maskormenacelogs | [CLOSED] the bad days, the good nights

Entry tags:

[CLOSED] the bad days, the good nights

WHO: Petyr Baelish and James Patrick March
WHERE: Hotel Castile
WHEN: Late evening.
WHAT: Baelish comes across March's dirty little secret.
WARNINGS: Blood, violence, murder. Maybe more, maybe less.

[ The meeting comes after a long, exhausting day in the office. Baelish figures the Castile will be a fantastic place to unwind. Not only that, he wants to talk shop with March -- find out, as a business owner, what sorts of things March wants to see changed and what sorts of things they can change about business life in Maurtia Falls, whether on the books or off.

So he arrives there looking for the good host -- surprised that he's not there to intercept him at the door before he even walks in. Not that he feels that important or anything, but March is normally an exceptionally good host who knows exactly the needs of his customers and almost has an eerie way of being right there before you can anticipate him.

He inquires with one of the staff members about March's location, and it takes a moment for the staff member to check in with the hotel's owner before Baelish is given the clearance to go on upstairs to where he is. Odd. He must be busy with something. Or perhaps he wants a more private corridor. Any good person would turn around and leave at this point, vowing to come back when he's not occupied. But Baelish isn't a good person and besides, he's curious. So he heads up to the room he's been directed to -- knocking twice on the door to announce himself. ]

James? I hope I have not caught you at a...

[ He opens the door as he speaks (or maybe it opens on its own). But either way, he's greeted by an unexpected scene. The words come after a short pause, but he still manages to finish his sentence. ]

....bad time.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[March's back is to his guest at first, half hunched over an old, claw-footed tub perched just in front of his desk, in the line of vision from anyone opening the door. Despite the fact he's wearing an odd mask, it can't be anyone else. Those trousers. That vest. The shoes. What can be seen of a finely pressed white shirt before leather gloves cover it up to the elbows. He is definitely not having a bad time. The poor son of a bitch who's in the tub? Now that guy is definitely having a bad time. Or had a bad time, to be accurate. He gives off no signs off life. His throat has a gaping hole in it, one that's already bled as much as it can, his skin a sickly pallor no one recovers from.

And then there's March, whistling, moving about the scene like this is all very normal, putting the body in its proper place within the tub.

He turns to grab up the jerrycan on his desk not two seconds after Baelish has had time to digest the scene before him. Whistling stops. He looks at Baelish over dark lenses, and although no smile can be seen underneath the mask, it certainly resonates in his voice. This guy, dressed in half his killer's best, one hand resting loosely on a bunch of something, a tub of death separating them.]

Not at all, Ambassador! [Just the opposite; he's in such good spirits he seems ready to burst.] Please, come in! And lock the door behind you, won't you? This shouldn't take me but a moment and then I'm all yours.

["This" here is apparently pouring that jerrycan into the tub of dead guy, which March does with a practiced ease that can only come from, well. Practice. He's done this before. A lot.]

[ This. This seems like a far more interesting task than what Baelish had come to speak about. There's no more than a second of hesitation before he heeds March's command and closes the door, sliding all of the locks into place. Of all the things he anticipated walking in on -- March in a state of undress, March doing some illegal drugs, March having some kind of orgy -- for some reason, murder had never crossed his mind. But then again, it is said that all murderers have a certain charm about them.

And Petyr Baelish doesn't seem bothered by what he's witnessing either. Instead, there's intrigue and curiosity on his face. ]

Had he done something to cross you? Tried to skip out on paying or had some information you were afraid of being leaked?

[ What is the motive here? What drives March to kill a man with such delight in his voice and spring in his step? ]

[Glug glug glug. The scent given off is minimal, but once it wafts over, still strong. This is something meant to eat away, speed up a certain process, and March is content to pour the entire thing in and then, without worry, push his mask up in order to have a smoke. Whatever he's sloshed all over this poor dead bastard isn't flammable.]

No, no he had not. Though, I wager, given the chance, he'd have gladly done all that and more. [He isn't without manners, however; the chairs have been moved aside already and now March goes to collect them, turned to face each other at a more intimate distance without a desk to separate them, done while he explains.] Sometimes I have an emptiness, you see. An appetite that's got nothing to do with the belly demands to be tended to. It must be satisfied. And now that that's been done, I can go about business as usual.

[The motive appears to be "because he wanted to and because he can." And this motive is delivered with all his usual buoyancy and enthusiasm, in voice and body language. He gestures to one seat, grabbing an ash tray from his desk (done by casually leaning over the tub of corpse).]

May I offer you a drink?

