Iron Queen Hotel, London, Tuesday
Nov. 22nd, 2011 01:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bitten_notshyJohn Nast, whom Jack kept having to stop himself from thinking of as Sebastien de Ulloa, still didn't sleep. He'd left need behind when he became a vampire some twelve hundred years before.
But he'd come back from his extended walkabout in India with the habit of spending a few hours a day in a meditative trance, which gave much the same effect. Jack found it unsettling; a still body with no need to breathe looked distressingly like a corpse.
But Jack was content on so many levels that he was inclined to be accommodating about it. His lack of travel plans made the recent Portalocity messages more something to snigger at than anything genuinely alarming. And if a few things had gone missing here and there, even the magic-users of his world were quick to come up with mundane explanations. Carl's itchy feet were distinctly odd, but no more than that.
Also, as of the previous Saturday he had Sebastien -- no, John, and he'd make himself use that name in his mind so he didn't slip -- back. They'd explored the city, museums and shops and restaurants where Jack dutifully ate two meals, then back to John's hotel room late in the evening. They'd spent scarcely a moment out of each other's sight all week. And when John needed to feed, Jack instantly offered his wrist.
But all good things had to end. On this particular day, Jack needed to go to university and sit through a lecture. He kissed the unmoving John on the temple and left.
When he came back, he found the hotel room empty and only his bag at the side of the bed. It was unusual that John had gone out in the day and left no note as to where he was going, but Jack was patient. He was sure there'd be some explanation.
Jack waited for a bit, had lunch, started a paper for a different class. Finally, when the sun started to dip behind the horizon, he went down to the front desk. His fear was that the police had taken John away -- but no, there'd be some sign, then. Not nothing at all.
"Excuse me," he said, once he caught the desk clerk's eye. "Did my boyfriend happen to say where he was going when he left this morning?"
Boyfriend was a new term for them, but Jack felt it had several advantages: It disconcerted John and raised far fewer eyebrows than guardian would have in everyone else. There was also a certain level on which Jack simply delighted in saying it.
"Boyfriend?" the clerk asked dubiously. "Sir, we hadn't noticed you had a guest. Should we have someone paged?"
Jack shook his head. "No -- Mr. Nast. The room should be in his name."
The clerk clacked away at his computer keyboard. "The room's in the name of Jonathan Priest. As a single occupancy."
"No, that's me," Jack said, seething at the incompetence. He had no time for this. "The taller fellow with the dark hair. You gave him a key to the gym yesterday. He left sometime this morning."
"I'm afraid I don't know the gentleman in question, but our records show you've been here alone all week," the clerk said with an air of finality and a judgmental look in his eye. "Is there something more I can help you with?"
Jack said he supposed not, went outside, and drew a deep breath so he wouldn't cry.
Abandoned again, he thought. He even took the trouble to bribe the hotel clerk. He performed the usual checks; airports, train stations, the clubs he knew John would go to if he had to, growing more and more alarmed as he found no trace. Even John's bank accounts had been erased, and the mentions of him under various aliases in the archives Jack knew to check were gone now. None of his associates recognized the name, either. If it hadn't been for the healing scab on his wrist and the silver-and-garnet ring now shining like a talisman on his left hand, Jack would have supposed he was quite simply entirely mad.
Once all roads had lead to dead ends, he pulled out his phone and sent an angry little text to everyone from Fandom in his address book.
Sebastien has been wiped off the face of the earth. What the hell is going on?
[OOC: If you want to get the text, you did!]
But he'd come back from his extended walkabout in India with the habit of spending a few hours a day in a meditative trance, which gave much the same effect. Jack found it unsettling; a still body with no need to breathe looked distressingly like a corpse.
But Jack was content on so many levels that he was inclined to be accommodating about it. His lack of travel plans made the recent Portalocity messages more something to snigger at than anything genuinely alarming. And if a few things had gone missing here and there, even the magic-users of his world were quick to come up with mundane explanations. Carl's itchy feet were distinctly odd, but no more than that.
Also, as of the previous Saturday he had Sebastien -- no, John, and he'd make himself use that name in his mind so he didn't slip -- back. They'd explored the city, museums and shops and restaurants where Jack dutifully ate two meals, then back to John's hotel room late in the evening. They'd spent scarcely a moment out of each other's sight all week. And when John needed to feed, Jack instantly offered his wrist.
But all good things had to end. On this particular day, Jack needed to go to university and sit through a lecture. He kissed the unmoving John on the temple and left.
When he came back, he found the hotel room empty and only his bag at the side of the bed. It was unusual that John had gone out in the day and left no note as to where he was going, but Jack was patient. He was sure there'd be some explanation.
Jack waited for a bit, had lunch, started a paper for a different class. Finally, when the sun started to dip behind the horizon, he went down to the front desk. His fear was that the police had taken John away -- but no, there'd be some sign, then. Not nothing at all.
"Excuse me," he said, once he caught the desk clerk's eye. "Did my boyfriend happen to say where he was going when he left this morning?"
Boyfriend was a new term for them, but Jack felt it had several advantages: It disconcerted John and raised far fewer eyebrows than guardian would have in everyone else. There was also a certain level on which Jack simply delighted in saying it.
"Boyfriend?" the clerk asked dubiously. "Sir, we hadn't noticed you had a guest. Should we have someone paged?"
Jack shook his head. "No -- Mr. Nast. The room should be in his name."
The clerk clacked away at his computer keyboard. "The room's in the name of Jonathan Priest. As a single occupancy."
"No, that's me," Jack said, seething at the incompetence. He had no time for this. "The taller fellow with the dark hair. You gave him a key to the gym yesterday. He left sometime this morning."
"I'm afraid I don't know the gentleman in question, but our records show you've been here alone all week," the clerk said with an air of finality and a judgmental look in his eye. "Is there something more I can help you with?"
Jack said he supposed not, went outside, and drew a deep breath so he wouldn't cry.
Abandoned again, he thought. He even took the trouble to bribe the hotel clerk. He performed the usual checks; airports, train stations, the clubs he knew John would go to if he had to, growing more and more alarmed as he found no trace. Even John's bank accounts had been erased, and the mentions of him under various aliases in the archives Jack knew to check were gone now. None of his associates recognized the name, either. If it hadn't been for the healing scab on his wrist and the silver-and-garnet ring now shining like a talisman on his left hand, Jack would have supposed he was quite simply entirely mad.
Once all roads had lead to dead ends, he pulled out his phone and sent an angry little text to everyone from Fandom in his address book.
Sebastien has been wiped off the face of the earth. What the hell is going on?
[OOC: If you want to get the text, you did!]
