Chapter Text
He spots them spotting him two weeks before Christmas. It’s while he’s being thrown out of a department store for taking a nap on one of the half-mattress bedding displays and, to be honest, he’s glad that there are so many people out and about. Not that he enjoys making a spectacle of himself or anything but he’d been trying to sleep off the wine and God knows what else from last night before his rude awakening and this is not the state in which he particularly wants to be meeting… Well, anyone, really.
So, he continues in the same vein as he’s been spouting since security first laid hands on him. Something about the tyranny of capitalism and the plight of the homeless and the blind smile of divine charity bought by a spare change feel good donation to a bell ringing Santa Clause on the curb. He makes the ‘e’ as audible as possible, ruins the whole effect by announcing that it’s there, but the words that come out of his mouth just sort of start tumbling anyway, don’t stop until the well runs dry or something hard and painful greets his face. Later he won’t even remember anything that he’s said. These people around him, though? This little kid clinging to someone’s hand? That store clerks who look a little bit too much like they understand? Those people might remember. Sometimes he thinks of them and that memory is all that even matters. That memory and the memory of whichever guard gets to write up the incident report.
He gets passed off to the mall cops and continues his overly vocal march to the parking lot until the officer at his left tugs him upward by about a foot, it seems, and hisses at him to “shut the fuck up” or they’ll bump his charge to an actual disturbance of the peace this time. They both know better than that, of course. Even the guy on the right knows better and he’s new, hasn’t seen or done this whole routine before.
“You can’t threaten me like that,” he mutters, even as he ducks his head and quiets down. “Besides, the peace has yet to be disturbed. Hardly anybody even noticed.” A glance back over his shoulder, all but dares both of his disgruntled companions to just look at how few people even cared, even remembered (no one remembered). It’s just a pleasant side effect that it also allows him to catch sight of the small group still following him through the crowd. The big, dark, bald guy too tall for his own good is like a beacon, a buoy bobbing along through the sea of shoppers. That glance is more than enough for him to turn his attention back to moving his legs. Better not to meet any eyes.
Left Cop is saying something which he hopes isn’t important because he hasn’t heard a word of it. “—gonna have our heads.” Good. Nothing important.
“Yes. I’m sure. Whatever you say.” He doesn’t look back again, just focuses on the look of wary irritation on the face in front of him. They were closer than he’d have liked before and they’re just getting closer with him standing still now, dragged off to the far left door, out of the flow of consumer traffic. Outside of the swarm of bodies, he can feel them and he’s not ready. Not for any of it. Not for now. Not for here. Not for this. It’s difficult to keep his voice steady and calm and he only keeps it from cracking by letting his words trip over one another as he spits them out, “This is just a warning this time, right? Go home. Get sober. Don’t shout at anybody on the way out. Sleep in a real bed. You know, those little half things are shit anyway. May I go now?”
It’s a familiar face that looks back at him, one who’s dealt with him so many times before that a change in behavior is obvious and, apparently, worrying. “Technically, yes, you’re free to go but— Alex, is something wrong?”
With a flash of his best shit eating grin, he flings his hands into the air and bursts through the door. “Nope! Everything’s just fine.” Then he’s off at almost a run for the bus stop with anyone who might call after him drowned out in the hustle and bustle of a chill December evening and his own bellowed, “Merry Christmas!”
The bus takes him to the nearest Metro station and people look at him oddly when he pulls the plastic card from his pocket and slides through the fast lane with a wave to one of the station attendants. God love the tourists. Some of them had probably seen him earlier, the homeless man sleeping in the back of Lords & Taylor. It’s like this every year with the deep pocket shoppers, hitting up every decent sale and high-priced shop within a few feet or a bus ride of the train. Once they’re done here, half of them will head up to New York City. The other half have already been.
He trots down the escalator, making noises under his breath that, in passing, might sound like apologies to the people who’ve left their feet and elbows and purchases in his way. For all that, he doesn’t see the little girl standing at the bottom until he’s just about on top of her and has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t curse as he quickly moves her out of the way. Who in their right mind would just leave there kid right there? It crosses his mind to ask her just that, as he gets into a crouch that puts him just about at her eye level.
Except all that comes out of his mouth are the words that he’d just cut into his own flesh with sharp teeth and soothing tongue. “Oh, fucking— Fuck!” And he backpedals in a crabwalk until he nearly drops right off the platform.
People look at him oddly again. Someone mutters something about “crazy drunks.” Someone else moves toward the child, murmuring quiet words of comfort, and he wants to stop them. He wants to. He wants to. He wants—
There is so much screaming then that he can’t hear, can’t speak, can’t feel anything but the stamping of feet and the cacophony of voices and stop stop stop stop the incoming train rumbles down the track the third rail buzzes at a frequency that normal people don’t hear don’t hear don’t— “STOP!”
And it does. He knows it will. And it does.
Problem is, the calm and quiet comes with a price.
It charges at him with a shriek that pierces his ears all the more sharply for the surrounding silence and he barely gets his hands up in time to catch its wrists and save his throat from laceration. “A child? Really?” He doesn’t even bother trying to guard his expression when it lets out that scream again, so much closer this time, and he feels as if his ear drums might burst. “Were you going for shock tactics or something, giving a little girl that ugly mug of yours or what? Why not just shove somebody in front of a train and be done with it?” When he pauses, lets it hiss in his face while he strains against its weight, a small voice in the back of his head tells him that he really shouldn’t say what he’s about to say but its slimy, rotting face is right up in his own and the words are out before he even really considers other options. “Or were you just not strong enough to finish your illusion?”
