Fantasy Beasts & Burdens

[sspky]

Once Thom left the room, Robot set to work on Fredrick. The man, though conscious, had decided to drift fully into the lingering fog of his high, and was currently about as useful as a corpse. Robert suspected he was being intentionally difficult, but he dutifully yanked off the man’s muck-soiled workboots, rolled him properly on to the bed, and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders.

The naked flesh of Fredrick’s chest had felt hot to the touch, but not concerningly so.

By the time that was finished, Thom was returning. Robert thanked the man with a fond enough smile, sat down on the couch, and began to work. In Robert's world, everything had a price. While it would make sense to him that he had Fredrick had something valuable to offer the doctor, he had never been the shrewd negotiator of the two. While Fredrick would bleed a man dry with a smile and a coy, ‘Why thank you, good Sir’, Robert was content to sit at the low table and begin his work on the next page of instructions.

He chose to continue his earlier work on sacred numbers and their associated sigils since the ideas were still fresh in his mind. While he worked, he ate, and he reflected about as much grace and table-manners as a half-starved stray dog. Still, miraculously, he managed not to spill anything on the pages spread out before him.

Elsewhere, the good doctor would likely find a few interesting qualities to the bone. It was very old, for one. And it was covered in etchings so small they could only have been done by a steady hand, a magnifying glass, and an exceptionally sharp blade. The designs themselves were somehow crude, yet intricate. They were too small to form the cohesive patterns of language, yet they were detailed enough to indicate both intention and design.

The fragment, too, was deathly sharp.

 

[Pith]

Once freed from the room Thom heaved a deep sigh before straightening up and making his way back down to the kitchens, where Mrs. Cooper was busy making more food than he knew she'd initially planned on. Because she was only a part-time cook and housekeeper she tended to make things that would last a day or two and not take up much room in the refrigerator, leaving Thom to the daily tasks of reheating, tea, and small, simple meals.

"Any other surprise guests?" she asked, dicing a truly astonishing amount of onions while he poured himself a quick mug of tea.

"You'll be the first to know if I see any," he replied evenly, adding a sugar cube and lamenting his lack of whiskey before making for the lab to hose off the blood.


Meanwhile, the bone was inspiring a series of thoughts to the doctor, most of which were gradually putting a frown together at his brow.

Etchings on a bone, or a knife for that matter, brought the word "ceremonial" to mind, or ritualistic. A few short weeks ago his initial line of thought would have taken the direction of having some sort of spiritual significance, the product of faith and determination, but ultimately nothing to be concerned about. However, recent events had encouraged him to consider magic an additional option where such an item was concerned, especially given the brief summary on runes, sacred geometry, and the like. He and Thom had followed the suggested instructions for protections, though Thom had an air of silent griping through the whole process. Even Elijah had to admit it felt a bit silly, but it certainly couldn't hurt.

Elijah took to sketching the design almost immediately. The doctor's handwriting as atrocious, barely legible or distinguishable from a child's, but he had more than a fair hand for drawing. The intense desire to capture the images of his specimens and studies throughout his medical education had yielded a fair drawing hand, and when he looked between the paper and his microscope he felt it was an admirable reputation.

He sat at his table for a few long moments, drumming his fingers on his knees. Magical or no, a knife with at least ritual-adjacent markings also brought to mind poison. Oh, it was a thought worthy of a penny dreadful, but even mundane daggers were poisoned and used to kill people. Testing would be priority, of course, but he could be on about nothing... He nodded and made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. The knock at the door was more a courtesy to let the occupants know he was coming in, rather than seeking permission.

"Robert, so sorry to interrupt--" He glanced at the writings and decimated food tray, then to Fredrick before he turned back and proffered his drawing. "Don't suppose these mean anything to you?"

 

[sspky]

Robert had made it about halfway through the page before his eyes had started to droop. When Dr. Walker barged into the room, the gangly young man had been curled up on the couch, fast asleep. It was odd seeing a man so freakishly tall and awkwardly thin, balled up tightly on such a narrow sofa.

At the sudden intrusion, Robert jerked awake, and his long limbs unfurrowing much like a spider rousing from hibernation. He had been using his coat and scarf as a pillow, and both tumbled to the floor as he sprang up into a proper, seated position, his right hand snapping to the pistol holstered beneath his overshirt and his knees bumping loudly on the edge of the table.

It took him only a moment to remember where he was, and the anxiety very quickly melted from his posture. Still, he’d barely slept long enough for proper unconsciousness, and he had been left blinking and groggy.

Given his state, it was no wonder he had absolutely no idea what Dr. Walker was talking about. His first instinct was to check on Fredrick, but the man was laying where he had been left. His hands were folded on his stomach and he was snoring obnoxiously.

Rubbing a hand over his face, his palm scraping on the rough shadow of stubble that had been growing for the last day and a half, the bewildered man tentatively reached for the proffered paper.

He frowned at the etchings, uncertain as to why Dr. Walker seemed so excited. They were crude and only passingly familiar as if he were looking at the Latin alphabet written by someone who had never seen or heard a word of English before.

Putting the etching aside, Robert found his notebook and wrote, ‘Where did you find this?'

 

[Pith]

It was indeed amusing to see such a tall man working to take up such a small amount of space, though considering the availability of other beds he couldn't help but think of a large guard dog, in a way. He hadn't even spotted the move for the pistol, he was so preoccupied. But it was actually quite endearing.

