bakerstreet | insomnia;

[ drink to forget whatever's keeping you awake. ]

[ m/m if leads to smut ]

((picks up after last time?))

[ Skyhold is silent, the hour so late that almost all its occupants have slipped deeply into slumber for the night. A few sparse guards patrol the grounds, but otherwise all is quiet.

Brennan should be asleep, too, but he's not. Instead, he's on the walls, unable to sleep - a typical problem of late. Too much on his mind, thoughts giving him little chance of rest. And a phantom pain from a limb no longer there that he can do nothing to ease.

So instead, he leans on the walls and stares out over the landscape, watching the stars and the distant horizon. ]

[ Solas would never admit it to anyone, but the sort of work he's doing is exhausting. Normally it would not have been, but after expending so much power on removing a host of irritating obstacles he really ought to be conserving his energy. And sleeping; he should be sleeping.

But the part of him that remains ever watchful over the Inquisitor knows that Brennan is not sleeping and so neither is he. After staring blankly at the ceiling for a few wasted minutes, he rises and makes his way to the battlements, following the faint traces of magic until he sees his quarry.

With a consideration he does not show to ordinary people, he steps up on Brennan's right side. The wind is cold through the thin layers of his clothes, but he is no more disturbed by it than by the cold stone beneath his bare feet. ]

What disturbs your slumber?

[ Brennan doesn't startle, but it's a near thing. Then again, maybe he shouldn't be surprised at all. Solas has been unseen since arriving the night before, but some part of Brennan knew he was still around. Somewhere. Even if the rotunda had been conspicuously empty when he'd checked first thing this morning. It had almost been enough to make him believe he'd dreamed the entire encounter.

Now though he just gives a quiet sigh and glances sideways at the elf. ]

Disturbs? Wouldn't that require there being slumber in the first place?

[ His tone is deceptively light as he counters the question. ]

[ Glancing at him from the corner of his eye, Solas presses his lips together in a thin, disapproving frown. This is not what he wanted for him. Peace of mind and a life free of pain had been his aim, not these haunted nights. ]

Avoiding sleep only brings you harm in the end.

[ Though he isn't here to lecture him either. He bites off the rest of it and changes tacks. ]

How may I help? While I am here, I will do what I can.

And when sleep avoids me? What are it's dire consequences? [ Brennan chuckles softly as he turns to face the mage, leaning one hip against the parapet. ] Maybe you should be giving it the stern talking to and scolding look.

[ Still, a moment later he sighs, shaking his head. ] You're already doing plenty, Solas, if your purpose for remaining is true. How goes your project?

[ It's a justifiable censure. Solas dips his head and mumurs a soft; ]

Forgive me. I did not come here to scold you.

[ He shifts, twisting around so that he can face him properly. One hand comes to rest atop the stone, bracing himself as he cocks a hip against it. ]

It shall be done by noon. If you are ready, I can fit it to you after dinner. The process will be a lengthy one. We will need to remain uninterrupted for the duration.

[ Brennan just smiles ruefully and waves the apology off. ]

There's nothing to forgive, Solas. I'm not offended by your concern.

[ The time allotted does come as a bit of a surprise however as he tips his head, acknowledging it. ] I can give my excuses easily enough so I will not be disturbed. Would you prefer to do it in my quarters or elsewhere?

[ He answers immediately, not needing to think on it. ]

Your quarters. You will need to be comfortable while I attach it and you will likely wish to have privacy while you acclimate yourself to it.

[ It's possible that he's exaggerating the length of this process a tad, but it's clear Brennan needs some time to himself so that he can relax. And he'll have it one way or another; Solas intends to ward the door against intruders. ]

The world shall continue on without you for one night. You've my word on that.

[ Brennan just chuckles, casting his gaze out over the surrounding landscape for a moment. ]

Oh, now you've done it. That sounded like a jinx to me, Solas. What are you trying to do, guarantee that enemies throw their worst at us tomorrow night?

[ There's humor in his tone as he says it though, and when he glances back to the mage at his side, it lingers in his gaze as well. ]

Alright. My quarters, after dinner. I'll make certain you're not interrupted.

[ He lets his own gaze drift out toward the mountains, as if he might see another army bearing down on them as he had that night at Haven. Skyhold is safe, he knows. Not even the Evanuris could bring it down. But vigilance is rarely wasted. ]

Let them. They will not like what they face if they do.

[ Blowing out a breath, he turns his attention back to Brennan. ]

If I retire, will you be doing the same? Or do you intend to stay here and brood all night?

[ All right, that's a bit scolding. He tried to resist. ]

I don't brood.

[ Brennan momentarily sounds like a bit of a petulant child for a moment, but he shakes his head, puffing out a breath in the cool night air. ]

It's no use. I'll just lie in bed and stare at the canopy all night. And anytime I do manage to fall asleep... [ He trails off, hesitating, uncertain how much he should confide. ]

The weight of the world and its expectations do not sit easily on shoulders even as broad as yours.

[ Solas' voice is a low murmur, understanding and sympathetic without being pitying. After a moment's hesitation, he reaches over and lays a hand lightly on Brennan's forearm. ]

I will listen, my friend. Even if I have no wisdom to share, I will not judge you.

[ Brennan gives a soft sigh and stares out over the mountains. ]

I can still feel it. [ His confession is soft, after a long moment of silence. ] The Anchor. I know that should be impossible, but I can. It's like I can still feel when it flares up or reacts to something. Or... or my imagination can. I'm not sure. It's hard to sleep through your hand suddenly spasming with magic when you're hand's not actually there.

You are not imagining it.

[ Because he hasn't been shrugged off, he leaves his hand where it is, providing what meager comfort his presence has to offer. ]

It was magic drawn from the Fade itself and you carried it inside you for years. It was bound to leave a deeper mark upon more than just your hand.

[ Not the most reassuring news, he knows. Subtly, his fingers curl over Brennan's arm and give the slightest ghost of a squeeze. ]

I am sorry for what I put you through.

[ Brennan gives a quiet chuckle. ] You no more intended for me to end up with it that Corypheus did, Solas. I know it wasn't your intent. Besides, if I hadn't gone through all that... Well. I suppose there would be no one here to have this conversation now, would there?

[ No, neither of them would be here right now. It is a sobering thought and a troubling one. ]

Even still, I would take the burden from you if I could. As it is, the only thing I could do is make you forget. [ He frowns at that, glancing away. ] And that is hardly a true solution.

