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Since nothing horrible happened last time he was here, Lindon has come back to Lux. He's dressed more appropriately for the club than he was last time, having traded out work clothes for a suit. He cleans up rather nicely, but he still looks like a square. Just a square with some money.
He's with Lamont, to whom he says, "I'm going to have another one of those Ruses. Just don't let me drink too much, all right? I need to keep my head clear."
*
"Do you, now? Why?" Lamont's dressed in his usual severe gray. As if black is reserved strictly for his alter ego. His expression is nearly nonexistent, but his eyes are hooded. Must've already had a drink. "But if you wish, I shall." It's hard for him not to touch Lindon in public. To not let any hints of what they are to each other slip out.
*
Lux emits a certain appeal. Like a beacon where people simply find themselves there and are not entirely sure why. Which would all but explain why the coweled figure that enters in the wake of the Lindon and Lamont finds himself gracing that threshold.
Michael Morbius stands covered in a longcoat that has seen better days with a hood that quite honestly seems about the same. Drab colorsbrowns and tansall seem to meld together into a monotonous blob as he strolls past the bouncer with a turn of his head at the man, slicing with a quick glance as he walks past. He's /not/ dressed for the occassion, but isn't stopped anyway until he pauses of his own volition in the entry and peers up at the mezzanine.
Skin as white as snow, eyes as red as blood, hair as black as ebony, Morbius is a fucked up fairy tale as he squints up at the souls a floor above. Gaunt features twisting up in confusion. The hell?
*
"Because one of us needs to make sure we get home," Lindon says wryly. He sits at the bar, and he orders his drink, then looks to Lamont to see what he wants. He glance past him, over his shoulder to see Morius. One brow arches, and he doesn't mean to do it, but he gives the look of a man that's deeply calculating. There are a lot of thoughts racing behind his mind.
"Am I going to be pouring you into the car?" His attention strays back to Lamont, if somewhat distracted. Too many thoughts flying around in his head. He smiles, and warmth touches those dark eyes. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you're all right."
*
"I hadn't planned to be *that* drunk," Lamont protests, but his tone is mild. Lindon's seen him high, drunk, and otherwise utterly discombobulated, so there's no self-righteousness there. Then he's peering at Morbius, and his lazy posture is altered into something far keener. Softly, to Lindon, he asks, "…..is that what I think it is?"
*
Well, 'it' sure isn't a puppy dog. But who can say for certain in this day and age and /city/? Or even this very club?
Morbius' squared features seem sharp tonight. Gaunt. The dark waves of his hair limp somehow and doing nothing to soften his features as he scans the mazzanine, and then the club's main floor, gaze lingering and direct. They touch first on Lindon, catching the tail end of that calculating look for a split second of direct eye contact. Red. The man's eyes are red—not just the iris either, oh no, the entirety of his eyes are sanguine save for his pupil.
Attention swims fluidly over to Lamont next. A faint twitch in the bridge of his pale nose, Morbius moves on, away from his awkward place in the middle of the entry and to a corner spot at the bar. Because he isn't so much a cliche to need some dark and brooding table. Yet.
*
Lindon murmurs, "I think so," as he glances back to Morbius. He doesn't seem too alarmed. Maybe it's easy to be confident with a sorcerer beside one. "Oh, if that's the case I might have more than one drink." There just has to be a base level of sobriety between the two of them to satisfy some unknown criteria Lindon has.
Lindon can't help letting his gaze linger on the vampire. It's one thing to know of something, and another to see it for oneself. For starters, it becomes his memory. His own. To make up for the ones he's lost. If he's not careful, he'll get caught staring.
*
He's not being particularly subtle about his own scrutiny, is Lamont. It's like hyenas watching a lion approach the watering hole. "I'll just have the one," he says, and there's that faint flat note in his voice. The one that belongs to his alter ago.
*
Like pins and needles on the back of his neck, Morbius shivers with the glances shot in his directionfleeting from Lindon and the more brazen from Lamontit barely seems to matter which from which as any number of other creatures which prowl these darkened halls of indulgence have also felt something stir and have casually turned their attention even momentarily toward him. Or perhaps it's all just paranoia. There are few places he may go where he does not seem to scream 'you don't belong here', there is a weight to the way he carries himself, as if trying to cling to the earth itself as Morbius stops at the bar and wrests his hands from sunken pockets. Long, spindly fingers uncurl like albino spiders legs, splaying loose over the polished bar top. Each tipped with a fingernail too pointed and curved to seem human. He crooks one such digit toward a bartender and leans in to murmur something quiet and under the pulsing music of the club. For being such an oddity, the vampire does little to draw attention to himself. Unless /nothing/ is something. Morbius sits poised with his head bowed down to hide most of his face, hands folded together placidly in a studeous sort of gesture. He waits.
