It was a quiet walk and an even more silent Taxi ride to the place Martin intended to go to breakfast. During this whole time he focused more on the deception of friendship he was supporting between himself and Martin rather than letting himself wallow in all the conflicted emotions that this affair brought up. They exited to a restaurant that seemed very expensive. It made Andrew wonder how on earth Martin could afford such a place when he clearly lived in, well, filth. Either his priorities were severely out of whack, a possibility for a torturing nut job like him, or he had a reason for living where he did that Andrew couldn't quite suss out.

He considered the man in question as they entered the restaurant and Martin was greeted familiarly. Another curiosity. A usual place denoted regular visits. Andrew wondered just how many other curiosities Martin would treat him to before he could break away from the man. Speaking of, now that he had himself relatively calm, he needed to find a way to do just that. As they were escorted to the table he thought back to his other promises. Had there ever been a time when they didn't affect him? Hadn't he remembered who that one promise was to a couple of times? Gemma! Being near her took away the effects of the promises! If he could just meet her and tell her then somehow things would work out. It was a lot easier to think when he wasn't all overwhelmed.

Andrew's hat went on the table when they sat and he glanced over the menu provided. He'd been right, the place was far beyond his budget. Once they had a moment sans possible prying ears he glanced up from the menu.

"Mr. Weaver?"

Martin answered with a raised eyebrow. Pointedly raise at Andrew. “Surprised? I have more passports than you have fingers. And even more names to go along.” Well what did you do if you were a professional killer? You were professional about it. Not going somewhere with the same name twice was one of those. Not telling people another. In Andrews case this prohibition was somewhat lifted. His voice, on that note, was all polite conversation. Over tea and biscuits. Maybe they would have tea and biscuits later. Right now Martin glanced at the menu, smiling absentmindedly at Andrew.

To Andrew it would seem that way at least. Martin took his time scanning the offers at this place. They would all be excellent eating. The lobster... that looked especially good now. It was already past ten, so there would be a reason for having a brunch.

“Should I order for both of us? You don't really look like you know your way around.” It was a question with finely pointed needles. (Well maybe not so fine.) The waiter from the entrance was standing some ways off where he would not be able to hear but he had watchful eyes on them. Smiling friendly. Even at the third eye. Such things really did not count much in the right circles. And with the right amounts of money. Which Martin possessed, courtesy to killing people for a living. It was easy money too. Most of the time.

Andrew gave a casual shrug in response to Martin.

"Not really surprised. Curious more like. You'll forgive me for wanting to get to know you a little better since it seems we'll be having a lot of contact with each other."

He was much more stable and able to cope since he'd managed to get a moment to sort out his head. Martin hadn't been goading him or giving a repeat of his earlier antics so he'd had a chance to do as he used to in situations like this: put aside the fear, uncertainty, and stress and act tough. The last time he'd had to do that was when he was with Ahorta. He hadn't seen her in forever. She was a nice enough girl, if in need of plenty of help.

Martin's not too subtle dig had little effect on Drew. He simply gave the man a smile. He wasn't a simpering toadie yet. He wouldn't shrink with every little insult. The promises had said nothing about backtalk or how to react to insults.

"Please do. I'll leave it to someone who is obviously much more used to such a fine lifestyle."

His face was smiling, his eyes agreed with the smile. All was happy and right. Just a conversation between friends. Inside the conflict still raged but Andrew was purposefully not thinking about it now. Just as he'd put off reacting totally in the alleyway he'd do the same here. Martin would see only his calm and hear only praise. Sure the praise might have a backhanded insult or two but what was that between friends?

The answer of Martins... it was twofold. Touching. Under the table, just s//:lightly.(com((e))) Martins foot on Andrews leg. Slowly angling upward^s, sneaking along the lines on his pants, raising them a bit. Maybe his leg would get a bit cold now... Wasn't that a shame? [There is no such thing as shame; loose convention!] His hands rested on the clean white tablecloth that spilled generously around them. Starched to perfection it hung, obscuring the happenings underneath, unconcerned. [Concerns are for the dead, for the dieing. Not today, come away, come... with me:: blink, innocence-humanity==monstrosity?]