"Mm, that's the thing," he murmured, eyes wandering over to Fredrick's bedside for another look. The snoring struck him as a slightly positive sign, as it didn't appear to be too fitful. "They're onh the bit of knife I removed. Which is made of bone, as it turns out."

Old bone. Which was why he wanted any information before he tested the thing, as he had a hunch old organic material, delicate carving, and the components he'd be using to look for a reaction would mix terribly well.

 

[sspky]

Following the doctor’s glance towards the bed, Robert felt his heart drop. When Dr. Walker started describing the blade tip, Robert scrambled up to his feet, the justled of his knees hitting the table causing an empty teacup to clatter onto the floor.

Already he was shoving his notebook and a pencil into the side pocket of his wrinkled slacks. He made a gesture towards the door, clearly indicating that he wanted the doctor to show him the piece in question.

Fredrick had said the knife had been metal, and Robert had no cause to doubt him. He’d seen the cold gray glint of the thing in the lamplight of the old man’s study, but he hadn’t personally examined it in the chaos. But Fredrick had a good eye for detail when it counted, and Robert was positive that his maladjusted friend had been stone-cold sober at the time.

 

[Pith]

Elijah could feel his lips drawing into a thin line at the sight and sound of Robert's sudden scrambling, ignoring the minor wreckage to the tea set. It seemed at least something was indeed amiss, with that reaction, beyond the generic oddity of a bone-blade. But he wasted no time in returning the way he had come, closing the door behind the two of them. In short order they were back in the lab, where the original, larger piece sat in its flat glass dish, still sticky with red. Several scrap papers were scattered on the surface of the table, initial drawings of the marks before he got a good feel for their form and committed to a final draft.

"Let me just move this..." he started, pushing back the microscope where he had been examining the chipped off portion, allowing for Robert to sit if he liked. "I haven't started testing for any residual substances on the tip yet, mostly because I wasn't certain if these were some equivalent of 'if found return to Reginald,' " he explained, before moving out of the way and moving the magnifying glass he'd set aside earlier closer.

It was doubtful, obviously, but not impossible. The marks could be anything from a moniker to a prayer, a curse or a blessing. The memory of the malcolored skin at the entry point certainly was erring his thoughts in a particular direction, but that didn't completely discount the other possibilities. Just. Lessened them.

 

[sspky]

Robert followed on the doctor’s heels. Once space was cleared for him, he set about examining the shard. Not interested in touching the thing, he used a pair of nearby tweezers to turn it over under the light.

Like Dr. Walker, Robert took up a piece of paper and made a careful replica of the carvings. Beside the sketch, he added additional notes.

Finally, frowning deeply, he put the piece of bone gently back into its dish and neatly folded his version of the drawing. He tucked it into his pocket, before taking out his notepad once again.

Regarding the doctor for a moment, Robert weighed his options before he began to write.

‘I need to leave. Bookseller in Greenwich. Please provide jacket and £5. Will repay at earliest possibility.’

He handed the doctor the note, opened his dress shirt, and pulled the pistol free from its holster. He counted five bullets, and then quickly put the thing away. Although Fredrick had lost his firearm in the Dens, Robert knew he would have extra ammunition tucked away on him. Robert also meant to seize one of his partner’s better knives. Besides, he’d need to collect his scarf as well, so a trip back to up to the room would be required. He’d take care not to wake the man sleeping there.

He didn’t much like the thought of seeking out another antiquities dealer so soon after their relationship with the last one had ended so poorly. But truth be told, Robert had absolutely no idea what he was currently dealing with. He did, however, know well enough the old man whom the knife had belonged to, and that was clearly enough to leave him deeply concerned.

 

[Pith]

Elijah made little attempt to play down the fact he was looking over Robert's shoulder as he worked, looking for any differences or something he might have missed. But he barely had to glance at the note before nodding. "Certainly."

Of course, Robert wouldn't fit into anything of his. The doctor was considerably shorter and erred towards fitted coats overall, so the man would be bursting at the seams and doubtlessly quite the comedic sight. Somehow, wherever he needed to visit in Greenwich, Elijah doubted it was send a very good impression, even being armed.

At that moment Thom entered the lab, intent on finding more cleaning solution, and was a little surprised to spot Robert in the room. He'd certain he'd be doing something about the dark bags he was sporting. His tensed at the site of the gun but one look between the doctor and Robert's face told him at least the issue was not between the two men present. Something else was wrong.

Dr. Walker grinned wide. "Ah, Thom--perfect timing. Mr. Middle here has to step out and is in rather urgent need of more presentable jacket and £5." The order was clear--make that happen. Elijah considered for a moment, then added to Robert. "Feel free to take him with, should you need additional man power. Otherwise I'm sure we'll see you back here as soon as you're able."

His plan was first to test the bone for any foreign substances that could potentially be poisonous, though there were only so many things that could really be attempted. Some mixtures of chemicals would at least have a reaction to indicate the presence of something beyond the bone matter, but very few would give any significant sign to as to narrow them down. If it wasn't poison, and more strictly magic, he wasn't certain how much medicine could help. Again, his mind went back to the discoloration, and he vaguely considered if leeches or maggots might have any effect, if it was simply a certain area of flesh being affected.

Annoyance flared in Thom at the doctor's casual offer to loan him out, like a book or pound of sugar. "You wanna maybe tell me what's going on?"

