milliways_bar | (no subject)

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It's just another day in Milliways.

Until there is a scratching sound at the door. Fingernails on wood. Scratch, scratch, scraaaaatch.

The handle rattles. And then the door suddenly opens, just a crack, and just as abruptly, it's slammed shut.

A few moments pass.

The door opens again. Slowly. Just a crack. Just enough to not be seen.

And Cassidy does not want to be seen. Not like this.

"Is anyone there?" calls a rough, growling, strained voice through the dark, narrow opening.

"Please-- someone-- help me-- I'm hungry--!"

[OOC: Threads will be extremely short, as Cassidy will shut the door as soon as he's fed. Your pup is not in danger. Well, maybe just a little. Enjoy. ETA: Anyone with a heightened sense of smell would be able to detect his severe burn injuries.]

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Cassian looks up from his caf at that scratching and then recognizes Cassidy's voice, he moves over to the door. He doesn't talk until he's close as he doesn't know what to expect, "Kriff, what do you need?"

Knowing Cassidy's a vampire and hearing him hungry is different and Cassian's not going to make any assumptions without more information.

The door jerks closed a little more when Cassian approaches.

oh god what would he think of him.

Then in a rasping whisper more feral than Cassian has ever heard from him, he replies:

"Blood."

The voice comes from low to the ground, as he's crouching low behind the door. As if he were reduced to an animal.

"Any kind of blood. Please."

"I'll get you some. Hold on," Cassian recognizes that sound of desperation, he's heard it too often in his work. Quickly, he makes his way back to the counter to ask Bar for blood for his friend. There's a pause before a gigantic takeaway cup appears along with a note; Otter blood.

"Thank you," He says before picking up the cup and walking as fast as he can back over to the door and then kneeling down to set it on the floor at the opening, "Here."

A hand reaches through the doorway--

--the skin is completely and horrifyingly burned off--

--and snatches the cup inside.

There is a moment's sound of wet, squelchy gulping, and the empty cup is flung back into the bar.

"More," Cassidy pleads, still hiding behind the door. "Is there more?"

"I'll get more." He stands up and gets to the counter for more whispering to the counter, "He's badly hurt and needs more than this."

What next appears is two two liter bottles. Cassian takes them, pushing the image of that burned hand away, this isn't the time to think of other times he's seen that kind of damage. And how usually its a sign that its too late. He kneels down at the door again and pushes the bottles through.

It's like pushing raw meat into a lion's cage.

Cassian might catch most of a glimpse of him when he comes close. It's more than just Cassidy's hand that's been injured, the burns lead up his arm as well, and it's safe to assume that they go beyond that.

But that is all Cassian is going to see, because as soon as those bottles are through the door, the door slams closed.

About half a minute later, the door opens a crack, and two empty bottles are tossed through.

"Thank you," comes the voice. It's still gruff, but marginally better. Cassidy still needs more blood (it's got to be human), but he's asked enough of his friend.

"I'm sorry."

And the door shuts for good.

Cassian waits and when the bottles are pushed out along with that sorry, he opens his mouth to speak but doesn't get a chance. This time he doesn't rush as he walks back to the counter to return the bottles and order himself a glass of whiskey. He hopes that was enough to make a difference for Cassidy.

Eric is seated at the bar when he hears the scratching.
And the opening and closing and opening and- oh for fuck's sake, have a little dignity.

He walks over, not wrinkling his nose at the smells streaming through the door (at least for anyone with supernatural sense of smell) and leans against the doorframe

"What exactly are you trying to accomplish?"he asks. Flatly.

A low, animal-like growl emanates from the crack in the doorway. It doesn't sound like a human person attempting to growl, it is a growl, from something completely Other.

And Cassidy is just a bit too fucked-up to remember this guy's name but he feels...familiar.

Another vampire.

He doesn't like his attitude, though.

"I need blood," he rasps. "Please, just-- help me."

Eric sighs.
Seriously?

"Human or whatever?" he asks in a bored tone.

There's a slight pause.

"Human."

Cassidy didn't realize it was even available.

"Can you drink it cold?"

He had better.

"Yes," he hisses desperately, hungrily.

Cassidy has never been picky.

(Except about TruBlood. That shit is nasty.)

Eric makes his way over to the bar (not hurrying, mind) and gets behind it to root through the small fridge.

Look and behold, there is a small bag of donated blood.
Someone's lucky.

He makes his way back and lets the bag drop to the for with a thud.

The crack in the doorway opens just wide enough for Cassidy to quickly reach through-- his hand and what can be seen of his forearm are completely covered in red, raw, blistered burns (you know what it's like, Eric)-- and he snatches the blood bag away.

The door slams shut.

And it stays closed for about two seconds before it opens again, and the crumpled, empty, plastic pouch is tossed back inside.

It's not nearly enough.