And not one I would take, at any rate. [ He purses his lips together as he gives the mage a sideways glance. ] Stop looking so guilty, Solas. You're doing what you can. Which is surprisingly a good deal more than what any other can do.

There are times I wish they were correct. [ It's a confession of his own, uttered quietly into the privacy of the darkness. ] A god could do anything it wished. It would be bound by nothing.

[ But for all his great magic, there are miracles even he cannot perform. ]

You deserve better than what's befallen you. That's all I mean to convey. It is your well-being I am concerned for at present. Not my guilt.

I'm alive. [ Brennan states firmly, straightening once more as he meets Solas' gaze. ] And other than this, [ He pauses to lift his left arm. ] and a few sleepless nights, I'm healthy. I'm sane. I'm free. There's no Elder One bearing down on me, no sky threatening to swallow me whole, no red lyrium crawling through my veins, no demon stalking my Nightmares. All things considered, Solas, a lot worse could have befallen me.

[ A lot worse waits for him even now. Solas can see it in his mind's eye: the world he means to resurrect and all those who will be lost in its rebirth. ]

You will survive it. [ He doesn't mean to speak, the words seem to just tumble out of his mouth unbidden. ] When the Veil comes down and all is as it should have been, you will be there to see it. Please take some small measure of comfort in that.

Are you so sure that's how things should have been, Solas? [ His voice is soft as he lets his gaze drift back out over their surroundings. ] Did you ever stop and think that maybe things happened as they did for a reason?

What possible purpose is there for what happened? No. [ He shakes his head sharply. ] It occurred because the Evanuris lost their way and no one thought to correct them in time. It was a mistake.

It always starts with a mistake, doesn't it? [ Brennan laughs quietly as he glances down, as if he can feel the Anchor flare up in response to the familiar words. ] Theirs. Yours. Corypheus'. Mine. It still led us here, to this point, Solas. That doesn't mean it was all for nothing. It doesn't mean we can't find another way. Sometimes a mistake is the best thing that can happen to a person.

It was not wholly for nothing. I would not have met you if things had been different and though it may not seem so, I do treasure our friendship. But how can I—

[ He trails off a little helplessly, then looks sharply at Brennan. ]

How is it the best thing to have happened to you? Tell me. [ Not a command, not quite a plea, but something in-between. ] How is any of this the best that could have happened to you?

Because I lived it, Solas. [ His voice is soft and fervent as he looks over to meet the mage's gaze. ] How could it not be? I experienced it and I survived it and I came out of it the person I am. I learned from it, and so did everyone around me. We changed things, all of us. We saved lives, we helped people, we found a new path when the old one was destroyed.

Do you see that? [ He points with his right hand to the tower across the bailey, its windows one of the few still lit within Skyhold. ] Do you know what that's become, Solas? That Tower houses the mages and Templars that have chosen to stay here in Skyhold. They're trying something new, together. Three years ago they would have all killed each other on sight and now the mages are learning new studies of magic and the Templars aren't there as their jailers but as their guardians. There are families in there, together, trying to understand magic so they're not afraid of it. There are children there, learning what they are capable of, not torn away from their families and growing up in fear. And there are Templars weaning themselves off an addiction that those in power tried to control them with, and the mages are trying to help them do so.

For hundreds of years, people would have told you that such a feat was impossible. That it was wrong, or evil, or a fanciful dream. I may have gone through hell, Solas, but last week I watched a little girl, an aspiring young healer, walk up to a Templar, unafraid, and offer him aid when she saw he was in pain. I'm not saying it's perfect, but people can learn and change and it doesn't always have to be for the worse.

I know you have a duty to your people, Solas, and I'm not calling that into question, or saying you shouldn't help them, because I would never say that. I'm just saying that maybe there's another way to help them that doesn't involve destroying all they know. They fought just as hard for a place in this world. They spilled just as much blood for it. You claim to have time, why can't we use some of that to see if we can't find a path where there was none before, when everyone claimed it impossible?

[ He listens, truly listens because Brennan's earned enough of his respect that to do otherwise would be unworthy. He follows that pointing finger and looks at the tower in question, studying it as he speaks as if he might see through the stone walls to the scene being described. And just like before, when hopelessness had started to drown him after the disaster at Mythal's temple, Brennan's words stir long-forgotten hope within him. Hope that the future can be changed, that the mistakes of the past can if not be erased then at least be corrected.

But at what cost? Will he betray his people by tarrying here looking for something that doesn't exist? Does he dare to gift life to that kernel of hope only to have it squashed when he's right back where he started?

Shifting to lean against the stone in front of him, Solas props both elbows on it and presses his forehead against his hands. This is the problem with Brennan, the danger, the gift that makes him such an effective leader. It's so very easy to get caught up in his vision. ]

A year. [ It makes his chest ache to say it, the certain sense of betrayal twisting his gut into knots as he straightens up and lowers his hands to rest—to grip so tightly his knuckles burn—along the uneven edge. ] I can spare a year. If at the end of it there is no sign, no hint of a viable alternative then I cannot delay any longer.

[ The conflict is there in his eyes when he turns them back to Brennan. ]

That is all the time my people can afford. I cannot offer more.

[ Brennan stares at him a moment, because he'd fully been braced for rejection, even though he'd still had to try. When Solas agrees - compromises - his own face lights up with relief and hope. He reaches out, grasping Solas' shoulder with his hand, his grip firm and his expression fervent. ]

It's enough. It will be enough. I'll make it count. We'll find something. We can even start tonight, if you wish.

[ Solas doesn’t move away from his hand, but he does give him an exasperated look. ]

Have you forgotten that I am performing rather intricate magic on you tomorrow? Tonight, I want you to prepare for it. That includes sleeping, in case you weren’t certain. [ The severity of his mouth eases into a tiny smile. ] This week is for healing you, Inquisitor. The world can wait until the next one.

You're the one that gave me a time limit. [ Brennan's lips curve into a matching smile. ] I was just making sure not to waste any of it. Besides, how am I supposed to sleep now? If my thoughts weren't busy enough before they certainly are now.

Oh for—Really?

[ This is supposed to ease his mind, not kick it into frantic activity. Solas sighs. ]

A year starting from the end of the week. Focus for now on the present. Here and now, Brennan. It's time you realize that you are permitted to take time for yourself occasionally.

And what in the Void would I do with that? [ Brennan looks at him askance for a moment before breaking down into a chuckle. ] Fine, fine, I'll try. Maybe I can steal a bottle of something out of the wine cellar. I'm certain there's got to be something there that will help knock me out.