The menu was lightly placed, delicately almost, to his side. Immediately the watchful, the helpful eye from the corner of the room went into motion. The leg went a bit higher(rrrr wheres decency, just where.. are we heading? Head on into walls. Crunching fun, just drawing things now, fingers on the tablecloth, patternization). “I think we would like the lobster, the ...” His order, words stringing out, now with a slight Boston accent, was accepted without so much as a rustle of paper or other obscuring elements. Just helpful eyes, helpful hands ind a suit. Listening attentively. Just for you they seemed to say. Delicately. Taking the menu away from the table, carrying them like a serving tray, like they were something to be cherished. Martin sitting, unimpressed, just sitting there. That illusion of a smile, pleasantry, fading momentarily. One hand was moving towards Andrew, raising from the table. Prom Martins perspective it was already, nearly, cupped around Andrews cheek. Because... the leg was there. “Young innocence. People call it precious sometimes.” It was not berating. Just... smalltalk?

Whispers form that mouth, lips slightly wetted by a tip of tongue (underneath? Want to know?), a truth he had not spoken for a while. Because... it hurt. Tasted, bitterly. “I am well into my thirties, Andrew.” Just for you. Silently. (Legs, touching. Fire! Where?)

Andrew's breath hitched and he found any words stuck in his throat. Under the table, shaded by the folds of the white tablecloth, Martin had taken to running a foot along his leg. He swallowed reflexively, trying to find the calm control he'd had moments before but it was quite hard with that going on beneath the table! Thankfully Martin gave him something else to focus on as he started ordering in a Boston accent. Andrew payed some attention to what was ordered, nodding briefly to the waiter as the menus were removed.

One of Martin's hands slowly extended and if he were not desperately trying to keep up appearance he would have flinched at it's approach. Those hands made him feel. Pain, pleasure, both at once. He didn't trust those hands. They were nearly an entity apart from Martin in his mind. Martin was always so stoic while the hands were not. They brought pain and pleasure. They were cruel while Martin was impassive. Were it not for the hands and now the foot he could have sworn he was sitting across from a rock.

The admission as to Martin's age however took him entirely off guard. They were of an age to the eye. They could have been old friends or new acquaintances or any number of other things merely based on that. The motion of cupping his cheek however made it seem like much more than that. Had there been some women around to see it Andrew was quite sure he would have heard at least one giggle and probably several 'awww's. It took him a moment to be sure that he could speak evenly, the hand and the roving foot having unnerved him.

"You hardly look it. Your mutation I'd guess?"

Softspoken, quiet, but even toned was his response. If you listened closely you might have thought you heard a quaver in his voice. Maybe a slight pause that coincided with the movements of the foot. The foot however was invisible to the rest of the restaurant and few listened that close. Andrew told himself that the quaver wasn't there and that the pause had simply been for air, instead of enjoyment of the goings on under the table.

His leg continued moving under the table, just as if the things above did not exist. Those poisoning small smiles, just in between standing off and on. Just standing in between true and false. Not one. Not zero. Just a half. Electronic failure. Come on // need to kick that computer. Softly.

Softly the steps of the server on the thickly carpeted ground. He was carrying a silver tablet with one of those upturned silver bowls on them. Martin motioned him to set it down before Andrew, just hand and eye, quickly. His other hand around Andrews cheek stayed there, slightly moving. A glance, a bent finger for the server. Quick hints that spoke of communication that had happened before. Spoke of familiarity. Of trust maybe. (Trusting? Martin? Never. But one could always create useful illusions. Especially with people.) His hand stayed there, on Andrews cheek, until the silver thing was set before him. Under his arm.

The server retreated dutifully. Waiting for some reason. Martin lifted the lid, removing his hand from Andrews cheek to do it, so very light that touch. Under the silver half-bubble was something moving. Something that held its claws out to Andrew. Pincers really. A big, very big lobster sitting on a silver tray. Living, a lobster.

“Some things...” Martin mumbled, just for Andrew. “Are just not meant to die.” Such as himself? “Others fight with claws and pincers.” And indeed the lobsters pincers were unbound as Martin had ordered them since coming to this place whenever he had ordered the crustacean to inspect it before it found its demise in a boiling pot of fonds and spices. It was fingering, futile, in the air, beating at it in a form of animal frenzy. Just fighting for your life. And maybe losing? “And they always loose.” His voice an almost-silent rumble. His hand hovering invitingly about the meal-to-be.

