scratch is the envoy of the Darkness. He's the 'improved' Alan Wake, the harbinger, the urban legend. That's what he knows, what he has known for as long as he can recall. Generally speaking, that's all good with him. He enjoys what he is, enjoys what he does.

So getting cut off from the Darkness? It has him, against his will, wondering what that means for him exactly.

Everything feels a little brighter without that natural mantle of shadows, and it churns his stomach. Attempting to cut his losses, he opts to hole up in Pour Intentions for a while, knocking back enough that e won't remember what the problem is. He gets there, and as he walks in, he spots her. That little upstart. Sneering, he slips around a corner and into a secluded spot, out of her sight.

Wasn't she the one who asked him if he wanted to be his own person? His hands ball into fists on the table. Ordering a whole bottle of whiskey, he takes one shot, two, three. Brooding. Thinking it over. Forming...a plan.

He'd show her who he really is, all right.

At the end of the night, when Zoey leaves, he settles his check. Hours of shots in, he swaggers out the door and into the street, scanning the horizon until he sees where she's walking. If his powers are gone, so are hers. Good. He's careful as he follows her, biding his time, feeling the weight of his knife in his pocket.

Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise.

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“Yeah. TRY. You aren’t the first asshole to land a lucky hit.” And he probably wouldn’t be the last. Quite frankly she suspects he’ll probably be the next asshole to land a lucky hit, too. Maybe even the next few. Given how much she’s pissed him the fuck off. She thinks of the blades hidden in her boots. Nah. Let them be a surprise for next time. Like her powers will be. “And you ARE drunk and all you did was manage a little cut.”

Not quite so little, but she’s not going to tell HIM that, and it’s certainly not life-threatening. Although she might be woozy from blood loss before too much longer.

“Oh PLEASE. I think getting you on your fucking feet is probably a good place to start. See just how much balance is left after how much you’ve had to drink.” He hadn’t been in the greatest of shape to begin with.

"Felt pretty palpable to me," he grumbles...but the situation is mostly diffused for now. Scratch huffs a little, pulling his hand out of her grip to shove his knife back into his pocket.

"I can stand just fucking FINE." The words come in a hiss, and he shoves himself upward, and - whoa.

Okay, maybe the tolerance is a bit different when he's less paranatural and not running on pure adrenaline anymore, huh? He sways, but remarkably enough stays standing.

Well that’s unexpected, honestly. Zoey had been half sure he would make good on his threat and go for her throat. Colour her surprised. Pleasantly so. She gives him space, ignoring his completely right observation (a hit, a very palpable hit) and basks in the momentary reprieve from violence.

Rising gracefully to her feet (and managing to hide just how badly her side is hurting, even if it’s a fucking knot of agony), she watches him hiss at her and try to prove her wrong... And well, he managed to stay standing, so that’s something. Even if he’s swaying. “Hey, look at that. You can.”

"Like there was any fucking doubt."

Ugh, those awful lights in the night sky. They're bad enough without spinning around like that. How dare they.

"...So what? Gonna walk me home, is that it? No way you're thaaaat dumb." He starts to head out of the alley and promptly knocks over a garbage bin when he staggers sharply to the right.

"Was in my fucking way."

There’s was kind of a lot of doubt on that one, Scratch. Sorry. (Except not sorry at all.) Oh yeah, he is DEFINITELY feeling however much he’s had to drink now. HARD. Probably a very good thing she’s decided to guide his drunk ass home. Or at least homeward.

And then he takes out a garbage bin, and she reaches out and grabs a fistful of his suitcoat to keep him from veering any more than he already was and kind of yank him gently back on course before letting go. (With the option to grab back on for more drunken asshole wrangling.) “Yeah, it was. You showed that trashbin.”

Edited 2021-07-05 08:51 (UTC)

Oh, GROSS. She's grabbing his coat and she's leading him along and it's....

Okay actually it's not that gross.

In a different circumstance it would be kinda hot. Eh.

He rubs his nose with the back of his hand, smearing blood and sand all over his face. "Listen, you're lucky my powers are gone or I would be showing YOU, princess." He plows ahead, staggering, occasionally glancing back to her like a wolf looking at a rabbit.

