Something stirs in the leaves in the woods with a small groan, sprawled in the dark. A moment later it scrabbles to its feet using a tree and has a knife out and very much ready to use, breathing hard, eyes probing the darkness. Satisfied that nothing is indeed there, the knife vanishes and he shakes out his shoulders, feeling stiff and sore and definitely cold. "Whoever thought sleeping on leaves was a good idea deserves to die," he mutters, grimaces a moment, getting his bearings, and starts walking. A few steps and he remembers being attacked, a couple more and he remembers dying. That gets him to stop.

"Godsfucking hell."

This should be fun. He starts off again, running one hand through his hair, and examining his clothes, grimacing at the state of them. He looks like he's been lying in the woods. One hand drifts distractedly up to his neck before he drags it down, cracking it instead. Picking his way across the lawn, he opens the door and slips inside, one hand still close to one of the concealed knives, and examines the house with one of his particular notsmiles, looking slightly exasperated.

And then laughs, a little bit, kind of amused at the irony, going over to the couch to flop on it and wait to be found, probably frowning when he discovers that he's lost his best deck of cards.

Locke is currently in his room, leaning over the sink and cursing fluently, dripping blood into the sink from where he just set his nose straight. Ow, that hurts. He's still vaguely amused though, even through the pain kind of sucks a little bit. He eyes his reflection in the mirror, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I wonder what he found so objectionable?" He asks his reflection, and then snorts. And quickly regrets it.

Feel free to drop by and say hello!

T: Mostly for Anita, Valen, and Cyrano, but anyone can feel free to drop in on him.

There are a few things Locke Lamora doesn't do. Locke Lamora doesn't regret. Locke Lamora doesn't get really drunk. And Locke Lamora definitely doesn't cry.

Unfortunately, Locke Lamora is currently doing all three of these things.

Sprawled on his back on the bed, sideways so his head is flopped over the side, two empty bottles of wine on the floor and one half empty sitting within arms reach. Holding a glass in two fingers. He drops it, ignoring the shatter even as he ignores the tears cutting salty tracks down his still face. Humming something under his breath that he never sings, flipping a coin up, catching it, flipping it up, catching it, flipping it up. His eyes are bloodshot. And he can't quite muster the energy to care enough to get up and lock the door as he should. He is watching it, though, hoping no one will come.

Locke is on his feet again, a scarf covering the distinctive bruise, and strolling around the Mansion in full Locke personality regalia. Complete with the knives, of course. And even if he's not aware he's doing it, he is looking for someone, though he hardly knows who that someone is. He has no worries that he will recognize the someone when he comes across them.

Promises shmomises. If he doesn't take care of this eventually, Anita's going to do something irrevocably stupid, and that would be bad.
But feel free to come say hello in the meantime! He might even act vaguely functional. Though we don't guarantee it.

Well. Locke looks all right. Mostly. Other than the massive purple bruise around his neck. And the fact that he's not really moving very much. As in, totally unconscious.

Um. That went well.

Who: Locke, Anita Blake, Phedre
What: Basically, epic fail, it happens. Warnings for language - it's Locke.

Well. Locke is in his room again, the door closed and staring at the wall, sitting up on his bed. He has not had a good afternoon. He doesn't really look like he has for the past few months. It's amazing how fast all the masks break away. He doesn't look quite human, not with the wild look in his eyes and the way he's hardly moving at all. There's a bitter taste of bad wine in his mouth, but he's ignoring it, in favor of slugging back more. Being drunk would be nice. It'd mean he wouldn't have to think.

And there he goes again! With that stupid thinking business. It's like having an anchor tied around one's neck, Locke reflects, briefly. Going in circles about all the stupid mistakes he's made. It's a wonderful feeling, really. Like rubbing vinegar on an open wound. And he can't decide what he should feel about that bloody woman. But he'll be damned if he's going to feel guilty. No, really.

He curls up into himself a bit and tosses back more wine. Always the solution, wine.

"Godsdammit. I miss Bug," he says, out of nowhere, and a bit blearily.

Locke has found a good table, dragged it into his room, opened the windows, and set the stage. Because a stage it is. He's now sitting on the windowsill shuffling a deck of cards and looking remarkably pleased with himself, though it's easily mistaken for simple cheerfulness except for the glint in his eye. Because this is going to be fun.