[ At least he's laughing. That helps mitigate some of Solas' urge to shake him. ]

If what you find doesn't kill you with its potency. Or you could choose an alternative to attempting to control a new magical appendage while hungover. Shall I sit up with you and tell you riveting tales of the crafting of Barindur or the extensive war meetings Garahel conducted to determine a strategy for overcoming the siege of Hossberg? [ Interesting stories to him when he'd discovered them in the Fade, but no doubt somewhat dull to anyone else. ] Or perhaps when Andruil—hm, no, on second thought, that is not such a dull tale. Your choices aren't limited to my history lessons, however. There is also magic, soothing music, some dreadful tea concoction, a relaxing massage. [ Solas smiles with false sweetness. ] Taking a blow to the head.

You charmer, you. [ Brennan just grins at him, mischief still lingering in his gaze. ] Did you actually just offer me a massage?

Also don't think you're getting away with not telling me about Andruil at some point now. You can't just cut yourself off and not expect to pique my curiosity.

[ Undaunted, Solas shrugs nonchalantly. ]

If it will encourage you to relax enough to sleep, yes, I will.

I can tell you quite a number of tales of the Evanuris. Some might be appropriate for quiet evenings, but others may produce nightmares that would not be conducive to a restful sleep. Either way, I shall not do so tonight. The offer of a tediously intricate recitation of a disinteresting point of history is, however, still on the table.

[ Dryly. ] I think I'd rather have a blow to the head.

[ Brennan chuckles and shakes his head, pushing away from the wall. ] I envy you the ease with which you always seem able to slip into dreams. Do you never have difficulty?

Sometimes.

[ He pulls himself up to his full--if still not all that impressive next to a human--height, ready to start herding Brennan back inside if such drastic action becomes necessary. ]

There are nights when I don't truly sleep at all. [ A lopsided smile passes over his mouth. ] But then I have slept for a long time. Just as I need little to eat, I do not require the same amount of sleep as you do.

[ Brennan just holds up his hands in surrender and starts making his way back towards the Keep instead. ]

I suppose that's true. Considering how long you slumbered, I'm not sure I'd ever want to do it again.

[ Pleased by this, Solas falls into step beside him. ]

Uthenera is not like a mortal's coma. I was aware for much of it. Not my body, perhaps, but my spirit was engaged and active. [ It is difficult to explain. He rolls his shoulder. ] I would miss my friends in the Fade were I to abandon the practice entirely, but there are aspects of this world that make it worth remaining awake.

[ Brennan thinks about that for a moment as he walks with him, heading back for the door that leads inside once more. ] You were asleep for hundreds of years, without interruption at all, then? That's a long time to explore the Fade. Didn't you ever get bored? Have you seen all of it?

[ Looking up at him, Solas cocks his head in inquiry. ]

Did you grow bored with the Free Marches? Or with Thedas as a whole as you traveled across the length and breadth of it? It wasn't just the land I got to traverse, but time as it affected it. I saw Ages pass, empires rise and fall, the Blight come five times across the world, and so much more from not just one perspective, but many. More than I might have ever experienced had I been there personally.

No, but I also haven't had a thousand years to poke my nose into every nook and cranny, either. [ Brennan points out with a thoughtful look. ] Although I hadn't thought about you witnessing all the events on this side through the dreams and memories and impressions on that side. I can't even begin to contemplate having that long to just... I don't know. Explore and witness.

Does the Fade have boundaries? I mean, is there an end to it somewhere? An edge you can walk off or a wall that surrounds it?

[ After a moment, he shakes his head. ]

No. Although what you saw in the Fade suggests bits of broken earth in a Void, it is not like that at all. Think of it as a reflection of this world. Every place that exists here exists there, though it may not be immediately recognizable as such. You can no more walk off of it or into a wall than you can here.

[ And because something Brennan said struck a chord in him, he adds; ]

The original meaning of our word for humans was not an insult. As difficult to grasp as our immortality might be, so too is it for us to imagine a life that passes so quickly. Even now, spending as much time among you as I have, it is strange to contemplate.

I imagine it must be rather terrifying, actually. Or would have been, the first time the elves realized they were aging too.

[ How does someone wrap their head about that, thinking you have literally all the time in the world and then finding out there's actually only a handful of years left to you?

Actually, thinking of it like that, he was a little surprised that Solas couldn't find more ground with the Grey Wardens. At least in some cases. ]

Yes. [ The placidity of his expression breaks, becoming a melancholy frown as he looks down. His voice softens considerably. ] They were terrified, confused, desperate to live and helpless as they watched themselves age and die.

The Dalish speak of the immortality as if it is a barely remembered dream, something impossible and mythological, not fully understanding the magnitude of what they lost. Better perhaps that they cannot understand. It would grieve them if they knew.

As I've just inadvertently grieved you. [ Brennan looks apologetic over it immediately. His gaze scanning Solas' expression with evident regret. ] I'm sorry. That was careless of me to bring up.

No, it isn't your fault. [ The fault is absolutely his. He shakes his head for emphasis. ] You are curious and I enjoy speaking of my people. [ Ever so slightly, he dips his head. ] As you've no doubt gathered by now.

[ It's a small attempt at humor, but a genuine one. He would not give Brennan more to worry about. ]

You know, I hope, that I will gladly speak of whatever you wish. Please do not apologize.

My curiosity is usually what gets me into the most trouble. [ Brennan remarks wryly. But then again, that's never been true with Solas. The mage has always encouraged that trait in him, ever since their very first conversation. ] I just didn't want to upset you. But you know I am always willing to pester you with a dozen questions at just about any given moment.

[ Reaching the Keep, he swings the door open once more, revealing one of the back corridors that lead to a more private way up to his rooms. He enjoyed that about Skyhold, that there were so many nooks and crannies and hidden stairs and halls everywhere. That with a little careful maneuvering he could get to almost anywhere, sometimes without ever being seen. ]

Would you like to come up? Or are you headed back to.... wherever it is you've been hiding?

I've not been hiding.

[ The secret pathways and little-used corridors are as convenient in this age as they'd been in the days when Solas walked through its hallways as nothing less or more than himself. They serve their new owner well, he thinks, and once more, he's pleased to have provided Brennan with such a resource. ]

It's delicate work and I've not wanted certain curious dwarves to interrupt it. [ He shoots him a pointed look. ] But I will join you, certainly. [ A faint smile crosses his mouth. ] I intend to coax you to sleep one way or another.

