In the Land of Gods and Monsters ✥ Booker DeWitt & Jack Wynand

[falseprophet]

❝In each of us lie good and bad, light and dark, art and pain, choice and regret, cruelty and sacrifice. We’re each of us our own chiaroscuro, our own bit of illusion fighting to emerge into something solid, something real. We’ve got to forgive ourselves that. I must remember to forgive myself. Because there is a lot of grey to work with. No one can live in the light all the time❞

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[unkindly]

[Rapture, December 24th 1959. Religion is discouraged in Andrew Ryan's underwater utopia, but there are a fair few who celebrate around Christmastime anyway. Tradition, habit, a quiet sense of rebellion, whatever the cause, there's a party being thrown.

The invitation list is select, and Jack's presence, for reasons unbeknownst to him, was kindly requested. So Jack is there, holding a glass of Rapture's finest whiskey, wearing a mask (as current style dictates), and feeling entirely ridiculous.]

[falseprophet]

[In Rapture, beauty is terror. And men quiver before it.

Booker leans against the counter of the bar, waiting on a refill (a lagavulin, neat). People pass by him in crowds but he remains a still point in time, unmoving. His eyes are chilled and clear, taking after the shape of gems and everything about him seems at least mildly chiseled: movie-idol face and cut-glass architecture, angled like a Wyndham Lewis portrait. He wasn’t an unattractive man, clearly, though for some reason one could never quite guess his age, his sentimental eyebrows making the shape of two separated sides of a steeple, always gently perplexed. Tall and whip thin and sharp as a flash of lightning, a tapered black tie collars him now, tames him for the remainder of the evening.

Part of his face is obscured with a mask. It is uncomfortable, but he had little choice in the matter.

The banquet hall looming in the distance is an odd bare thing, sprawling and rococo and skeletal and strangely human. Within, stained marble floors and already someone has broken a glass, champagne bubbling and wasted out of its confines, sticky and ruminating in the dry air. Every piece of décor seemingly more rigid and unforgiving than the next, a stark contract to the rush of water curling by across the clear, windowed ceiling.

Boring, boring. All of it -

But then, he sees him. Looking furious and debonair in a tailored (of course it is tailored) suit. Booker does not know his name but he knows that look. A quiet rebellion. A horror masquerading as a man.

Booker likes him immediately. His smile is predatory.]

[unkindly]

[Most people looking at Jack would say he's clearly uncomfortable in his suit. In reality, Jack is uncomfortable in every part of this situation. He doesn't know why he's here or what's wanted of him, but he knows this isn't where he belongs.

His free hand twitches slightly, and he walks around the border of the room, watching the guests with a hawk-like gaze. He has trouble staying still.

And then he notices one particular masked figure watching him back, and he stills, looking back. Who is that, watching him?]

[falseprophet]

[Booker's smile is a disobedient child. He begins moving toward the other man, casually. Meanwhile, out on the floor, a dance is beginning with a palatial roar, but Booker finds it easy to weave in and out of the pattern of bodies.]

Are you not enjoying yourself? This is supposed to be the party of the year.

[The question is sardonically sportive, teasing. The curve of his lip looks delicately snarled over every perfect syllable and his gaze is hard to hold, deep drowned in that gulf of swallowed sorrow that no one calls “his past” (filled with poorly dealt hands and dangerous drinking problem). Booker himself is very obviously not having much fun.

Yet.]

[unkindly]

[Jack is not relaxed. He's never relaxed. He's always on guard, always watching, always ready. And this man is making him uneasy, though he hasn't yet put his finger on why.

He lifts his whiskey to his mouth, pausing just before his lips to reply softly.]

Thought the New Year's Eve party was gonna hold that honor.

[And then he takes a drink.]

[falseprophet]

[He watches him drink, watches the way his throat works as he swallows.]

That one's always a debauchery. You know that. [And there's always too many balloons. It's tacky.]

You have a name, mister?

[unkindly]

Wouldn't know. Never been.

[He stares through the eyes of his mask at the other man, attributing the nervous palpitations of his heart to unease at the stranger's behavior, though there's something else...]

Jack.

Just Jack.

[falseprophet]

Booker DeWitt. [He offers his name up like a delicacy, his voice carrying a tincture of a drawl.]

It's a pleasure. [But he doesn't offer his hand. No, somehow, that formality seems too solemn, distanced. They have no need for titles and terse greetings. They may be hiding behind painted animal caricatures, but there is something decidedly not fake about both men. And it is that gravity that draws them together. At least, for now.

Booker looks back over his shoulder as the orchestra plays something new.] I don't suppose you dance at all?

[unkindly]

[Jack frowns slightly at the question.]

No. Not at all.

[Why would he want to dance, anyway.]

[falseprophet]

It can't hurt. [He baits, leading Jack into the crowd, his eyes always searching his face, as if cautiously mesmerized. The steps to the dance are choreographed so that everyone moves as a whole, coming together and splintering apart, like a subtle courtship. It makes it so that they are constantly in revolutions about each other, but still close enough to exchange slivers of conversation.

It is helping to keep things enticing. Booker, after all, likes the chase.

Sure, he was technically here to do a job. But that doesn't mean he can't mix work with pleasure, right?]

