gray. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bosewicht) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2017-02-24 03:55 pm
bosewicht) wrote in maskormenacelogs2017-02-24 03:55 pm
Entry tags:
closed.
WHO: Gabriel Gray and a Poodle, Probably
WHERE: The wilds of Pennsylvania
WHEN: Mid to late February.
WHAT: Dogs are a man's best friend.
WARNINGS: Graphic references to captivity and torture.
[ The sensory track that Sylar makes through the woods tells a story.
Copper-salt blood, warm and recent, gathered in dribbles in the dirt, caught in reaching bramble. Sour bile spattered at the foot of a tree. Unwashed clothing, stress perspiration, dry urine. And underneath it all, whatever unique signature of scent a person has that's just their own, if such a thing exists. It leads from the side of the road and then back into the woodlands, at what seems like a wander, punctuated with clumsy foot tracks.
It's a little warm for February, thanks to the pressure cooker gathering of clouds, intermittent rainfall swelling streams with water. It's next to one of these that Sylar has come to kneel. One-handedly, he gathers a shallow fistful of water, drinks it even as it drains from his fingers. Uses his damp palm to clear dry blood off his face, his neck, which is circled with friction-wounds that tell their own story.
His other hand is kept cradled to his belly. It's dark with blood, thanks to the missing middle finger.
There is something missing in his eyes, as if he is operating based solely on physical demands and instinct, the rest of him retreated back into some corner of his mind, cowering, waiting. Water is a basic enough human need. He can care about the rest after. ]
WHERE: The wilds of Pennsylvania
WHEN: Mid to late February.
WHAT: Dogs are a man's best friend.
WARNINGS: Graphic references to captivity and torture.
[ The sensory track that Sylar makes through the woods tells a story.
Copper-salt blood, warm and recent, gathered in dribbles in the dirt, caught in reaching bramble. Sour bile spattered at the foot of a tree. Unwashed clothing, stress perspiration, dry urine. And underneath it all, whatever unique signature of scent a person has that's just their own, if such a thing exists. It leads from the side of the road and then back into the woodlands, at what seems like a wander, punctuated with clumsy foot tracks.
It's a little warm for February, thanks to the pressure cooker gathering of clouds, intermittent rainfall swelling streams with water. It's next to one of these that Sylar has come to kneel. One-handedly, he gathers a shallow fistful of water, drinks it even as it drains from his fingers. Uses his damp palm to clear dry blood off his face, his neck, which is circled with friction-wounds that tell their own story.
His other hand is kept cradled to his belly. It's dark with blood, thanks to the missing middle finger.
There is something missing in his eyes, as if he is operating based solely on physical demands and instinct, the rest of him retreated back into some corner of his mind, cowering, waiting. Water is a basic enough human need. He can care about the rest after. ]
no subject
Perspiration and urine, even bile, are scents he's comfortable writing off as simply nature taking its course. And he does, at first. Then his nose wrinkles and he catches the rest, those scents he was legitimately soaked with more than once back in the world he knew, and his feet change direction without any hesitation. He follows, idly wondering if he'll come across something decomposed or something still alive, and which one he'd prefer.
He's not too far off when he finally weeds out something he hasn't smelled in a while. Something, someone, who took time out of his busy day to show a poodle some attention...and then pick said poodle up to aid and abet him in breaking and entering.
Will crouches the closer he gets, and eventually he's no longer crouching, no longer a man who needs to. He becomes the same dog, fluffy and fearlessly prancing to join Sylar. He stops just far enough away he cannot be grabbed, front paws resting in the water that may very well stain them red...and he barks. Just once, just as loud as needs to be heard.
Hey buddy.]
no subject
He settles back into a kneel, staring across at the little dog.
Probably a hallucination. He's been doing some of that.
Where the friendly man who Will had encountered that day was neat and presentable, this one isn't. A week's worth of bristle has grown dark along his jaw, down his throat. There's a slow-to-heal split at the corner of one eyebrow, discolouring contusions at different stages of progress. His hand is a problem, too, but ignored and kept protectively close to him as he stares, breathes.