Varric? [ Brennan counters with a grin, although he knows that's not who Solas means. ] No worries, he's off ruling Kirkwall at the moment. Keeps trying to bribe me to come join him with a title and the key to the city.

[ He starts up the back stairs, chuckling at the mage's comment. ] Coax me, hmm? Like I'm a recalcitrant child? Or did you have something else in mind? [ Yhere's mischief in the curve of his lips now as he glances back over his shoulder at Solas. ]

[ As if Kirkwall can compete with the wonders of Skyhold. Solas sniffs in haughty disdain at such a notion, deciding not to dignify Varric's pestering with an actual response. As he ascends the stairs, he trails his fingertips along the wall, appreciating the feel of the ancient stone. The nerve of that idiot dwarf.

When Brennan looks back at him, Solas meets his look with a smug smirk. ]

I will do what I must. [ The lofty tone drops into a low, even purr. ] Though there are far more pleasant options. [ A beat. ] If you leave the recalcitrance at the door.

[ Brennan just laughs at the expression he catches on Solas' face when he glances back, his disdain for the Marcher city across the sea plan. Not that Brennan can blame him - he's not sure he'd ever want to settle in a place like Kirkwall either, despite all Varric's wheedling.

Laughing is not what he's feeling like doing when Solas shoots him that particular look a moment later, however. Dark lashes drop for a moment as he does his best to suppress a sudden shiver that has nothing to do with the night's chill.

For the record, Solas? That tone is cheating. ]

Oh?

[ He manages to get the word out while sounding relatively unaffected, a feat he's actually rather proud of, when he can feel the creep of heat up the back of his neck. ]

[ He sounds unaffected, but is he? Solas isn't quite ready to believe it. Not after catching the way his eyes shuttered there for a moment. And really, he knows he shouldn't do this. He's trying to persuade him to sleep, not rile him up further, but sometimes it's just so difficult to resist.

Moving up another step so that he's closer to him, almost crowding him, Solas hums a low note of assent in his throat. ]

Oh yes. [ There's an echo of that throaty hum lingering his voice. He does nothing to chase it away or attempt to talk normally. ] I know many things, Brennan. [ He can't resist adding a velvety inflection to the man's name. ] It might be useful for you to make use of my knowledge.

[ Brennan doesn't back away, but one hand might latch onto the railing behind him to steady himself as he arches an eyebrow instead.

This time, the shiver might not be so quickly stifled. ]

Have you ever known me to hesitate in making use of your knowledge, Solas?

[ It's all quite innocent, how Solas reaches out to lay a hand against the small of his back. He sees that hand grip the railing after all and simply means to aid his Inquisitor's stability. ]

Make use of it tonight and then I'll have no cause to complain.

[ That doesn't seem innocent at all, Solas. Especially not with how you're invading his personal space right now.

Not that he's about to start complaining at all either. ]

And what knowledge is it you intend to fascinate me with tonight?

Would you not prefer that I show you?

[ The touch to his back becomes decidedly less innocent as Solas runs the pad of his forefinger upward along his spine. ]

I fear simply telling you might take all the enjoyment right out of it.

Maker forbid I deprive either one of us the enjoyment of it.

[ His smile is quick and he can't help but lean back into that touch, trusting the solidness and steadiness of it. ]

So yes, showing will do nicely, I think.

[ ....Of course, now that requires moving out of Solas' space and away from the warm weight of his hand. You're making this very difficult for him, Solas. ]

[ He leaves his arm where it is, now curving around Brennan's waist as he moves up to stand beside him on the step. There are benefits to being an elf and fitting into close spaces is one of them. ]

The Chantry might claim the Maker forbids a number of things I wish to do with you. [ Tipping his head to the side, Solas slants him a dark look and a sly smile. ] But I would not heed too closely the words of such an organization.

[ His fingers curl and he slowly drags his fingernails down the center of Brennan's back. ]

Come. There are limits even to my patience.

I tend to take most organizations' words with a grain of salt, Solas, you know that.

[ Which probably makes him a very bad Andrastian, but he's uncovered a lot of secrets no one wants known in his time as Inquisitor. Makes it hard for him to take anyone at their word anymore.

He moves at Solas' urging, mounting the last few steps with a sudden haste in his steps - hopefully enough action to hide the way his breath hitches in his throat at the scrape of nails against skin. the look Solas gives him only adds to the sudden shiver of anticipation that slides down his spine, making him more aware of everything suddenly. ]

I'm going. But only because you've now piqued my curiosity to the point of straining my patience.

[ That excuse earns him another sideways look as they reach the top of the stairs. ]

Is it only your curiosity you seek to satisfy, Inquisitor? [ The layers of innuendo are thick in his tone. ] Truly?

[ He withdraws his arm, the tips of his fingers trailing over Brennan's back and lightly grazing his hip before falling away. ]

Then for curiosity's sake, please, remove your shirt and sit down on the edge of your bed.

Should I be seeking to satisfy something different, Solas?

[ His expression is far too innocent to be even remotely believable right now. Although his gaze darkens a shade at the order the mage gives him. He hesitates for only a passing heartbeat before shrugging and tugging the tunic up and over his head, revealing a finely toned torso, well-honed from years training as a warrior and only sparsely littered with old scars. Draping the tunic over the back of a nearby chair, he moves to sink down on the edge of his bed and fix Solas with a crooked smirk. ]

Happy?

[ There is nothing subtle or innocent about the way Solas looks him over, gaze as intent as it is hungry. Slowly, he drags it up the length of Brennan's chest as he sits, meeting his eyes before responding softly; ]

It's a start.

[ Solas keeps his eyes on him as he crosses the room, his gait the controlled stalking grace of a predator. When he's nearly upon him, he shifts direction just slightly, swinging a knee up onto the bed and kneeling behind him, the palms of his hands resting lightly on Brennan's shoulders. They are warm against his skin, unnaturally so, though they are not hot enough to burn. The pads of his thumbs dig into muscle as he leans forward, lips brushing the shell of Brennan's ear to whisper; ]

I promised you a massage first, did I not?

[ Brennan does groan then, the sound soft as his head drops forward, eyes sliding closed. He gives a small shudder, pressing back into that touch, because Solas will no doubt find muscles wound tight with tension that never seems to ease no matter what he does, and the press of the elf's thumbs feel wonderful already. ]

I seem to recall you mentioning something of the sort, yes.