The bartender turns to mix something to the side, but instead of returning to Morbius, he slides two shots down in front of Lindon and Lamont. Dark red, the concoction, in a tall shot and a half glass. The 'man' behind the bar looks between the two with an arched eyebrow. "He says you're not very discrete." Jutting his chin at the shots as he peels away. "That's called an 'evil eye', by the way."
Down the bar, Morbius' mouth curves upward slightly. A turn of his head and a dark red eye peers over to Lindon and Lamont from behind a scraggled veil of black hair.
*
Lindon tells Lamont, "You're always on the clock, aren't you? He's not doing anything." Yet. Unlike Lamont, his own gaze is interested, engaged. He'd as soon interview a vampire as stake it. Then the bartender delivers the drinks, and his eyes widen. His laugh is on the nervous side, but he takes the offered glass and says, "Tell him I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make him uncomfortable." He glances to Lamont again, then down the bar to Morbius. He offer a small shrug, then he raises the glass to him before he takes a drink. Carefully. He's in too nice a suit to spew liquor whose flavor he's not expecting. No, just pulling a small face at the strength of it. Smoothly done, Lindon.
*
There's a laugh from Lamont….and while he's a subdued thing in his ordinary garb, without that striking black add crimson. But the laugh….even without the psychic powers behind it, it has that note of mania. He's genuinely amused and it comes out on that bubbling chuckle. Then he, too, lifts the glass in salute to Morbius, before taking a sip. "Discretion is my watchword," he says, cheerfully, and distinctly.
*
"Not my job," the bartender mundanely calls back to Lindon, not terribly cruel about the refusal, there's a sinuousness to his tone as he makes a round to help another customer.
Morbius straightens slowly, one vertebre at a time until his head nearly lifts to a normal state rather than bowed, but doesn't quite make it. The sounds of laughter sound like a mark hit to him. His index finger tap, tap, tapping on the back of his emaciated hand. "Gia Mas," Morbius says, largely to himself. His accent thick enough to stand a spoon upright in. Russian? No. Greek. A practiced ear would know, if heard.
The spotted vampire turns in his seat to scan the masses here tonight. The people on the mezzanine once more, and to borrow the simile, his attention may seem like a lion stalking a watering hole, waiting for prey. The two men at the bar? Eh, disregarded currently in that capacity, but after a moment of reviewing his prospects, Morbius gathers to his feet and rather than trekking upstairs to see how much trouble he can get into, his sunken eyes flick toward Lindon and hold for an elongated period. Feet following in the direction he's pointed until he finds himself directly outside of the two men's conversational 'circle'.
"You appreciated my joke, I see, yes?"
*
Lindon's gaze turns inward as he tries to work out the logistics of the bartender delivering a message but not delivering messages. He shakes his head. To Lamont, he says, "I'm still trying to work out why people do this when they can have alcohol at home." But look! He's trying. He's outside in nice clothes and everything. When he spies Morbius coming their way, he adds, "Don't let me make a fool of myself."
Ha ha, as if Lamont could stop such a swelling tide of inevitability. Still, when the vampire approaches, Lindon fails to open his mouth and cram his foot so far inside he chokes. Instead, he says, "Thank you, it's a rather nice one. Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."
*
Which is….a pleasant surprise to Lamont. Then he's looking to Morbius. "I do," he says, and he sounds far more pleasant than he looked a moment ago. Not in the least upset. And he extends a long hand to Morbius. "I'm Lamont. This is Lindon."
*
Morbius' permanently furrowed brow lifts slightly in consderation to Lindon's words, pupils shift as he looks around the club once more. "It is expected, I am afraid." His words are thoughtful, for now, articulately trimmed by those softly rolling 'r's and slightly nasal and delicate intonation while Morbius tries to move his lips as little as possible to hide the too many teeth that occupy his maw.
Lamont's introduction shifts the pale creature's attention his way, peering at him hard for a moment before a hand uncurls and carefully, very carefully takes the offered hand. The tips of his hooked talons rest light but still manage to prickle Lamont's forearm through the first layer of cloth. Skin feels paper to the touch, emaciated, but here's the odd thing; it's tepid. Not the cold of the long dead. Not /warm/, but, eh. "My name is Morbius, gentlemen."
*
Lindon leans closer, committing to earnestness as he says, "Because something is expected doesn't make it acceptable. I apologize. My only excuse is that I find you interesting." He pauses, then adds, carefully, "Academically." Phew, no homo, right? Wait, academically isn't much better. "Er…" He looks to Lamont, the whites of his eyes large "Yeees, I'm Lindon. It's nice to meet you, Morbius." He offers his hand as well.
*
This is fascinating. There's no revulsion in Lamont's face. RAther, a sort of academic curiosity. What on earth is he shaking hands with? Looks like a vampire, but….His handshake is gentle, neither pissing-contest firm nor tentative. His hand's warm, dry, and there are gunman's calluses on the palm and the webbing between thumb and forefinger.
