A Vampire and a Mortician Wake Up in a Moor

"Are you saying we're not?" Gus chuckled. Then what Vincent said began to sink in.



It was hard to tell if the man was joking. He didn't seem like he had a sense of humor, but maybe he had the dry, subtle kind Gus was never good at catching. Not until a few days later, at any rate. But say he wasn't joking (Ridiculous), and actually he believed he wasn't a bird. (Well then, he'd have to be stark raving mad, now wouldn't he?) (And what would he be otherwise?)



Not that the idea of being shoved in a box with a lunatic wasn't positively charming, but it wasn't doing anything to make the situation more comfortable. He didn't seem like the violent type (Although he's pretty calm for a man with his side sliced open.), but books and covers. Gus took a moment to strain the muscles in his hand. Nothing. Not even the tip of a pinfeather. What an inconvenient time to become a cripple. (Get used to it, you've got your whole afterlife ahead of you.) He'd just have to hope he wasn't called to prove his race.



"You... are joking, right?" Gus asked hopefully. (Please be joking.)

Gus had a nervous, placating smile plastered across his face. Not that Vincent could see it, and Gus had no intent to change that (What a suit of armor a sweater is! Truly ample protection against this lunatic!). He did, however, inch (Or rather, given the dimensions of their little haven, millimeter) away from the man, trying to put a little distance between them. It wasn't so effective, and unless he wanted to abandon him and the treehouse entirely, he wasn't putting much more than those extra few molecules between them.

(Well. It isn't as if I'm going to die.)

With that little bit of reassurance, Gus allowed himself to relax. Just a little. After all, what's left for a dead man to fear? He was going to have to practice that. This not-fear-ness.

There was a healthy pile of snow growing up around the base of the tree. If nothing else, when they finally did leave the treehouse, there would be a rather soft place to land. He turned his attention back to the (Previously so normal-seeming) man.

"Well, yes, we are. But most people are also birds." He nodded and spoke slowly. "You know? Shifting, molting, flying? Or ah," he hastily caught himself. "Your friends doing so? There was that thing a little while back about a kiwi pilot? First flightless bird in the air? Any of this ring a bell?" To his credit, he was able to keep his voice mostly even, like he was trying to coax memories of bird-dom from Vincent's mind.

"Ha." Sometimes, sometimes, he knew when he was being insulted. "You must not have met many people then."


He crossed his arms and curved his shoulders, one part for warmth and one part for the excellent pouting position it provided. He started breathing heavily into the stale air of his shirt, trying to get it to warm a little. He could feel Vincent shifting position next to him, and leaned to the side to give the man room until he was finished. His new position didn't seem like the most comfortable one, and Gus had to wonder if it was helping his side any.


He chose not to comment on it. He was still feeling a bit peevish, and was getting particularly annoyed at his own bodily failures at the moment. He continued flexing and pushing, trying vainly to get anything, a bit of down, the tip of a beak, anything really, not just to prove a point but because it was getting steadily colder, despite their close quarters, and having a few feathers for insulation would be helpful, to say the least. And yet, here he was, several cold, silent minutes later, bare-skinned and featherless. He was just going to have to suck it up until they could find some place warmer (What if there isn't some place warmer?), and trust that things would work out on their own. They usually did.


"How long do you think this blizzard will last?" he asked mildly, more to break the silence than anything else. He hated quiet. It made him uncomfortable.

"You can't be serious." Gus sat up, not to let Vincent pass, but out of surprise. "It's freezing out there."



As if their earlier conversation weren't enough, this only cemented Vincent's madness in Gus's mind. There was nothing out there- what were the odds of finding another doctor taking a stroll through the blizzard? The only end he could see to this plan involved Vincent being buried in snow until Spring (Does Purgatory have a Spring? He was beginning to regret those Sunday mornings spent sleeping in the pew.). If nothing else, the man was likely to get lost. Gus didn't feel responsible, per se, but... it didn't sit right with him to just let the man go off blindly into the snow.



He resumed the position of a roadblock. There was no need to leave the box, not when they had just gotten here. It was the best and only shelter they had, and a blessing that it was found at all. Vincent, weakened and just a bit tweaked in the head, was obviously not seeing that. "Just lie down. You'll be fine."

Gus threw up a few small cries of protest as Vincent tried to clamber over him, and seriously considered using force to make him stay put (Does it really matter? Let him go.). It didn't matter either way, as Vincent lost his balance and fell onto him. "You wouldn't stand a chance out there." Watching Vincent struggle to right himself was just a bit painful, and Gus couldn't help but feel a little guilty. He was fairly certain it was his fault the man seemed to be falling apart now.



"I'm a... was, a mortician." He shrugged. There wasn't much else to say about it. "Why?"



He patted the blood on his sweater. The yarn was just thick enough to keep it from seeping through and sticking to his chest. He stared at his hand a moment, then wiped it absently on the wall. He ducked his head into his sweater, then shuffled it off. He started regretting this course of action as soon as the cold prickled on his skin, but he wasn't going to back out of it now (Not like I'm going to die, after all. Just be very uncomfortable.). He shivered violently. (Just suck it up.) "Here. Just... please, stop moving. We're going to be fine, I promise. Just need to wait it out." He lay it as best as he could on the man. He meant it as one part apology, one part incentive to just stay put.



He huddled back into himself, arms folded around his knees and face buried between them. No, it was definitely freezing in here, Vincent was right. Gus doubted there was a difference between the temperature inside and outside. But it was dry, at least. And the wind was (mostly) kept out. The only thing Gus was certain of was that it was better than outside. Had to be.