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Legundo is at the end of a bar, alone, staring out over the eclectic mix of patrons that all seem to have gathered in this establishment. There is a corner of the room that seems to be completely full of people dressed to the nines, gowns and tuxes and the sort of modest jewelry that Legundo knows must have cost thousands. Shifting his gaze just slightly to the left, though, reveals a group with a more alternative style, heavy makeup, piercings, distressed and homemade clothing.
Some people seem ‘normal’, whatever that word can be said to mean, enjoying the music in jeans and T-shirts and what have you. Others very much not so – a small cluster of dancers seem to have decided this is the place to be right after heading home from a renaissance fair, all ruffles, tunics, puffy sleeves and trousers. One young woman is wearing a full Victorian ball gown, her arms wrapped around a partner in denim overalls and a sports bra. An older man sits in the corner, and Legundo can only imagine he is trying to cosplay some sort of pirate.
Soft red lights flow across the room, coloring skin and clothing and hair alike. It is more a lounge than a bar, quieter music, more a space to sit and talk than to shout and dance, which suits the man just fine.
It has been a few months since the time Cleo dragged him out for a ‘girl’s night’, undeterred by the fact he was unwilling to commit to a larger group than just her and him, nor by the fact that neither of them is a woman. Thirty-two years of school and residency and fellowship followed by military service – ‘going out’ is not exactly the sort of thing Doctor Legundo had ever had much experience with, and Cleo had decided that this was a travesty in need of fixing.
That night had honestly not been as terrible as he feared it might be. Cleo had intentionally chosen a themed evening with songs Legs recognized, the sort of event that drew a slightly older crowd so Legundo did not feel too far out of place. She had made sure to give them both earplugs, and checked in often to make sure everything was alright. That club had even had a quiet room in the basement, a tertiary bar with no music and far enough away from the sounds above to see them entirely muffled.
Legundo has found himself coming back several times, since then, entirely alone. Not usually to the same place. The dancing is not really his thing, and the screaming and thumping can get to be a bit much. He hardly drinks alcohol, preferring to avoid it when possible. Sometimes people approach him, and it is flattering, but he is certainly not interested. But he enjoys… people watching. In the park, in the library. And here was a sort of venue where a very different mood of people tended to be found.
The… hobby, if one can call it that, helps remind him of the life all around him. The young, the old, the joyful, the wretched. There are people here, and most of them want to be, and they get to be. They get to choose.
Tonight, he had wandered beside this strange place. He had taken a single glance at the signage and decided it might be a little too out of his budget. But at that moment, a group of those more eccentric clients had entered, and he had realized he might have misunderstood. And the place was intriguing, and he had not been to it before, so he had requested entry and been granted it with only a slightly arched eyebrow from the bouncer. The décor was unique, roses and vines wrapped around dark columns in the corners, and the clientele was equally so. So, he is here, now, and while the prices are indeed higher than he might prefer, a virgin mojito is hardly going to break the bank.
Speaking of. Legundo stares down at his drink, ice and leaves settled at the bottom of the glass. It had been good, but it might be time to get out of here. It is getting quite late, already an hour past midnight, and though he has no work tomorrow, the fitness ring Cleo insisted on forcing him to wear will surely start to complain about a broken sleep schedule, soon. The music is slowing down, much quieter than it has been up until now, and individual conversations are suddenly almost possible to pick out even from his corner of the room.
This place had indeed proved interesting, and Legundo thinks he might come back here a couple times, try and puzzle out what exactly is drawing these strange diasporas to this establishment specifically.
A part of him cannot shake the feeling that the people here are watching him back, though. That there is some sort of reason the bar he chose remains so empty, the seats beside him never once taken the entire evening. The gentle red lights sometimes hit their eyes just so, the steam and the darkness seeing their movements appear inhuman.
It is paranoid. Irrational. He tries to suppress it.
…Maybe he should not come back here.
“What could possibly have a man like you sighing so forlornly? Is there some inherent tragedy in the leftover peel of a lime?”
