sunchime | [ DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II (SFW) ]

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[ DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II (SFW) ]

DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II
Part I (extremely NSFW) (it's very gross) (I'm sorry about everything)
Part II (NSFW post)

IT'S BACK, BABY

Imagine, if you will, that Drift is not a robot, but a gratuitously tropey half-demon hunter roaming around Boston killing demons in order to atone for his as a, well, killer for the demons. For all intents and purposes you can just assume this takes place in the same universe as Buffy (or something like it) for the sake of using a conveniently existing lore that I already really like. Maybe with an extra side of Kabbalah. whatever

HERE ARE SOME FACTS ABOUT DEMON HUNTER AU DRIFT:

Drift is half-demon on his father's side. He never really knew his dad, idk he like fucked off or got slayed at some point when Drift was young and he was mostly raised by his mother, who died of cancer when he was a teenager. It was real sad and Drift had no money and got pretty promptly kicked out of his mom's apartment shortly after her death. This made Drift a TRAGIC TEEN ORPHAN who was homeless on the streets for a while, and given his ~UNIQUE HALF-DEMON AURA~ it wasn't really very long before he fell in with a bad crowd. A demon crowd
Tragic teen orphan Drift got into drugs, specifically orihalcon, a potent substance derived from the refined blood of certain types of demons, because regular human drugs don't quite cut it for him. He was pretty knee-deep in the local demon community, partly because he didn't fit in anywhere else, partly because some of them knew his dad.
Drift spent a while as a homeless addict, barely scraping by, until he was recruited by Megatron, a powerful demon lord who saw much more potential in Drift and his untamed demon powers. He offered Drift a place in his ranks even though he was half-human, and helped him hone his terrifyingly natural talent for violence. For a while Drift mostly did it to feed his habit, but he began to enjoy the rush of violence and of releasing his DEMON SIDE way more than the drugs and eventually got clean.
He also inherited this sweet demon sword from his dad that Megatron apparently had handy. It is powered by his DEMON SIDE
Eventually though Drift's taste for violence got a little out of control and after pissing off some of his superiors for wildly disobeying orders in favor of MORE VIOLENCE, he fucked off and went into hiding. It was at this time that he met a witch named Wing from a smug hippie witch cult based in San Francisco. Wing offered him sanctuary and to teach him to better control his demon side by being ~~more in tune with the spirits~~. Drift took the sanctuary because he had nowhere else to hide, but wound up begrudgingly coming around to Wing's way of seeing things, at least enough to grow to care about him. Unfortunately for the both of them Drift's UNIQUE HALF-DEMON AURA led Megatron's forces right to the Wing's door and he got horribly murdered. Drift managed to get away but he was so tragically torn by the untimely death of his spiritual sensei that he swore off working for Megatron and decided to USE HIS POWERS FOR GOOD
Since then he's discarded the name Megatron gave him and returned to Boston as the newly-reformed demon hunter Drift. He lives in a tiny, shitty apartment in Southie and fights demons by moonlight in order to help people out and atone for his murder-filled past. He has fully embraced his former mentor's spirituality with a level of enthusiasm that, tbh, should probably be worrying. He believes (or hopes, at least) that what Wing taught him will not only help him keep his demon side in check (he is pretty much always concerned he will LOSE CONTROL), but also lead to his eventual redemption. Unfortunately Drift is still learning how exactly to have real faith in something because he is the world's biggest faker
He is Jewish because I know what I like and oh boy does he ever dabble in Kabbalah and a lot of other magical spirituality bullshit that mostly drives other people up the wall
Being half-demon has a lot of perks, SUCH AS: super strength/reflexes/stamina, accelerated healing, and being able to jump way higher than any human. He's obviously not as powerful as a full-blooded demon, but plenty powerful enough to be able to take them head on. He's also really good at fighting shit. Drift's swordsmanship is pretty solid, having been trained in Megatron's demon army, but also he has studied very seriously from a lot of kung fu and action films
He literally owns fourteen swords

