Chapter Text
Dr. Lanyon sat pensively in his neon green armchair, watching the hands of his grandfather clock tick down the seconds to midnight. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled, elbows resting on his knees, feet planted firmly apart. His butler, who was standing in front of the aforementioned clock, flinched slightly. This stance made Lanyon look like he was trying to dissect his butler’s liver with the power of his Megamind. The affront to all things beautiful in which he currently sat was a gift given to him nearly a decade prior by none other than the affront to nature himself, Dr. Jekyll. However, he just couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the thing.
No, like, seriously, no one would buy it from him. Not even the frizzy, incantation-muttering old man at the street corner. The one who lived in a box and kept a whole legion of rats at his side (Lanyon suspected that the man had recruited them into a sort of army like Fyodor Dostoyevsky from BSD, which unsettled him quite a bit, which is why he normally kept his distance.)
So the abomination stayed in his consulting room, as he couldn’t bear having it in his living room or anywhere else in the premises of his inhabitance. Surprisingly, though, it was rather comfortable. Guess personality really does matter more than looks. Which was especially true in Jekyll’s case, he thought. The man was dashing and talked as charmingly as Hero from OMORI. He was gorgeous, built like a statuette of a Greek god, but it was unfortunate that he had the true disposition of the raw marble block such a statue would be made out of.
Lanyon twirled his loaded AK-47 in his hands, his frown deepening, eyes riveted to the slow motion of the clock, paying absolutely no mind to his butler standing beneath it. The said butler thought Lanyon was glaring at him with a rather alpha predatory raw flesh-consuming glare 🐺. He started sweating. He probably felt the way Rody did when he was being chased by a bottle-opener-wielding bloodthirsty Vince around the dark restaurant. Lanyon wasn’t a cannibal, though, the butler thought reassuringly. After all, it was part of his duties as a butler to order the prep for every meal that was ever cooked in this house. He would notice if something was amiss, wouldn’t he? But now, with Lanyon’s gaze resting hungrily upon him (it wasn’t btw. he’s just being delulu 🙄) he was beginning to doubt himself.
The clock struck midnight. The butler started shaking in his boots at the ring of the grandfather glock, but Lanyon did not even flinch. He continued sitting hyper focused in that stance. His cat-like reflexes picked up a slight scratching at his front door—which was 537 feet away from his current location—and he got up in less than 1 sec and immediately began npc-walking at 9x speed towards the sound. This, for some reason, jumpscared his sissy of a butler so much that he went into cardiac arrest. It’s ok tho bc the maid who was passing by was NOT a sissy and called an ambulance. Just because she wasn’t a sissy doesn’t mean she was smart. She forgot that the butler literally had a heart attack in the CONSULTING ROOM of THE Dr. Lanyon’s HOSPITAL. What a dingus. Anyway, she threw him in the back of a random cab and carted him off to the second-best hospital in the general area, Dr. Jekyll’s hospital.
Pray for the butler guys ion think he’s gon make it 🙏
Lanyon threw open his front door with a flourish. Overcoats ruffled in the breeze, the full moon shined down upon his doorstep, an owl hooted nearby, fanfare played. And there, leaning on a pillar with his head dropped forward, causing his dark, raven curls to obscure his face, was a short-ahh man dressed in comically large clothes hanging off his stick-like frame. The fanfare stopped. Lanyon just stood there, unamused. The man lifted his head in slo-mo like he was in some BL anime with sparkles included and rested his head on the pillar. He regarded Lanyon through the corner of his eye. Then, he smirked and lifted a finger, pressing it to his lips before tracing his jawline with it. Lanyon’s own (immaculately sculpted) jaw fell open.
Ain’t no way he just got mogged by this shrimpy looking street urchin with a taste in fashion so low it made the temperatures in the Arctic feel like the Sahara Desert 💀💀💀
Lanyon’s countenance shifted from a look of shock and disgust to one of genuine concern with a dash of horror. He slowly began to close his front door.
Seeing this development, the YouTube Short forgot about trying to looksmaxx Lanyon and sprang away from the pillar in alarm. He jammed his foot in the doorway to stop the door from closing all the way and craned his head backwards to look up at the 6’ 9’’ doctor.
“Are you srsly just going to leave me out in the cold like that.”
“Yes,” Lanyon declared, wrinkling his nose. The dwarf smelled like old shoes.
“You don’t even wonder who I am.”
“No and frankly I do not give a crap I have no desire to continue to associate with you.”
The gnome looked vaguely hurt. Or maybe he was thinking about eating human flesh. Lanyon couldn’t tell.
“Wait are you the guy Jekyll said would meet me at midnight.”
The midget’s face contorted weirdly again and, despite being a doctor, Lanyon could not provide a definite diagnosis as to what the expression expressed. The miniscule being thrust his arm up in the air like he was a Cadet in the back rank proving in an attempt to get permission to use the bathroom. He shoved a thumbs-up emoji into Lanyon’s face, but his fist was shaking so much (probably from reaching so high up 💀) that it looked like he was constraining himself to not punch the taller man.
“That’s a tad bit sus amongus, innit, mate?” Lanyon said.
"SUS AMONGUS IN THE BIG 1887 IS CRAZYYYY." 2% milk carton roared.
"Nah, I'd win." The doctor stated evenly. This caused the pill to writhe in further emotional agony. Lanyon was truly a boomer who had no knowledge of today's slang, and no idea how to use pop culture references.
Lanyon ignored his opp’s tweaking. The doctor knew the chopped baby celery stick stood no chance against a formidable figure such as himself, so he deemed it safe to exercise his right to freedom of speech as a white man in the 1800s. The compact human settled for merely growling and muttering a string of curses.
“Anyway do you still wanna join the server or can I log off for tonight.”
The vertically challenged homo sapien scanned the area for enemies, and upon sighting one advancing, pressed the shift key and sprinted into Lanyon’s base. Lanyon gave the fun-sized hellspawn a dirty look before following him through the labyrinths of the mansion and into the consulting room.