singillatim | open/closed : hello, i'm here, i'm living in the wall

Before he can realize what's happening, Dorian is popped in the nose. Which, ouch? That hurt? He didn't deserve such treatment. Truly, he has done nothing wrong.

Fortunately for Raylan, a quick touch isn't enough for Dorian's Darkwalker Revenge power to kick in. Unfortunately for Raylan, that's exactly what Dorian plans to do next. His nose is damn near broken, blood trickling from it, trickling to his mouth and lips, but Dorian tries to push through the pain anyway. He can win this. All he has to do is grab onto Raylan and hold tight.

So he attempts to do just that. Dorian lunges forward, reaching towards Raylan, attempting to grab the man by the wrist. He's not lunging to fight, he's not lunging to start any combat, he knows he'll lose a fight. Dorian just wants to grab the closest piece of Raylan's body and hold on tight.

The smell of blood, the iron of it, was sharp in the cold air, making some part of his mouth water a little bit more than he was any where near comfortable with. Oh it was gonna be a fight - there was no other possibility in Raylan's mind as Dorian grabs at him. A fight is what he wanted, what he needed.

Dorian's fingers burned with their coldness and Raylan grabs his shirt again to long step, half run Dorian hard into the house he had been holding the woman against. His face was snarled, eyes black with the fury that lived like a small pyre to his humanity in his gut, but the slow pull of power from him stole it away cracked the expression into one of startled realization.

Shit.

That grip in Dorian's shirt is used as a handle as Raylan takes a step back to try and turn, to hurl the immortal away - onto the ground or into the street, whatever might get Dorian off him and gain some space.

Shit. He could already feel the affects, making his attempted hurl more of a turn and shove, but it was too late now.

Edited 2026-02-20 01:45 (UTC)

Dorian's grip is tight enough to make Raylan feel like shit for the rest of the day, but that's about it. Dorian's holding on for all his might, holding on as tight as he can, not really caring about the fact that if he holds on long enough, he'll kill this man. Fortunately, an even weakened sheriff is stronger than Dorian 'no grip strength' Gray.

Raylan's shove works. Dorian's holding on as tight as he can, hand gripping the other man's wrist, but sooner rather than later, he's pushed off. He hits the wall of the nearest house with a thump, letting out a yelp of pain as he does so.

Congrats Raylan, you're no longer grabbed! But Dorian's pushing himself back to his feet, steady for the moment but visibly unsure if he wants to continue this fight or not.

The fact that the shove works feels like some sort of miracle, with his head suddenly aching, body's protesting turning from a dull thrum that was easily discarded as an effect of the cold or the weirdness to something that make it suck to move too far in any given direction. Big swings were out unless he was desperate now. He pants softly, hat miraculously still on his head and does nothing else, save for opening his jacket.

That move alone was a threat. It gave him free access to his gun and his hand hovers, fingers holding the wool of his jacket between two pinched fingers.

"Walk away," he commands, voice steady and calm, tone as reasonable as if they'd bumped shoulders on a sidewalk. "An' the next time I see you doin' this, I'll only shoot you in the leg."

Given as a compromise, it would assure they both knew where they stood, even if it did nothing to address the promise that Dorian probably knew nothing about. Compromise or not, Raylan's cool and easy tone suggested he'd keep his end of it, to the letter.

Dorian’s breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath, running on adrenaline. And something inside him just twitches a bit. Whatever happened, whatever he managed to grab from Raylan, whatever’s currently boiling up inside him, he’s getting pissed. He’s being threatened? Dorian? How dare he?

“You know there’s going to be a next time,” Dorian growls, not bothering to hide the anger in his voice. “Whatever this is, whatever the Darkwalker has fucking done to me, I’m not the only one. And I don’t think it’s going to stop until we’re all dead.”

As he says this, it’s noticeable that he’s not moving closer to Raylan. For all his bluster and anger, Dorian isn’t an idiot. He can be mad, but he knows for a fact that there’s a nonzero chance that if he starts it back up, if he goes back to physical conflict? He’ll lose this fight.

The fucked up thing was that Raylan knows Dorian is exactly right. Too bad he couldn't say that, couldn't agree with the man and undercut his chosen position. Because true or not, it didn't adjust his chosen position. The Right one.

"Then I guess you should start workin' on fuckin' crutch, shouldn't you. Just cause we're all doomed don't mean I can stand aside watchin' that shit. Neither does it give you license to murder at will."

