Log:Gethsemane

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Gethsemane
Characters  •   The Martyr  •  The Creepshow  •
Location  •  Creepshow's Room
Date  •  2019-03-06
Summary  •  The Martyr sticks his nose where it doesn't belong and faces some dark truths courtesy of the Creepshow.

NOTE: The first three poses of this were lost in a computer crash and proved unrecoverable.


A brief glance back over her shoulder. Oh. Yeah. There's all that behind her.

"...About?" asks Creepshow, still not exactly letting him in. The bottle is eyed. "Bacardi. Enh. Decent. Something black next time, like my shriveled heart."


The Martyr nods, "Fair enough. I will try to remember." He is studying her, head cocked a little. "Finn liked Max. You aren't Max, though I can see some Max in you. I think I'd really like to get to know actual you, whatever that looks like, instead of just the facet the Finn version of me knew. Whatever that looks like." He takes another steely eyed look at the 'art' while he tries to find the words, "I know I'm new and there are a whole lot of things I won't understand until I've been there and back again a few more times, but I am trying and I am paying attention, and watching you with Oz last night made me realize I was thinking way to small. I need to think bigger and deeper. I still want to be friends with you. All of you if that's possible." He is watching her again with those dark intelligent eyes. "Are you interested in trying that?"


"...I am Jack's utter lack of fucks," Creepy says.

She rubs her face. "Wait, sorry. Fight Club hadn't come out by '89, so that doesn't mean anything to you. Like Emo." Sigh.

"Sure. Yeah, man. Sounds awesome. Are we done now?" She still hasn't taken the rum.


As silly and soft as he so often is, there was always backbone underneath. He is still watching her with that calm, weighing look. "I always have trouble telling with you if you really don't care or if you are pushing away for other reasons. If you really want me to go, I'll go; if you need to test me I'll accept that. Understand, that I've an idea of how not Max you are and some of the ways that could get ugly. Do you want me to go, or do you want to find out if I can handle that and still want to be your friend?"


"Watching me try to murder a friend in the fucking dining room can do that," Creepy says of him being aware of how Not Max she is. Another sigh, another rub of her face.

"Dude. Seriously? Right now is the WORST fucking time to try and be my friend. If you're worried I'll try shanking you with a fucking rum bottle, just don't hug me and it should be avoidable. I'm not testing you, I'm not seeing if you're tall enough to ride this fucking ride. I'm just in a really bad place right now and barely feeling human. In here? I'm a fucking monster. A freak. Ask around. After a few things I've had to do recently, I'm feeling particularly shitty and just can't even with anything. I don't want or need friends right now, and friends can't help me. Okay? Maybe later."

She moves to close the door.


The Martyr says quietly, "I'm the one who tried to hug a murder ghost and rescue her from the lake. Monster or freak isn't going to scare me off. A bad place is sometimes the best time to have a someone who won't flinch from what that looks like. Close the door and the offer still stands. Barely human or not, I'm here. Be shitty at me. Vent at me. Stab me if it will help you."


Creepshow snorts, not yet closing the door. "What if it's me I want stabbed?"


The Martyr blinks once, in surprise, but he doesn't flinch or pull away in horror. Instead, he cocks his head and really thinks it over, tumblers falling into place as he fits the new information in with the peices he already has. In the same calm, serious, conversational tone, with no hint of being repulsed he says, "I think I'd need to talk about it alittle more and have a bit of time to think." He smiles a little sadly, "There are likely better people to ask, but it's not a no. It's more a depends on how the converation ends sort of thing." He doesn't stick a foot or hand in the door, he just waits.


A shrug. "Yeah, well," says Creepshow. "No one who cares about me will. I just... Fuck it. Nevermind. I'm going to bed."

And she closes the door.


The Martyr sighs, and calls, "Fuck sake! Open the door. I can see ways and reasons I might be able to do it. I do care about you and that's why this needs to be a longer fucking conversation!"


He can hear the pop of the lock being set. Soon, the light under the crack of the door goes out.