[ Petyr regards March with the utmost fascination. How many people knew of this craving of his? How many could ever guess that the hotel's most charming host is a murderer? Petyr always knew there was something more to James Patrick March, but he imagined it was something a bit less bloody.

His eyes drift to the chemical bath -- uncertain about the science, but it is a bit potent. ]

Ever the good host, my friend. Yes, a drink would be good. And one of those, too. If you do not mind.

[ He gestures to the cigarette. When in Rome... ]

How often must this appetite of yours be sated?

Oh? Certainly!

[Not only does he surrender a cigarette from his own pack, March is quick to lean so he can light it. So what he's got some odd accessories and just let the man in on his Secret! He must live up to that good host legacy, if nothing else. And that may be a nice feeling for Petyr, hm? To have a man who murders because he can and wants to eagerly waiting on him hand and foot? Terrifying to someone else, he's sure. That's why he isn't dealing with someone else.

From there it's a simple matter of setting his "gear" on the desk so he can grab up a decanter of bourbon and two glasses. Petyr's is naturally filled higher and handed to him with a There you are before March sits, legs crossing.]

It varies, unfortunately. Once upon a time, I could sate it whenever I wanted. [He smile fades, the sort more usually worn by old folks remembering better days, days they won't see again. But he recovers soon enough and flashes Petyr one of those award-winning charming toothy things.] We are in a world that is not our own. I believe we must adapt in some measure before we return to the familiar.

[March has to cool it on the murder. Petyr had to wait and campaign to win a position of power. Life in other worlds is just so hard.]

So what has brought you by today? Something I can do for you?

[like murder maybe]

[ With the cigarette burning in his mouth, he struggles to know what to do with it. But watching March, he inhales. And removes the cigarette to cough. Embarrassing. But the second attempt is better, even if it brings a little mist to his eyes to hold in that burning in his lungs. ]

I did come over here for business. Boring business. But upon seeing this, I think we can discuss something far more interesting.

[ Petyr places the cigarette between his lips and sets the glass aside in order to withdraw his communicator and sift through a few photos. He comes across a picture of two unconscious men that he managed to capture because he knew he would need to find out who they were at some point. Two men Jorah Mormont had sloppily left alive. ]

If you take requests... [ He hands the phone over to March. ] It would be a great benefit to me if those two men were permanently disposed. I have their information and would pay you generously for the favor. I would entrust you with this more than I would any mundane hitman.

Edited 2016-08-28 03:58 (UTC)

[March pays no mind to Petyr's struggle with the cigarette, doesn't raise a brow or stare at him. Everyone has to start somewhere. If Petyr wants to act as Romans when in Rome, well! Who is March to deny him that? And who is he to bring about any negative feelings for doing so? Petyr will figure it out or he'll stop. His choice.

Boring business. Of course, what is the business of legitimate business if not boring? A split second passes wherein March seems ready to melt into the chair, knowing it must be dealt with but still. Then clarification hits and he eagerly leans forward. He takes the device and studies it carefully, like there will be an examination later on these details and his very life depends on passing. He holds it close. He squints. He runs his fingers over the screen. For a few seconds, it's almost like he's left the room entirely, he's so focused on the task at hand.]

You've no need to pay me. [He snaps to abruptly, handing it back over.] I will do this. Though I must ask: would you prefer their disposal quiet or loud? I can bring them here. [He gestures to the tub, sticks the cigarette back in his mouth.] Or I can make a scene of them elsewhere. Which would you prefer?

[ No need to pay? Well, everyone likes a freebie. But Petyr is always suspicious when there's no talk of the exchange of goods for services. Favors given will always mean owed favors in the end. Debts accrued. Though, perhaps the debt is something Petyr would be willing to offer regardless. Protection. Looking the other way. Deterring authorities from investigating this too far.

He smirks in response to the question, leaning back against the seat. ]

Quietly. Well, at least as far as the public eye is concerned. Once you have them in your grasp, you can make them scream as loud as it would please you, my friend. [ A pause, and he knows he does not owe an explanation, but he gives one regardless. ] My bodyguard made a bit of a mess upon his arrival, and then refused to clean it up. He likely would not be pleased to know they have been taken care of properly.

[ He offers James a little look of exasperation. Morals, am I right? ]

[And thus an eternal chain of you scratch my back, I scratch yours is born. At least they're in the best city for it.

His eyes light up at mention of screaming, but he's stuffed the cigarette in his mouth so there is no horrible smile to accompany it. Might be overkill (ha-ha). He isn't owed explanation, no, but this one seems to give him some pause. What sort of bodyguard is that? Will he do what really must be done if necessary? He just worries, okay, like a good friend.]