The doctor starts, having been too lost in his own thoughts to properly pay attention to his surroundings. A tall man rests an elbow on the tabletop beside him, one hand on his hip while the other is resting in the air above his shoulder.
This one is draped in golden jewelry, layers of necklaces and rings and what appear to be piercing-free cuffs adorning his ears. Perfectly styled, platinum white hair rests around them. His top is a loose, black button-down shirt with an odd sort of ruffled turtleneck at the top rather than a classic collar. A thick band corsets his waist, fitted pants flaring under the knee, the shape accentuated by the addition of a triangle of dark red flounces sewn into the side.
Expensive, clearly high maintenance. A bit off-putting, to the old veteran, though the fact that much of the clothing appears custom rather than designer blurs the lines, somewhat.
“My eyes are up here, darling,” the man teases, and Legundo’s gaze is finally drawn back to his outlined features, a thin shock of color above black eyeliner.
Legs has to focus on the makeup, because the eyes themselves are a piercing red. It is unsettling. Surely these are just contacts, but the lounge is too poorly lit to confirm the outline, and somehow he cannot convince himself of what must be the case.
He takes a final sip of his drink – more water than mocktail, at this point, settling his illogical nerves.
“I was just getting ready to leave.”
The stranger pouts, dark red lip poking out and eyebrows knitted together.
“So early? You simply must let me get you another drink.”
Legundo is about to repeat his dismissal, not the sort to be tempted by a pretty man promising to spend money on him, when the interloper pushes off the bar and glides around and through the gate to stand behind it instead.
His lips curl into a smile at the doctor’s confused look.
“I don’t think you’re allowed to do that,” Legundo comments.
The only response he gets is a soft hum, as the man in front of him selects a bottle from the shelf and grabs another glass.
“Rum is your poison of choice?” he asks, eyeing the doctor’s empty cup.
“I’m not drinking alcohol, tonight.”
The smile widens just a touch, and he sets aside the bottle, leaning over the bar in a way that puts him far too close to Legundo’s face. He rests his chin on the back of his wrist, empty glass cocked in… in his claws, long, sharp painted fingernails that Legs had somehow missed on his first overview.
“Virgin, then, hm?”
He slips away before Legundo can figure out a response to whatever that was, picking a few other bottles from the shelves instead, absentmindedly filling a Boston shaker with ice. The actual bartender is busy on the other side, not having come over to check on Legundo once since his initial order, the five, six seats between him and anyone else at the bar still remaining totally empty.
“What might you like, I wonder. A Bloody Mary, hold the vodka? Or maybe a White Russian, no Kahlúa?”
That startles a laugh out of the old veteran, and the stranger looks incredibly smug about the reaction.
“I’d rather not drink straight heavy cream, thank you very much,” Legs comments.
“Oh, of course not. What sort of half-baked tempter do you take me for?”
The man pours a bit of some unknown liquids, two streams crossing over the ice, then pulls the bottles away with a flourish. A third bottle is held dramatically high to add another ounce, aimed perfectly at the opening as well.
Fingers curl around metal, and Legs watches the wannabe bartender shake the ice, finding himself charmed by the theatrics and bemused by the boldness.
“What are you making, then?”
The man cracks the shaker apart and pours a glass for Legundo.
“Lemon and grapefruit – just juice, darling,” he assures.
Seemingly on a whim, he plucks a single petal from one of the roses adorning the back of the bar and places it delicately on top of the ice.
“With rose syrup, for flavor. Simple, romantic – don’t you agree?”
Legundo raises an eyebrow.
“You’re lucky I’m no longer on buspirone. You ought to have at least asked.”
The man pushes the glass across the bar, leaning over close to Legundo again.
“I do apologize, ‘doctor’. Is grapefruit acceptable? Any allergies I should be aware of?”
His tone is light and teasing, almost as if the very thought of something like that is laughable, and Legs finds himself the slightest bit irritated. He grabs the drink, taking a tentative sip.
It tastes good.
Annoying.
“No. And for your information, I am a surgeon.”
“Ooh, a trained man. I like it.”
