The man gave a nod to Clifford, then looked back to Mrs. Sapping.
“I’m Sire McLinnen,” he informed, giving a polite dip of the head. “It was nice meeting you. And yes, paperwork tomorrow will be no issue.”
He paused, silently cursing and gritting his teeth. There went his plan for leaving first thing in the morning.
“Goodnight, ma’am,” he finished, giving another one of his slightly awkward smiles as he made his way to the stairway. He looked up to Clifford, his own blue eyes reflecting the soft light.
“And yes, sir,” he replied to the man, prodding the first step with the tip of his shoe. “After you.”
He made a concerted effort to avoid eye contact with Sire. “Hm. Goodnight, Mrs. Sapping.” Clifford began to walk up the stairs, simply assuming that Sire was behind him. There were slick pricks of chill on the back of his neck, and he was painfully aware that if Sire tried to attack him, he’d be nothing but vulnerable. “I’m not sure that your flat has a working lock, Mr. McLinnen, if I’m being perfectly candid.”
They ascended at least four flights of stairs- maybe more- before they reached the apartments. Clifford walked down the hall, moving to the side so that Sire could catch up with him. “This one should be yours.” He rapped sharply on the door, making sure that there were no squatters before he opened the door. Clearly the lock didn’t work, just as Clifford had warned before.
“That’s quite alright, Mr. Fallow,” he said plainly as they climbed the stairs. “I don’t think I’ll need one. I don’t believe I’ll be around often.
He took a quicker few steps forward so he could walk alongside the man through the hallway. His eyes followed Clifford’s hand as his knuckles hit the door, then pushed it open.
“Thank you, kindly,” Sire said, entering the room. It looked surprisingly adequate despite the cost, and Sire gave a nod of approval.
He turned around, once in the doorway, holding the handle on the other side.
“Ah— thank you again,” he cooed quietly. The room suppressed the noise from other members of the building, so automatically Sire lowered his own voice. He gave Clifford a nod and slightly crooked smile.
“Goodnight, Mr. Fallow. It was nice meeting you.” He held out a hand to shake, cocking his head to the side slightly.
Clifford’s face was stone cold and hard to read. He met Sire’s handshake- his own was surprisingly firm for a man whose build was as lean as Clifford’s, and his hand so slender, but firm nonetheless. “Likewise.” He glanced Sire over again, but the intent was difficult to discern. “Goodnight, Mr. McLinnen.” He let go of his hand, taking a step back and walking out of the apartment.
Clifford crossed the few meters between his door and Sire’s, opening the door to his flat and slipping inside. He shut it nearly silently. The candle he had in his room had burned down, leaving it pitch black, save for the subtle glow from the gas lamps outside. Clifford finally got into bed and released a quiet sigh.
Sire didn’t bother watching the man step off into the shadows. He just slowly shut his door, squinting at the fact that it didn’t lock. Well, it’s not like he really cared. He normally didn’t sleep well anyway, but not by means he could avoid. He was just what people would call an insomniac. Thus, his explanation for renting a flat just hours before dawn.
He took off his black mackintosh, hanging it on the wall’s tack. There he let his vest hang as well, just leaving him in a white button-up. He took off his boots and belt but didn’t bother with the rest of his attire. He was… exhausted. He’d deal with the consequences of wrinkled clothing later.
There wasn’t much in the way of furniture furnishing the room— just a simple desk off to the corner with a worn wooden chair. The bed frame looked to be made with the same vintage wood, the dusted sheets looking like they hadn’t been occupied in a very long while. Sire didn’t really mind. As he carefully crawled into the creaking bed, the feel of the mattress soothed him. He didn’t even bother with crawling beneath the covers, for his eyes closed and his mind slowed as his head hit the pillows.
(Sure. Wanna start, or should I? Your choice)
(I can start, since it’s my turn? Honestly, I think Sire could catch him on his way to work?)
(i also realized last night that we never specifically narrowed down the decade, at minimum. which makes fashion a little difficult to describe)
Clifford woke up, blinking sleep out of his eyes, blocking the early morning sun from his eyes. He had forgotten to close his curtains, evidently. Clifford rolled out of bed, shrugging off his dressing robe (that he had also forgotten to remove). He pried open his armoire, pulling out his clothes for the day. Something simple- he normally forwent a hat, simply for aesthetics purposes. That, and storing them was just a hassle in his small flat.
He studied his appearance in the ornate mirror hung on his wall, preening and adjusting his appearance until he was sure that he absolutely had to leave his apartment to avoid being late for work. He opened the door, stepping outside and quickly descending down the stairs and exiting into the streets outside.
(I was thinking probably really late 1890’s to early 1900’s? Still, my knowledge on Victorian history is very small, so I just did a lil research and my conclusion (although not a good one) was “everything’s formal”. Honestly, do whatever you’d like and I’ll try to follow suit (pun not intended))
Sire was already up, dressed, signed, and on his way out when Clifford caught his eye. He had been standing on the opposite side of the entrance, doing a double-take as the man began walking the opposite way.