PREVIOUSLY ON DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU:

Rodimus is this AU's equivalent of the Slayer, and Ultra Magnus is her Watcher. She and Drift are best buds who also make out a lot. Ultra Magnus STRONGLY DISAPPROVES of Rodimus spending time with someone with Drift's substantial murder past but Rodimus believes wholeheartedly in Drift's turning a new leaf.
Perceptor (Percy) is a talented witch and physicist who also serves as Drift's go-to for information about demon lore and magic. They go back a long, long ways, and is one of a handful of people Drift trusts implicitly.
Dealer was, predictably, Drift's orihalcon dealer when he was living on the streets. There were some bad (good) (bad) times that Drift would really love to never talk about, and Dealer loves to hold over his head.
Ratchet is a trauma surgeon whose family was killed by demons around the time Deadlock was active. After patching up Drift a couple of times, they fell into an undefined sort-of relationship that nearly came to an end when Ratchet found out just who Drift used to be. After taking some time and talking to just about everyone else Drift knows, Ratchet decided he still wanted to know Drift as he is now, though things between them are still uncertain.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Drift doesn't need telling twice -- he sheathes his sword and lifts Wash bodily off the ground again, this time throwing him over his shoulder, because they really need to move. He knows Wash has to be in pain, judging by the ceremonial scarring all over him, but he doesn't have time to be gentle right now. The fire's starting to sweep through the whole building, and Drift can feel the heat through his clothes, too close for comfort. But they're almost out. Almost there --

There's another cultist between them and the stairs leading up to the street level, this one brandishing a staff and wearing a hell of a lot more tacky jewelry than the rest of them -- their leader, maybe, or just some high-ranking priest. He brandishes the staff at Drift, energy crackling at both ends, but Drift, really not having time for this, yells and delivers a punch to the cultist's face that slams him to the ground with an unpleasant crack without breaking pace. That guy might not actually be dead, but he will be soon.

There are probably more still in the building, running to catch up, but Drift breaks out into the cool night air with Wash over his shoulder and pivots sharply, digging something out of his pocket and hurling it down the steps to the cultists' basement. It explodes in a massive flare of flames and Drift stops to catch his breath for just a moment, watching the stairs to see if anyone else makes it out.

"Magical grenade," he says to Wash, adjusting his grip so that hopefully the other man is a little less uncomfortable. "Shouldn't spread to the other buildings. You alright?"

Wash has been in pain for weeks. A little more isn't going to kill him.

He holds on as best he can as his rescuer rushes out of the building, and he all but snarls at the fallen cultist as they finally make it outside. Oh, yeah. He recognizes that guy.

Then they make it out, and the whole building goes up in flames, and Wash can't quite find it in himself to worry about anyone's well-being. Good riddance to the lot of them. "Yeah," he manages, "I-"

He stiffens, words cutting off in a pained noise as his back begins to burn. For a moment, he thinks the fire has spread to them-

No, this isn't that. He knows what this is. Evidently a bunch of cultists chanting together can accomplish something, even while the building is burning down around them. He writhes and screams, but he can't fight back, and that horrible, familiar sensation of being torn from his own body washes over him. He floats, helpless and reeling, as whatever had taken over his body drives an elbow into his rescuer's ribs. "They weren't yours to take, Deadlock," it snarls, guttural and sibilant, as though it's not used to speaking with a mouth this size and shape. "We'll settle up later."

And then Wash opens his eyes, hanging limp, back still throbbing. It didn't last long, but that didn't change the fact that it still happened. For a moment, all he can do is breathe, shallow and slow.

It wasn't over. He'd gotten out, and the cultists were burning, but it still wasn't over - not when that thing could reach out and take him any time it wanted-

This is his life now. What's left of it, at least.

"You should've let me die." The words are barely a whisper, but they're out there nonetheless. A life that isn't his - a life that's out of his control, at the whim of some hellish creature - a life where he will never be free again - is not a life worth living.