Hand and foot conspired against him. Plotted his downfall. Tried to tell him that all was well and he was loved. Andrew knew it was a lie. But it was a comforting lie that played so well to the promises he'd made that it was all to easy to forget that it was a lie.

The waiter approached with a tray that he set down and then he backed away. The bright side of this being that the infernal hand was removed from his cheek and he could think a little clearer without that distracting action. Martin removed the cover to reveal a lobster, though the narration made Drew uncertain whether he was speaking of the crustacean on the platter or Andrew himself. It might have been bother for all he knew. Still, the words stuck in his mind and the promises took up the refrain as a reminder of what might happen if he disobeyed the man he'd sworn loyalty to.

Andrew was loathe to touch the creature in front of him. After all, once Martin signaled the waiter it would be taken back to the kitchen and dropped into a pot of boiling water. He almost envied the creature that. Sure it was about to be eaten but at least it was assured an end. Andrew saw no end to this madness between him and Martin. He could delay it, he could even perhaps ignore it for a time if he got the help of someone like Gemma, but he saw no way to be rid of it. Martin would surely never just let him go.

Yes, Drew envied a lobster that was soon to become a meal. Enough perhaps to risk the pincers to touch it. Yet he hesitated. The thing was trying to fight for all it was worth, not that that would help it. Andrew found he had no words and suddenly didn't feel like doing anything to the lobster. He looked at Martin, waiting for him to finish judging the creature and consign it to its fate.

Lets call our lobster Henry. Henry the eighth, for he was the most marvelous and kingly creature ever to come forth from the darkest pits under stones (that did never break his exoskeleton) to ever be. One day Henry (the eighth) had been ripped from his seabed home by a contraption of nets joined with the most wonderful-smelling bit of food. Wonderful food, it had made Henry forget who he was. After that things somehow went downhill for our Henry, king of Eight, for it was eight that he was crammed into a crate with.

And shipped, under ice, around half the world. The best lobsters come from France, you know? They are shipped around the world, flown really, sold as delicacies is homeopathic quantities to cure the insatiable hunger of the worlds would- and would not- be gourmands. And were just as effective as regular homeopathy at it. In a certain place only the best food was served. This might be relevant to understanding the reaction of Lord Henry the eighth as he was presented with rosy flesh in front of him. Not only was he slightly starved, but also cold and slightly irate. If invertebrate have such feelings that is.

Presented with such rosy flesh in front of him, Henry drew his mighty sword, giant claw of salvation, bane of all foes, to smite the thing (the ugly thing) staring in his face. He stood up on his tail as far as he could go and reached out with all his might. And pinched, mightily indeed. Pinched Andrews cheek.

In a certain restaurant Martin was blinking with a very much 'oh really?' face. Mildly amused indeed. Under the table his leg had ground its clockwork to halt quite suddenly. And if that was not enough, the door of the restaurant was opening with chimes and the server was occupied for a second by what seemed to be a man brandishing a white plastic conception of the modern age. It was commonly called a spork. And he brandished it in front of the servers face as if it was Henry's holey grail. Maybe it would be. Some day.

On the bright side, the foot had ceased it's distracting movements. However there was a downside.

That downside was the lobster, currently pinching his cheek.

"Yeouch! Let go you blasted cousin of a bug!"

Drew grabbed the offending claw and tried to remove it. Quite unsuccessfully. The darn thing had quite a grip. Help did not seem as if it would come from Martin's quarter. In fact he seemed vaguely amused. The waiter didn't appear as though he'd be any help either. Drew had turned his head to look at the man and he seemed quite busy with a guy wielding a spork of all things. Drew glared at the lobster. Well as much as it was possible to glare at something so close to one's face.

"Little help oh illustrious master?"

Getting snarky with Martin probably wasn't a good idea but darn it he had an undersea bug attached to his face.

Henry was quite unmoved by the meatballs treasonous action. It needed to be punished after all. It needed to hurt, hurt, hurt. For his illustrious self. For his insurrection. For his very existence that being needed to hurt. And be purged from existence by his claws might. Or so the invertebrates ganglia told him.

The spork-man luckily kept the waiter busy still, trying, quite unsuccessfully, to usher him out of the door again. It was quite like Henry and his claw, that spork. Being waved like an implement of salvation in his face. It had already left a marking on one cheek, some sharp red lines where it had ground white flesh. It was being waved like a weapon indeed.

This however, gave Martin time to act. The very strange smile still plastered on his face. But at Andrews last words, his eyes went quite dead again. Quite utterly, emotionless, dead blue things looking out for the youth. Something might just have gone quite wrong.

Martin rose without making a sound, walking normally, but somehow he did not make any sound doing so, quietly blessing the irrational one in the entrance for being there this moment. Quietly moving. Motioning Andrew to sit still as he rounded the table, flowing along like water spilled from a glass. Now it might have been worth mentioning that Martins hand was indeed clasped around his water glass, liquid moving lazily inside.

He rounded the table and lightly placed a hand on Andrews stool, turning it around halfway. The glass went on the table. So it was not that, was it? Martin set himself straight into Drews lap, settling there with something of an animal grace. He even managed to get one of his legs properly on the other, crossing them. His head wandered to the side where no lobster could bar his access to Andrews ear. A hand was closing around the offending crustacean. His whisper was not sweet at all. Slightly disappointed. Slightly reprimanding. And mostly devoid of emotion lie his eyes. “Now what did I tell you we were outside?” His hand gripping the lobsters pincer closed. Henry protested of course, legs beating against the gloved hand feebly. But it did not matter. Martin intensified his grip on the animal and made the grip harder and harder, grinding the chitin into Andrews soft flesh. He even twisted it for good measure.

All the while his lips were hovering only an inch from Andrews ears. “Now if you want the illustrious master, we can go back to that immediately.” His other hand drove a shot punch into Andrews ribs. Foreplay. It was only foreplay.

Andrew, busy concentrating on the soon to be food that was firmly grasping his cheek, didn't notice Martin get up at all. Well, his eyes saw it but in light of the current situation his brain didn't acknowledge the movement. He did however notice once he had a lap full of said man. Martin was sitting, right there on his lap, in a manner that certainly seemed more than friendly. Then again, Drew had broken character first hadn't he? Andrew cursed himself. The sudden change, the dead eyes, were all his fault for forgetting his character. Why had he broken character because of a little pain? Sure the bloody bug's pinch was uncomfortable but he'd survived much worse from the man sitting on his lap.

Even without the words, spoken so close, he would have known his transgression. The use of the lobster was just extra. Andrew very much did not want to go back to the master. Master tended to mean pain. As much as he absolutely hated admitting it, even to himself, he preferred it when Martin wasn't causing him pain. Not because of was adverse to pain. No, Andrew threw himself into enough bad situations to know that it wasn't the pain that made him prefer the other Martin. Rather it was the gentle touches, that foot from earlier, that made him prefer that Martin. It sickened Drew just as much as the promises told him he liked it. He had Tasean but this man, and the term only loosely applied if you asked Drew, had put himself in a position to usurp that. All because of his blasted mutation. The punch to the ribs punctuated these thoughts.

"No. I'll be-behave."

He'd almost said 'I'll be good.' However Andrew didn't think being good would win him any points with Martin. So he'd corrected himself mid-sentence to behave. If it fixed this mess then he was quite willing alter his behavior some more. So long as he could avoid another incident like the alleyway.

Martins hand removed itself from Andrew, only to touch his lips. Gently. He was really quite aware of his dwindling time with Andrew like this. He would need to make an impression. “Now, I think you don't really want to... please me.” And he even managed to put on a sad face for facing Andrew like this. Sitting in his lap. Feeling his body underneath him, carrying him. So much for erotic touches.

He tore, yes literally tore, the lobster From Andrews face, breaking his skin in the process. The lobster was settled in its place and the covering replaced even as Martin was standing up. Coincidentally or not, the waiter just returned, with a mildly-amused smile on his face that did not manage to contain his annoyance at having to fend of spork-man. His customers would hamstring their sinews before eating with that implement. And from plastic nonetheless. Martin waved him to take the lobster away. “Its good. The usual way please.” And then he simply walked back to his place, leaving Andrew to tend to a bleeding cheek. He himself took a sip of water, looking unconcerned at him.