[ This time he doesn't even bother to keep the breathless quality from his voice as Solas' lips brush his ear, far too distracted by the heated touch to even care at the moment. ]

[ The pressure of Solas' thumbs turn from an assault on too tightly wound muscle to a feather-light caress. ]

Close your eyes, Brennan, and enjoy this.

[ As he leans back, Solas tips his head just so to brush a fleeting kiss across the side of his neck. Then he settles comfortably on his knees, brings more magic to his hands, and sets to work.

He focuses first on Brennan's shoulders, first the top and then back along the shoulder-blades, working the knots he finds with pressure and magic woven of heat and healing. Heat to make them more pliant beneath his fingers and healing to mend the tears they've developed from too much use. He's silent, not wishing to disturb the quiet, and when he finishes some indeterminate time later, he circles the back of Brennan's neck with his hands, rubbing softly at the muscle there. ]

How do you fair thus far?

[ Brennan goes limp and pliant beneath the press and slide of clever fingers, obediently closing his eyes and trusting Solas to do as he wishes. The seeping heat and the easing of tension feels miraculous and he can't bite back the soft moans and whimpers that occasionally work their way free as the mage heals the lingering tightness from his shoulders and back.

When he finishes the task, Brennan can't help but lean back into the warm weight of his hands circling the nape of his neck, making another soft sound of pleasure as he gives a quiet chuckle. ]

I think you may have turned me into a puddle. Can I hire you? Or just keep you on a permanent basis. That sounds like a brilliant plan. I'm going with that.

[ Solas laughs soundlessly, the shaking of his shoulders translating into a faint tremor in his hands. His fingers massage at Brennan's neck, then he drags his fingernails upward into his hair and begins rubbing over his scalp. ]

You've no need to hire me. I'm already yours.

[ It's the truth, as bare and unadorned as Solas can make it, though it isn't one that he lingers on. As his hands work over Brennan's head, alternating between light scratches and firmer rubs, he continues; ]

Take off your trousers and lay down. On your stomach. Make yourself comfortable. I'll show you a true puddle.

[ Before he obeys, he shifts on the bed, reaching up to catch Solas' wrist, interrupting the motion as he angles himself to face the elf, his eyes searching Solas' face. ]

Are you?

[ He'll go be a puddle in a moment. This is important. He's lingering, dammit. ]

[ It would be easy to feign confusion at the question, but he doesn't. He walked into this with his eyes open. He might as well be honest about it. ]

Isn't it obvious? [ his eyes search Brennan's, wanting to communicate all of this without using the word and knowing that he can't take such a coward's way out. With his free hand, he oh so lightly brushes his fingertips along his jaw. ] Yes. For far longer than I care to admit.

I tend to not trust a lot of things that seem obvious.

[ He confesses this with a rueful quirk of his lips as he meets the mage's gaze. ]

It usually tends to be a trap or a distraction.

[ Which is why he asked. That's not to say it still couldn't be, but Solas has never been in the habit of lying to him. Omitting certain truths, yes, but that's a different matter entirely. ]

Is it such a difficult thing to accept, then?

You have not lived as long as I.

[ How to explain it in a way that makes sense? He sighs, glancing away for a moment before looking back. ]

It is difficult to live a certain way for so long and then to have that change.

[ Shaking his head, he lets his hand drop and pulls away. ]

That is enough for now. I have kept you from your rest too long. I will see you in the morning.

[ Brennan's quick to react, reaching out to latch onto Solas' wrist once more, refusing to let the matter drop as easily as that. ]

I've never known you to run away from a few difficult questions before, Solas. [ His tone is mild, but he searches the mage's face, refusing to give up just like that. That's not something he wants to leave hanging in the air between them when they go their separate ways. ] If I ask too much, then tell me so. It wasn't my intent. I don't want you to go.

[ Solas frowns, exhaling heavily through his nose. This is not discussing lost Elvhenan or his past mistakes. This is discussing the current one and he's not yet come to grips with it. ]

Very well. If I might make use of your desk, I will stay and watch over your dreams. Perhaps I can keep the worst of them away.

[ Brennan considers that for a moment before disregarding it as a terrible plan and not at all what he wants. Instead, he lets his hand come to rest against Solas' chest, a steady pressure as he gives him something of a mischievous look. ]

That's a little far to go to turn me into a puddle, don't you think?

[ He doesn't lean away from the touch, though his eyes are serious as he studies Brennan's face. ]

What would you have of me? [ This he needs to know before he can proceed, before he can even attempt to reconcile his feelings with his circumstances. ] Do you know yourself?

You know me. [ Brennan's tone is a little wry at that as he holds Solas' gaze. ] Anytime I make a plan, it gets shredded to pieces five minutes in. I'm getting very talented at being adaptable and making it up as I go. I know what I want right now. Does that count?

[ Usually he's the ones asking the questions, but as it's Solas right now, he gives the answer in the only way he can think to. The move looks more certain than he feels inside, some part of him already braced for the elf to deny him, but he leans in all the same, brushing his lips against the corner of Solas' mouth, testing the waters, as it were. Curious. ]

((I rolled a 9 if interested))

[sure that sounds great!]

[Having extra-curricular activities like Matt does, it's not uncommon for him to be awake at all hours. Hell's Kitchen is like a full time job, and, try as he might, even on days when he wants to let that responsibility go a little, he can't. Like a guilt seeping in, it gnaws at his mind behind closed eyes. The tossing and turning only does so much. His mind quiets for a few minutes and he thinks - yes, this is it. Ready to welcome sleep with open arms.

Somewhere in the distance a siren goes off and he knows it's no use.

Putting on the suit is routine. Matt doesn't need to think about it anymore. Legs in, arms in, mask on. It's all muscle memory that carries him to his window and through it. There are no targets tonight. Matt has nothing to look in on, no one to watch. He breaks up a couple of petty crimes before coming to rest on a rooftop somewhere. He sits and overlooks the city, fingers tapping on the brick.]

[Frank's night is slow going, but then most of his nights are. He's not blood and bombast seven days a week, and if he was, he'd have been dead in a hurry. He's not even like Daredevil, beating the streets every night, listening and finding people to save. His strengths aren't actually in his ability to pick up and aim a gun (though, that part certainly doesn't hurt), but in his ability to gather information and strategize - to find a target and learn everything there is to know about it long before wiping it clean off the goddamn map with extreme prejudice.