Zoey follows along behind him, using that fistful of his coat to guide him on. Leading him along as best she can. Oh gods it’s a kiddie leach for a drunken de-powered avatar of darkness. But if she doesn’t wrangle him he’s going to destroy every innocent trashbin on the way to wherever the fuck he lives. And maybe hurt himself, too.

The way he keeps looking at her isn’t reassuring, although it’s pretty much the way he’s looked at her since he started hunting her so it’s not anything new. A wolf looking at a rabbit. Why does she think that she’s not going to stop being his fucking prey any time soon?

She laughs, low in her throat at his boast. Oh he has no idea. “I might surprise you, Sunshine,” she murmurs in response, giving a tug at his jacket.

"Oh really?" He's slurring his words now, eyes bleary as he looks back at her. Lucky the Cabin isn't THAT far away. He's not even sort of walking straight.

"Why? What've ya got, huh? You don't even KNOW the HALFof what've go- fuck-"

He tries to pull his knife back out and drops it in the sand. In his attempt to bend down and get it, he falls over - and if Zoey doesn't let go quick enough, she's falling over with him.

Zoey is about to tell him that it’s a surprise, and he’ll find out in due time... except he fumbles his knife and then fumbles HIMSELF. Which would almost be hilarious except:

She doesn’t, in fact, let go quick enough, because APPARENTLY in her genius she decided to try and stop him from falling. But it’s sudden and she’s not at full capacity thanks to the knife happy drunk who tried to murder her. So over she goes. Tumbling right on top of him.

Oh FUCK that hurts. Her side protests the motion and impact against another person by exploding in pain, and she can’t help but bury her face in his jacket for a moment as she tries to remember how to breathe again.

On his way down, Scratch twists - he lands on his back, and Zoey tumbles down atop him, burying her face against him. He lays there for a moment, wrapping his hand around the handle of his knife, quietly bringing it up behind her to hover it over the back of her neck.

Then, before she catches her breath, he lowers it back down, saying nothing, chest heaving.

Damn it.

She doesn’t expect him to twist on his way down, doesn’t expect much of anything given how abrupt the whole fall was, and she’s too winded and in too much pain to be more than half aware that oh, she’s burying her face into his chest rather than his back or shoulder. Half aware of how she can feel him shift, how he reaches for his knife (it has to be, what else could he be reaching for), how he raises it, and if she hurt less, was less winded, she’d be more alarmed, she’d DO something to extricate herself.

Only to lower it again, without a word, chest heaving as she lay on top of him. Breathless, the pain starting to ease, she doesn’t do anything for a long moment. Even though she should probably get off of him. She’s confused. And not NEARLY drunk enough for this. Still breathing hard, she uses her good arm (the one not attached to the side that’s bleeding) to push herself up off of him a little. They’re still close, way too close. But it’s all she can do right now.

He could have just killed her. Why didn't he just kill her?

He doesn't know.

When she pulls herself up, he looks her in the eye, brows furrowed. "...What, want something?" His grin turns sleazy, and he doesn't push her off of him...but the expression still doesn't reach his eyes.

Maybe the sleaziness is an act after all.

Or maybe he's just drunk.

She’s not sure if the sleaziness is an act; she doesn’t think so. Not entirely. She's pretty sure he's just sleazy. But he is sure as shit drunk, though. So maybe it is a little bit of an act. You know what though? She thinks she’s not going to care right now. He hasn’t murdered her for some reason and she’s managed to keep him relatively in one piece on his way home. (And keep him from murdering some poor Haven resident. Or four.)

She's calling that a win. No matter how confused she is.

So Zoey just smirks at him, sharp and amused. “And what would you do if I did?” Turns it back around on him before rolling gracefully off of him and back onto her feet. (Ignoring the pain. She can patch herself up once she’s home.) And then she’s holding out her hand, offering him help up if he wants it. But she’s not going to be fucking bothered if he doesn’t.