The stranger twirls back around, apparently fixing himself a drink as well, thankfully letting him miss the way Legundo’s shoulders tense at the phrasing.
“You must work so hard. What brings you here, of all places? I don’t believe you’re, ah,” his eyes flick back for a moment, “a regular.”
His choice appears much simpler, some sort of bright red liqueur poured straight into a tall cocktail glass, two oddly dark maraschino cherries skewered through and rested inside.
“What an odd way to ask if I ‘come here often’,” Legundo deadpans.
“Hm, I know you don’t.” The man strides back around the bar, claiming the seat next to the doctor and placing his cup in front of him, gently plucking the toothpick from the drink and bringing it to his mouth. “Someone would have already snapped up a sweet thing like you,” he says, then bites down to pull off the lowest cherry.
Legundo cannot help but watch the motion.
“Flattery only works if it’s believable,” he scolds.
That smile is back on the stranger’s face, the second cherry passing his equally dark red lips, and it is only then that Legundo notices how sharp his canines are. They almost look artificially so, as if this is one of those lunatics who get their natural teeth shaved down for ceramic crowns in the shape of vampire fangs.
It would match the eyes and the hair. Some people’s sense of fashion is inscrutable.
He takes another sip of his rose-flavored juice.
“I realize I never introduced myself,” the man eventually says, setting aside the skewer. “My name is Scott Goldsmith, and I own this place. You need not be concerned that I was breaking any rules, Doctor.”
“I’m sure you would never.”
“I’m just here to check on everything, confirm my dear bartender over there is not facing any trouble.”
Legundo raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“Do you always flirt with your clientele while on the job? However do you get anything done?”
The stranger – Scott, apparently – laughs, light and airy.
“One can mix business and pleasure sometimes.”
“Not in my line of work,” Legundo grunts.
Scott very obviously telegraphs dragging his gaze across the doctor’s body, those red eyes eventually settling back on Legundo’s green ones.
“Ah yes. With all those oaths and regulations – it’s a wonder you all get anything done. It must be so stifling. So stressful. I can’t imagine.”
“I thought you were all about following rules, Goldsmith.”
The man hums, languidly pulling on his drink before answering.
“Hippocrates was before my time,” he comments. Legundo is not quite sure what to make of that phrasing. “I do say, I was quite intrigued by Aquinas, at one point. He was on an interesting track, what with considering what is ‘good’ to be what is ‘beneficial’ and ‘natural’, but his insistence on bringing ‘God’ and ‘sin’ and ‘virtue’ into it all quickly got dull. ‘Self-evident’ to him, maybe.”
“I’m afraid I never studied anything but medical ethics formally, though I do have some personal interest,” Legs admits, finding himself drawn into the conversation despite himself. “And I’m not a spiritual man.”
Scott licks a bit of wetness off his lower lip, and Legundo wishes he would stop doing that. Biting, sipping, smiling. It is irritating. The man should wear a mask, honestly. Save the rest of them the burden of having to witness this.
“Not even an inkling of belief in the supernatural, Doctor?”
“Never had cause. Though, I imagine such a connection can help solidify what it means to be good for those who feel it.”
“Hm, yes,” Scott muses, staring off somewhere behind Legundo for a moment before looking back at him and starting to trace a fingernail over the edge of his glass, expression going mischievous. “It’s true. Some people like being told what to do.”
The hairs on the back of Legundo’s neck stand on end. He decides the reaction must have been from sheer distaste.
“One might hope even such people think for themselves, sometimes.” Legs drinks from his mocktail, a part of him briefly wishing it was alcoholic in truth. “Nothing good ever came from blindly following orders,” he mutters, voice going dark.
“Oh? Sounds like there’s a story behind that one.”
“Don’t press your luck, Goldsmith. I don’t need to finish this drink.”
“My luck?” Scott laughs again, though he mercifully does drop the subject. “Now you’ve gotten me curious, Doctor. No holy books to guide you – how do you decide what is ‘good’? ‘Do no harm’, I expect, but I doubt it is that simple.”
