He chuckles at that, eyebrows lifting. 'Tch, what am I, a comic book supervillain? The opposite, if anything. Not that you're one to talk, Mr. Truant.'
He may deal in the occasional death, when it profits him, but he makes sure to keep it on the other side of the knife, as it were. Accepting Johnny's brusque invitation, he fishes in the pocket of his corduroy blazer (with patches on the elbows, natch) and produces a pocketknife (he said he didn't have anything up his sleeves), ambling over to a door on the far wall.
It's papered over, like the rest of the room, but the outline is still clear, and he lifts the knife to begin cutting through when his eye is caught by one of the pages. A tangle of illegible words at the bottom, but the top: Sweet, sweet Johnny. Intrigued, like a curator digging something fragile out of storage, he strokes his fingertips over the paper. One of Johnny's contributions to the book. Fascinating, really, the way it seems almost a living thing, taking and assimilating. The book, the house. Where does the power come from?
But Johnny's not talking now, so he raises the knife to score a line through the letter, down through a dozen more, some signed, some not, until he's sliced all the way around the door and cleared the paper away from the knob. He lays his hand on the smooth metal, half expecting a shock, some repulsion from the house, but there's nothing. He smiles to himself. Good. It must know he's not without his own power.
With a wrench, he tugs the door open. Keeping his hand on the knob, lest it shut again, he turns to Johnny, cocking an eyebrow. 'There we go. Easily enough done.'
no subject
He may deal in the occasional death, when it profits him, but he makes sure to keep it on the other side of the knife, as it were. Accepting Johnny's brusque invitation, he fishes in the pocket of his corduroy blazer (with patches on the elbows, natch) and produces a pocketknife (he said he didn't have anything up his sleeves), ambling over to a door on the far wall.
It's papered over, like the rest of the room, but the outline is still clear, and he lifts the knife to begin cutting through when his eye is caught by one of the pages. A tangle of illegible words at the bottom, but the top: Sweet, sweet Johnny. Intrigued, like a curator digging something fragile out of storage, he strokes his fingertips over the paper. One of Johnny's contributions to the book. Fascinating, really, the way it seems almost a living thing, taking and assimilating. The book, the house. Where does the power come from?
But Johnny's not talking now, so he raises the knife to score a line through the letter, down through a dozen more, some signed, some not, until he's sliced all the way around the door and cleared the paper away from the knob. He lays his hand on the smooth metal, half expecting a shock, some repulsion from the house, but there's nothing. He smiles to himself. Good. It must know he's not without his own power.
With a wrench, he tugs the door open. Keeping his hand on the knob, lest it shut again, he turns to Johnny, cocking an eyebrow. 'There we go. Easily enough done.'