It took him a full minute to decide if he was actually going to ask the question he had in mind. Even then, he was wondering if he should abandon the idea altogether. He pulled the coat tighter around his frame as he skipped into a slight jog, then slowing into a walk beside the man.
“Good morning, Mr. Fallow,” Sire said with a friendly dip of the head. “I have a question, if you don’t mind.”
His voice didn’t come off as threatening, but he tried to add an air of persuasive tone. He kept his voice deep and thick, maybe not the most welcoming effect.
(oh, perfect. i was worried we were going 1840s-ish, and i cannot stand men’s fashion from that bit, this rocks. thank you)
Clifford jolted out of his own little world, his posture stiffening as his head snapped over to meet Sire’s voice. “Good god-!” He yipped, clearly caught off guard. “First off, Mr. McLinnen, never do that to me again. Second- I’m on my way to work, sir, if you’d be so kind as to make. It. Quick.” He bit off that last bit, finally feeling that sudden rush of adrenaline wearing off. He stopped on the sidewalk, waiting (somewhat impatiently) for Sire to ask his question. Sire’s voice, though irritating at the moment, no doubt intrigued Clifford.
Sire raised an eyebrow, but that was hardly representative of the overthinking occurring in his head. He hadn’t meant to scare the poor man, just to catch his attention passively.
He looked down at Clifford, his own eyes twinkling in the early morning sun. He had gotten only light rest, but by just the eyes, anyone could tell he had more juvenile energy than before.
“My apologies, sir,” he said calmly, stepping forward. He kept his hands in his pockets, not bothering to brush aside the hair across his forehead. “I was simply wondering if you… were interested…”
He took a pause, looking around slightly before continuing.
“I was wondering if you knew of someone who is knowledgeable on the subject of cryptids, sir. Anyone who knows the good, the bad, and the ugly of this city. I’m intrigued by the topic, and wish to converse with someone who shares the same… enthusiasm, so to speak.”
The energy behind Sire’s eyes was more than a little off-putting to Clifford, but his body language noticeably improved with the mention of cryptids. He snorted lightly.
“I do know someone, as a matter of fact. Myself.” He shifted his weight onto the opposite foot. “What all would you wish to speak about? I do not have the time at the moment, but when I return back this evening..” Clifford took a slight breath. “Then we can discuss. Would you consider speaking with me in my apartment? I have more.. evidence, so to speak.”
Clifford’s head occasionally moved to see if anybody was watching them. Nobody was, but the topic had a nasty habit of making Clifford feel like he was being watched.
“The topic of discussion…,” he mumbled, trailing off slightly. “Yes, it’s certainly not dull enough to be spoken about plainly.”
He grit his teeth, locking his jaw. “Yes, we can speak in your apartment.”
Sire paused for a moment, raising a hand and looking as if he were about to say something more. He decided better if it, slipping the hand back in his pocket and rocking back on his feet.
“Thank you,” he said, looking elsewhere. “My apologies for startling you, again. And for… taking your time. Good day to you, Mr. Fallow.”
The man turned slightly abruptly, but it was casual enough for him. He’d gotten his information, so he cut his words short. He began walking down the opposite way, back of his coat following behind him.
“Thank you.” Clifford concluded, pausing when he saw Sire’s hand, Sire’s pause, and then Sire’s ultimate decision to not push the subject further. He cocked an eyebrow inquisitively. “You’re quite alright.” He cleared his throat. “Good day, Mr. McLinnen. I suppose I’ll speak with you later today.”
He watched him turn for a moment before continuing his commute once more. Clifford was a quick walker, especially now, trying to get to the bookshop before he was late for work. He turned into the store, shutting the door behind him and getting behind the desk just as the bells in the campanile struck 8 AM. He immediately got to organizing books once more, placing them back onto their shelves
“Good morning, mister Fallow!” A cheery old man’s voice chimed out, emerging from the back room.
Sire continued walking, not really having a set destination in mind. Maybe some place that would supply his ever-growing coffee addiction. It was a problem, really, but he wasn’t one to complain. He didn’t have any one to reprimand him, so why bother.
He crossed the street, a small coffee house coming into view. He slowly veered in its direction, soon pushing open the door as the lanterns outside gently swayed. They held no light, for the morning sun was all that was needed.
He took a seat at the nearest window, asking for a black coffee as a young boy took the order, hastily shuffling back to make it. He returned moments later, handing the man a dark, gritty cup of coffee. Sire didn’t mind the taste, as long as it kept him awake.
“Good morning to you too, Mr. Kipling!” Clifford called back, still hard at work with his organization and reorganization. “How did the evening treat you, sir?”
“Well, well!” Evidently, the old man’s hearing wasn’t exactly stellar. His voice was crowing and creaky, trying to project the normally soft tones across the room- it was worth noting that the shop was small. He absolutely didn’t need to be shouting, and yet he was anyway. “Don’t you worry about me, lad.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Kipling. Did we get a new shipment in today?” Clifford nodded in the direction of both a few crates and a few tall stacks of books.