Legundo thinks to himself for a moment, trying to formulate a proper response to the question.
“I suppose you’d call me a utilitarian,” he eventually settles on.
Scott scoffs, rolling his eyes and bringing his glass to his mouth again.
“Not ‘interesting’ enough for you?”
He sets the cup down, waving away some invisible fly.
“‘Utilitarian’, he tells me. What a cop-out.”
“I might have said sorry to disappoint, but you’re the one who approached me. A simple answer from a simple man.”
For but a second, Scott drops the affect. “I hardly believe you simple, dear doctor,” he says, pupils – pools of blood glinting in the dark. “Naïve, at worst, though I imagine unlucky would be a better descriptor for tonight.”
Legundo feels another chill run down his spine, and this time the cause is certainly unease.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
The moment passes quickly, the white-haired man’s expression returning to light disgruntlement.
“One can’t just claim ‘utilitarianism’ and leave it at that. Oh, sure, it tells me you’re not the sort to start soliloquizing on ‘virtue’ and ‘nature’ and such, nor the sort to indulge in the safety of solipsism. But past that?” Scott gestures vaguely. “What function do you define? Are you aiming to maximize total or average benefit? Do you point at utilitarianism when you truly mean altruism?”
Falling back into the draw of the discussion, Legundo once again pauses to actually contemplate his answer. This sort of thing matters to him. It is honestly all that matters.
“Protect the body – protect as many as you can. Lose the leg, save the life.”
At Scott’s look, he forces out more detail.
“Actions guided on a best guess regarding realistic, individual consequences rather than going by rule of thumb. I would argue I lean toward ‘average’, though the concept of that versus ‘total’ is not as black and white as I believe some might try to say. They must be meshed.”
“And what are your thoughts on the usual counter-arguments? Utility monsters, the concept of culling those below the average. Or with total, the argument that thus population growth is the ultimate moral ‘good’?”
Legundo finds himself more enthused than he might have thought he would be, pleased with the opportunity to discuss such things with one who seems to be clever and interested enough to listen.
“Yes, there are clearly things to consider,” he agrees. “For average, a utility monster is an outlier that should be ignored. Average with such an upper-end outlier cap must be avoided in its pure form, too, as addition of closer to neutral but still negative individual experiences should almost never be considered a positive, and deletion of a closer to neutral but still positive individual experience is plainly stupid. That is why I say total must be part of it – maybe this steps out of pure functional conceptions and into something more wishy-washy, but the world is not purely functional, and it is misleading to conceive of morality as solvable by mathematics. We say ‘deletion’ and ‘addition’ – what does that even mean? It becomes politics, at some point, a greater ‘evil’ than all of it.”
He pauses for just a moment to take a breath, letting the rhetorical question hang.
“Then, in the sense of Omelas, I agree with the conclusion regarding its implications as a critique of social systems. But the specific ethical scenario presented is more arguable. An only very slightly different story might see me stay – a temporary suffering consented to, as atonement or punishment. Lose the leg, save the body, as I said – there can be utility in sacrifice.”
“And that ‘utility’ in question for you is what, exactly?” Scott prompts.
His attention is full and total, to the point where it almost feels like he has not blinked since the doctor started explaining. Legundo takes a swig of his juice to allow himself another moment to phrase his thoughts correctly.
“Where utility is well-being and happiness of sapient creatures, and to a lesser degree sentient ones.”
Scott hums, eyes crinkled in pleasure.
“‘Some personal interest,’ indeed,” he teases.
“If you want an exact description of a stable, logical function, I’ll have to say I cannot provide it. If that makes ‘utilitarian’ the wrong term, so be it,” Legundo finishes off, electing to ignore the heckle. “I am no perfect, eternal being who can speak with certainty on the subject. In fact, my personal opinion is that no such thing can possibly exist.”
The bar owner smiles wider, showing off those odd designer teeth.
“You think so?”
Legundo stares back, unwilling to let paranoia get the better of him again.