Elijah waved a hand. "Possible complication? I'm not certain myself, but he's on something of a time crunch, so."

So get going. Turning with a huff, Thom headed back out to retrieve the jacket and money, low curses laced with saints and unpleasant wishes.

 

[sspky]

Robert had been about to brush off Dr. Walker’s offer of assistance but quickly reconsidered. Thom might be useless in the face of the myriad of nightmares he and his partner were normally peddled in, but he was an imposing enough figure and he seemed to know his way around a firearm, which would make him useful should they encounter any trouble of the more conventional sort. Besides, Thom could speak, and that was always of benefit.

Robert was in and out of Fredrick’s room like a ghost, pocketing six bullets and a thin knife without disturbing the sleeping patient. He closed the door quietly behind him and returned to the lab -- his scarf once again wrapped tightly over his disfigured throat.

Once he returned, he took up his notebook again and wrote out another quick instruction for Dr. Walkerr;

‘Please mind Fredrick - he is prone to stupidity.’

He trusted the doctor would know how to keep his patient, potentially ill as he might be with some unknown malady, bedbound, but Fredrick was tenacious and had a habit of charging into chaos with little concern for anything else. Robert doubted he would be lucky enough to return before the man awoke.

He waited for Thom, not oblivious to how disgruntled the man had seemed by the entire turn of events.

 

[Pith]

Thom had stormed through the kitchen in a huff, completely ignoring the questions and mounting tone of Mrs. Cooper, and had closed the door to his room practically in her face. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he would pay for that later, but he didn't want to take out his frustration on her, so seeking forgiveness and taking a verbal lashing was the lesser of two evils.

What the small room had originally been designed for was unclear. Perhaps someone had meant to add in another lavatory off the kitchen, or there had been plans for a miniature office or very large walk-in cupboard. But the previous owners had gutted it, leaving only peeling wallpaper and exposed pipes in the ceiling. The doctor had offered him a larger room, but a single night in one of the spares had been too strange and extravagant, so he'd carved out a little cramped space for himself on the first floor instead. It was a bare-bones set up, and what few possessions were there had been set up in neat lines. His jackets dangled from the ceiling pipes, and he yanked down the nearest two with such force it sent the wire hangers clattering across the room.

The money he retrieved from the steamer trunk at the end of his bed, though he took more than what had been instructed, just in case. His gun and knife disappeared into his own coat pockets after he slipped it on, along with a set of brass knuckles into his trouser pockets. Cigarettes and matches followed, and before he closed up he took a long drink from his flask, breathing deeply and exhaling before head back to the lab.

Elijah had broken off two more small chips of the knife while Robert had been upstairs, giving him three small samples to check for different possible substances. If they yielded nothing of value he would be forced to wait until the return of the two men.

He brightened at the note, flashing a smile as he read. "Ah, not to worry--I can always attach him to the bed if need be, though I doubt he'll appreciate that very much." Fredrick wouldn't have been a first patient to need some additional encouragement to stay put, and the doctor didn't sound as though he cared much. "I'll bring up a sedative as well," he added, as if this were the less reasonable of the two measures.

Thom wasn't far behind Robert's return, tossing the jacket to him. The look the doctor gave him said all he needed to hear about whether or not he was going, and he opened the door that would lead to the front of the house. "Right then. Cab?"

 

[sspky]

When the doctor mentioned restraining the man, Robert flashed him a queer, almost evasive look. He knew his friend well -- when Fredrick’s mood was right, he appreciated restriction far more then, Robert suspected, an upstanding and presumably sane man like the doctor would possibly be comfortable with. Thankfully for all parties involved, Robert doubted that his degenerate friend’s mood, when he woke and learned of where his partner had left to, would be anything but favourable.

Catching the jacket Thom tossed to him, Robert pulled it on as he hurried out the door. It was certainly loose enough, but the sleeves came up short on his wrists. Given the length of the man's spindly limbs, this wasn’t at all surprising.

As they left out the front, Robert paused long enough to press his notebook against the level surface of the wall. Tapping Thom on the shoulder, he held a note out to the man, which contained a single address in Greenwich. He left it to Thom to pass the direction on to the cab driver.

As for the doctor’s experiments: the shard appeared to be coated in something, though it was difficult to determine what. Despite having been lodged in Fredrick’s gut for the better part of a day, the bone had washed easily clean of the blood. Liquid seemed to slide off of, as it would smooth steel, which was in notable contrast to its porous surface.

 

[Pith]

Thom locked the door behind them as they went, unsure of when the doctor would wander out from his lab and not wanting anyone else to bother the cook for the rest of the morning. The mist had cleared somewhat since the early hour of the men's arrival, but clouds dominated the sky like a morose blanket, casting everything in a uniform, melancholic lighting. It might have been 8am or 4pm, there was simply no way to tell but for the distinct chimes of church bells. He accepted the paper as they made their way down the walk and nodded once, eyes scanning for a cab soon as they were to the curb.

It didn't take long to flag one down some two or three blocks up. There was a train that ran to Greenwich from Chelsea station, but Thom knew from past experience that the line only went every forty minutes, and made numerous stops in between. Ultimately, a taxi was faster, and the ones that lingered in the neighborhood tended to be of the sort where the driver operated outside the main cabin, like the horse-drawn carriage variety.

Once inside, the cabbie confirming he knew the area well enough to get them there, the assistant lit a cigarette and rubbed his temple. "So what's wrong with your partner?"