Sire kept his tired blue eyes fixed, looking through the glass and onto the cobblestone street just paces from the shop. The rain from the previous night had taken refuge between the cracks in the ground, the sun reflecting off of them brightly. A small stream danced lazily down the side, but there hadn’t been enough water for the stream to travel far. It stopped early, veering off between the stone blocks.
Sire wasn’t one to openly express his emotions, but something about the morning was peaceful. And, although he knew that wouldn’t last, he had hope for the evening. Clifford intrigued him… to say the least. Perhaps more than he’d like to admit. And Sire had caught the glint in his eye when he mentioned cryptids— he might just be the person Sire was looking for.
Slowly he took another sip of the gritty drink, setting the cup back down as he sighed. The sun shining down on the dew was a beautiful sight, and Sire wouldn’t mind sitting just a bit longer to admire it.
“We did!” Mr. Kipling nodded enthusiastically. He was a short man, his stature definitely easily recognizable from a lineup. A jolly disposition, short and round, a rosy nose and rosier cheeks. His round glasses sat perched atop his crooked bridge, reflecting the fresh sunlight just so. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Fallow, could you please begin to put them away? I’m afraid I can’t do it myself.” He picked up a few books on his own, beginning to put them away as if he were demonstrating the act.
“Of course I can, sir.” Clifford moved to the table, picking up an armful of books. They would be alphabetized by genre, of course. “These should sell rather well, I think. I know that mysteries are very popular- as I’m sure you are as well- I’m rather fond of them myself, in fact.” He finished stocking his first armful of books, going back for a second.
Sire finished off the last of his coffee, staring at the street just a little longer. Carriages rolled past, the horses pulling them always elegant and standing proud. The passengers would tip their hats to people on the side, waving in a good-morning salute. As time passed and the morning carried on, the city grew more alive.
Sire left a small coin on the table, watching the boy who had served him pocket it as he walked by. Sire stood from his seat, pushing through the crowd of people who were convinced they needed their morning fix of a warm drink.
Once outside, Sire took a moment to suck in a deep breath, the smell of rain prominent. He continued on shortly after, walking back the way he had come.
Did he have a plan? Know where he was going? No, not really. His only to-do mark on his agenda was, “Wait for Clifford.” But… perhaps he should educate himself beforehand.
With a quick pivot on his heel, Sire banked out of the gateway to the apartments, heading down the street to the local bookstore.
“Oh? Well, if you like them, I’m sure they’re worth stocking.” Mr. Kipling chuckled, putting away the books on the lower shelves for a few more minutes before finishing his preparations to open. Once he had successfully done so, he propped the bookstore’s door open with a piece of wood.
Clifford laughed softly. “You flatter me, sir.” He glanced outside, his face once again a clean slate, careful not to emote too openly. He watched the people go about their business- mothers and their children on their way to school, horse-drawn carriages clopping down the streets, the city’s familiar hustle and bustle.
Only a few people trickled in at first, and an even smaller few actually making purchases. Most simply came in, flipped through a book or two, and then left.
The local bookstore caught Sire’s eye. He crossed the street, glancing from oncoming carriages to past ones, skipping quite lightly across the cobblestone.
Sire had never been the kind of person to really… spend time out in the public eye long enough to browse a bookshop. Still, the thought of being in a cramped store with many people.. not to mention the silence of those stores.. well, the subject made him anxious, to say the least.
He walked through the doorway, clearly putting on blinders as he glanced through the sections. Finally finding the mystery section, he looked up from the bindings, seeing Clifford sorting the books just paces away.
He stood still, and although he felt a slight bit surprised, his face stayed stoic and emotionless.
“Oh— Uh— Hello, sir,” Sire said, his voice light.
Clifford jolted again. He hissed out a nearly silent prayer to any god, shutting his eyes tight for a moment before looking over at Sire. “Good morning. May I help you with anything today?” Classic customer service voice, and it was a little jarring when compared to his regular speaking voice. A learned talent, truly.
He held a few more books in his arms, two or three. They still needed to be sorted out, but if a customer was wanting, then it could wait. He took a step or two closer to Sire so he wouldn’t seem so cold.
Sire cocked his head, squinting for a moment. It was almost as if Clifford hadn’t recognized him. Honestly, Sire wasn’t too surprised. He could either been seen as just a passing face, or be stuck in someone’s mind forever. There wasn’t a strict in-between.
“N-No,” Sire mumbled, stuttering slightly. His face quickly changed back to it’s usual emotionless stone. “Just… looking.”
He paused for a moment, his eyes on the books below.
“Actually,” he muttered, his voice almost a hum. “Any recommendations?”
He figured— if he was already going to go over all four sides of cryptids that evening— maybe something to pass the time wouldn’t be too bad.