“Even if immortality were real, I do not believe a person who gets their hands on such a thing could ever be trusted with anything. You would need to be both all-knowing and perfectly benevolent – I’ve already shared my thoughts on God, Mr. Goldsmith.”
“Would you take the gift of immortality if you had the chance?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Legundo sighs, staring at his drink, trying to decide how much he wants to say. Something in him wants to say all of it, to tell someone, even, or maybe especially if it is some stranger at a bar that he will never meet again. But he cannot. He should not. He did not, earlier, for good reason.
“I do not need eternity. It’s bad enough having to know that I have a few decades ahead of me, living with what I’ve done. I don’t need centuries.”
Claw-like nails tap along the neck of an almost empty glass, white-haired head tilted lightly to the side.
“What is that saying,” Scott wonders aloud. “Ah, yes. ‘Time heals all wounds’, right, Doctor?”
“Scars don’t wear off as easily. Our minds are hardcoded to remember the worst more than anything else. It’s how we work.” Legundo says, then winces, regretting the overshare once more.
Scott does not seem to mind.
“I’ve never had trouble focusing on the good, myself. Perhaps I could help you make some sweeter memories, tonight?” he pokes, sly smile back on his face.
The doctor grunts, not tempted in the slightest. “Seems you’ve led a charmed life, Mr. Goldsmith,” he states, before finishing off the rest of his drink. “And my memories of tonight will already be pleasant,” he mutters, just quietly enough that he can delude himself into thinking the other man might not hear him.
Scott just hums, hiding his face behind his cocktail glass, and with the lack of follow-up, the two men fall into a longer silence.
Legundo finds his gaze wandering once more, first around the floor behind them and then back over Scott, tracing fine black lace and embroidery along the seams of the corset and pants that he had not even noticed at first glance.
The man catches him looking, throwing him a wink, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to never see this outfit again. The talk has been nice, but the flirting he could have maybe done without.
Maybe.
“Well,” Legundo states. “Now you know all about the strange man who entered your bar, and you’ve gotten another drink in me. Did you get what you wanted?”
“Oh, always, Doctor,” Scott purrs. “Though, I can hardly claim to know all about you when I don’t even know your name.”
The doctor blinks, realizing he never actually introduced himself after Scott had.
“My name is Legundo. Legs, if you must.”
“‘Lose the leg’, hm? Are you certain you aren’t partial to altruism, after all?”
Legundo huffs out something approximating a laugh.
“Whether the leg is secretly altruistic or not, the body still needs the cut.”
“Good point,” Scott allows.
Then those red eyes are boring into the doctor once more, the club owner’s levity entirely gone. Legs feels his heart pound faster, the gentle lights and music giving way to the beat of blood in his ears.
“I did get what I wanted, Legundo. You are free to go – I won’t bother you any longer. Nobody else here will, either. I hope you… sleep well.”
Scott motions to stand, and before he can think better of it, Legundo has stood too and grabbed his wrist to stop him. A delicately arched eyebrow sees him pull back to his seat with more than a little shame. That could have come off very wrong.
Shame turns to relief, as Scott sits back down as well.
“I know they say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I hadn’t even left you, yet.”
“I – I just–”
“Couldn’t bear to see me go? Fell in love at first sight, and need me beside you for the rest of your life, in sickness and in health?”
Legundo scowls, suddenly less sure he wants to keep talking.
“No.”
Scott laughs at the look.
“Oh, relax, dear doctor,” he says, leaning forward and just barely touching Legundo’s knee. “Tell me, what did you want? I promise not to interrupt, this time.”
The old veteran takes a deep breath in, then releases it slowly, trying not to occupy his mind entirely with the point of contact. That is certainly not part of what he wanted. He is sure.
“You asked me how I decide what is good. And you asked questions, you did, but nothing truly argumentative or disagreeable.”
Scott just stares at him, and Legundo finds himself irritated that the man is sticking to his word of not interrupting.
“Yet I somehow fail to believe that you agree wholeheartedly. So, Mr. Goldsmith. I want you to tell me how you decide what is good.”
Scott grins, leaning back and crossing his legs.