"Memorize: A rope, at least five meters, hemp. A blowtorch. Three different pliers. Repeat."

His voice was quite unemotional still. But he was smiling again. Maybe it was the blood on Andrews cheek he was looking at now.

The touch to his lips silenced any further talking he might do. It wasn't really necessary though because Martin's next words terrified him. They spoke of disappointment to him and disappointment was bad. Very very very bad. The physical situation they were in was the absolute furthest from his mind at that point. He was trapped between fear and the love that his promises forced on him. The combination showed in his eyes, if nowhere else on his face. Then pain, from where Martin removed the lobster quite forcefully, erupted and brought Drew firmly back into the here and now. The demon sea bug went back on it's platter and under it's dome before the waiter returned. In fact Martin was standing and returning to his chair when the man arrived, leaving the only hint of previous events the blood that now ran down Drew's cheek.

He dabbed at it with a napkin, staining the lovely white linen red. Martin sipped his water while Drew worked on stemming the flow of blood. He really wanted to hate the man. Nothing he'd done had been to Drew's benefit at all. In fact most of it turned out horrible for him. And yet, thanks to those promises, he found he couldn't. It was irrational and he hated it. Andrew hated that he couldn't hate Martin. The sentence Martin spoke snapped his attentions away from his bloody cheek and his thoughts. Drew quickly recognized there would be consequences if he didn't do as told. He took a breath and repeated the sentence back.

"Rope, at least five meters, hemp. A blowtorch. Three different pliers."

It wasn't until after he'd repeated the sentence that he realized what had been said. It sounded like shopping list and Drew didn't particularly like the contents. He rather hoped Martin didn't intend to use it for what he suspected he would but it was a fool's hope and one that didn't live very long. Around Martin, Drew had resigned himself to pain even more completely than before. It was becoming so commonplace in it's varied forms that he just accepted the likelihood of another torture session with some small amount of serenity. It was unavoidable.

“Good.” Martin sounded not quite pleased, but not irate either. Did Andrew really want to find out how to make him irate? Possibly not. He had not been in a killing rage for some time. He did not plan on doing so in the near future. Instead of driving down memory lane, he grabbed under the table for a second, searching for an object in the pocket of his pants. He proceeded to flick the finding, something silver, at Drew. A credit card. The name on it read: Rafael Hammington. Just another name maybe, maybe the name of the person it had once belonged to. “Get these things, buy something pretty for yourself, too. And then meet me at [address] tonight at 21:00” The address was that of an old butchery. But that Andrew would find out tonight. He had plans for that. “Bring the things. And now let us enjoy the meal in silence.” His leg would not stir again. But he would take the cooked lobsters pincer, the one he had plied from Andrews cheek, and crack it with a smile. A smile directed very much at Andrew.

A credit card under yet another name sailed across the table at Drew. He picked it up gingerly. What had Martin done to gain this card? On second thought, Drew didn't want to know. He was given his instructions. Buy the rope (hemp, at least five meters), the blow torch, and the pliers (three). He was also to buy himself something pretty? That was a vague instruction but Drew would obey, somehow. He was then to meet Martin at a certain place at a certain time. Cold dread of what would happen at that place solidified in Drew's stomach before waging war with anticipation that his master wished to see him again so soon.

The meal continued in silence, though Drew did note the smile Martin wore as he cracked into that sea bug's claw. They parted ways at the end of the meal and Drew went to tend to his errands. He spent the rest of the day at the mansion vacillating between fear and excitement. When the appointed hour approached Drew headed of for the address with the purchases in tow.

The place turned out to be an old butchers. That didn't bode well. Drew approached the building carrying the rope, blow torch, and pliers with him. The credit card was in a pocket. After finding a way in Drew glanced around the old place.

"Martin? Sir?"

Drew stood there awkwardly, waiting for Martin to make himself known. Who knew what the man had planned for tonight but Drew was and was not eager to find out.