Back at the house, the bones were puzzling the doctor. He didn't mind a puzzle, but he could not for the life of him determine what on earth was coating the bone. Cleaning them off finally had been far too simple a task, and it was impossible it determine if whatever was covering the surface was some sort of lacquer. He couldn't seem to gouge it, but it didn't reinforce the blade enough to not be broken. Unsatisfied but reminding himself he'd given his worst, Elijah gathered a few materials from between his lab and operation room into a medical bag and made his way back upstairs.

Settled into the room, the door locked to give just one more barrier, the doctor considered his options.

On the one hand, he could simply utilize a sedative while the man slept. That would stop a problem before it started. But it seemed a bit extreme as a first line of defense, so he settled instead for prepping a needle and leaving it on the table where Robert's papers were still scattered. He'd only been half-joking about the restraints. They were already attached to the bed, the straps and leather cuffs tucked on the underside. He shifted the covers at the end of the bed experimentally, watching Fredrick to see if he stirred, and to assess his condition.

 

[sspky]

Robert slid into the cab after Thom and sat with his leg bouncing restlessly as he fidgeted in the confined space. Presently, traffic seamed mild, a fact for which Robert was grateful.

In response to Thom's question, he pulled out his notebook and began to write.

‘Don’t know. Bad magic.’ - the first page said. No sooner had he handed Thom the page, he was working on another.

This time the writing was smaller, though still neat:

‘Man who stuck him does good work. Knife tip was strange.’

‘Don’t like it. Need to be sure.’

It seemed like he wanted to write more -- wanted to say more -- but the impediment forced him to keep his reeling thoughts to himself. Once, Robert had been the sort to talk his problems out loud, much to Fredricks annoyance. He still took notes compulsively, but the soothing effect on his psyche wasn’t the same. It was difficult to have a good, solid rant when the act of expressing it was more exhausting then just holding it in.

With a low huff, he tore the last page off and handed it to Thom, his eyes darting to every street corner, logging the road signs against the map of London burned into his memory

Back at the office, Fredrick was laying in much the same position he had been left in. He didn’t seem to stir when the doctor entered, though his snoring had at some point stopped.

He felt the doctor’s presence -- his scent was too clean to belong to his partner, who still reeked of sweat and the rot from the Dens -- and rolled his head back, his gray eyes cracking open.

“How’s the neck, Dr. Walker?” he asked in a voice thick behind his lingering lethargy. He couldn't tell from his reclined position if the burns from three weeks earlier had healed, yet he felt suddenly curious about it now, his mind stepping slowly around hazy memories.

 

[Pith]

Accepting each page as it came his way, Thom frowned, but carefully folded each one and put them in his pocket to burn later. That would explain why it wasn't something the doctor could just take care of, and why he was running off to Greenwich. He couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't also a roundabout means for the doctor to find out at least somewhat reputable shops for his macabre little hobbies.

He wondered idly if Robert knew how to sign. When he was young, what seemed a full lifetime ago, there'd been a family on his street where one of the sons deaf, and had picked up talking with his fingers. Apparently it was a coherant enough language that one of the sisters had picked it up, and she'd pestered him to practice with her when they were together and she was bored. He never picked up more than numbers and a few odd words, but he could see how it might be useful to Robert. He knew frustration building when he saw it, and he wondered not for the first time how long the man had been stuck with this state of being.

It wasn't something he was about to ask. Instead he just lit another cigarette and passed it over, staring off into a sort of middle distance of the cab.

He didn't start at the question. The breathing had been questionable for someone asleep, but he was gratified that the drugs seemed to still be making their way through the system.

Misty blue eyes met grey and he smiled easily enough down at his patient. "On the mend well enough. The worst part was the itching," he confessed, though he had no way of knowing if Fredrick had suffered the same two days of intense itching while the skin continued to mend itself. "My apologies, I didn't even think to ask after your hands."

A stomach wound had been more pressing, but even once he was through he hadn't even registered the old injury.

 

[sspky]

A little startled by Thom’s offer, Robert grabbed the cigarette clumsily, took it in his mouth, and inhaled deeply. He counted his heartbeat as he heard it poinding in his ears, and willed himself to settle.

Robert knew *of* sign-language, and he might have taken well enough to it had he anyone to practice on. As it was, the dregs he lived amongst in Whitechapel hardly provided a lot in the way of decent learning partners and trying to teach Fredrick the craft would be about as easy as trying to teach a cat to enjoy water.

The cab ride was taking entirely too long for Robert’s taste, but at least by the time they crossed into the Greenwich burrow, he seemed to have calmed down a fair bit. As he sat there smoking the cigarette, he pawed at the pockets of the burrowed jacket, searching for anything that might have been left behind. Once satisfied, he relocated the contents of his trouser pockets into those of the jackets, since they seemed deeper and a little more secure.

On top of the ammunition, knife, and his notebook, he also a dog-eared leather wallet and a small bundle of lockpicking tools. He hoped that Thom had remembered to bring the money, as Robert had foolishly forgotten to check for it before leaving. He wasn’t sure how much the bookseller’s services would cost him, but he knew that of the two of them, he would much rather be in Dr. Walker's debt.

It seemed they were drawing near to their stop. Robert was quickly recognizing some familiar landmarks amongst the rows of stout buildings and soot-spitting smokestacks.