*
Callous free is the way to be. Aside from feeling a little skeletal in nature and malnourished (or deadish), there is no such callousing anywhere on Morbius' hand to attest to what he does other than…vampiring around?
Lindon's explanation warrants a peculiar squint to Morbius' eyes, which only increases when he adds the word 'academically' to the end of it. The two men given candid glances now that they've established that he's not about to eat either one of them (for now), Morbius' hand slips carefully from Lamont's grasp and turns to take Lindon's with the same confusing gentile inclinations as his pinprick sharp nails threaten to snag on his suit's arm. "Leendon. Le'mont. I can understand some, ah, interest." Presumably given his hand back, Morbius plucks at the tip of his hood, pulling it forward. "You…have seen a sort of mine before, then. There is little use in playing coy, it seems."
*
Lindon's hands too are rather smooth. He works with books all day with a delicate touch. His handshake is just firm enough and just long enough to fall under the textbook definition of a good handshake. Maybe a little longer as fascination in that taloned hand distracts him from An Acceptable Handshake. Then he reclaims his hand and his drink. "I've heard about you before. Er, your sort, not you specifically." He swallows, then adds, "Would you like to join us? We're just having a few drinks."
*
Do not laugh at the vampire. Don't do it. They can be so very touchy. At least, the ones he's met have been. But it takes a great deal of Lamont's willpower to suppress any sign of a grin. Asking a vampire to join them for a drink. "Something like," he says, carelessly.
*
Talented man, Lindon. Each time he opens his mouth, Morbius' bold brows arch upward in their angular upswept fashion. "I was going to ask, yes. My reputation is not something I cultivate actively." That's a kind way of saying 'You may have heard of how I eat people' though he doesn't seem…proud of it. The offer of joining them for a drink may test Lamont's control, but Morbius himself gives Lindon a patient look which seems to say 'are you certain of what you just asked?'. A look then passed toward Lamont, then back to Lindon. "I…do not believe they carry my vintage, here." Delicate.
*
Lindon toys with his glass, looking at what little's left in it, "Ah, right, I only meant… but why would you… you're probably not here to socialize with us." He gives Lamont a look. You have ONE job here, Shadow. Keep Lindon from doing what he's doing! Sensing he's on his own, Lindon looks back to Morbius and says, "I'm sorry. I don't come out a lot. I don't know how to talk to people. Any people."
*
Lamont just looks bland. And he's a master at that. "I don't know," he observes Morbius. "We're here." …..did he just offer to be vampire dinner? Perhaps he did.
*
"I am here for something that does not seem to be here," Morbius explains with a hint of trepidation as he shifts a foot back to pivot aside and look across the club's patrons on the main floor. Disappointment feathering his expression. It's the apology that brings him back to the pair. "For all it may matter, neither do I. I came here after hearing about a particular reputation, I would not normally be," Morbius pauses and waves an articulate hand over the scene in front of them, letting it speak for itself. "Nothing wagered nothing gained."
It's Lamont's turn to be met with a peculiar, lengthy look from inhuman-looking eyes. Unsure what to make of the two, Morbius' mouth opens, then closes again, peering close at the remarkably unremarkable fellow. "Yes," uncertain how to respond to those words, the syllable falls haltingly. "You are." Music from the club fills in the cavernous pauses, unsure just what to make of that interaction, but something about it prickles something in the back of Morbius' mind. Temptation and a warning. "That sounds more peculiar than you may have meant."
*
Lindon finishes his drink. Yeah, Lamont just said what he said. "I'm not sure what reputation you mean," he says. "I'm not a regular. I just, um." He gestures vaguely. Put on a suit and came to a bar, like he never, ever does. In that moment, a man has never looked so lost. Forget the vampire, there are people all around, so many of them, and the music is loud. It's good, but there's just so much of it. He takes a few deep breaths, then tells Lamont, "I think I need to step outside for a bit." He gets to his feet, never one to linger for conversation.
*
"All right," Lamont says,gently. "And perhaps so," he acknowledges, easily. What is he that the prospect of being preyed on by some sort of vampire is not enough to make him uneasy.
*
Understanding something he sees in that lost expression Lindon wears now that his eagerness has faded, Morbius breathes deeply, his posture lifting for that moment. He nods and gestures with an elongated hand toward the door with an articulate flowering of his digits. "Please. Do not let me keep you." He gets it. Looking between the two, his attention sticking to Lamont like the hooks of velcro clinging to a couple little loops. "It was my pleasure." Now who's the weird and interesting one?
*
Lindon tells Morbius, "It's not you." It's important to him that the vampire not be offended by his oncoming social panic. He gestures to his abandoned seat and says, "Please, just…" He gestures between the two of them. He offers Lamont a weak smile, then makes his way to the door. In the future, there will be a name for this, and it won't be seen as just some dweeb being a freak. Today is not that day.