He's not healing.

"Is there more?"

Fuck, he'll actually go for TruBlood at this point.

Eric sighs.

"No. There's TruBlood."

He might have his sources, ahem, but he doesn't share.

A snarl of distaste.

"I'll try it."

Cassidy would actually end up killing his sources, ahem, so it's best not to share.

Erich goes back to the bar, asks for O positive, because basic is just fine here.

He takes them back, unheated, and puts them back on the floor.

The more vampires he meets here, the more disillusioned he becomes.
Fucking losers.

Edited 2019-09-21 05:42 (UTC)

Once again, the burned hand snatches the bottles in behind the door.

There's the sound of wet gurgling and swallowing, as Cassidy quickly guzzles down the contents of each bottle, and tossing them empty back into the bar.

And there's another low growl of disappointment. Because it hasn't helped much either.

He can't ask any more of Eric.

"Thank you," he mutters, and retreating back into the darkness he slams the door shut.

See?

That's why he can't be bothered with other vampires.

He huffs, silently, and walks back to his seat.

Thurlow has not been in the bar for a while. They haven't been back for long when they're interrupted by someone clawing at the door.

All their blood freezes in their veins, but they can't in good conscience ignore a pained voice crying out for help from a dark enclosure, however many times answering a cry like that has turned out badly for them.

They put down their coffee cup and step over to the door. "Can you hear me?"

The door opens no further. A deep, throaty growling comes through the crack, low to the ground, as if there were some kind of animal crouching in the darkness.

"Yes," a rough voice responds--aggressive, yet grateful?

"Please, I'm hungry."

(they said they would only take a little)

They shove away their thoughts of a voice they've heard in their dreams. "What do you eat?"

If he doesn't specify they'll get him the soup of the day.

It's taking Cassidy every ounce of willpower to not drag whoever is talking to him through the door.

"I need-- I need blood," he answers, his voice a low rasp.

He's aware that they might run away.

They'd probably bounce back from exsanguination, but that's not the kind of thing that inspires future goodwill, and they don't know that it works that way outside of their world. As for his answer, it's not a reassuring one, but they don't seem any more than mildly taken aback. It helps that that's not the answer a Seeker of the Name would give, or Mr Eaten himself.

"Okay. I'll, er, go get you some." Surely the Bar can get them something from a butcher's shop, considering that she serves food from every time and every world.

They come back with a bucket of pig's blood and nudge it over to the door.

This definitely isn't Cassidy's usual method of making friends.

But a bucket of pig's blood is above and beyond what he could ever have expected from a stranger and he won't forget it.

After a brief pause, the door opens just wide enough for him to reach through-- his hand and arm completely covered in burns, the flesh raw and scorched and blistered-- and he pulls the bucket inside the darkened room.

This is not a time for pleasant conversation.

"Thank you," is all the stranger will get for now.

The door slams shut. And stays closed.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter is sitting nearby, with a glass of red wine, but turns his head as soon as Cassidy opens the door for the first time.

There is a rough, animalistic edge that distorts the voice that comes through the crack in the doorway.

"Is someone there?"

Cassidy can sense that someone has to be nearby.

"Please, someone help me..."

Someone, with a quiet move, suddenly stands over Cassidy.

"Mr. Cassidy," the calm, accented voice says. "What kind of help do you need?"

...Only one person in Milliways insists on calling him Mr. Cassidy.

He stays hidden behind the door, keeping it only about an inch open. He hesitates before he responds.

"I'm hungry," he says, his tone low and rasping.

"I need-- I need blood. Any kind of blood."

Hannibal Lecter dashes to the bar and comes back with a bottle of -- blood?

Almost, but not quite, entirely like human blood of the type 0 negative.

"Here."

The door opens just enough for Cassidy to reach though-- the skin of his hand and what can be glimpsed of his forearm has been completely burned off-- and he snatches the bottle, immediately slamming the door closed.

A few seconds later, the door creaks open, and the empty bottle is tossed through. It rolls to a stop at the toe of Lecter's shoe.

"Is there more?" Cassidy rumbles. He's still not healing. And he's still hungry.

He has a feeling he'll be hungry for a while.

"Coming right up," Dr. Lecter says, followied by steps, a murmur, and a clink.

Then, a bottle is cracked open, and handed to Cassidy's burned hand.

"I brought a six-pack."

It comes in six-packs? What a universe.

Again, the door is opened just wide enough to let the items through. Cassidy grabs the bottle, and then the six-pack, and retreats back, narrowing the gap in the doorway to about an inch again.

There's a pause before he mutters, "Sorry." The grabbing is rude, but he's doing his best to not grab Lecter's arm instead and haul him inside to bite his throat out.

"Thank you."

And the door is quickly shut. And it doesn't open again.

Dr. Lecter returns to his chair.

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