How very stubborn of him. [Or maybe he wants more money for murder? Some people are so fussy about things, play at having morals except for when this that or the other is involved. Ugh. People.] He is well-trained, yes? He won't clean his messes, but you're certain he'll keep you safe?

He will do as the job demands. A proper sell-sword.

[ Which means very little to March who doesn't come from a time of sell-swords. And it also means very little to Baelish, too, since one word from Daenerys could cause Jorah to turn on him in a second. ]

But likely, he would rather incapacitate than kill within this world. As you said, we are in a place not our own and must adapt. You cannot strike a man down on the streets here without disposing of the body. And the people of my world are not very knowledgeable on such methods.

[ He makes a gesture to whatever is left of the man in the tub. ]

You, my friend, are the expert here. How many years have you been doing this?

[If Petyr believes it true, there is no reason for March to argue otherwise. Perhaps agreements were made after, who is he to know? He isn't. And that's fine. Less fine? That question. More accurately, that March doesn't have an immediate answer springing to mind, and it shows. Time becomes different, irrelevant, once one has lived on after death to see fashions and technology change over and over...]

Ah... [He knows when he was born. He knows the date when they left, roughly. But when was the first murder, and when was the prohibition started, and and and...] I'd say a hundred years or thereabouts. Time has a way of passing without passing when you've passed on. I had been in the business for quite some time before that, of course, and naturally kept true to myself once I'd become less lively.

[True to himself, yes, that's how he sees it. Like how he sees anyone else with a dark heart rolling in and excelling at their own particular evils. That's just being honest, being aware, embracing and accepting instead of the worst, hiding, lying, kowtowing to a system that made no Goddamn sense but it was the law! But now Petyr's the law, or part of it, and that certainly bodes well for the wolves amidst the sheep.]

And you, my friend? [An inhale of smoke, thumb running along his jawline.] How long have you been true to thine own self?

[How long has he been playing his throne games?]

[ His eyebrows raise at March's answer. How could he think to talk about himself and his life when by comparison, the more fascinating topic is March and his own. So Petyr glosses over the reflected question with a quick answer. ]

I've always been mostly true to myself, but it took until my teenage years for me to realize what it is that I am. A sort of coming of age, if you will. [ And now back to what's important. ] A hundred years. [ Petyr comments in mild surprise. Nothing should surprise him. But somehow the fact that March is a ghost of sorts has escaped his notice. ]

So are you similar to Dorian, then? Immortal. Or perhaps more closely related to Tobias who is a vampire? [ Had he ever seen March during the day, come to think of it? Yes, yes he had. Their very first meeting in Nonah -- a place far away from both of their homes. ]

[March feels similarly; there is a good thing to talking about himself, and that's to see how others react. He is something of a terror, after all. Many terrors wrapped into one package. How folks take every piece of the March puzzle gives him more to work with.]

Nothing so extravagant, no, far simpler. Though I've known them in the past. Folks who must consume of blood to survive, and survive for longer than any mortal, that is. [Countess had an aversion to saying the v-word, it's rubbed off. Sort of. Depends if he's pissed off at a vampire doing something stupid or not. March takes the last puff of his cigarette and sets it in the ash tray to better open his hands for storytelling.] I died many many years ago, died at my own hand. It was necessary at the time. I returned just like that. [He snaps.] Gazed upon my own corpse, upon those who had come to collect it, watched the police do their investigation, and realized they couldn't see me. No one could see me unless I wanted them to.

[He spreads out his hands.]

I call myself a ghost. There are other words for it, no doubt. Ghoul, specter, poltergeist. Perhaps your home has another name, but that's the long and short of it.

A ghost...

[ He echoes, the cigarette burning away in his hand until the ash pools up at the end and drops, onto his skin -- the pain snapping him back into the immediate moment. He places it back into his mouth while dusting himself off. One last inhale before he snuffs out the cigarette into the ash tray. ]

I did not realize ghosts could be so...tangible. Unless that is a porter given power. There are many within this world who have died. Many more still who will die and return here from the dead. To some, they would be considered ghosts. But you are the very definition of the word.

Does it work the same here? If you did not wish for me to see you, could you vanish before my very eyes?

[March pays no heed to Petyr's issue with the cigarette yet again. Petyr is an adult, very much so. He can handle this. He doesn't need coddling, especially not from another grown man. That's just embarrassing and insulting when it's not absolutely needed.

A hand runs up his thigh as Petyr speaks. More proof, a bit subtle, that he's as real as they come, see? No passing through his own body. But then, ah. What a question. And how wonderful Petyr asks instead of wonders. March has an appreciation for those who go after what they want instead of just sitting around stewing in what ifs. So he shows that, smiles appreciatively, all twinkling eyes...and then he's simply not there.