The only upside to the creature’s reaction is that its lunge in to snap at his turned cheek allows him to throw it off balance and he almost wishes that he hadn’t slipped through the veil when it topples over the ledge and onto the track. This would be so much easier if there were a train to hit it. Instead there’s just an empty platform and he barely has time to get to his feet before it’s clambering up and he’s under attack again.
“Oh, come on!” He dives out of the way, distancing himself from swiping talons, and scrambling for cover. “Can’t you take a joke?” There has got to be something he can fight with. Something. Anything. “Or just an honest passage of judgment, for that matter. You have to admit, you are pretty ugly.” Empty fucking Metro station. “And I’d be one to know.” He should probably just—
“Would you please stop taunting the thing, Grantaire!”
The voice from the top of the escalator works as an excellent distraction. One angry beast with multiple targets and potential attackers is so much easier to defeat than one angry beast with a pinpoint focus. Alex’s strike connects with its jaw so hard that even in a proper fist his knuckles crack. Probably shouldn’t have done that with his dominant hand, now he thinks about it.
He flashes the band of newcomers a grin as they make their way down to his level and the monster at his feet tries to regain its sense of balance and shake the lingering stars from its vision. “You know, no matter how many times you use that name on me, it’s still not mine.” Wiggling his fingers to make sure they all still work properly, he also takes a moment to kick out, heel of his scuffed and battered boot connecting with the back of his opponent’s head.
At the bottom of the stairs, now, there is a tall, young blond glaring at him and Alex does his very best not to appear affected by that fact in the least. It’s a difficult task, of course, for many reasons. The person in question is practically made up of stray sunlight, a star brought down to Earth with none of its raging inferno lost for the sake of the mere mortals around them. Uncontainable, the fire glows through flesh and bone, turns the layers beneath their skin into sheets of polished bronze, spills out in thick, loosely tied locks of spun gold. They look every bit a God, even wearing simple jeans and a T-shirt, red sash tied around their waist in place of a belt. If they do not rise to divinity, he might expect the only other option to be their early death or, perhaps, his own.
Surprisingly, though, the modern deity of the blazing sun, looking so severe with arms crossed and brow furrowed, isn’t the one who speaks next. Instead, it’s a flash of honey and gold that leans out over the railing, broad grin of bright teeth and hair tightly tucked up under a blindingly red and carefully knotted head wrap. Alex can’t help but smile back, really, when she blurts right out, “Are you going to finish it or not?”
He should, really. It’s his right, his duty, his whatever. Besides which his kill rate at this point must look preposterously low compared to the rest of them, assuming someone somewhere is actually keeping track of that sort of thing. When was the last time he’d been the one to deliver the final blow? The memory is somewhere out of reach. Maybe a month ago? Maybe two? Maybe he was drunk. That thought’s quite likely.
“Nah. Go for it.” He holds his hand up to wave his fingers around again. “Think I dislocated something with that pot shot.”
There’s a bark of a laugh and she leaps the rail with grace and ease. It’s a maneuver which, much like her entire demeanor and sense of style, looks perfectly natural, gradually built and developed over time rather than pulled out of a book or constructed to meet some else’s expectations, unlike some of the others around her. She is organic and utilitarian and wickedly keen. He loves that about her. That and how she’s almost a head shorter than he is and can still kick his ass every single time.
The dazed monster in front of him is just beginning to properly gather itself when she reaches it and plants her feet. Her right hand flexes once, palm and knuckles wrapped with a length of stained linen, and she rolls her shoulder before pulling back. Then her arm pistons forward and the creature barely has time to voice its rage before it explodes into a cloud of ash and dust, the veil falling to pieces right along with it.
Their sudden return to the platform is disorienting and deafening and Alex nearly loses his balance, the general commotion of impatient commuters slamming into his chest like a physical blow. A hand at his elbow, however, is enough to keep him steady and centered and he glances up with a weary smile. The one he receives in return is accompanied by a gentle squeeze.
“What Michel meant to say before is long time no see, Alex.”
Alex shakes his head with a laugh. “Don’t lie to me, Dom. We both know he said precisely what he meant.” He squints ever so slightly with a lopsided grin. “Did you get new glasses?”
Dominic chuckles. “Almost a year ago now, yes.”
“Where are Iggi and Deven? I know I saw baldy behind me earlier. I assume those two are together.”
“They’re on their way here. They called us earlier to let us know that this was most likely where you were headed.”
Alex wrinkles his nose. “They ratted me out? Those traitors!” He doesn’t even care how obvious it likely is that he still hasn’t fully slept off last night’s half-forgotten festivities. His shirt, he’s only just realized, has a tremendous wine stain on it, which he’s almost entirely certain was not there when he first put it on, and this hoodie always smells just a little bit like marijuana. How many people get a whiff of that when the next train pulls in and sucks the air away from him. “I’ll give them a piece of my mind the next time I see them. They should know better. Best friends’ rule: no tattling.”
Still glowing, just off to the side of the busy escalator now, Michel huffs a mirthless laugh, audible over the cacophony of people grumbling and jostling as they exit or enter. “Their so-called tattling just saved you.”
“I had everything under control!”
“You were circling a metro bench.”
“I was just waiting for an opening.”
“You were obviously panicking.”
Alex snatches his arm out of Dominic’s hand with a snort and a step back. “You’ve obviously never seen me panic before.” Then he takes a hop, skip, and a jump backward until he stumbles onto the train, the doors closing before it even registers with anyone (but Mali, perhaps, given the hand hiding her grin) exactly what he’s doing. With a sloppy salute and a wink, he watches Michel take an involuntary step toward the train as it pulls out of the station.
Once they’re out of sight, however, it’s only his too-close proximity to a dozen other passengers that keeps him on his feet.