“What an interesting question,” he comments. “I’m not certain you’ll like my answer. Do you still want to hear it?”
Legundo nods.
“I’ll talk briefly, first, of words. Useful little things, don’t you agree?”
“Most of the time, yes.”
A good-natured chuckle.
“Yes, exactly. This is a glass,” he motions at his emptied drink. “A cup, a cocktail, a container. All true, in their own way. All with different implications, different intents. Are you following so far?”
The doctor’s eye twitches, and Scott’s dance with delight.
“I thought you said you didn’t think me ‘simple’.”
“Of course not.”
A beat of silence.
“Well?”
“Yes, I’m following.”
“Good,” Scott says, and smiles at that as if it had been some sort of wordplay. “I say ‘cup’ and point at this thing beside me. You say ‘cup’ and do the same. Perhaps we bring a coffee mug out here, and argue briefly over whether it counts as a ‘cup’. I imagine we settle on saying it does, despite the handle and opaqueness, perhaps after consulting my dear bartender for a third opinion. Then next is a bowl, and as we generally share a culture and tend to understand bowls as for food while cocktail glasses and coffee mugs are more for ‘pure liquids’, maybe we settle on saying that is not a ‘cup’. We’ve made a useful word, even if its edges are the slightest bit blurry. I can say ‘cup’, and you can point to this thing beside me.”
He uncrosses his legs and leans his back against the bar instead, gesturing grandly over the floor of the venue before them.
“And look how many words we’ve made!”
“You do like using them.”
Scott beams.
“And so do you!”
He turns back in his seat, leaning forward such that he is close to Legundo again, face what feels like inches from his own and that wandering hand finding its way back and farther up his thigh than before.
“Then one day, you and I are at war, Doctor,” he whispers, and Legundo has to suppress a full-body reaction to all of that. “Your fiefdom wants access to a port. My empire controls it.”
Legundo forces himself back into nonchalance.
“How modest you are in your hypotheticals, Goldsmith.”
“Quite,” Scott cheerfully agrees. “So, I slaughter your army, along with everything and everyone you hold dear. Then the two of us meet, as usual, to discuss words.”
Scott pulls away again, idly playing with the skewer in his glass, the wood stained a dark red by the cherries and liqueur.
“You have a new word for me. ‘Bad’, you say, and you point to the bloodless corpses of your loved ones. ‘Good’, I say, doing the same. A miscommunication. How… unfortunate. But we’ve dealt with these before, and now we have far more words to work with. You tell me about your thoughts on sapient well-being and happiness. You believe the world ought to act with that in mind. I could have given you access to the port, and though I might have lost some revenue, overall happiness is increased. That is ‘good’, you tell me. What I did was ‘bad’.”
Legundo just stares, somewhat regretting his nod. But, if horrifyingly phrased, this is, at least, interesting, as Scott might put it. So, he continues to listen.
“I hem and I haw, because I’m young, you see. I’ve understood, now, what you mean by good, and though you never outright told me, I can see how as a general concept this might be useful. If we all agree that that is good, we can all agree to try to uphold and maintain it, and the idea is that we all give ourselves a better chance at happiness – that much makes sense, even to an emperor like me. But I spoke to my dear bartender, over there, before the war, and he had his own definition of ‘good’.”
“And what was that?” the doctor tentatively asks.
“He was a religious man, once, long, long ago, and so to him ‘good’ was simple – following the commands of the ones he held holy, as scribed in some texts he believed are most accurate to the original speeches. He had no ‘reasoning’, like I created in my mind on your behalf – in fact, when I pressed him on consequences or benefits for being good, asking about afterlives or blessings, he took offense. His definition was not different only in what the source of good is, but also in why one might even bother trying to uphold it. To him, being ‘good’ was an end goal in and of itself, with no justification necessary,” Scott says.
He stares at the bartender for a few seconds, tongue briefly tracing teeth, then shifts his gaze back toward Legundo.
