[Alucard puts his mouth to the rim of the mug and takes a small sip first, testing to check the temperature of the soup-made-of-himself. It's hot but not enough to burn. It'll do.
The first full and proper sip does nothing at all. Alucard only frowns and mutters about needing more time and poor mouth feel. His second is likewise uneventful.
Unfortunately, the soup seems to play by rule of threes, as with the third sip and the gentle thunk of the mug going down onto the kitchen table, something bodyslams into Alucard's brain. He doesn't fall over from it, but he digs his hands into his own palms hard enough to draw blood. There's a groan. He rests his forehead on the table itself, eyes downward at the floor.
He manages to choke out a FUCK!, but that's it. Whatever it was like for Geralt, it is not this. It is not sitting paralyzed while the flood gates open back up fully, leaving one gasping for air while being wholly still and on dry land. It's being washed over by a great wave and waiting for it to recede.
Except it doesn't recede, not immediately. Alucard doesn't know how long it takes him to come up to the metaphorical surface, but when he does, his face is flushed red and streaked with tears, his palms are bloodied, and he looks every inch the 800 that they aren't.
His breathing, however, is still labored. Every breath is a struggle, and when he locks eyes on Geralt there is visible panic in them.]
no subject
[Alucard puts his mouth to the rim of the mug and takes a small sip first, testing to check the temperature of the soup-made-of-himself. It's hot but not enough to burn. It'll do.
The first full and proper sip does nothing at all. Alucard only frowns and mutters about needing more time and poor mouth feel. His second is likewise uneventful.
Unfortunately, the soup seems to play by rule of threes, as with the third sip and the gentle thunk of the mug going down onto the kitchen table, something bodyslams into Alucard's brain. He doesn't fall over from it, but he digs his hands into his own palms hard enough to draw blood. There's a groan. He rests his forehead on the table itself, eyes downward at the floor.
He manages to choke out a FUCK!, but that's it. Whatever it was like for Geralt, it is not this. It is not sitting paralyzed while the flood gates open back up fully, leaving one gasping for air while being wholly still and on dry land. It's being washed over by a great wave and waiting for it to recede.
Except it doesn't recede, not immediately. Alucard doesn't know how long it takes him to come up to the metaphorical surface, but when he does, his face is flushed red and streaked with tears, his palms are bloodied, and he looks every inch the 800 that they aren't.
His breathing, however, is still labored. Every breath is a struggle, and when he locks eyes on Geralt there is visible panic in them.]