Cyrano trounced Locke at his game. But no one beats Locke on his playing field. And even fewer beat the twins when cards get involved. And it's been too long since he enjoyed cheating someone at anything, even if Cyrano doesn't have much money to lose. Half the fun is in the game, and sometimes even more than half.

Feel free to come and bother him, even if you aren't playing. He might offer you a game.

mmLocke is dreaming. Who knows what brought it on – the arrival of the twins, maybe just restlessness, maybe the magic Jaenelle used on him, but it’s a dream nonetheless. Bug’s standing there. Bug. Bertilion Gadek, with a crossbow bolt through his neck. “Locke,” he says in a hoarse voice, a dead voice. “Locke, save me. We’re Gentlemen Bastards. We stick together. Locke, please, if anyone can get me out of here it’s you. You’re Locke Lamora…I know you can save me.” His eyes were wide, pleading, and full of faith. Locke tried to tell him that he was wrong, that Locke fucking Lamora was nothing now, that he couldn’t do anything.

“You’re dead, Bug,” he says desperately. “You’re dead, you’re dead-“ And Bug covers his ears and screams because he doesn’t want to hear, and Locke screams with him until he feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to face Jean, a hatchet buried in his chest, blood streaming down his face. 

“Locke, you abandoned me,” Jean accuses in a cold, hollow voice. “I thought we were friends.”

Locke tries desperately to explain that being friends with him was a mistake, that he’s a dead man, that he’s doomed. Jean says nothing, his eyes accusing, and Bug just cries a thin, high, reedy sound, and none of his excuses are good enough, because they are dead forever, now. 

He jerks awake, shivering, his voice too high in his own ears. “No – no, please I promise, I promise I’ll protect you this time, I promise I’ll keep them safe, please-“

He cuts himself off, his stomach lurching uncomfortably. He drags himself to his feet and goes to the toilet, stands over it, head hanging, feeling miserable, wrung out. Jean’s eyes seem to stare back at him, blank and accusing.

“Jean Tannen is not dead,” Locke tells his mirror, firmly. “Jean Tannen was alive when you last saw him, and he will stay that way, goddammit. Stupid you, listening to dreams and fancies.” 

But he still can’t stop shivering, even in the humid heat of a summer night, and wraps himself in blankets, trying to gather himself and stop the shaking.

Locke has been surprised unpleasantly before. Altogether too often. Locke has been confused before, if not very frequently. But this, right now, is probably the most bewildered Locke has ever been. Too many feelings, and they get very confusing very rapidly. He's in his room again, sprawled on his bed, looking concerned and mostly just - well.

He started writing things down, but it was too hard to do that with one sort of good arm, and he is propped up on pillows with a glass of wine, grimacing at the taste since he did have to steal it from someone, and that someone's tastes do not agree with Locke's.

The twins are here. Calo and Galdo Sanza, last seen in the middle of the wreckage of his career and very nearly his life with their throats slashed. And they're alive. Dead people do not just become alive. And it's occurred to him that it's highly probable he might be dead, too. Despite what Anita said. Because he should have been before turning up here, and...but that's a bad train of thought. Another sip of wine, and he goes back the twins. Who are here. And alive. He's literally reeling, and making sense of this is proving about as easy as making sense of that one time he was a twelve year old again. It just doesn't work.

But even though they're still - well, dead? And all the shit in Camorr still happened? He still can't help a little feeling of happiness that won't go away, because hey, they're - at least sort of alive. They're breathing. And while there's still Bug to mourn for, and Jean to worry about - though he knows Jean will take care of himself - the twins, the first Gentlemen Bastards, godsdamned Calo and Galdo Sanza, are here.

Especially if you're Locke.

He's bored, sore, and very nearly scared into staying in bed out of a combination of not wanting to die and pissing off Valen again. And because the last time he tried that stupid stunt after getting patched together, he couldn't even get up enough to get out of bed in the first place. It was too much effort.

So he's stuck tossing an orange from hand to hand - how he got it is anyone's guess - and staring at the ceiling, humming to himself and wincing whenever a note makes him twitch in a way that hurts. It's rather unfortunately often.