Grins, then, and laughs a little like a rusted engine being revved. ]
no subject
Sylar does not seem near death — at least, not in a way that makes Will feel he should be more man and less dog. Should haul him over a a shadowy, feathered stag and get him to some sort of help.
Fluffy head tilts, dark eyes focusing on that missing finger. What's the point? Did he have a dream of being an archer? Did he just keep flicking them off? Is it significant or just because they could?
Of course, a dog doesn't display all that wonder. Just cutesy confusion, coupled with a tail wiggling and fussy feet, moving forward a bit more as if he's equally considering this interaction a hallucination.]
no subject
You here to tell me 'I told you so'?
[ His voice is rough, not exactly from disuse. Too much use. Will has a good imagination for why that may be. He leans in low, mumbles into his next handful of water; ] Smug little bastard.
[ --and promptly coughs on the next gulp of water, and has to take a moment not to allow what little is in his stomach to come back up. Eyes closed, his good hand now stamped in the shallow edge of the stream. His skin is pale.
But he's not dying. This is a man who is getting better, even.
He looks again. Yep. Poodle still there. ]
This is new for me.
[ This level of insanity, he means. ]
no subject
His tail wags, for real, when he's referred to as a smug little bastard. He is definitely little and in many many ways a bastard. Thank you for noticing even in the depths of your dismay, Sylar, he truly appreciates it. What he doesn't appreciate is the constant urge to lick Sylar's wounds he is currently fighting with every fluffy fiber in his being.
So he takes another route. He stares back at Sylar and then bolts into the water, leaping over that good hand, and stopping only when the cool laps about his belly. He turns in place, cute af, and stops with his head tiled at Sylar, also cute af. He barks once more.
Dude you smell like pee and pain, why don't you try washing that off. It's more than little noses can stand for very long. Level up that insanity some more, pal.]
no subject
The more he talks, the more the dog's yaps break the silence of the forest, the more he is brought back out of the little dark corner he's put in his own mind. The world is less grey, the pain more present, the more things he wants to do, and numbered among them is certainly get clean. The dog seems to think it's a good idea.
Asking if the dog's really a dog seems counterproductive, the more pressing concern being if the dog is in fact real, but instead of exploring either of these things, Sylar reaches to one handedly drag his shirt off of himself, with a moment of agony spent silently and slowly peeled the sleeve off his mangled hand. More bruises mottle his chest, his arms, with concentrated rings around his wrists.
Shuffling forward enough that he is kneeling in shallow, running water.
Washing will be slow going, keeping his injured hand out of it, but happens all the same, until those invasive scents are dispersed and disappeared into the running water. With consideration to how he spent the last week, getting undressed doesn't phase him particularly, not even in front of a lap dog with slightly too intelligent eyes. ]
no subject
Will-the-dog spins around in the water enough to make him dizzy until he has to crane his nose up to properly breathe. Then it's time for doggie paddling. Also in circles. This provides Sylar some sense of privacy whether he realizes that the dog might not be a dog or not and for Will? Well, he gets something to do that isn't conveniently stand with his back to a stripping man (no, absolutely not, he is not turning his back to this guy for too long) or stare at said stripping man. Obviously the only choice here is to go for some poodleydoodley laps and ignore if any of that rusty blood floating about latches onto his fur.
Until he starts getting carried away, quite literally. No, no, time to go back to shore then, to shake off and take a sit. Take a lay. Put his chin on his paws and stare off at the other side instead of man butt.]
no subject
The last injury to be catalogued would be, of course, the track marks, bruises blossomed around not inexpertly located needle punctures in the inner of his elbows. These and other small wounds are lazily smoothed over in river water, that he's standing in around knee deep, back curled.
Every now and then, he pauses like he hears something. Birds in branches. Rain patter collected in the leaves and coming down heavier when a gust of wind shakes them.
Now and then, he glances at the dog, sceptical, but not capable of questioning it in this moment.
Soon enough, he has to make a decision. Wear his soiled clothing, or wear wet clothing. The latter is chosen without much internal debate, some attempt made not to get it all completely sopping, but there's still some discomfort in tugging jeans back up around his hips, button up a shirt with wide damp patches that still smell just a little of blood, beneath the earthier smell of the stream. ]
Which way's town?