That quiet recon part is what he's in the middle of when he makes his way past Daredevil's rooftop perch, tailing a pair of distributors for a gun running operation that opened in the wake of Daredevil landing the majority of the Dogs of Hell (temporarily) behind bars. He already knows the two of them by name and by crimes, and he had followed them home last week already but it wasn't a good time to engage yet.

Tonight isn't a good time either, but it doesn't hurt to keep an eye on all known variables to minimize avoidable collateral damage, which is what he intends to waste all his time doing until a chance glance up and across the street gets him a trained sniper's eyefull of a silhouette with a pair of little horns on top.

He slows to a stop on the sidewalk, fingers twitching restlessly at his side, before deciding that there's no way he's going to go unnoticed so he might as well give up the ghost now. He tilts his head, and doesn't bother to raise his voice above normal speaking volume despite the several stories distance between them:]

You a gargoyle now, Red?

[It's true. Matt's locked on to Frank's presence and was considering letting it go. Their meetings are a toss up. He's not sure, really, when they'll get along and when they won't, and it's hard to decide if tonight's worth the chance. But then Frank goes ahead and makes the decision for him.

Under the edge of the mask, Matt's lips curl up into a vague smile. He could sit here and shout back down to the street. It's not ideal for either of them. A talk face to face, man to devil, seems more appropriate. If nothing else it gives Matt something to do. Light feet carry him across the edge of the roof and down the fire escape, swinging from the bottom rung to land in alley that brings him kitty-corner to Frank.]

It's a lot more interesting than my day job. [Which is non-existent, currently. For the moment. A reshuffling of things as Nelson and Murdock becomes just Murdock and Matt's got a reputation to try and patch together.]

[Frank gives an indelicate snort. Not like he'd ever say so out loud, but Red can be pretty amusing when he's not being infuriating.]

Yeah, I'll bet. [Frank hasn't exactly bothered with a day job since receiving his discharge papers — and... everything that came after. He's more partial to shitkicking the dirty money out of the sort of people who deserve to have all their toys taken away before they die screaming, and no part of that looks good on a resume. Even if Frank sometimes feels that it should.] Not getting anything from up there? What's your radius, anyway?

[Frank might be feeling unusually chatty tonight (which is still fairly laconic by most people's standards), unusually restless. Unlike Matt, he sleeps exactly as much as he needs to in order to operate acceptably while on mission. Or, well... he means to. But there's some nights where the noise of the city just isn't enough. It's not the barracks, not surprise midnight bombing raids - and it's definitely not his old, lumpy bed and the warm weight of his wife who snores like a goddamn buzz saw. It's just nothing, just gaping emptiness, and he needs to go out, needs to bust heads, needs a war to fight before he goes fucking crazy.

But tonight isn't cooperating - tonight, he doesn't have the discipline to pass up the opportunity for something different. Even if "different" is just bothering the guy in devil-themed long johns, who undoubtedly deserves it for all the shit he's given Frank.]

[He steps closer, but keeps a moderate amount of distance between them. It's not that Matt doesn't trust Frank. Well. Not entirely. To some degree he may trust the other man more than he should. When they want to, they can co-exist well enough, and Matt chooses to believe that if Frank Castle wanted him dead, he already would be.

All the same, Matt's going to err on the side of caution.]

You never stop to enjoy the view? [See, it's funny.] Not even Hell's Kitchen can have a problem every night.

[Which makes Matt feel uneasy. And if Frank is stomping around the streets - well. That means something is inevitably going to be up, and Matt doesn't want to be that guy, but if he has to interfere then he will.]

Guess not. [Frank sounds dubious about that at best, but he's not about to tell Matt any of the problems he's gunning after at the moment, because there is literally nothing more frustrating than having the Devil drop by in his jammies to fuck up decent bloodbath with his moralizing and shit.

So, alright, maybe he's not eager to see Daredevil cross over the line anymore, he knows what it means, he does. But it's not like Frank's opinions have changed on half-measures or the uselessness of sending genuine, bona fide scum to lockup for a few weeks at a time like they'll actually change their tune, he just knows now that he should be the one to pull the trigger. Not everyone's cut out for that shit, maybe, and there's nothing left in him to be ruined.

Which means distractions. Red is the sort who likes people, needs them, needs to help. Frank could tell that halfway through their first conversation ("conversation," like he didn't chain the man to a rooftop for it to happen), so he shrugs, shoulders loose and nonchalant.] There's a diner down this block that makes decent coffee at 2AM. [By which he means, shit that'll wake you up. Coffee as black as tar and about half as thick, the sort of stuff you can't quite taste because every mouthful makes you feel a bit like you're dying. Frank has some interesting preferences.] Unless you're too busy lurking.

[Well. Matt thought it was funny. Then again, Frank has never struck him as the good-humoured kind, so Matt's gonna take it with a grain of salt.

A silence descends between them. He supposes that's it. A chance meeting in the night, which will result in Matt being hyper aware of Frank's presence through out Hell's Kitchen. Frank's tracking someone, Matt's tracking Frank. Both of them will know it. It probably won't end well.

But then - that's cause for pause. Matt's head tilts, almost as if he thinks he's heard wrong. People don't usually invite him anywhere these days, not as Matt and certainly not as Daredevil. His brow furrows. Is the other shoe going to drop? Or is this one of those things where there's literally nothing better to do for either of them, so they may as well do this.]

I know which one you mean. I'd need to ditch the horns.

[Frank gives him a once-over. Maybe he's just used to the getup by now. Hell, with Daredevil's reputation, he could probably get his coffee free if he waltzed into the diner decked out like that.] Not sure about need. It's New York, Red, no one's going to give a shit.

[This is coming from a guy whose most sophisticated disguise involved a baseball cap pulled down low over his face, even at his most wanted. He'd never had what could conceivably be called a secret identity, it just took an embarrassingly long time for people to piece together the facts on their own.]

But I can wait. [Since the secret seems to mean so much to him.]

I'm no Captain America.

[Which is to say, there are still a lot of people who don't appreciate the devil, and Matt's sure the people hanging around an all-night diner in Hell's Kitchen are the sort who don't much care for him. And it's easier, maybe, at times to just be Matt Murdock. The suit holds the thrill of mystery. Matt wants to hold on to that.

He calculates the time it will take. Home is a hop, skip, and a jump away via rooftop. Getting dressed - easy enough. The diner also not far if he ditches the conventional use of sidewalks. No one's going to notice a blind guy scaling rooftops at this hour, anyway.]