The possession catches Drift totally off his guard, and even his superhuman reflexes don't manage to avoid the blow to his ribs, damn near dropping Wash to the ground right there. The hiss in his ear -- it's hard to tell if he recognizes the voice when it's coming through Wash's mouth, but whatever it is apparently recognizes him enough to at least know his name. He really needs to follow up with Percy on this one.

"Sorry, not my style," Drift says, wheezing only slightly, and he doesn't want to admit it, but his skin is absolutely crawling. He knew this guy was being used for some kind of ritual. He just didn't realize it was as a conduit. That's...bad.

That doesn't mean Drift's about to give up on him, though. He spares only one last glance at the burning building before ducking through an alley, holding carefully onto Wash. He'd considered taking Wash to Ratchet straightaway, but after that possession mini-episode, he's not so sure bringing Wash to a normal human doctor is the best move right now. His own apartment, at least, has enough wards to repaper every wall. That should be fine. It'll totally be fine.

"Look, exorcism isn't really in my wheelhouse, but I know a few people who might be able to help you. In the meantime, though -- " Drift hops up onto a ledge, and then from there to the top of the next building over with inhuman ease. "Let's at least get you patched up and hydrated. I'm guessing they weren't feeding you too often in there."

Sorry, Wash, you are being rescued whether you like it or not.

He'll punch a cultist in the face so hard it breaks their damn jaw, but won't leave their broken tool to die. Hell of a style.

Wash doesn't have the energy to argue - the demon puppeting him had drained the very last dregs of what he had, and it's a miracle he's even still awake. He just makes himself as still and small as he possibly can, until they arrive at...wherever they're going. His rescuer's promised help; he's not entirely sure he's not being taken to another cult. Nothing he can do about it now, regardless of where they're going.

Drift’s apartment might look a tiny bit like a cultist hideout, with the wards plastered over most available wall space and various supernatural esoterica scattered around the place. But the studio apartment isn’t really big enough for any real cult activity, and the wall space not taken up by magical wards is covered in a variety of posters, most of them from action movies, and there are a few swords mounted on the walls. And the assortment of amulets, charms and talismans are only a small part of what is undeniably the pure clutter of someone not particularly prone to organization or home enough to bother fixing the problem.

There isn’t much furniture in the apartment, just a few mismatched bookshelves, a futon shoved in one corner for a bed and a low-slung, beat-up couch opposite a TV and a few game consoles that evidently see a fair bit of use. There’s no table except for the coffee table between the couch and the TV — the tiny kitchen doesn’t have room for much else besides a fridge and microwave. It doesn’t look like he does much cooking anyway.

He sweeps some of the clutter off the couch with one foot, a few books and some (clean but unfolded) laundry, and lays Wash down as carefully as he can. He grabs a glass and fills it from the tap and a bottle of ibuprofen — probably not strong enough for whatever Wash is feeling right now, but it’s there if he wants it.

“Here — you probably need water.” Drift’s not so discreetly checking Wash over for any other obvious injuries, or at least any he can help with. He hasn’t had a chance to wash the blood off his sword (or...the rest of him), but he’ll get to that in a minute. “You’re safe now.”

None of this helps Wash feel better. He's still being hauled somewhere unfamiliar by someone who reeks of demon. His rescuer has been kind so far, but he wouldn't be surprised if that kindness is hiding a trap.

He sits up on the couch and hunches over, shivering from cold and fading adrenaline and the edges of trauma seeping into his brain. The scarring on his back is clearly visible: a mass of interconnected circles and symbols stretches from shoulder to hip, very clearly centered around and connected to a trio of deep scars that look like they were made by claws in the center of his back. It's all very intricate - some of the cuts look fine enough to have been made with a scalpel - and some of them are fresher than others, recently cauterized and still an angry red.

He stares dolefully at the water, not bothering to reach for it - given how hard he's shaking, he doesn't trust himself not to drop it. "Am I?" His tone is deadened and hopeless.

Drift cringes a little at the scars on Wash’s back, and his expression darkens as it really sinks in that this isn’t just the work of a bunch of human zealots. Whatever had taken hold of Wash before, however briefly, must’ve had an active part in this too, judging by the shape of the scars. He doesn’t let his gaze linger too long, though, grabbing a throw blanket off the back of the couch and draping it over Wash’s shouldered without a word. Maybe he can lend Wash some spare clothes, at least for the time being.

“I’m here to help, not hurt,” Drift says, offering a small smile of reassurance. “And the wards on this place mask auras. That should make it a lot harder for that thing to get a hold of you again, at least for now. And like I said — I have friends who specialize in this sort of thing. Exorcisms, purification...”

He doesn’t know for a fact that they can do anything, but he has faith in his friends. They at least have to try. Drift eyes the water, frowns, and then hops over to the kitchen and digs out a paper-wrapped straw that looks like it came from a diner or fast food place.

"But I should probably introduce myself. My name's Drift." He sticks the straw in the water and holds out the cup to Wash. He can hold onto the glass if need be, but the guy really should drink some water. For someone who reeks of demon, he seems like a pretty friendly guy.

The explanation makes sense - at least as much as anything in the past two months has made sense, at least - but it doesn't make him feel better. The fact that he might need a goddamn exorcism is not something he thought he'd ever have to deal with, and nothing's really sinking in like it should be.

He needs that water, though. Drift - evidently that's his name - had been right in that the cultists hadn't put too much thought into caring for him. As long as he was still breathing, who gave a fuck?

He grips the water carefully but firmly, which helps quell a bit of the shaking, and pulls it closer. He drinks in slow, measured sips - because the last thing he needs to do is upset his stomach and lose it all over the floor - until the glass is empty. Only then does he look back at Drift. He's still exhausted, gaze deadened, but there's a little life coming back into his eyes. It's a start.

"What are you?"

And possibly an end, depending on how well that question is received.

Ah, well. Drift should've expected that question sooner or later, especially from someone who'd been held captive by a cult for...a while, it seems. But it's an easy question to answer -- easier than if Wash had asked about Deadlock. Drift sort of hopes Wash was too out of it to remember that.

"Human, like you. ...On my mother's side." He drops down into a cross-legged sitting position next to the couch and his smile turns slightly sheepish. "Demon on the other side, as you've probably guessed. Didn't really know my dad's side of the family, though."

It's kind of a weak joke, but the situation seems delicate. Wash seems a little delicate. Drift absently shreds the straw wrapper between his fingers. "I'm a hunter. I take out demons who hurt innocent people. I don't usually go after humans, but..." He frowns. "They were doing some pretty demonic stuff."

His lip curls at human like you - don't you lie to him, dammit - and eases as the rest of the explanation is forthcoming. Half-demon. The sword and the energy and the eyes all make sense now, though the smell isn't nearly as present when Drift looks human. It's there, if he concentrates, but it's not hitting him in the face like it had back with the cultists.

"I noticed," he says flatly, reaching forward to set the now empty glass on the coffee table. It looks his sense of humor isn't completely dead. That's something, at least.

He looks at the glass, then shifts his gaze to Drift. He has questions - way too many of them for him to handle right now - and he's slowly sorting them into Handle and Can't Handle piles. He picks one off the Handle pile and lobs it at Drift, because silence is definitely something he Can't Handle.

"Why did it call you Deadlock?"

Drift bites back a wince. Maybe lapsed memory was hoping for a little too much. No, he has to be prepared to answer these kinds of questions when he rescues someone from a demonic cult. Wash doesn't really owe him anything for his rescue, not in his book, but Drift does owe him a few answers.

"It was a name I had once." He gets up from the floor to refill the glass. "But I don't go by that anymore."

Wash's gaze follows Drift as he gets up with the glass. Evidently Drift has his own Can't Handle question pile. Good to know.

The realization processes slowly, and Wash pulls the blanket a little tighter around him, wincing as it rubs against the cuts that haven't quite healed yet. He should..he should be doing something. Anything. He needs to do something so he doesn't have to think, because once he goes down that rabbit hole he won't do anything, and that...he can't afford to think about that. (He can barely manage to think as it is; starvation, dehydration, and exhaustion are a heady combo.)

He waits until Drift returns before speaking up again. "Now what?" He honestly has no idea what to do next; hopefully Drift will know, or at least be able to keep Wash's mind busy.

Drift's privately relieved that Wash doesn't push that line of questioning. He won't lie if asked, but the guy who was used as a ritual tool by the demonic cult probably doesn't need to hear that his rescuer used to do a lot of murder for a living. Drift hands Wash a fresh glass of water.

"Now you drink another glass of water," he says, perching on the arm of the couch and digging out his phone, "and I text a friend who knows a lot more about this stuff than I do. I've got some food if you're hungry, and if you want to shower, I should have some clothes that'll fit you. But...I'd recommend sitting for a little while first."

Don't fall in the shower, Wash, that'd be bad.

Wash takes the fresh glass and downs it in much the same manner as before: slowly and methodically. It'll take a while to kick in, he knows - it's why he still feels like shit despite having fresh water in him.

Drift has a plan, or at least some ideas, and it's better than anything Wash has managed so far. Still, he doesn't feel like he can manage food quite yet, and he knows standing up for an extended amount of time is out of the question when he can barely keep his eyes open-

Oh. That's probably what he should do.

"Yeah," he says, turning so his ribs are nestled up against the couch. "I think I need to rest." It's an act of trust, given that he still doesn't really know Drift and has no guarantee he won't wake up in a new and not terribly different prison, but...well, Drift put himself on the line to rescue him, and if he'd wanted to manhandle Wash or drag him somewhere else, he could have done so already - it's not like Wash could have fought back.

It's not trust, and it's not a guarantee, but it's going to have to be good enough. He rests his cheek on the couch and closes his eyes, and despite everything, he falls asleep almost immediately.

"Of course," Drift says, watching him turn over, and he doesn't quite move until he hears Wash's breathing steady. He's a little on edge, maybe, worried a whole lot about a total stranger, but then, he didn't start doing this because he doesn't care. And it's a little hard not to worry about someone in Wash's shape.

Once Wash is out, Drift checks all his wards, cleans the blood off his sword and jacket, and takes a shower himself, just to rinse off the rest of the grime, physical and spiritual both. He grabs a fresh pair of jeans and goes about finding a set of clothes for Wash -- the sweats will probably be a little long, but they should fit just fine. He even tries to tidy up some of the clutter, but...not to terribly great effect.

When Wash comes to, Drift is in the tiny excuse for a kitchen standing over the stove, the sound of boiling water quiet in the background. Even if Wash isn't up for food, after that fight against the cult Drift is really hungry.

Wash sleeps the sleep of the dead. No nightmares; no dreams; he doesn't even move, wrapped up in the blanket.

He wakes slowly, shifting a bit. He's not lying down, and he has his face on a cushion, and he's hungry...oh. Oh, yeah, he knows what this is. He had a hard workout and fell asleep in his armchair again. When he opens his eyes, his dinner will be cold on the end table next to him, and Netflix will be asking him if he's still there.

He stretches a little - okay wow is he sore; must have been one hell of a workout - and opens his eyes.

For a few moments, his brain refuses to process what his eyes are telling him. This isn't his apartment- he's not- this isn't- this-

And then the past four weeks slam into his brain with perfect, awful clarity. He makes a pained noise and pulls the blanket over his head, pressing into the couch. He thought he'd be able to handle this once he woke up, but having that moment of amnesiac peace so brutally shattered has cut his stability off at the knees.

He breathes deeply - in and out, in and out, and now that he knows why his back hurts it only hurts all the worse - and slowly pulls the blanket back, lifting his head to look around. "Hey," he says when he catches sight of Drift. His voice doesn't sound any better, but that's less screaming trauma and more the voice of someone who just woke up out of a dead sleep.

"Hey," Drift says, half turning to give Wash a little wave from the kitchen. He doesn't really look much better, but Drift's sure the sleep did him good. Now that he's had some time to settle after the escape, there are quite a few questions he'd like to ask, and he still hasn't heard from Percy -- it's late, she's probably asleep -- but now is...most certainly not the time. He's probably lucky that Wash hasn't tried to up and bolt yet.

"The clothes and the towel on the table are for you, if you want a shower. I'm just cooking up a little dinner." He turns away from the stove and leans against the refrigerator, his hair still a little damp with a towel slung around his neck. This is probably a fantastically stupid question to ask, but it seems to be the only safe one. "How are you feeling?"

A shower is probably a good idea. The cult hadn't cared too much, aside from throwing the occasional bucket of water over him, so the idea of a hot shower actually sounds pretty nice. Of course, he'll probably be leaning against the wall the entire time given that he's still not sure he can keep his legs under him for that long, but still.

He blinks as the question takes a moment to process. "Like I've been held captive by a satanic murder cult for a month," he says flatly as he gathers up the clothes and towel and slowly gets to his feet, letting the blanket slide off his shoulders and drop to the couch. "I'm going to shower." He heads to the bathroom, strips once he's inside, and figures out the shower, all far more slowly than he would have liked.

The hot water feels good - better than he's felt in weeks - and for a few minutes he just stands and lets it thunder down on his shoulders. It's only after those few minutes that he finally starts washing a month's worth of blood and grime off his skin and out of his hair. He eventually needs to lean against the wall to keep himself upright, and he tries not to think about it.

It's only when he's drying off and pulling on the sweatpants (and rolling up the legs, because they are way too long for him) that he pauses and looks over his shoulder at the mirror over the sink. It's the first time he's gotten to see the scarring that spreads across the expanse of his back and shoulders.

This is him now. His old life is over; his new life is written in a language he can't read, letters and symbols and interlocking rings carved with a hot knife and magic into his back, opening a door to hell that he carries with him and doesn't know how to close. This is his life now-

He pulls the still-wet towel over his head and presses his face into it, breathing through the warm and damp until the pinpricks at the corner of his eyes subside and he can swallow back the burning need to scream. If he loses it now, he's not sure he'll come back, and so he can't fucking lose it.

It's a while before he hangs the towel, pulls the shirt on, and pads back out into the apartment proper. He sinks back down on the sofa and starts folding the blanket. At least he can keep his hands busy. "Do you have a phone I can use?" He needs to get his life - his life, not the bullshit he's been thrust into - started again, and making a few calls is a start.

By the time Wash emerges from the shower, the apartment is rich with the scent of freshly made...instant ramen, because honestly, Drift couldn't cook a real meal to save his life. He is also still not wearing a shirt, because apparently he never gets cold? Half-demons, man, who even knows. He watches Wash when he emerges, trying discreetly to see if he's okay, but he seems...steady enough for now.

"Oh, yeah, sure. I was actually going to ask if there was anyone you needed to call..." Drift digs his cell phone out of his back pocket and hands it to Wash. "And hey, if you're hungry, I made dinner."

"A few people, yeah." He's refused to let his brain run away with the possibility that he's lost his job, his apartment, his everything, before he checks first. He takes the phone, dials a number from memory, and waits for the ringing to stop. "Hi, Mrs. Neiderlander, it's Wash..."

It's a longer conversation than he'd expected, namely because he'd expected to be seen as a tenant who'd defaulted on the rent. He hadn't expected there to be a missing persons case centered around him. Evidently the cult hadn't bothered to grab his bag when they'd kidnapped him, and his neighbors had figured out pretty quickly that it shouldn't be sitting his front door for days on end. The complex's security cameras had footage of the scene, and that was that.

He stumbles through an explanation as to the hows and whys of his reappearance, promises to meet with her tomorrow to get his keys and his home back, and slowly puts the phone down on the couch after he hangs up. "Someone opened a missing persons case for me," he says, dazed. "You think the police will believe I was kidnapped by a cult?"