[ He doesn't actually know what the nearest "town" is, but whatever. The question is tossed at the dog like a bone while he gives up on shirt buttons halfway. The open shirt look is deeply sexy. (No.) ]
no subject
The dog cares not for such mental struggles. The dog only perks up when spoken to, head tilted at an absolutely comical angle. Most of him is soaked but his head, most of his ears, it's all fluffy, creating an odd half-drowned rat look. First that, then his tail wags again as if he's finally processed what he's been asked.
He jumps up, tiny body shaking as he wiggles, and then fwoom! Off like a shot in a very clear direction. Leaves kick up behind tiny paws, and tiny paws seem to realize Sylar's in horrible shape despite his sexy sexy look, because as soon as he becomes rather a blur, he turns to circle back around. Look, he's helping.]
no subject
But he walks. ]
Coming, [ he says, in response to circle back. ] I'm coming.
[ He isn't fast. He is, in fact, slow, hungry and exhausted and still sick, that much is clear, as if working off whatever drugs he's been under, poison still simmering in his blood.
The rain comes down in drifts of dampness. The sun angles off hard shadows as it sinks.
Eventually, and without ceremony, Sylar leans against the thicker of the nearby trees, near-collapsing in his folding up into a half-sit against it. More controlled than a swoon, but with the heaviness of a swoon just around the corner. He closes his eyes, breathing slow, huddling. ]
Need a minute, [ he tells the dog, the forest, himself, whoever cares to hear. ]
no subject
Oh no.
This doesn't look good; the poodle stops and not-prances over, tail wap-wap-wapping behind him. He looks up and follows Sylar's slow descent while his tail ceases its wagging. Excitement melts to something like worry on that darling little face.
Perhaps he needs some heat. He's certainly picked up on the fact that Will is not really an ordinary poodle so he decides to go out a bit further on their ridiculous fluffy limb.
Will sits by Sylar's feet. And at first that's all there is to it. Then, slowly but surely, Sylar may notice the poodle next to him is...well, larger. From an itty bitty purse dog to a full grown standard size, with the same colors and everything, as if the small dog just decided he was gonna grow up nice and proper. Even those too-smart eyes are the same.
With the extra dog body he has, Will simply wraps around Sylar rather like they're on a couch or the floor, a domestic dog moment that can be read as protective.
If Sylar passes out here, Will can use his shadow to get him out, sure, but it'll be a bitch. Better to provide some warmth in hopes that will be enough to keep him together. Seems to Will like Sylar's got some power fighting off the worst of it, healing him, anyway, and giving him an additional boost until they're not in the middle of the forest does them both favors.]
no subject
But it's okay. It's all gonna be oookay.
The poodle grows large and curls up against him, and this only gets the briefest of raised eyebrows (although on those eyebrows, it says plenty). Maybe one of his breathy, nearly-laughs.
Eventually, his more whole hand settles on the woolly coat of the much bigger dog in an absent kind of patpat, before shifting his body enough to accommodate cuddle-time. It's a good enough indication that he hasn't slipped into proper unconsciousness, save for minutes of dozing while his system works overtime. Blunt fingernails scratch, companionably, go still, scratch again. The smell of wet dog, and the forest, and blood. ]
It's okay, [ he says, on that long delay. ] I'm indestructible.
no subject
This is a precarious position to be in. Sylar must know he is not dealing with a regular poodle by now, and there is a risk he might attempt to get rid of a potential problem. Will banks on curiosity, though, more than blood lust, especially now. He's proving himself helpful and can do more than just keep warm company. So he plays the part of normal dog while staying on high alert, sniffer and ears keen on any alarming movement.
...or that. That's acceptable, too. The dog looks over at his new bloody buddy with the usual face a dog wears when recognizing a human has spoken, nothing more. Would Sylar be this comfortable in conversation with Will as a human? This is not the time to find out, sadly.
Eventually, Will does that doggie-collapse against Sylar's legs, snoot just shy of burying itself into the forest floor. Indestructible needs some time to get back on track and Will isn't going anywhere. A squirrel hops branches above them and a rush of water falls right on his face.
The dog sighs but otherwise lets it pass.
This time, squirrel.]