See? Hardly that bad. Would it kill you to smile? [He brushes by him, temporarily trading partners with someone else, shoulders grazing. This is how Booker always moves - simultaneously within and without. He is a paradox. An impossible man.]

[unkindly]

[Jack doesn't remember knowing this dance, but apparently he does because he falls into it with relative ease, moving through the steps a little mechanically.]

I don't...

[But he bites back his complaint and sighs. He could just walk away.

He could.

But he doesn't.

There's just... something about Booker that makes him stay.]

[falseprophet]

[It's an antiquated dance and Booker personally doesn't find any real joy in the act. However, he does relish in watching Jack's discomfort grow. There was a kind of vulnerability that snuck through him in these moments that Booker found oddly attractive.

And he wanted to know more of it.]

What's that, now? [He hooks his arm through with Jack's own, leading him around the final twirl of the set, graceful and yet boorish.] You've got to speak up. [He bites the words, nearly teasing, against Jack's ear as he moves past him, letting go of his arm - finally - as the orchestra plays the final note.]

[unkindly]

[Jack growls slightly under his breath, a little shocked by Booker's closeness, and when the dance ends he steps away.]

I'm not a dancer.

[That's what he was trying to say. He glares at the man from behind his mask, trying to search him for motive.]

Why are you doing this?

[falseprophet]

[He likes the effect this has garnered. But he's not about to let things get too aggressive (...yet). He wants to keep the peace. At least in public.]

Awfully clueless, aren't you?

[He shrugs a little, adjusting the half-mask upon his brow.] Do I really need a reason?

[My, my. How serious. Booker resists rolling his eyes, because really, he's not that classless.] Stop worrying. It's not like I'm out to get you. You keep looking at me like I might shoot you in the back. So you can relax. I have a job to do here, actually. I was just trying to have a bit of fun beforehand.

[unkindly]

[He doesn't like being called clueless, but Booker's explanation is enough for now, and he relaxes, the tension easing in his shoulders though he's never not alert.]

...fair enough.

[He might even be starting to get what Booker's aiming at, and it's not... an unpleasant thought.]

[falseprophet]

Things don't look to good for Rapture these days, you know? [It's foreboding. And perhaps he said too much.

Clear eyes scout the crowd -- but Jack is proving himself to be too much of a welcome distraction. So much so that Booker, at times, even forgets the fact that he walked into this banquet hall completely armed (the wheelgun strapped to his ankle has been annoying him all day).]

...And you look like you need another drink.

[unkindly]

Yeah. I know.

[He works with Atlas. He knows very well how grim things are shaping up for Rapture.

When Booker suggests another drink, he raises his eyebrows and considers before nodding. It's not like it'll get him drunk, so why not.]

Sure.

[falseprophet]

You're not a man of many words. [He has no qualms about placing his palm against the small of Jack's back. What is shame in a place like this? There is no god to judge, no wandering eyes to smite you. It was the freedom of the elite.

But you know what they say: when everyone is free to do as they want...really, no one is.

The hand dips down just a little -

What's the harm -?]

[unkindly]

Never saw the need for more.

[He raises his eyebrows at the touch, but says nothing against it. He's finding he's not opposed to the idea or the contact.]

...YOU ASKED FOR IT.

[falseprophet]

Well. No more words, then -- [He moves like a sudden wave of water crashing over the sand. Instantly, his face is in Jack's face (for lack of better phrasing) and his fingers grip that stern jaw, angling it towards him.

Booker kisses him like a punch in the teeth.]

I SURE DID

[unkindly]

[Jack freezes in shock for a moment. Once he comes to terms with what's happening, he has about a split second to decide whether to push Booker away or let it happen.

He almost pushes him away.

But the kiss, harsh and violent as it is, feels far more right than Jack could have ever guessed, and before he can actually make a conscious decision, he finds himself leaning into it and kissing back.]

[falseprophet]

[Booker has little appetite for foreplay or for teasing. He shoots straight in every manner of the term. This man is a temporary thrill and nothing else (so he tells himself). Let's keep it that way.

With a subtle flick of his wrist, the first few buttons of Jack's shirt slide open. It's nothing dramatic; in fact, it's subtle and oddly suave. Surprisingly enough, Booker puts very little thought into it all; seduction came easy for him. It employed a kind of physicality that allowed him to go somewhat numb, to not have to think much at all and simply allow his body to agreeably register every motion without comment. Action, reaction. Such a simple process. No more thoughts of foreshadowed doom, of civil war, of revolution. No blood, no prophecy. Just the most basic lusts of mankind.

It was freeing.

Booker bites down upon Jack's lip, hard enough to mark it but not nearly enough to break the skin. So what if other people might be watching? Discretion isn't exactly Booker's more admirable characteristic.]

[unkindly]

[No.

No, this is too much, too far for being out in public. Jack doesn't mind the kiss, in fact, judging from how his blood is pounding in his ears and his breath is quickening, he's really enjoying it, but if this is going to continue or go any further (and Jack is finding that he doesn't mind the idea of it going further), they need to go somewhere slightly more private.

Jack might not be very subtle, but he's certainly not an exhibitionist.

So when he feels his shirt coming undone, and Booker bites down, he pushes him back with a strong arm and plants a hand around the man's throat.

His eyes burning, his breath fast and uneven, he stares down at Booker and hisses low.]

Not here.