Like he just snapped out of existence, or maybe someone covered him all at once with a magical invisibility-granting cloak. The chair doesn't show an indent of him sitting. He's just gone. And gone he'll stay for a while, too, curious about Petyr's reactions.

He's still in the room, of course. To the eye? He is nowhere to be found.]

[ Baelish expected the disappearance to be brief. March flickering out and flickering in, all like Ta-dah, what a great magic act. But then, March doesn't come back right away. And Baelish is left in uncomfortable silence for a few moments -- uncertain whether the man is watching or if he's left entirely. ]

They say that which we cannot see ceases to exist. [ He continues on as though March is still in the room. There's no harm in it. Either way he's talking to the dead. March just makes more engaging company than the disintegrating guy in the tub. ]

But you are proof that that is not the case. How useful that is.

[ He takes a sip of his drink and gets up to wander closer to that tub and study the body. ]

How useful it must be toward your agenda.

[That body will need to be moved sooner rather than later to prevent any lasting stench, but for now it's rather intact. Little bubbles dance across the parts of it submerged. The real eating has yet to begin. Petyr's given time to his studies before March is there again.

Literally, right there. He has reappeared to lean against the edge of the tub, eyes on Petyr instead of his latest meal.]

Ohh, my agenda is simple. When you've all this room to spare [he gestures to the whole of the hotel] you find all sorts of hidey holes to keep your secrets in. The Castile has plenty of closets for skeletons!

[He doesn't wonder if Petyr knows that phrase; all things go back to murder in March's territory, he can understand that much.]

How useful it will be to your agenda, my friend. [Any subtlety has been thrown out the window like an annoying drunk guest who simply cannot pay.] These two thorns in your side can be the beginning. We've room enough for all manner of lost soul in any hotel of mine.

[He will kill anyone. He will happily kill anyone. Please give him people to murder, thank you.]

[ When March appears suddenly, Petyr snaps his gaze toward the man -- mildly startled. But he recovers his composure fairly quickly and listens to him speak.

At first thought, Petyr takes the skeletons in the closet remark literally. As though March is just stuffing bodies into the closets at the Castile, and -- isn't the smell of decay going to become overwhelming at some point? But then he rations that March has been doing this for many, many years and he must know the ins and outs of his craft. Either these closets are well equipped for bodies or it's simply a figure of speech.

But it's March's words and his promise that cause Petyr to smile. He's always been accommodating as a host, but as a murderer he seems to be even moreso. ]

I always believed yours was an alliance worth having, James. And I am certain I will have need of your talents beyond simply these two. May we have the most profitable of arrangements.

[ He extends his hand for a shake to seal the deal. ]

[He'll have to see March's special spiked rooms one day, one day when he's more secure in his place here and really goes all out with the remodeling. Eventually, that will be more literal. And is he ever glad Petyr sees the potential in helping March with his very very simple agenda.

He straightens up. Shoulders take on a more professional squaring. His posture goes from casual and friendly to something much more business-like. Taking this deal seriously, and as a seriously good move, too, if that absolutely proud and pleased smile lighting up his face is anything to go by. Only then does he reach out and take Petyr's hand, grip solid and shake perhaps a second or two too long for usual business. This is a deal he's not excited about on a superficial level, isn't wanting to just have it over and done with. This isn't good business. This is the best sort of business.]

I couldn't agree more. [And he's just so happy about it.] Have you had dinner, by chance? I'd gladly have the kitchen whip you up anything you'd like, anything at all! Eat it here or take it with you, just say the word.

[Just not in March's office, of course. Those little bubbles about the corpse's skin aren't so little any more. He isn't trying to rush Baelish because he wants away from him, isn't trying to get this business over and done with, but. The stench of flesh going through certain processes...not everyone finds it appetizing or even tolerable. A good host recognizes when guests simply might not want to be a room no matter how pretty the new paint job is.]

[ He didn't assume March was ushering him out with haste. Though, he doesn't exactly realize it has to do with the body. He simply figures it's another sign of good hospitality -- a deal done so now a meal offered. And he would be remiss to decline such generosity. Especially since Petyr definitely can't cook for himself. ]

As it turns out, I have not eaten. And your kitchen certainly rivals most restaurants within the city. I could go for a good, hearty beef stew after the busy day I've had.

[ Apparently, the death and expedient decay have not deterred his appetite in the least. ]

I will leave you to your matters, James. [ A final glance at the body before he gives a bow -- both of departure and appreciation. He's glad March has chosen to share this little piece of himself. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[CLOSED] the bad days, the good nights

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject