[HSM] A Comedy Of Errors

[Mister Stewart]

Time: Day 3, Late Night
Weather: Cloudy, cold.
Warnings: A VERY drunk Michael.
Characters: Mister Stewart, Michael Tillotson [CLOSED]

It was very late. The squeak of wheels was the only sound in the mansion as Mister Stewart roamed the halls one last time, wondering where his aide had been. Michael had only said that he was going out for some air...now he was getting worried. It wasn't like the boy to be gone without saying something...and in light of recent revelations, it left him with an uneasy feeling. The final search through the hallways turned up nothing at all - so with some frustration, worry chilling him, he headed back to his own bedroom.

Imagine his surprise when he found Michael in there, lying partway on the bed with his legs dangling off the side. He looked around for a moment in puzzlement before speaking, slowly.

"...Michael? What are you doing in here?"

The younger man slowly turned himself over, hair mussed as he looked to where Mister Stewart had wheeled in. He blinked, quite dimly, his eyes bleary. He was drunk - he knew perfectly well he was drunk. He also knew that Mister Stewart would know, so he didn't bother to obscure the fact, speaking without rhyme in a low slur.

"...Well...I thought I'd take a walk through the halls...check on...stuff. But then I kinda...got...turned around. I think I might...have...turned the coat of arms to the left instead of the ri - or was it the left - I don't know. But I...I got here and thought I'd just...lie down...a second." He blinked again, propping himself upon his elbows. "...Sorry. I can g...I can get up. Do you want some...tea or...tea?"

The older man was...more than a little alarmed. It definitely wasn't like Michael to get drunk. Seldom did he ever even have one drink, let alone - as it appeared - several. The idea only reinforced the fact that something was the matter. Moving up beside him, he picked his words with care. "No, that's...fine. I actually...I need to talk to you about...earlier today."

Michael sat up to face Mister Stewart, canting his head to one side. Earlier? What could he be referring to? A lot had happened in the day, and he was...feeling...sort of hazy. The older man continued.

"...If there are...things you've been bottling up...we should talk about them, don't you think?"

Oh. That. The young aide sighed a little, rubbing at his eyes. Of course Mister Stewart had the tendency to pay...attention to goings on around town, but he had no idea there might be cameras at Ash's house. There could be, he supposed. His addled brain didn't register the fact that the older man wouldn't be QUITE that keen to invade on privacy. But...perhaps he should talk about it all the same. He was feeling rather...confused.

"There...is something," he began, flopping back on the bed (OW. OW. SWORD. BAD CHOICE) and heaving a sigh. "...I mean...I'm not...used to...thinking this way."

Mister Stewart was startled by how forthcoming this statement was. He had expected evasiveness...he had expected the subject to be skirted. "Well," he began again, eyes frightened behind the mask, "How do you mean?"

"It's just...the...frustration of it all. I mean...what if...what if it's for nothing? What if I'm just...playing with things I don't...I don't really know...?"

At least this meant he still couldn't see the Shadows. He wasn't in direct danger, then, at least not yet. Perhaps it it were nipped in the bud, perhaps if this Smoking Man could be stopped...."You don't...have to."

"I can't seem to help it. It just...it happens. I can't...stop myself. The most I can do is just...ride it out. I feel so...helpless. I don't know what to do. I...I kind of...freeze up. And then...I look back at it all, what I did, and I...there's nothing there to prove anything came of it...nothing...tangible."

"Then...why did you clean up? After the ash? You could have left it all there."

"Oh...well...." He cast his eyes down and mumbled embarrassedly. "...I...I mean, I didn't know what else to do. I just...I was kind of...scared. I'd never...been in that position before. So...I just thought I'd...tidy up a little. She only left the room for a moment to make some tea, so I...just....."

Mister Stewart stopped short.

Wait, what?

"...Michael. What are you talking about?"

Michael blinked back at him, confusion dawning across his face. "I went to see Ash today. What...what are you talking about?"

Mister Stewart wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry at this statement. This whole conversation he had been having had apparently been misconstrued. He settled on a short chuckle, shaking his head and - admittedly - a little relief in his voice. "...Never mind, Michael. You...should probably get some sleep. You may stay here, if you would like to."

The young man was, admittedly, glad for this offer...he wasn't sure if he could make it back to his own room at the moment. Yawning, he kicked his shoes off, still lying there in his suit. The alcohol had caught up with his exhaustion at last...he was starting to feel the room spin, starting to feel sleepy. Part of him didn't want to sleep. The other part was pulling him down, dragging his eyelids shut. Gently, Mister Stewart moved about the room, the sound of his wheels creaking in the night as he set to turning out the lights.

"Michael," he whispered, just before the last light was turned off.

"Hm?" Not opening his eyes, the younger man's response was only a soft, breathy grunt.

"You should probably take off the sword."

[Mister Stewart]

((Late Night, Post-SM Encounter with Ash))

In the dead of night, Michael sat bolt upright in bed, screaming a short scream that echoed through the dark. Wild-eyed, he searched the room - that's right, he had fallen asleep in Mister Stewart's room, hadn't he? - cowering as if from some half-seen demon. The scream gave way quickly to a cough, frantic and breathless...the smoke again. It was stifling.

"Michael?" Softly. Mister Stewart had let him have the bed, sleeping in the wheelchair instead. Presently he was at the bedside, voice tinted with worry. "Are you all right?"

The younger man didn't answer, pain sharply redirecting his attention. He looked down at himself in fright - he had fallen asleep in his suit, but beneath it, he could feel his skin burning. Panicked, he threw off the bedsheets, yanking his jacket off hurriedly to toss it to the floor. As he fumbled with the buttons at the cuffs of his sleeves, he noticed stains were forming beneath his palms...he turned them over, alarmed to see a row of gouges on either hand. He curled his fingers in - his nails matched up with the wounds. Had he clenched them in his sleep?

The burning across his skin seemed to be less painful, save for a point on his arm...rolling up his sleeve, his eyes widened. There was a burn there...a fresh one, as if it had just happened. That couldn't be. No. He had - he had done that...earlier. No - no, he had only thought about it. Yes, he had done it. But he wouldn't have, he didn't really recall it, but he did.... His head pounded, and he cradled it in his hands. He had too much to drink.

"Michael?" Again - this time a little nervous. The boy finally spoke, his voice shaky, raspy...and a bit husky.

"...Just...a nightmare...." The painful burning had lessened considerably by now, but he still felt...too hot. Much too hot. An unfamiliar tightness within him coursed through his body...he felt antsy. His eyes were still wide and wild, fear plain to see in them as he pulled himself from the bed and plowed (with very shaky steps) towards the door. Mister Stewart wheeled after him, now frightened by the odd behavior.

"You should get back to bed...you don't look well...not at all."

Michael paused at the door, leaning on the doorframe, blood running down the wood from the wounds on his palms. He didn't look back, but there was something...strange in his voice behind the quiver. A strain...a roughness.

"...Need water. I'll...be...I'll be back."

With that, he left Mister Stewart alone in his room.