The last encounter with North was a bitter reminder at the back of Jessie’s head when, very much like a sore loser, he made his way to another man; he’d’ve suited the title of a whore quite well, at that point-- were this an actual case of getting his hole stretched by one man after another--
Alas:
It was not.
Twas with defeat, and a due portion of shame that Jessie ventured down the many winding hallways of the building simply to get into an office of someone else; had he taken the immediate route, he’d’ve achieved it moments ago; yet being that the whole point of subterfuge concealed his thoughts, he wound away instead, such and such corridors underwhelming in their skeleton tackled, and eventually, the doors he slipped into not at all the goal for today:
Instead, the door would lead into a room, and within the room a door another, hidden behind a wise and modern mechanism that, with the right object pulled, introduced him into the space between the walls:
Crawl space.
And its narrow, and discomforting tightness eventually into the right place:
When Jessie did emerge in Solomon’s office, it was very late in the day-- a night, even; he’d not showered yet; after his encounter with the air-headed, and blond-haired vampire from hours ago, he still stank of dirt, and sweat; he stank of blood, as well.
After all, the mean, and deep scratches down his chest that North had left behind had only recently ceased their sultry flow-- now, the blood sat dried on his chest, and yet twas into this man’s office that Jessie entered-- the wall shutting behind him, and his understanding of Solomon being by himself absolute, and given.
After all (on another point), he’d done more than fairly wait to sip on any noises in here-- being that he had to report, he’d’ve waited as long as necessary before those tight, crawl spaces turned him mortal, and mad--
But there was no-one; and within the confinements of his office, his superior, Solomon Zissel existed, regal, and not at all hated.
"Sir," Jessie greeted tiredly, a certain flatness to his tone; as if he'd done enough talking, enough prancing, and flaunting to want to be nothing but a person, currently.
As if what he needed-- needed:
Was to do this:
Face his superior, face whom he reported to:
Face him with this expression of defeat, and fatigue.
"Mind if I crash on your couch, sir, I feel wobbly."
And-- some charming (and underwhelming) honesty.
Posted 06-04-2021, 01:25 PM
Solomon was watering the orchid in his office when Jessie slipped in.
At the sound of the concealed entrance opening, Solomon tensed but didn't jump. They had no plans tonight but, all in all, Jessie wasn't unexpected. Solomon learned, long ago, that it was a loser's strategy to expect anything to happen according to scheduled minutes, meetings, plans. You could be prepared for things - that's about it. And Solomon liked to think he was the sort of man prepared to handle Jessie Michels.
He looked up from the orchid. His eyes widened.
"Jes-" Solomon exclaimed, low. Jessie. He hesitated. "-sus Christ."
Coming from the man with Hebrew letters on his arm.
Solomon didn't give Jessie permission to sit. He crossed his office and, gripping Jessie's shoulders, walked Jessie to the couch himself, expression hard. As soon as Jessie was seated, Solomon snapped away from him and went to his office door. He opened it a crack - enough to lean through without revealing anything on the other side. "Darlin'," Solomon said, voice suddenly casual and affectionate, and slightly patronizing. "I got anything else today?" He knew well he didn't. "No? Well, why don't you take off then. Yeah. It's late-"
Solomon preferred to staff civilian office workers: mostly women, young and pretty. He played it off as a form of sexism - and benign horniness - to obscure how he minimized military intrusion into his affairs. He sent his secretary off, then closed and locked his door.
He returned to Jessie, once again businesslike.
"Specialist-" he started, about to order Jessie to strip off his shirt. Solomon lifted a hand to help - or to do it for him - but then caught himself. He dropped his hand and said nothing, thinking about the flatness of Jessie's tone and understanding, all too well.
Oh fuck no, Michels, Solomon thought, rejecting that realization, I am not the person you get to be a person around.
He wasn't so sure he'd been given a choice.
In any case, Jessie would survive a little longer unmolested by Solomon's care. He'd gotten this far.
Solomon leaned against the edge of his desk, facing Jessie, and crossed his arms. He breathed in deep, catching the smell of sweat and blood. He closed his eyes to block out the sight: to process this. It took barely longer than a blink and when he opened them again, he was a different man. Yet another. It was deathly subtle. "Alright," Solomon said, gentle. "What happened?"
No command. It was an offer of safe harbor: a couch for Jessie to crash on. At least, that was the lie. Solomon reached awkwardly for one his desk drawers and extracted a canteen he kept filled with vodka.
He held it out for Jessie.
Posted 06-04-2021, 11:47 PMThis post was last modified: 06-05-2021, 12:00 AM by Solomon Zissel
Jessie was tempted to apologize; I’m sorry, but you were having such a moment with your orchid, and here I come, disrupting it.
Instead-- he manifested a weird, half apologetic smile for the way the man addressed him; one part of him wanted to tease; is your Jewish ass burning wickedly, for saying His name?
But then-- he hardly believed in such things, himself.
He was moved, then; Solomon came to him, and instead of allowing him to take a seat, he did it himself, as if Jessie lacked the ability to perch down anywhere; somehow, he appreciated it; sporting that slightly amused, and visibly charmed look of someone taken off guard in the best way, he accepted the maneuvering, and then waited for Solomon to send off his secretary-- off in a tone that made Jessie melt; ain’t no way he was admitting that.
He waited.
With the two of them perfectly alone, and Solomon addressing him as so, Jessie quirked his brows at the man, then his head too, appearing oddly teasing, as if he were the other’s latest conquest, far too attractive than what Solomon had requested-- far too amused by one man’s fumbling ways.
It was cute.
So, in pain, with the dried blood, and exhaustion in his frame, Jessie just waited.
It took Solomon a moment to settle; Jessie, in the meantime, curiously, and teasingly watched, perhaps unaware of the intensity of own expression-- perhaps, oblivious; but it took Solomon a while.
It was as the man opened his eyes again, and looked at him again that he looked almost nothing like the man from a few seconds back.
The sight, as well as bewitch, chilled Jessie.
“Oh, I tried to pinpoint if North Sigurd was a level V or not. It went well, as you can see.”
He looked down at himself at that, though the top corner of his vision noticing the canteen offer--
“Oh, no, I lost some blood, alcohol would just dilute it and I’d lose much of the important clotting ability. And then, you know, bleed out.”
He hand-waved it, smiling charmingly-- a sharp contrast to the face he was making, and then he comfortably leaned back, looking down himself; the fact he was no longer hard, or rather had walked that off whilst coming here was a welcome sight, for Jessie could not imagine Solomon’s look as he gauged him as so; on one hand, the thought entertained, as if after all this time he’d finally get to fluster the man--
But on the other hand--
Nah.
Jessie smiled at the man tiredly.
“The results are… inconclusive.”
He frowned, though.
“By which I mean if he were a vampire, well.”
He motioned down himself--
He’d not been wearing his top when sprawled out on North’s desk, whorish, and an offering for the man-- yet by putting it on once he’d walked out of there, he had stuck the fabric to his bloodied chest, in several spots wet, and as the blood dried, almost blackened--
It was a charming sight.
It should not have been.
"Though I did find an actual level V out in the mall. You know what, I'll be coming back to him. He looked dumb and air-headed enough I figure I can easily trap him."
He scoffed at that notion, silently judging of that idiot, tall vampire.
Posted 06-05-2021, 06:02 AM
Solomon was aware of Jessie's eyes.
Hard not to be aware of Jessie's eyes.
They were beautiful: crystalline blue and expressive, in a way that made Solomon wary. Jessie possessed a loveliness that promised not to break when hurt, but to refine. Solomon should've known that - no. No, he had known. He knew all along that one day Jessie would enter his office, bleeding prettily and that most likely? This turn of events was a good sign for him. It meant that whoever had hurt Jessie liked the taste of it.
The question on Solomon's mind now was how much Jessie understood: about the effect he had on others, and of Solomon's hand in sending him into a lion's den. Did he hate Solomon yet? This was important, since Solomon fully intended on sending him back. Like fine fucking wine to the table.
Or a pimp.
North Sigurd, a level V, if. If — Jessie was looking down at himself. Solomon tried to remain impassive but he quirked a brow. If Sigurd were a level V, Sol wondered, what difference would that make to him? Leverage, obviously, but Solomon had no doubt he'd find leverage on Sigurd eventually, infected or not. So. Would he be disgusted?
The tattoo on Solomon's arm - we will outlive them - implied a level of extremism on Solomon's part: of hope in humanity's chances, or genocidal desire against the infected. Would he be disgusted? Solomon shrugged at Jessie and opened the canteen. He swallowed a shot of vodka: your loss. "Right. Be a pity if you bled out on that couch," he said, deadpan. "I like that couch."
Solomon set the canteen on his desk, not missing how Jessie's charm contradicted his expression. Solomon walked away, still listening to Jessie. He returned to the orchid, which was perched on a cabinet in the corner of his office. Solomon bent, opened the cabinet doors and pulled out a first aid kit. This - like the crawl space, originally - was for him, in case anyone ever came to kill him.
He hardly knew how to use it.
Solomon was a sniper. He knew how to plan ahead and wait, and trap, and kill. Medical wasn't his thing.
If North were a vampire, well. "Well," Solomon echoed Jessie. He tossed the first aid kit onto the couch beside his subordinate. If Jessie needed help, Solomon figured, he'd ask.
He didn't care about the level V at the mall and Solomon almost snapped at Jessie, forbidding his asset from doing anything stupid to endanger his life. But he sighed his frustration, instead, and shook his head. Jessie seemed confident in his ability to kill that creature, and maybe it would be healthy for him. If Solomon denied Jessie the chance to take blood, he might grow antsy about the blood being taken from him.
"Sure," Solomon said, giving Jessie the permission he hadn't asked for. "But I want a report on that one, first. Written. A paper trail will make my life easier, if you die. Now, Michels, focus. I didn't ask you if Major Sigurd was a vampire. I'd appreciate you if you answer my question like I'm not some kind of cunt."
He had the ghost of a southern accent, a soft low drawl.
"What happened?"Posted 06-05-2021, 09:37 PMThis post was last modified: 06-05-2021, 10:46 PM by Solomon Zissel
Jessie pouted at the words, yet the pout dissolved soon after: gone with a blink; gone like a thought: gone; and he smiled.
Mischievously, and knowingly, and despite all and the severe look of him, he shrugged immediately: a rascal sure of himself, for he quipped--
“C’mon, I’d make a beautiful corpse.”
He paused soon after though--
“Ah, never mind that, didn’t think it through.”
He giggled so-- leaned back; tired; so, so very tired; perhaps if water was available, perhaps, and Jessie smiled--
And ended up reaching down for water, indeed; on himself a little, safe amount, you never know; a rule that had survived him to the now, and Jessie then reached down and down, disregarding the pain in his front, disregarding the shame of this loss--
And how, down the line, it no longer mattered.
He opened a pocket; one of the many on his clothes; slipped out a little canteen, much thinner, a true lightweight before he brought it up to his lips--
Cap off and the liquid inside.
But he did not hurry:
That would be wrong.
Sipping mellow, and wise, he observed how Solomon walked off-- so to speak, more enthralled by other concerns; not at all interested in me then, Jessie thought, and it soured.
But he didn’t know why.
He just watched the man’s back, keeping his personal offense well concealed beneath his cool gaze, before--
That too, mellowed; the man had taken out a first aid kit--
And that was odd.
Jessie stared, for an instant uncertain, questioning, vulnerable--
Why?
Why do you care?
Solomon did not.
Yet Jessie lowered his canteen, capped it closed and then placed it, neat and respectful on the couch beside him; the kit was reached-- tenderly; and opened; whatever treasures it concealed inside may have as well such for the look of severity he thrust upon; at least a kindling, gentling look, soft and so strong.
But then, Jessie looked up.
The report didn’t surprise--
This was Solomon; if nothing else, he covered all his tracks.
It was the question--
The words.
Or just that one.
Cunt.
That made Jessie flinch, and look away.
The flinch was almost glaring; no matter his expertise in the field of espionage, no matter how he concealed himself-- the vulnerability of his person was out and searching, open, and glaring; when he was not on the job.
When he was ‘round people like Solomon--
His boss.
--then he didn't don it.
Then, he was just a person.
And Jessie shrugged-- grimaced--
And would not look Solomon in the eye.
“Nothing, sir, I simply overestimated my abilities.”
With that, he put the kit beside himself; peel fabric off so he did: and his fingers, tenderly, wound the top away from his body--
Revealed, exactly, the five deep, human scratches North Sigurd had left him; where his hand had ripped; where his fingernails; so sharp and the pull so hard the scratches would scar--
They would remain--
Lingering on and on; only in his death, in his loud passing should the scarring inevitably disappear, melting off with the flesh, the skin--
Into the soil and molecules.
And Jessie sighed--
“I tried to seduce him and it didn’t go right.”
The top was off; the blood had been given no time to be cleaned, therefore remaining; in rivulets like streaks, in red already blackening, plenty like a coverage of his tummy--
And Jessie knew that, too, visible would be that cut he had incised across himself--
Thin, sure, thin o’ lord; thin.
And yet precise, long, a proof of an attempt gone so wrong.
Posted 06-06-2021, 08:50 AM
Solomon studied Jessie.
The bit with the canteen made him want to snort, incredulous: I could get you a cup of water. Solomon had water for the orchid. There was a bathroom not far from his office, where he could fill a mug, if he stepped out a minute.
Jessie set his canteen down on the couch so scrupulously, Solomon wondered if Jessie wasn't asking for more help because it slipped his mind he could, or if Solomon serving him would upset a power dynamic that Jessie needed - consciously or subconsciously - to keep himself together in this moment.
There was a reason Solomon chose the moth orchid to decorate his office.
It was beautiful, for one, and Solomon loved beautiful things. Two, it was easy. It required only indirect light and minimal care: not a hard plant to keep alive, though convincing it to rebloom each season was difficult. A challenge. It was a flower that thrived when neglected, but only when neglected the right way.
Jessie flinched, surprisingly, and Solomon tried to gauge if this flinching was also wilting.
He'd spent years cultivating Jessie. Solomon knew by now that the man was fascinating like a difficult kill - the sort of long range shot that required constant adjustments for endless changes in force and direction, and no matter what, there was always the danger of a miss. Solomon could be Jessie's friend, if Jessie needed it, or a strict boss or a Father Confessor.
He just had to figure out what Jessie needed - what Jessie was starved for - because what Solomon needed was more than this.
Nothing, sir, Jessie said, and Solomon waited, relentlessly patient. Jessie pulled off his shirt and Solomon looked at the scratches North left behind - his eyes incisive and without shame, as if he had every right to look. As if he owned a claim to Jessie. It didn't go right, Jessie added - because clearly it hadn't been nothing (and Solomon wasn't a cunt). Solomon almost laughed at that, devoid of humor. His lip twitched and his eyes softened.
When his gaze fell on the older, thin cut, Solomon finally stepped forward and rested a hand on the back of Jessie's head, at the nape of his neck, like a benediction.
"Jessie," he said, soft but firm. He held Jessie's eyes. "You didn't fail me."
A breath.
Solomon stroked Jessie's hair, once.
Then he went to grab the gallon of distilled water he kept for feeding the orchid, so Jessie could use it to clean off some of his blood, if he wanted. "My secretary keeps a spare shirt for me in her desk," he said, "I'll give you that. Can you handle your injuries on your own or should I call a medic?" Tell me what to get you - Solomon had his own people. Discrete. Cultivated. "You don't win anything from me for suffering, Michels. And I need to know what angered him. Did he make you?"
He returned with the water. "Was it anger?"Posted 06-09-2021, 05:54 AMThis post was last modified: 06-09-2021, 05:58 AM by Solomon Zissel
Jessie felt the man approach rather than saw him; wincing immediately, he looked up with a startled look, and the look of an angry, accusing animal that hadn’t invited the other.
Something about the quality of Solomon’s expression, though, made him go soft.
He didn’t know what.
He sat-- motionless, staring; the hand to the back of his neck felt intimate, but also uninvited; it offended in a manner, and left him vulnerable.
Perhaps twas the vulnerability of the moment which Jessie repelled without a word.
He even did the words--
He may not have looked away, but softly, he frowned.
Then, he looked down.
His eyes closed.
The caress-- the caress was too much; it was when his heart sped up-- when he frowned harder; when he shivered, either immune to the intent behind the gesture, or rejecting it with confusion.
Or something else entirely.
He looked up.
Don’t do this to me, he was thinking, even though he didn’t say a word; questions upon questions began to burn behind his expression, a way to speak without saying a word.
Why, what, how--
Why?
Why are you doing this?
The moment was feeling more and more like something he wasn’t comprehending.
Something he’d not signed up for-- prompting his confused, and strange look to stalk the other in his venture to grab the water-- and all the more when Solomon did return with it, as if every aspect of his behavior was which no textbook mentioned.
As if this were foreign--
Alien.
A wrong kind of conduct that prompted Jessie to stare and ask--
“Why?”
He blinked.
He might have realized the error of his ask only once it was out--
He did look away, after all; close his eyes and shake his head, as if to dismiss something akin to a million many thoughts that blocked the path to speaking some words.
He looked up.
“I pissed him off,” he said, something flat in his tone, something-- frank, a bitter, and unwanted honesty he would not deny either of them.
Laced with shame.
A lot of understanding, and self-reflective shame.
It was like, at that moment, Jessie S. Michels knew all of his flaws, and understood every bit of the way he was a fallible, ugly human.
“I took it too far. I was trying to prove something. I guess I got a gut feeling he was--”
He shook his head.
And only then-- then did Jessie accept the water; no earlier, no later.
He let their fingers touch.
“Sorry, Sol.”
He sighed with weight. With comprehension; the sort that saw a soldier, unwilling, unhappy, and miserable to the front lines of a new war--
The sort that saw his mother, his wife, his children: staring in blankness and crying resignation--
The sort that saw Jessie's gaze down, communicating with the floor.
"I fucked up," he continued, his hand-- the one free of any object-- coming to his stomach, no doubt to smear the blood long dried, or (shakily) claw at skin yet unscarred, untouched.
The Mad Violinist
Posted 06-04-2021, 01:25 PM