If that's what this was gonna have to be, then that's what it was gonna be - Raylan didn't hate Dorian or even particularly blame him; he couldn't, the hypocrite that he was. Those facts still didn't change the state of things.

“I’m trying,” Dorian hisses. Because that’s one thing that he’s not sure Raylan or other people here realize. By God he’s trying. There’s a part of Dorian that wants to just give in, to damn everyone in this place just to keep himself alive. But he knows that as long as he’s here, as long as he’s got to live in the same place as everyone else, he can’t do that. He has to play nice.

Besides, part of him worries that once he does this, if he is the last man standing (like he should be, like he always is), then the Darkwalker won’t care. He’ll just be picked off in the end. Dorian doesn’t know if it will happen. But no matter what, it’s stupid not to back the winning side.

“I’m already trying, I’m already working on it. But this hunger…fuck, you don’t know what it’s like until you’ve experienced it yourself. It will consume me if I let it.”

The adrenaline from the fight has started to ebb and the sapped strength from Dorian's drawing more clear to Raylan's senses as his legs threaten to fold underneath him, as the beading sweat on his face starts cooling in the frigid air. But surprisingly, there wasn't a lake of fury waiting to fill the void left by the adrenaline, nothing waiting in the dark edges of his mind to spring him back into action or violence.

He'd wholly forgotten what that feels like. Raylan's expression doesn't change, but his hand moves up to tuck a thumb into his pocket, making him look less coiled and ready to strike.

"I know what it's like. I might not have picked up that little.. trick from the Darkwalker, but I know what it's like to be consumed by somethin' here." Here, his tone finally starts to shift away from the cold steel of authority and back towards something a little more.. human. "What it's like to have somethin' take over. Part of the reason why I only said I'd shoot you in the leg instead of the chest."

He sighs, a hard ejection of breath, with a glance this way and that as he considers continuing.

"I promised Chloe that I'd help you. Folks like her. I don't know how to do that. 'Cause I ain't becomin' a snack pouch and I can't stand aside and watch the consequences."

Raylan is cooling down at the same time that Dorian is heating up. The Darkwalker induced hunger is now clashing with the Old Bear taking root in his brain. Raylan knows what it’s like to be consumed? Then why the fuck did he stop Dorian? Who is he to be arbiter of what’s right and what’s wrong? Who died and made you boss?

There’s a tenseness to Dorian’s being, an ever-growing anger that’s creeping onto his expression. He seems less hungry now, less likely to do something rash—Dorian is still keeping his distance and seems to be acting less on instinct now. That doesn’t change the fact that he is big mad, ready to snap at Raylan and pick a fight simply to pick a fight. At Raylan’s last statement, he can’t help but let out a cold, bitter bark of a laugh.

“Is that supposed to reassure me? Saying that you want to help but you can’t think of any way of doing so? Your ‘thoughts and prayers’ attitude is meaningless bullshit.” He rolls his eyes before continuing. “You know how to help—you’ve already helped. Chloe and I, things like us, we don’t have to kill people. If you truly gave a shit, you’d be offering yourself up. Instead, you expect me to be fine with your excuses?”

"Don't have to and won't are two wildly different things," he answers, a bit of cool steel threading back through his tone with a heavy dose of cynicism and a slight furrow of his forehead. "And considerin' the alternative, you probably oughta be reassured. Hell, you can be whatever flavor of indigent as you like."

He was trying to be understanding, goddamnit!

"Shit happens here far too often, and doubly so now. I ain't dyin' for you and I doubt you'd like the reassurance I'd need in order to open negotiations." A barrel against Dorian's head and the threat that was in front of that hammer was a hard, high price.

"So we'll settle on rules and promises. You a man of your word, Gray?" He doubted it, but he doubted it of everyone until they proved him wrong; this at least had nothing either way to do with the curses put on them.

He's not a man of his word in the slightest.

It's obvious that Dorian has no idea what to do with the irritation given by the Old Bear and is having a very hard time trying to tamper it. He tries to settle it by pacing, walking in a little circle like a caged dog or a toddler that doesn't know what to do with himself.

"I suppose that depends entirely on what the promise is. I'm not a man of my word if it's given under duress. Say what you're thinking and then I"ll decide."

open/closed : hello, i'm here, i'm living in the wall

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