There's a long moment of struggling where he tries to get his legs under him while getting the knife back in his pocket - it's messy, and he hits the dirt again more than once in the process. Begrudingly, he looks up at her hand...and then, sighing, he takes it, letting her help him up.

Without the darkness, his touch is warm. That's a bit striking. At least, it's striking until he yanks her hand, aiming to pull her forward and against him. His grin is lopsided and twitching.

"...What do you THINK I'd do?"

Watching him, Zoey thinks it was a really good idea that she accompanied him home. For reasons beyond the murder thing. He never would have made it. She waits, patiently, unhurriedly, for him to decide to take her hand. Accept her help.

Oh. That’s striking. His touch feels different. Warm. It makes sense, given that he doesn’t have the darkness shrouding him. But still. It’s odd.

There’s a brief second when she realises that oh she might have miscalculated JUST A LITTLE as, instead of letting go he yanks her hand and pulls her forward. Pulls her against him. As close as they’d been before? This is so much moreso. It feels more... she doesn’t know. Intimate, maybe. Purposeful. Because the last times were accidental. This time, well. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Oh yeah, definitely might have miscalculated just as little. But that has never stopped her. Never let it be said that she’s not the sort to recklessly, willfully keep going. Even when she probably shouldn’t. (Like now.)

Head tilted and another sharp, teasing smirk on her lips, she rises up on tiptoe. Probably a mistake, given how close they are and how it brings their faces closer. “Oh, I think you’d get yourself into trouble.”

If you can describe Mister Scratch as anything with consistency, it's that he is erratic. One moment he's laughing, smiling, the next he's got a knife. This isn't new, no...but being stuck human with a lot of alcohol put away isn't helping his impulse any.

She gets on her tiptoes and tries to get cute. Quirking a brow, he chuckles a little. "Oh, would I?" He lets go of her wrist. His hands slip to her shoulders, running fingertips oh-so-lightly down her upper arms. "Maybe I like trouble."

The would-be spectre is close, so close to Zoey, breath hot and smelling of whiskey.

And then his hand slides further down, to press his fingernails into the cut he made.

The touch makes Zoey shiver despite herself, as his fingertips brush over some of the scars left from the bath tent, waiting for his next move as he toys with her. She’s anticipating... something, expecting something from him, and she gets it as his nails press into the cut he’d made. Unfortunately revealing that he’d cut her deeper than she’d been letting on. Thankfully, though, she’s been in enough pain since he wounded her that she’s able to bite down any reaction. Not flinching. Not giving him the satisfaction.

Instead it’s her turn to draw a blade, one of the knives she’s kept on her since arriving. Since the Carnival, truthfully. She never goes unarmed anymore. Still on tiptoe, his fingers digging into her wounded side, she presses the length of her knife against his neck. Hard, but not hard enough to break skin. That sharp smirk is still on her lips. “Maybe you do,” she replies. “Maybe you don’t.”

Ah, okay. So this is how it's gonna be, huh?

The finger pressed into her wound - and damn, he knew he had gotten her good, what a fucking liar she is - presses in harder, merciless, vicious. Maybe he's having a hard time with the idea of knifing her right at this moment, but hurting, hurting he can do. He drags at the wound, trying to tear it further, make it more ragged.

Scratch leans against the blade a little bit, dragging the skin of his own throat along the sharp edge. Drawing just a little blood. Grinning.

"Yeah? Try me."

If he dies, he'll just be coming back sober with a knife, after all.

And she's still injured.

JESUS FUCKING FUCK. She feels the wound tear as he drags at it, and it feels as though her side is on fire. Zoey refuses to give him ANY satisfaction at causing her pain, forcing herself to not react. Biting it back. Biting it all back.

He leans into her blade, LEANS into it, drawing blood. Just a little. But still. What the actual fuck. But then he gives her an opening and how can she resist. He knows she won’t kill him. He’s calling her bluff. And she’s fine with that. Unnecessary killing she has a problem with. Hurting, on the other hand. That she’s just fine with.

She can hurt him just fine right now.