Meanwhile, Fredrick remained more or less motionless, his hands still folded on his naked stomach. The wound below his ribs was puckered and purple, although it seemed no better or worse then it had when the stitches had first been applied.

As for Fredrick’s hands; it was clear they were well on their way to scaring. He’d split the left knuckle open fighting a man outside their apartment, and while Robert had done all he could to clean and rebandage the wound, the damage to the skin was still obvious.

“Hands are fine,” he hummed, still watching the doctor through half-closed eyes, “Where’s Robert?”

He supposed the man was likely sleeping somewhere. Or raiding the good doctor’s larder. Or otherwise being a nuisance. He knew the man would not have wandered far while Fredrick was asleep. Chelsy was a strange part of the city for poor Robert, and he was far too skittish to explore anywhere unfamiliar on his lonesome.

 

[Pith]

The doctor had considered what he might tell Fredrick if he asked after his partner's whereabouts. Initially the plan had been to tell the truth, if he could get the man fastened down somehow before waking, but he felt telling an outright complete falsehood wouldn't be beneficial for future relations, even if it was for the mercenary's own good. However, he had at least a brief window where he might be able to buy time until it became necessary to deal with Fredrick's reported propensity for stupidity.

"He's down with Thom," he said easily, peering down towards where Fredrick's hands were folded, clearly more interested in how the stomach wound was healing. "I came to check up on the stitches--how are they feeling? Any burning or particularly intense pain?"

Now that he wasn't having to concentrate on extracting an unknown piece of debris he was also getting a chance to look at Fredrick's tattoos a bit more leisurely.


Thom didn't possess enough to leave anything behind in a jacket, so there was at least nothing to clear out but bits of lint. He sat the majority of the ride in his own silence, either looking straight ahead or glancing out the window when the carriage made a turn. He was familiar with parts of the area, namely the homes of patients the doctor met with and the locations of restaurants the other man occasionally patronized, though he was unused to coming to the neighborhood without the doctor.

As the carriage began to slow the man had come to a conclusion regarding his unease. He was quite used to the insensitivity of Dr. Walker, and though the man hadn't had the gall to outright loan him before there wasn't anything terribly out of character about such an action. He didn't even mind Robert, despite his annoying tendency to lift small items. The problem was that he wasn't certain he trusted Dr. Walker, along with Mrs. Cooper, with a drugged Fredrick. He'd seen the man under at least some sort of influence and he very much doubted the state of what was broken in the apartment had much to do with Robert.

Best to conclude their business quickly, he thought to himself, opening the door as the carriage drew to a stop and leaning up to pay the driver with an assortment of small coins. Once their debt was settled he leapt to the cobblestones, waiting for Robert to lead the way.

 

[sspky]

(( Fredrick be like, ‘wtf no way robert is chill with people when they’re not violent and crazy. i have no idea why he likes boring, normal folk like Thom and not my super cool murder friends.’ ))

After humming a note of consideration, Fredrick muttered, “Bloody figures.” in a tone that seemed to suggest he found Roberts alleged whereabouts both predictable and distasteful. Robert wasn’t the sort of man who ever really liked other people. He quite literally had but a single friend in the world and that one had been born out of a great deal of trial and tribulation.

Fredrick wasn’t certain why his companion seemed so at ease around the gruff, quieter man. He certainly never seemed to relax around any of Fredrick's usual friends. But then Fredrick's usual friends were generally of the loud, volatile, and inebriated lot. Unsurprisingly, he failed to make the connection.

“Can’t imagine what they’re up to.” he said, lifting his hands up off of his stomach to allow the doctor a better look at his wounds, “Smoking, probably. Grunting. Being surly. Disapproving of things.”

He said that last bit with a definite air of contempt, apparently still a little bitter over whatever argument the two had had on their journey from the Dens to the doctors. And Thom seemed like the sort of man who disapproved of all sorts of things, so Fredrick figured he had that in common with the mute, at least.

“And they itch,” he continued in the same breath, changing subjects without any sort of pause or warning, “Stings a little, too. Bit of a headache, but that’s chloroform for you. Also, I’m cold.” he shifted uncomfortably, “And weirdly damp.”

While Fredrick's skin appeared dry, sweat had pooled on the sheets beneath him, causing them to cling to his skin. Now that the blanket had been pulled down, he was starting to feel considerably cooler, yet his flesh was still hot to the touch.

There was a bit of a flush to his face, although it was difficult to tell how far down it spread through the mess of tattoos and scars that coated him below the neck. Both his shoulders and upper arms were sleeved in tattoos, all of various styles and origins. Some, like the symbol in the center of his chest, were clearly of the occult. Others, like the naked woman sitting spread-legged on his bicep, was decidedly more pedestrian.

Had Dr. Walker the chance to see Fredricks back, he’d not the body art continued all the way down to his thighs. The marks on his stomach, unlike those on his arms, seemed more exclusively of the mystic nature.

* * *​

Greenwich was as much as maze as the rest of London, it’s streets a confusion of steam-powered tram-lines, layered boardwalks, and choked smokestacks. That said, Greenwich was also a much nicer and far classier confusion then the burrows Robert normally felt safe in.

Clamouring out of the cab, he waited for Thom to pay the driver, before leading them down the street to the next corner. For the next twenty minutes, Robert would take them off of the main drive and down increasingly remote alleys and side streets, until they finally found themselves in front of a four-story brownstone with a ground-level laundromat.

He took Thom passed the cluttered little lobby, not offering the girl at the counter so much as a glance, through the steam-thick washing room, towards a flight of stairs snuck between a large storage shelf and a heavy iron pressing machine. Each wooden stair groaned precariously, their steps uneven and made doubly treacherous by the shadows cast in the sole light source -- the naked bulb on the landing below. It was cooler in the basement, yet the air was thick with a mixture of bleach and mildew.

At the far end of the cluttered, brick-walled basement, there was a simple door. Robert made to knock, and then paused. He turned to Thom, and for a long moment locked him in a hard and searching stare. Ultimately satisfied, he finally pulled out his notebook and wrote:

‘She is very unkind. Do not touch anything.’

 

[Pith]

(( Fredrick absolutely has a point I mean Robert likes HIM so that's a set standard across the board ))

Elijah allowed himself a small chuckle at Fredrick's prediction as to how the two men were spending their time together. It certainly sounded like Thom, save perhaps for the grunting, but he supposed poor Robert had little choice in the matter. It was the assessment that the two were disapproving of things together that really tickled him, as Thom did little but disapprove of what he did. That and drink, but he was a multitalented sort of chap who was capable of accomplishing his work while doing the rest simultaneously.

It had been that way since the first day he'd engaged the man in his employment, though his little eccentricities were nothing something the man had come to gradually realized. No, that familiarity dated back to their time on the front together, so when he took the job he'd had at least some small idea of what he was getting himself into.

"They sound like regular peas in a pod," he laughed, leaning in to look at the stitches once Fredrick had moved his hands. The wound itself had not change, but that didn't detract from his unease about the coloring,

At the mention of damp he immediately studied the other man's face, looking for drops or perspiration or the sheen of feverish skin, which might have been normal following a fairly uneventful surgery--if the body was fighting off potential infection or shock it would raise its own temperature, and the adjustment often gave the sensation of chills. Of course the flush would be expected then, but area of the wound itself was not enflamed.

"Likely fighting something off after the procedure," he murmured. "Would you mind tipping on your side for half a tick?" The level of perspiration on the sheets was a little unusual for how free the skin was of that familiar sheen.

***
​

The servant followed Robert this way and that silently, taking in the street names and landmarks as he was able to note them. If worse came to worse and he ended up having to leave without Robert he was at least fairly confident he would be able to find his way back to the main roads. Memory was his best talent, at the end of the day, especially when survival was concerned. And he had no doubt this strange place he was being led to was a place to consider ones relationship to their survival instincts, as they made their way into the building and down the stair, the whole thing becoming more and more like exactly the sort of thing he sought to avoid.

It was hard to say what Robert might have been looking for that he might have come to the conclusion that he approved of, but it was almost a compliment. Almost.

He had to squint to read the note in the uneven basement light. "Don't have to tell me twice," he murmured, hooking his thumbs in his trouser pockets as if in response.

Some part of him knew better than to keep his hands in jacket pockets when meeting a new person. They were easily accessible enough, and the knife was in his pants pocket, but completely concealed hands came off as just a touch too threatening.

 

[sspky]

Instead of rolling over as requested, Fredrick pulled himself up, swivelled, and sat at the edge of the bed. As soon as his vision cleared of the swaying, gray haze that had temporarily clouded it, he began glancing about for his shirt and boots.

It was at this moment he noticed the distinctive way that the shape of his knife, which he normally kept tucked away in his right pant pocket, wasn’t digging into his thigh. Apart from a slight narrowing of his eyes, Fredrick's face remained neutral.

“Yes. I’m sure they’ll be fast friends,” he said to the doctor, “And you think the wound here looks fine, do you?”

* * *​

Music could be heard as soon as Robert pushed open the heavy door. While the crisp quality of sound was impressive, only five quick notes played before the record scratched, and the tune repeated from the beginning. It was a lilting, uneasy melody, crooning for only a few short moments before restarting over and over again.

The room beyond the door was long and rather narrow. The light fixtures on the ceiling were so ornate they looked absolutely out of place. Each wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves covered in books, trinkets, and curiosities.

Of the curiosities, the most notable were the animals. There were countless examples, all dead and stuffed, and they all appeared to belong to the standard species, and all with the expected number of appendages. Yet their proportions were all wrong -- as if they’d been taxidermied by a man who’d never before seen the proper shape of the skins he’d been reassembling.

There was a deer with a face flatter than a bulldog, and a black hound with spindle-thin legs. On a shelf between a row of books and a collection of old clocks, sat an orange cat with legs half as thick as its torso and twice as long. There were dozens of other examples, tucked away in nooks and perched on shelves, all with taxidermy so odd they were laughable.

At the far end of the room, a gramophone sat on a square table. Seated across from each other, there was a man and a woman. The man was impressive, with thick arms crossed at his chest, and willowy legs stretched out beneath the table. The odd shape of him was reminiscent of the stuffed animals that cluttered the stuffy room. It was hard to make out his face beneath his mop of head and unkempt beard. There did, however, appear to be a symbol in Hebrew marked on his forehead.

The woman was indeterminately old, very thin, and sitting with her forehead nearly resting on the table, her ear pressed up into the gramophones copper horn. The table was otherwise covered in loose sheets of paper, and the women's bony, bare arms were stretched out in front of her, a pencil in one hand. She was writing blindly, in quick, frantic motions tuned to the music.

Robert paused at the door long enough to jot another quick note. He tore the page out of the book, pulled his sheet of etching from his pocket, and swiftly approached the seated couple.

 

[Pith]

What sort of fool thought that getting up and moving about so shortly after surgery was a good idea? the doctor thought to himself, frowning as Fredrick moved to get out of the bed. Gaze falling again to the outright collection of scars and still-healing injuries, he conceded probably the sort of fool who accumulated damage as easily as they naturally gathered dirt under a nail might be one of such variety.

He didn't want to have to wrestle Fredrick into bed. One the one hand, he thought it very unlikely he would succeed in doing so without Thom present, at least not without sustaining some scrapes and bruises himself. He usually let his man handle the more rambunctious patients, and while he was not above lending a hand, it was not what he was best suited for. But more importantly, doing so would potentially affect a business relationship he actually cared about. Still, he couldn't very well let him go wandering off with an unknown condition.

"Fine? No, I wouldn't say that--I think the best thing for it would be to avoid strain on it," he replied evenly, doing nothing to assist with searching out whatever the man might be looking for. The boots had been pushed far under the bed, likely to keep them out of the way, and he had no idea where Robert had tossed the shirt. "Especially until your fever goes down."

***

Thom hated the animals immediately as they were gradually revealed in the dim lighting of the gallery-like room, their dead, glassy eyes and unnatural figures beyond truly counting and far too many for his liking. It seemed when he tried to take stock of them he would glance some ear, or tuft of fur, or spread of feathers poking out from something else and it was difficult to get an accurate read on the place. Was it a shop, he wondered, or simply someone's insane collection? The croning, repetitive music was the closest thing Thom could approximate to the sound of madness, and his thoughts wandered briefly back to the titles Robert had shown him back in the Whitechapel apartment.

It took some effort to school his face into a neutral sort of expression, with his skin feeling as though it were crawling with all manner of unpleasant things, but he managed well enough. He wish he'd covered with Robert what exactly he was meant to do here, beyond perhaps offer extremely limited explanations as to their purpose. Surely the man could explain the situation to the best of his ability and desire on paper, but he simply kept up with Robert as he approached the odd pair, keeping a half step behind, much as he did when out with the doctor.

He looked between the scrawling woman and her unmoving companion as they neared, though the man held his attention a touch more. Robert had mentioned the woman wasn't to be bothered, but he was an unknown, and reminded him too much of the animals to ease his mind. Like as not he was also something stuffed and unnatural, but the Hebrew above his brow brought back memories of stories told by mothers of childhood friends about golems. He wondered at the thought momentarily, and then tried very hard to throw it from his mind, and bring his attention back to whatever Robert was about.

 

[sspky]

“Give me something for the fever,” he said, his hands patting idly at his pockets. The bullets were gone too, and his flask, although the wallet was still present and...come to think of it, the flask was probably in his jacket, but the knife and spare shells were always kept in the same, familiar location.

There was a twisting in his gut that he only partially attributed to his latest knife-wound. Although he didn’t dislike Dr. Walker, he also hardly trusted him. Together, the absence of his weaponry and his companion had begun to sound those all-too-familiar warning bells.

“And kindly bring Robert here, immediately,” his tone was flat and very cold, his expression steady and his shoulders growing tense. Rising to his feet, his face tightening in discomfort, Fredrick steadied himself and turned towards the couch, where his shirt lay in a pile along with Roberts torn, filthy coat.

* * *

As he approached the table, Robert dipped his hand into the pocket of his borrowed coat and pulled out a two pence coin, which he placed flat on the table in front of the unmoving man. He made a gesture to Thom to do the same, before laying both pieces of paper down near the old woman.

So far, neither of the two had made any indication that they’d noticed the arrival of their guests. The music continued its loop, and the old woman, her eyes heavily lidded and unfocused, continued to blindly scratch out ridged, geometric shapes onto the pages spread out around her.

 

[Pith]

There was, briefly, an expression that crossed the doctor's face indicating an internal debate over the request, but it quickly smoothed into an easy sort of concession and he shrugged. "Can't, I'm afraid. They've almost certainly caught a cab to Greenwich by now. In fact, I'd be surprised if they weren't already there."

There wasn't much use in trying to pretend any further, after all--Fredrick's sudden change in tone and posture indicated well enough something was amiss. Elijah only hoped whatever Robert had taken off the man had been weapons. He hadn't really been paying attention when he'd returned to the lab.

"Robert didn't like the look of the inscribed bone we fished out of your guts," he added conversationally, putting himself between Fredrick at the couch and, more importantly, the table where he'd left the syringe. "He asked me to mind you while he checks on it."

* * *

Thom watched the other man lay out his offering, which seemed to him very little for an initial sum. Payment entirely up front would have been his guess, but he didn't question when he was prompted to follow in kind. He fished the appropriate coin out of his pockets from its fellows without even the faintest clink of metal, though he doubted it might have been heard above the weary din of the music, and laid it before the unmoving man next to the first.

 

[sspky]

“Fuck,” Fredrick spat, pivoting to face the doctor, “Really now? Greenwich? He’s gone to see fucking Esther, then? Fuck.”

He’d never really liked Esther. Not since the incident with the leeches two years back, and she was hardly half as useful as they always hoped she’d be. Plus, the witch was never willing to part with any of those creatures of hers, and Fredrick had taken a real liking to a particularly elongated gray dove, and that bloody monster of a man she kept with her had nearly broken every bone in his hand when he’d accidentally knocked the dead bird off the shelf while trying to pet it.

