singillatim | open / and I've been putting out the fire with gasoline

Thomas narrows his eyes again, but it's not at Dorian this time. It's at the Darkwalker, at the creature that has plagued them over and over again for over a year. He can't escape these creatures, it seems.

Instead of saying anything, he turns his back and walks into the kitchen, coming back with a small block of ice wrapped in a towel.

"For your face," he says softly.

Dorian remains seated, not wanting to move or do anything until Thomas returns. When he does...this is unexpected. Dorian blinks slightly, obviously not surprising the ice.

"Thank you." With a little nod, he puts the ice up to his nose—hopefully this will reduce the swelling.

He wants to ask 'what do you plan to do with me next'—after all, Thomas can easily rat him out to the entire community. But he keeps that thought to himself. Instead, Dorian looks over at Thomas, waiting to see what the man does next.

Thomas folds his arms across his chest. "You have to tell them what you did. If others are like you, then you need to - determine another plan." He shakes his head. "I'm not going to kill you."

He wasn't sure if Dorian understood that was a possibility.

But consider this: he doesn't want to do that. He'd rather they push all this under the rug and not deal with things? We can forgive a little murder.

Dorian nods, a little frown on his face, before he points out, "I'll tell people in person. But there's not Facebook or Twitter or anything like that here—and I highly doubt that many people read the bulletin board. It's entirely possible that a few people will miss the memo about what someone like me can do. Hell, I didn't learn about the Forest Talkers until a few days ago and I've been here months."

A round-about way of saying 'don't come for his ass if people don't hear about this.'

Those sure are gibberish words, but Thomas nods along as if he understands.

"You can call a meeting. You can post it. But that woman was a person, Mr. Gray, and you took her life from her. That may not mean anything to you, but many people do care about others."

But he doesn't want to.......

Jopson is absolutely going to have to get onto Dorian's ass about this because he will be dragging his feet like nobody's business.

But there's something about Jopson's words that irritate Dorian. He frowns for a moment before pointing out, "I'm not callous. The fact that someone has died does mean something to me." Just not as much as his own existence does.

He doesn't believe him at all and shoots him a dark look.

"And if I hadn't come along? What would you have done?"

"I don't know."

And that, at least, is an honest answer. Dorian's got a plan for dealing with corpses back in Milton. He doesn't really have a plan for dealing with them in Lakeside.

"All I know is I'm not the heartless monster you want me to be."

"No, Mr. Gray. I fear you might be something much worse." He folds his arms across his chest. "Stay here until the evening. Then leave."

Dorian rolls his eyes in a bit of an overdramatic fashion, before he nods. "Leaving in the evening works for me. Hopefully we won't see each other again for a while."

He comes over with a kettle to set against the fireplace.

"I hope we do. Once you've told people."

"Look, I'm a man of my word. If I say I'll tell people, then I'll tell people."

Just slowly. One at a time. Not unless provoked. No big announcements.

"I don't know what sort of man you are," Thomas argues, waiting for the water to boil.

"Then ask me about myself," Dorian says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "If I'm to be stuck with you here tonight, we might as well make the most of it. And since I doubt you'll be fun, idle chit-chat it is."

He glances over his shoulder again. "What do you consider - fun?" He pauses. "Here, of course."

What an odd question to start with. Dorian frowns a little, obviously not expecting that. He mulls it over, thinking to himself, before,

"Most of what I consider fun I can't find here. So I guess it's reading. I've enjoyed having time to just sit down and read."

Dorian had brought it up, and now Thomas is beginning to see why.

"You don't usually have time for that?"

Dorian shakes his head. "I travel a lot. I like to keep busy. Sitting around and doing nothing is a luxury for my life."

Thomas pours them both tea into cups and hands Dorian his. There's nothing to sweeten it, but he doesn't even really offer. "What fortunate that you live a life of idleness, Mr. Gray. Where do you travel?"

Dorian takes the cup, takes a sip of the tea, then winces a little at the bitterness. It's fine? It's fine. He's certainly had worse.

As for the question,

"Oh, all over the place. All around Europe, of course, but I've ventured out to America for a bit—I took a trip to Iceland once. I saw the Northern Lights."

And got mauled by a werewolf, but he's keeping that to himself!

"I've settled down recently, at least as much as someone like me can settle down. I work at an art gallery."

The wince pleases him for a lot of reasons. Most of them petty.

"We see the lights here," he grumbles softly. "What sort of art?"

"Modern, mostly. Contemporary. But I've an appreciation for the classics." There's a moment's pause before Dorian asks,

"You're retro, right? One of those Victorians? Have you heard of Walter Sickert? Or is he past your time?"

"One of those Victorians," he echoes disdainfully, looking down his nose at Dorian for a moment. "I don't know the name, no."

"What would you rather I call you?" Dorian points out, a little defensively. "There's what, eight or so of you lot from the same time? It's useful to give you all a designation."

He's right in labeling Thomas 'one of those Victorians' and he will die on this hill.

He narrows his eyes just slightly. "My name is Thomas," he says with a bit of a bite.

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