He looks a little better, if still paler and a little sicker than he should, but at least all the blood is cleaned up and not showing through so badly. Clean bandages make everything look a lot better than it really is. He wishes those stupid things would hurry up and heal, though. He's getting really sick of this.

But most of all, he's been thinking lately. And a lot about that odd fellow. Bergerac. He's just not sure what to think of him. It'll probably require another conversation to make up his mind. One where he's not half-dead and/or drunk on being half-dead.

He lets out a heavy sigh of boredom and then winces with a muttered curse, one hand going to his side and flinching.

"Really should learn not to do that," he mutters to himself, almost absently.

Locke isn't bleeding nearly so much as he was anymore, but he's certainly not looking great. In fact, he looks almost as bad as he did when he first arrived, pale and fever-sweaty and generally unwell. He's alive, though, which is a hell of a lot more than he expected. When he comes around (eventually), he might even be glad of that.

Currently, however, he's much too unconscious to really be glad of anything. Except maybe some water. And a Valen, but he won't be aware of that for some time.

Locke is wandering through the Mansion with a glove tucked in his pocket and frowning as he tries to figure out where he's going to find a rapier. However, he is looking for one person in particular and said person will probably not be too pleased with the request he's going to make. That's probably why he looks annoyed. Not because he's just recalled how awful he is at swordfighting without trickery, which he's pretty sure he's committed to, and he really doesn't want to lose.

He's not worried about the rest of it, particularly - he can handle a little bit of bleeding. What's that? Nearly entirely healed? Oh, psh.

Locke is currently napping. Though not in the main room - he's not about to do that again anytime soon. No, he's currently outside and in a tree, sprawled on a limb rather like a leopard, his sleeping face settled in a frown. The dreams he dreams are not happy ones, even in the brightness of daylight. 

Locke Lamora is sitting outside - well, lying outside, on his back, sprawled like a starfish and watching the stars. He's feeling thoughtful, which mostly translates to "depressed" and his eyes glisten a little as he watches the moon and thinks about Camorr. And how stupid he's been. It's a long list.

With a heavy sigh, he rolls over and gets to his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking towards the lake, humming a song to himself and smiling bitterly, thinking about Calo and Galdo and Bug. He starts to feel a little teary. "Goddamn it, Locke," he mutters, "Gentlemen Bastards don't cry, remember?"

Of course it's a little late for that.

Locke is currently sitting in the kitchen drinking a bottle of wine and shivering rather rapidly. He doesn't look nearly as pleased with himself as someone who just successfully filched said bottle from someone's room should, especially since said person was still there. He's trying to remember if there's any sort of thing one is supposed to do about Bondsmagi. Like a sign against evil, or something. Because at this point, it would be very helpful. He's not sure why they felt it necessary to make him suddenly the over-confident kid he was a while ago, but Bondsmagi don't have to make sense. All he knows is that they're the only ones who can and conceivably would do something like that, and that probably means he's marked for a slow, painful death any minute now.

He'd like to be as drunk as possible when it rolls around. That is a knife just within reach, though, just in case - so he can fight, or if worst comes to worst, die before the pain gets too bad.

"Locke," he murmurs to himself, "You've been alltogether too trusting. Altogether. It's no real surprise you're going to die."

Locke Lamora is laughing to himself.

Currently lying in bed, looking at the ceiling with one arm limp at his side and the other playing with a very pointy knife only inches from his face, it's rather an odd sound with more than a little bit of a note of hysteria. "Should've waited, I know, Jean." A sort of gasping choke as he hisses a curse under his breath, tensing briefly before reaching over, picking up a glass, and tossing back a few more pills. He doesn't know how to use them, exactly, but 'painkillers' sounded like a good idea at the time. "Such a nice guy, though. Such a nice guy. Godamn but it hurts. Where's one of those gods damned poultices when you need one?"

He starts laughing again. "Great. Just great. Gods...'oh please, it'll never happen' my ass."

He trails off into rather more pithy curses, interspersed with a few old names, and very intently not looking at his mess of an arm. Thanks to his constant movement and lack of sanitation, it's not doing so well. Though, in typical Locke fashion, without anyone to carry him to someone who'll take care of it, he's not going anywhere.