“I believe in the spiritual, dear doctor, unlike you – but at the same time, very much unlike him, as well. I could not understand his point of view, as my beliefs did not perfectly mirror his own. Perhaps, then, I disregard his personal belief and autonomy completely, instead consider the words in the text themselves. I might decide that, like your definition, it can be useful as a way to guide behavior – the precepts outlined within might seem like they would be reasonable things for people to follow and could lead to a society I also get to enjoy.”
Scott twirls the toothpick between his fingers and the glass, tapping his chin thoughtfully with his free hand.
“So, you point at one thing, call it ‘good’, and it is a useful word. He points at another, calls it ‘good’, and that is useful too. Which definition should I internalize?”
Legundo looks back and swallows. “The one that makes the most logical sense, Mr. Goldsmith,” he says, voice coming out gruffer than he meant it to.
“Mm, yes. And that’s exactly what I do,” Scott agrees, somewhat unexpectedly. “I might go around and use ‘good’ in accordance with your definition, Doctor, since you are a clever lord who managed to convince this kind emperor. Words are useful.”
He drops the skewer back into the glass.
“But at the end of it all, I cannot believe it. This, here, is a cup,” he taps on the rim, nail clinking against the hard surface. “If someone calls it something else, we translate.” Scott shrugs, then gestures vaguely at the air. “That, there, is ‘good’. If someone else calls it ‘bad’, we cannot translate, because we are using the same words already. So, what, then, is that nebulous concept we are trying and failing to point at?”
Scott pushes into Legundo’s space again, hand pressing directly on the center of his chest, this time, and the doctor freezes, heart running far too fast for something that was meant to be a casual, pleasant continuation of their conversation.
“I believe it’s simply about desire, nothing more. You want to be responsible for people being happy. The bartender wants to follow perfect orders from those he deems divine. And me?” Scott pauses, and Legundo resists the urge to scowl and shake him and say this is not the time for dramatics. “I want that port. I will keep that port. I want to kill. I will get to kill. And whether I call it good or bad – that hardly matters. It is simply motivation for my army, persuasion for my council, post-hoc justification for you,” Scott drawls, bringing his free hand up to cup the side of Legundo’s face. “My dear, defeated doctor.”
Legundo’s brain feels sluggish, suddenly. Sleepy, maybe. It is late.
Angry, certainly. Hatred fills his limbs. With each sentence Scott had revealed himself, and Legundo now sees only rot within. Worse than he could have ever imagined. A careless officer, maybe, and yet his words make it clear this man is so much worse.
Scared? Probably… probably not. There are dozens of people around. No matter how earnestly Scott said he wants to kill – he would not do it here. He is thinner and weaker than the doctor, definitely untrained in combat. Besides, that was a hypothetical. The nails are just that – fingernails.
Scott has not moved even an inch. Legundo could swear he is not even breathing. There is a soft hand on the doctor’s face, a palm on his chest, and those ruby red lips just inches from his own.
And he cannot rip his gaze from the teeth in that little smile.
“My eyes are up here,” Scott teases.
Legundo looks into those eyes again, those red eyes, those bloody eyes, those eyes that are close enough to see properly, now, and he feels fear. He tries not to show it, but his shoulders tighten involuntarily, his heartbeat speeding up even more.
It is pathetic. It is irrational. It is paranoid.
“Scott…” he forces out.
The creature pulls back, standing, yet still leaving the hand on his face, the motion seeing Legundo’s head tilted up just the slightest bit. Then Scott carefully circles around him, letting go but ghosting those claws over his jaw and around his neck as he moves, ending up behind him with both hands on Legundo’s body once more.
“So tense,” he mutters, and presses two symmetrical lines from his neck to his shoulders along his trapezius, gently working the muscle. “You really ought to take me up on the offer of sweet memories, tonight. I swear I won’t bite. Too badly, anyway.”
“And what is your word worth, Mr. Goldsmith? How can I possibly… after…”
Scott hums to himself, pausing his motions.
“I did say I’d let you go, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
He leans down, speaking softly right into Legundo’s ear.
“Go, then. I do so look forward to the next time we get a chance to talk, dear doctor.”
Then Legundo is at the end of a bar, alone.