I can ... Meet you there.

Suit yourself.

[Frank doesn't entirely know why he waits when Matt presents him with a decent opportunity for a clean break. He could use the time to slip off and continue on his mission once the Devil's attention is no longer in immediate danger of wandering too close to Frank's current targets, but.

Maybe he... does miss human contact. Just. A little, the smallest bit. He knows shouldn't be indulging himself, he has a one-man war to wage, but it's not like Red doesn't get why he does what he does. Even if he doesn't entirely approve.

When the diner door dings open, Frank looks up from where he's been nursing a mug of coffee, a carafe and a spare cup perched on the edge of the table. He raises both eyebrows by way of greeting, giving his new choice of clothes an assessing look.]

Took you long enough.

[There's a certain amount of surprise that registers on Matt's face when he steps into the diner. Like a part of him hadn't actually expected Frank to be there. And he's surprised, too, to find that he's he glad he wasn't stood up by The Punisher.]

It's not nice to hassle the blind.

[As if Matt isn't more capable than any person with sight. But he's good at being a normal blind man, too. Frank's voice tells him where to go, and the cane seemingly assists with the short walk. Matt feels out the edge of the seat across from Frank, sits, folds up the cane beside him. Then he starts to question what either of them are doing here.]

I don't think I've ever been here.

[Frank lets out an incredulous snort into the rim of his coffee cup, probably meaning for it to sound scathing—it doesn't though, not really. He puts the mug down.] I'll make sure to say a few hail marys later.

[Frank watches the whole act without comment, more curious than anything. It's a good one, too: if he hadn't spent all the time with Red, he wouldn't suspect Matt to be capable of the kind of crazy horseshit Frank had seen him do.]

It didn't open until after the Incident. [Lately, Frank has made a point to avoid all the places that he used to take his family. He'd slipped in here one night to avoid being spotted when he was still tailing the cartel, and he'd been coming back occasionally ever since.] Day shift cook is chatty as hell, but it's not bad in the middle of the night. [Evidenced by the fact that the woman working the counter hasn't bothered to so much as glance at them since Matt walked in. Frank appreciates that sort of thing.]

Say a couple for me while you're at it.

[Matt listens as Frank talks. He has to imagine what he looks like, pick up facial expressions based on the inflection in the voice. Which is easy enough for Matt these days, but it's unusually difficult with Frank. There's not much variation to the way he sounds when he's just talking. And Matt's at the big disadvantage of not having any inkling what Frank looks like, apart from that he's a pretty solid guy, and that came from hauling him around that one time.

Since he has no idea what to say (he never does, when it comes to anything involving Frank's family), he just hums a bit. An acknowledgment that he isn't just pretending to pay attention. Matt goes to fold his hands on top of the table when he knocks over the extra mug, catching it before it shatters. For that, Frank just gets a pointed raise of eyebrows. No, it's no problem, he'll just grope along the table for the carafe that he's now certain is there somewhere.]

Well it's ... Good. That you're getting out.

[Matt Murdock, prize conversationalist. He lines up the pot of coffee and the mug before pouring himself some.]

Been awhile since I went to mass, but I'm pretty sure it don't work like that. [Frank remains absolutely, 100% unapologetic during Matt's whole show of struggling with the cup and coffee. He takes a pointedly loud sip of his own drink once he's done, nose wrinkling as he lets it burn down the back of his throat.

The good stuff brings the pain, see.]

Is it. [He doesn't actually roll his eyes, but he sounds like he's doing it on the inside. Rolling the eyes of his soul.] Don't tell me you really are considering taking up psychiatry, doc.

[Bad enough Matt's a goddamn lawyer, he really doesn't need the additional strike against his character, as far as Frank's concerned.]

[It's good to know that at least Frank is consistently an asshole. Matt doesn't like surprises. And sure, Frank can be a good guy. But he's still an asshole.

When Matt takes a sip of his own coffee, he nearly chokes on it. Whatever it is, it's not coffee. Maybe it used to be coffee, but it isn't anymore. Logic says that condiments will be at the edge of the table. Matt grabs a paper pack and opens it, giving it a taste test. Salt. He's more successful with the next one, plunking sugar and a little creamer into whatever it is he's just put in his stomach.]

I guess if there was ever a time to make a career change, this would be it.

[Frank ducks his head, trying not to grin. He should have known Matt would ruin a perfectly good cup of horrible sludge with sugar and creamer like a heathen.]

... Right. Yeah. [There had been that one career-breaking legal case he'd stomped all over in the most public way possible last time he was anywhere near Red's secret identity. Whoops?

He should probably apologize...

But when you really stop to think about it, it's Matt's fault for trying to be a good person in the first place. So.] Why even bother? With the secret at all. [Come reside in a horrible little hovel, eat food straight out of the can and eke by solely on the life-sustaining power of anger and spite like a normal nutjob, Matt.]

[Matt can hear the shift, Frank's head or shoulders moving. He can't even guess why, so he brushes it off, taste testing the unknown substance and deciding that, for this hour, it's doable. He's survived worse.

Then there's that, and, for a second, Matt actually thinks there's going to be an apology. That would count as a surprise. He's glad when it doesn't happen, because, in hindsight, it really is his fault, isn't it? It's always worse when you have no one but yourself to blame.]

I ... Guess at one point I thought it was better for people around me. Keep them safe. That was the plan. [Another drink, grimacing a bit against the acidity.] The truth is, I like it. I can't do that as me, as Matt. It's liberating. I like being ... That. [He won't say The Devil. They may be virtually alone but one never knows when someone might choose to listen.]

Or maybe you were right. I'm a coward.

[As me, he says. As Matt. Frank doesn't think of himself as the Punisher, not by name, but he certainly thinks of that part of himself as being what he is intrinsically. He's not Frank Castle, sometimes a guy who shoots the shit out of crime. He's a guy who shoots the shit out of crime, whose name used to be Frank Castle.

But clearly, Matt's the other way around.

He wonders what that's like, but he also very much doesn't want to know. He won't go down that rabbit hole, because nothing good could possibly be waiting for him at the bottom of it.]

Shit. [He looks away, out the window at the mostly quiet street.] Already told you I was wrong about that.

I'm not so sure you were. [Sometimes it takes the brutally honest words of a deranged stranger to make you see the light. In his way, Matt wishes he'd come across Frank Castle sooner. He could have used the literal kick in the ass a long time ago.]

