Chapter Text
This work is neither betaed or Brit-picked. Feel free to point out any glaring errors. I feel strongly that I will write more for this, but my schedule is hectic and they will be sporadic at best.
The house is nothing special, certainly nothing to be proud of. John is fine with that though. It had been cheap and it was quiet, a blessing compared to the congested crush of London and Harry's dusty couch that smelled of spilt beer and vomit.
The other thing that John likes, aside from the price, is that it is furnished and both of these things were attributable to the previous owner having died there. An elderly man unable to even use the stairs in his twilight. The toilet installed in the living room is proof of that. With all the furniture that house already feels homey and lived in. It lifts the burden of having to go out to the shops and fill the space with little knick knacks. He has to admit that the previous owner seemed to have a rather macabre sense of decoration. The shelves are populated by several articulated animal skeletons. Above the hearth is a shadow box filled with birds pinned like butterflies. A scientist of some sort according to the realtor. John doesn't really mind. They would make good conversation pieces should he ever deign to have company.
With relish he begins to strip the plastic from the furniture, casting months worth of dust in the air. It makes him sneeze and burns his eyes. He throws open the sticky windows in an attempt to clear the air. The cleaning and tidying is slow and painful. His hand aches from the unfamiliar grip of his cane and his shoulder still throbs fiercely. Go slow, the therapist had said, don't push youself, but he had been adamant about making the move himself. About packing all the boxes and loading the boot of the cab. He'd even refused Harry's help. The point was to leave behind everything, everything except his dignity, his clothes, and the Sig bundled neatly at the center of his jumpers.
Groceries are the last to be unpacked, and it is with an unfamiliar sense of satisfaction that he swing the fridge door resolutely shut, casting the kitchen into cool evening light. It is as good a time as any for tea and he hums as he sets the kettle to boil. He stands at the sink window while he waits, gazing out over the backyard. It is occupied by weedy, dry, untended garden and beyond that a ramshackle shed. It leans precariously, the tin roof rusted nearly through in some spaces. The wood is gray and splintered with age, and the door clings desperately to the last surviving hinge. He anxiously readjusts his grip on the cane, turns off the hob when the kettle whistles, and begins the long limp to the dark building, weaving his way between the brown and withered rose bushes.
The smell of damp earth and rotting wood wafts over him as he approaches, the gentle breeze sets the battered door to creaking. Cautiously he nudges the door farther open with the tip of his cane and peaks into the gloom. It's much larger than it appears from the exterior, filled with rows of tables and lean-to's of scrap wood. It looks like the collection of an aspiring craftsman. A rusting circular saw sits in a corner, swathed with cobwebs and wearing a respectable film of dust. On the surrounding tables are a hodge podge of eroding paint cans and tools in a state similar to the saw.
He moves deeper, using the cane to swat aside the draping webs and brown vines that had begun their encroachment. The sparkling husks of blue bottles decorate the prolific webs and every available surface. Against a window a lone living fly hums and pings off the glass. The light is murky at best, turned soupy and thin by the layers of dirt caking the windows. In the farthest corner sits a sloped shape, draped in white. More furniture it seems. Gently he removes the filthy sheet, careful to not repeat the same mistake he had in the house.
It's a lovely little vanity, possibly mahogany but it's hard to tell in the gloom. He runs his fingers over the scalloped edges of the mirror, trying to decide if he would be able to get it out on his own. With his sleeve he buffs the mirrors speckled gray surface. In the reflection there was a face that was not his.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses, spinning and backing up, the fine edge of the vanity biting into his flanks. Hunched in the wedge of the wall and a table sits a man. He is long and lanky, neatly packaged in a suit that John would bet his next pension check was bespoke. Like everything else in the room he is coated in dust and webs, making the pale figure even more spectrely. In his russet curls, John could make out the irridesent winking of blue bottles.
John relaxes some at the stranger's stillness, huffing a breath and letting a hand drift to his chest as if it would calm his racing heart. He takes another deep breath, unsure how to proceed when the stranger groans something that could be a laugh. His head lolls back exposing a marble length of throat.
“What do you want?” The man croaks then sighs, upsetting a flimy web that shares his corner. One long leg shifts slightly, painfully, it's owner kissing as it drags a path through the dust. John swallows, unsure how to answer.
“What do you want?” He repeats, the curly head rolling upright, disrupted flies falling to his lap. His eyes are crystal pale, eerily unfocused. John's tongue flicks out, wetting his lips. His back straightens, the set of his shoulders more confident.
“I could ask you the same, mate,” he bites. The man cuts him off, words crisper and commanding.
“I said, what do you want?” John barks a laugh at the man's audacity.
“This is my property, so I think I should be the one asking the questions, yeah?” He snips, not pulling away fully from the vanity, taking a step closer. He takes the time to scrutinize the face in front of him. The man isn't young or old, his face aristocratically sharp. With his pale, slightly slanted eyes, he was sure to look dramatic in any lighting. Those clear eyes close slowly and the head tips back once more as a low laugh rumbles from the broad chest. Drugs, it has to be drugs, despite the normal size of his pupils. Around them the building shudders and creaks as the smell of an oncoming storm seeps through the cracks.
“Listen, you can stay here tonight if you want, but I want you out when the rain passes, alright?”
“Mmm,” hums the pale figure, the bow of his dry lips broadening to a smile on his tipped back face. Slowly he lifts a claw-like hand. The long fingers are curled like hooks the joints swollen and red. The fingers flex gingerly and tremble as he plucks a struggling fly from the sweep of his fringe and drops it into his smiling mouth. John's own lips park in astonishment as the pale length of neck works and swallows.
“Alright,” the man sighs agreeably. The building around them shudders again, and the whistling of wind through the cracks rises shrilly. Rain begins to patter the patchy tin roof, and John retreats.