Drift silently (well, quietly) eats his noodles in the background while Wash makes his phone calls, listening but not hovering. Poor guy, getting snatched up like that, leaving a whole life behind. Drift knows what it's like to disappear, but to have people notice you're gone -- well, that has to be a mess of a life to come back to.

"Depends on who you talk to," Drift says, entirely seriously. "I know someone you can talk to if you want it resolved quietly, without dragging you through some big investigation. I'm guessing a fuss is the last thing you want."

He'd had four weeks of his life taken from him -- Drift's sure he wants the rest of it back. He brings a steaming bowl of ramen to the coffee table, pushing it toward Wash, and then drops onto the couch next to him, picking up the phone.

"You can stay here as long as you need," he offers, like that's a perfectly sensible thing to offer a stranger whom you have just rescued from a demon-worshiping cult. "Until things get sorted out, I mean. Oh, hey. Text from Percy." He taps his phone. "She's been doing some research -- looks like she came up with a few things. She might want to talk to you. Uh -- that is, if you want to talk to her. Anyway -- yeah -- couch is yours if you want it."

Oh. He hadn't realized there would be someone in authority who could take care of this discreetly, but...well, if magic and demons and all of that fantasy bullshit were all real, why wouldn't there be more people in the know?

"I want it to be quiet," he says after a moment, "but I want it to be thorough." He locks eyes with Drift. "Promise me, if there are any of them left, that you'll finish the job." Drift owes him nothing, and he owes Drift everything - he knows that. He also knows that the idea of even one of them still loose in the world will keep him from sleeping soundly ever again. They'd found him once; there was nothing to stop them from finding him again, except for a swift and bloody one-way trip to hell.

And then Drift offers him dinner and a place to stay, and his mind stutters as it tries to make the shift. "Thanks," he says, gingerly pulling the bowl towards him. Hopefully he wouldn't have to stay long, but...well, as soon as he can get things in order, he's finding a different place to live. No sense in making himself too easy to find. "And...yeah, I guess. Now, or...?" He doesn't really know who Percy is, aside from the fact that she seems to work with Drift. For now, that's good enough.

"He can make it quiet," Drift confirms. "No investigation -- no official one, anyway."

His eyes are intent, almost grim, his face perhaps the most serious Wash has seen it all night. "I'll take care of it. You have my word. I'm not going to let them hurt you again -- or anyone else, for that matter."

This is maybe a little intense for a promise to a stranger, but he takes this job, however self-appointed, seriously. He'd hurt enough people as Deadlock; as far as he's concerned, protecting others from that same kind of harm is the bare minimum of what he can do. He shakes his head, waving his hand.

"Nah, it's late. We can meet her tomorrow. She's got a little book shop in Back Bay -- normal enough at a glance, but she's got an impressive collection of magical and demonic texts in the back room. She's a pretty brilliant physicist, too." Drift rubs the back of his neck, sitting back against the couch. "Hey, can I ask you something? You don't have to answer if you don't want. I know it's been a long day."

Not like an official investigation would know what to do with the situation anyway. Wash just nods.

The promise is intense, and he knows he hasn't earned it, but he still feels better. Not safe - he doesn't know that he'll ever feel safe again - but better. "Thank you." He turns back to his noodles, eating slowly despite the fact that his body has just remembered that he's fucking starving.

He listens as Drift talks, mentally puts 'meet Percy' on tomorrow's to-do list, and pauses at the question. "You saved my life. You're entitled to a few questions."

"I did the right thing, that's all. That doesn't entitle me to anything."

Drift's pretty sure he isn't entitled to anything given his past, but that's another matter entirely. He's glad Wash doesn't mind sharing a few things all the same. He kicks his feet up on the coffee table (where there's space, anyway; it's mostly covered in half-full glasses of water, video game cases and other cluttered miscellany) and laces his fingers behind his neck.

"How'd you get mixed up with that cult in the first place?"

[ DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II (SFW) ]

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