Early hours, 15th October, 1891 — on the lookout, a garden in London
Little enough left to do but wait.
It must be nearly four in the morning, thereabouts. The others in their little crew were off ransacking the house where it stood, grand and darkened and quiet. An easy two-man job, really. Ishmael was lurking in the shadow of the house outside, the deserted lawn stretching out before him, on watch. On watch with Monty, which had been a mistake.
Things were... fine. Well, not fine – they were strained, and they hadn’t been the same since March – but when it came to the profession, they had been making it work. Beyond it, Ishmael had spent more nights up at the caverns. Monty shot him sullen looks from time to time. They didn’t talk about the future.
But they had been off-and-on before, this was a habit same as it had always been; and the stalemate could sprawl out forever if they wanted it to, and Ishmael knew he would win it. If losing Monty was winning. He still didn’t know what he wanted.
(He did miss Monty.)
But he was trying not to think about it. He’d prowled the length of the house, half-hoping for a disturbance, and padded back to Monty (who was only here because someone needed to be able to use a wand if necessary). He tried to focus on the scratchy feeling of his throat instead, the thirst he would have to indulge when they were finished here – but now Monty was close enough to smell, and eventually Ishmael dared one glance at him. “Everything alright?” he asked neutrally, trying hard to sound offhand.
It must be nearly four in the morning, thereabouts. The others in their little crew were off ransacking the house where it stood, grand and darkened and quiet. An easy two-man job, really. Ishmael was lurking in the shadow of the house outside, the deserted lawn stretching out before him, on watch. On watch with Monty, which had been a mistake.
Things were... fine. Well, not fine – they were strained, and they hadn’t been the same since March – but when it came to the profession, they had been making it work. Beyond it, Ishmael had spent more nights up at the caverns. Monty shot him sullen looks from time to time. They didn’t talk about the future.
But they had been off-and-on before, this was a habit same as it had always been; and the stalemate could sprawl out forever if they wanted it to, and Ishmael knew he would win it. If losing Monty was winning. He still didn’t know what he wanted.
(He did miss Monty.)
But he was trying not to think about it. He’d prowled the length of the house, half-hoping for a disturbance, and padded back to Monty (who was only here because someone needed to be able to use a wand if necessary). He tried to focus on the scratchy feeling of his throat instead, the thirst he would have to indulge when they were finished here – but now Monty was close enough to smell, and eventually Ishmael dared one glance at him. “Everything alright?” he asked neutrally, trying hard to sound offhand.