She grins then, as sharp as her smirk was, and a little vicious. “GLADLY.” But instead of cutting his throat, or even stabbing him, she pulls back, flips the knife in her grasp, and hauls back and PUNCHES him. With the strength of a woman who does gymnastics and aerial silks on the regular. She is STRONG. Far stronger than she looks.

This is fun, he thinks to himself. He can feel his own blood dribbing down his neck just the same as he can feel the blood soaking the fingertips he's digging into Zoey's wound. Does it hurt? Sure! But it's worth it. It's what he's for, right?

And then it REALLY hurts as Zoey cold-cocks him, sending him stumbling backward and clutching his jaw. There's a moment of sputter, of sway, of blood dribbling from behind his hand.

Then he grins at her through bloody teeth, lip gashed open.

"Ah, a warrior princess, then, huh?"

She can feel the blood running steadily down her side from Scratch digging his fingertips into the wound he’d given her. Soaking her waistcoat and beginning to spread to her jeans, hidden only by the darkness of the fabric. Oh yeah, she is definitely going to be feeling the blood loss here shortly.

Wonderful.

There is something a little satisfying about making him stumble backward clutching his jaw. (And not just because it gets his hand out of her fucking wound.) He deserves it, that’s for fucking certain. A little more breathless than she’d like, Zoey tucks the knife away as easily and quickly as she’d drawn it.

She looks at him then, bleeding from his split lip and the wound he’d caused on his own neck, angry and incredulous and a thousand other things, and she huffs a laugh. She can’t help it. It’s all so fucking ridiculous. All she’d wanted to do was go the fuck home! Not get dragged into... this. Whatever THIS is.

“Yeah,” she retorts, because sure, why not. She’ll take that epithet. Since it’s obvious that that nickname of his isn’t going anywhere. (This is payback. She knows it. This is payback for her tendency to go around the multi!verse nicknaming people.) “Come on. Let’s get your drunken ass home.”

Admittedly, Scratch is a little bit surprised that she still wants to walk him home. He figured that after this she'd run, or at the very least bail to go tend to her bleeding. Yet...here she is. Still insistent.

It's actually making him kind of uncomfortable, especially after that memory. Urgh, now he's thinking about it again.

His smile fades a little, and he wipes his lip with his sleeve, shrugging. "...Yeah, yeah, you just wanna know where I live, don'cha?"

That’s the complete opposite of what Zoey wants, actually. Knowing anything at ALL about him feels... like too much. Too intimate, too much like an invitation. Too... everything. Except she’s already SEEN, already EXPERIENCED a part of him that feels... voyeuristic. Intimate in a way that is unsettling. A memory that she will never be able to forget. A part of him that she won’t be able to forget. (A curse of her gift, she thinks, her memory, but she’s never been certain about that.) And she has already infuriated him, drawn his ire and attention and that is as much an invitation to him as anything else COULD be, she thinks. She won't be extricating herself from him any time soon.

She steps closer, pulling a clean handkerchief out of her pocket and holds it out to him, gazing up at him. “No, I don’t.” An amused smile flickers across her face. “Not that I think you’ll believe me.” Not that she cares if he believes her, either. But it’d make this walk to his home easier.

Edited 2021-07-10 07:16 (UTC)

Look. Scratch got more than he bargained for too, yeah? Trying to wash the taste of sympathy from his craw is gonna take a whole other bottle. For now, he's opting to pull back, let her usher him home, let her bleed out a while...but she won't be so lucky in the future.

He snatches the handkerchief from her with a little huff, dabbing it across his throat.

"No. I don't believe you at all." A lopsided grin. "...But it's this way."

And he leads, a little sobered by the interaction, but movements still swaying side-to-side.

Yup, his not believing her isn’t a surprise at all, but the grin and the acquiescence IS, a little. She’d half expected them to go back and forth a while longer before he decided to let her walk him home the rest of the way. Drag it out. Next time, then. Because oh, she is CERTAIN there will be a next time. She doesn’t need her gift to see that.

Once again she reaches out and takes a fistful of his coat, to keep him on course a little and from taking out any more trash bins as he sways from side-to-side. Or faceplanting into a fucking brick wall. As amusing as that might be.

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