Fuck, he didn’t like Esther.

“And what bloody bone? You took a bone? Which bloody bone did you take, Walker?” he demanded, his gray-eyes narrowing. It had better not have been a bone he needed (which, the last time he checked, was just about all of them).

This new revelation had been enough to stop him in his tracks, his dirty shirt in one hand.

* * *

As soon as Thom put down his offering, the woman's scratching stopped. For a moment she was very still, and then she was almost completely still; her body up to her shoulders remaining ridged while her bony neck craned forward just enough for her to examine the papers Robert had laid out for her.

The crone signed the sort of sigh that spoke volumes about just how utterly inconvenienced and beneath her this distraction was, and then she spoke in a clipped and properly aristocratic tone, “Third shelf from the door, second row from the top. Thin red book, between the stuffed rat and Mr. Lieb’s skull.”

Collecting his papers, Robert turned, nearly collided with Thom, corrected himself awkwardly, and hurried to the bookshelf. In no time at all, he had found the red book and was juggling it beneath the dim light of a nearby scone. The papers were old and covered in two parallel rows of text. The left column was in English, and the right was in some chipped, chicken-scratch and near hieroglyphics.

Engrossed in his research. Robert forgot entirely about Thom for the time being. Neither the old woman or her strange man had moved. The woman, positioned awkwardly with her head craned forward and her chin tilted up, regarded Thom with a thin-lipped, heavy stare.

 

[Pith]

It was not a laughing-moment. Answering medical questions, at least to patients, was never a laughing moment, no matter how absurd the situation, and there was actually quite a lot about the human body that was as funny as it was fascinating. But it was quite impossible to hide the mirth in Elijah's pale blue eyes at the accusation of somehow managing to steal a bone while the patient in question had been at least technically conscious on his operating table, and in the presence of his partner.

He wouldn't mind a bone, of course. Obviously. But as far as he knew there was nothing particularly interesting about Fredrick's bones, so there wasn't any particular need to inquire about it.

"Not one of yours," he clarified, waving the very notion away with his hand. "Unless you count location as as ownership, of course. The blade tip that was inside you was apparently made of bone, and there was some sort of writing on it. I showed it to Robert, and he felt the need to step out."

* * *

Thom started when Robert turned around suddenly and nearly collided with him, taking a step back to allow the taller, lankier man to get by and rush off to the indicated shelf. A quick glance behind him nearly sent him into a cold sweat, as he'd nearly bumped into one of the creatures settled on one of the upper shelves. The body, which he thought might be a goat, based on the horns, looked as though everything had been pushed inwards--legs, neck, even the head barely poking out of the torso, but the ears extended out like antennae on a roach. Slowly, and carefully, he took a step away from the shelf and stood center to the room as he could gauge. Rather than trail after Robert like a confused child or lost puppy, he figured the safest thing to do rather than bustle around the narrow, strange shop was to stay put, however much the woman unsettled him.

When he looked back and saw her staring at him he regretted having ever looked away in the first place. Turning his back on her while she was actively looking at him felt unwise, and he shifted just enough that he could keep Robert's hunched figure in the corner of his eye as he more or less faced the strange old woman.

"Ma'am," he murmured softly, though again the noise was all but lost under the music, and inclined his head.

 

[sspky]

Eyes narrowing, Fredrick considered the older man’s answer. Dr. Walker was still new to this whole occult thing, so it made no sense that he’d have any skill in the morbid art of bone-turning. Finally, he said, “Right. Of course.” and began to stiffly slide his arms through the sleeves of his cotton shirt.

Clumsily, he struggled to do up his shirt buttons, his fingers shaking unexpectedly. The sheen of sweat had returned to his brow, his pale cheeks once again flushed pink. He felt oddly giddy, in a way that was contrary to the lethargy he’d felt after past adventures with chloroform. The headache was growing in magnitude, provoked further by how tightly he was clenching his jaw.

“He took your man with him? Thom?” he asked, “Did he take the bone?”

* * *

A fierce look crossed the woman’s face when Thom spoke. One gnarled hand reached to her mouth, her index finger pressed to her lips, like some scolding librarian. The accompanying ‘shush’ was only implied.

There had been an odd sort of not-echo when Thom had spoken as if the overlapping music was swallowing the sound beneath its undulations. There had been other sounds, too, echoing out beneath the recording like waves against some faraway sea, but Thom had spoken too briefly, too softly, and the strange sensation was over as soon as it began.

The woman lowered her hand and once again began to scrawl across her assortment of pages, her ear shoved up into the mouth of the gramophone’s horn once more, but her gaze still fixed on Thom.

All of this had, apparently, been lost on Robert, who was flipping through the pages of the thin red book, comparing the glyphs therein to the markings he’d copied from the bone tip.

At last, he closed the book and gently slipped it back into place on the shelf. He offered Thom a quick nod as he returned to the table, his notebook already in hand.

He presented a note to the woman, who once again stopped, sighed heavily, and pulled herself away from her work.

“The shelf behind your autseyder there,” her voice, oddly, had none of that inverted-echo, “In the bronze box. It’ll cost you 10 pound and a story. A good story. None of that drek from last time, mute.”

Robert nodded to Thom, a quiet request for him to pay, before he went to collect the box.