Before I had the horns I used to go out in this stupid black outfit. Maybe compared to what it is now, it wasn't that bad, but when I took a hit I really felt it. I tied this bandana around my face.

[Matt waves his hand over his eyes, as if to illustrate the image. He can't help but smile at it, laughing a little.] I don't think I knew what I was doing, just that I knew I had to.

[Frank's eyebrows skim upwards. He must have still been overseas then, because he remembers coming back to a Devil of Hell's Kitchen already decked out in the red jammies.]

If you want me to think anything could possibly be worse than the little horns, I'm going to have to see it for myself.

[Don't knock the all black plainclothes aesthetic, buddy.]

Edited (whoops) 2016-04-01 08:44 (UTC)

I think it was probably thrift-store-ninja chic. The horns are nice. Just in case someone ever decides to shoot me in the head, I know I'll be relatively okay.

[He's over it, sure. But it's good to remind Frank that he himself proved the usefulness of the gimmick.]

Anyway, I don't carry black bandanas around so you have to take my word on it.

Uh huh. [Wow what a heartfelt apology! Why do you still talk to this guy, Matt?] Where do you get that shit, anyway? That helmet sure as Hell ain't civilian grade, it's not even military grade.

[Not that he's looking to go around in a skintight unitard himself, he's just. Curious. Been-there, done-that, with the whole shot-in-the-unprotected-head deal himself, and he's not much of a fan.]

[This is just a fact: currently Frank Castle may or may not be one of Matt's only friends. Or something resembling a friend. Matt's lips turn up in a not-entirely-amused way before he has another sip of sludge.]

I know a guy. Which is really all I can say.

[Frank scoffs, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling like God will be up there, giving him the strength to Deal with Matt Murdock.]

Fine, keep your secrets. [Rude]

[Good luck. Better men have asked for that strength and failed.

Matt tops off his cup and adds more cream and sugar, absently stirring. If the thought of what Frank could do when equipped like Matt didn't terrify him, then maybe Matt would spill the beans.]

Sorry, Frank. Maybe next time.

[Frank shakes his head, watching him dilute the coffee even further. Matt Murdock: actual heathen.]

So. You've given up on trying to get me arrested, then.

[He's been half-wondering why for awhile now.]

[It's not even real coffee, Frank. Matt's sorry you have no lining left in your stomach.]

It didn't exactly work out the first time I did it. [He drinks the coffee, clearing his throat.] I'm sorry. For not showing up to your trial, and for you having to deal with Fisk. It's ... Right now, for the time being, I think you're fine not being arrested.

Still don't know what the hell you expected to happen. [He'll never quite understand what the point of trying so hard to get him arrested and then turning around to defend him the second it actually happened had been.

In either case, the apology actually makes him stop with his pure, beautiful, as-black-as-God-intended coffee halfway up to his mouth, just so he can stare for a second. Of all the things he'd come to expect from Matt over the past few months, an apology wasn't really one of them. Hell, he'd considered the whole case to be a ridiculous farce from start to finish, so he had never exactly harbored any hard feelings over it.

But now that they've wandered onto the subject somehow...] Fisk ain't done. You know that, right? [Because Frank knows now that there's a whole lot more to the man than shitbag has-been mob boss.] Since you didn't finish the job.

[Don't get used to it. Matt's not really the sort to make apologies at all, not until it's too late, but he's felt guilty about this. Maybe he'd wanted to prove something to Frank. Make him see the justice system isn't as bad as he thinks, that it works, and Matt blew it. The whole thing was a disaster from the start. Matt owes apologies to a lot more people than just Frank, but, well, Frank's here and they're not.

Matt just shrugs. Then he can't help the thin-lipped grimace that crosses his face.]

I know. I went to see him, to see what had happened, how he got you there. It - It didn't end well. [And that's a bridge Matt should start preparing to cross.] I thought things would change. [God. Now he feels tired.]

Edited 2016-04-18 19:17 (UTC)

[And here he is, pulled up short again. Frank gives up the ghost and sets his coffee back down. I've crossed paths with your attorneys before, was what Fisk had said. Needless to say, I'm not a a huge fan.

Frank ins't the best fighter, but he's certainly not a bad one, and he remembers with sickening clarity what it felt like to get thrown around like a ragdoll by Fisk. After everything, all that adrenaline and rage and he still got laid out flat in 10 seconds, generously speaking. He doesn't even think it would have gone terribly different if he hadn't been chained up.]

I'm sorry, you what? [Went. To see him. Went to see the man in the jail he unequivocally controlled (the jail Frank handed to him on a silver goddamn platter. Fuck. Fuck!) He knows Red is all about taking risks—the name Daredevil is stupid but not, perhaps, the least fitting thing they could have gone with—and that still just seems like the actual worst idea.] Jesus Christ, Red. What does that— It didn't end well? What the fuck does that even mean, huh?

[Sometimes, Matt's happy he can't see. Because he can hear everything in Frank's voice, and Matt can imagine his face. He's better off not seeing it. His fingers push up under his glasses to rub his eyes.]

He's very hands-on when it comes to getting his point across.

[And Matt just had to suck it up and take it. Couldn't fight back. Everyone had let it happen and watched him walk out with a bloody face. Matt knows he should've seen it coming.]

Yeah, no shit. [And now he has to wonder what Fisk's plans for Red are, too. He saw Frank as a weapon to be pointed in the direction of his inconveniences and unleashed (such undisguised interest in his voice when he spoke of Frank's... gifts), but his animosity towards Matt had seemed more... personal. Yeah. Personal is a word for it.] Didn't even figure he know about your... [trails off and makes a vague gesture towards Matt's everything, but mainly the missing red outfit.]

He doesn't. As far as I'm aware.

[But, let's be honest, it wouldn't surprise Matt if somehow Fisk did know. He picks up his mug again, swirling its contents. It's not a topic Matt wants to dwell on. At all. So he sips his coffee and leans back.]

What colour is your hair? I get the feeling it's dark but I want to know if I'm
totally off base here.

[Frank only grudgingly lets it drop, shaking his head. What the hell is he going to do with you, Red?] What? Oh. [Right, the blindness. Frank never thought about the fact that Red actually has no idea what he looks like, even after he figured out just who he was.] ... Black, I guess. [Real dark brown if it grows out, but that's whatever, because he hasn't grown it out since he was 18.] Why did you think dark?

["Black, I guess" is good enough for Matt.]

I think it's my default assumption. And I just hard time picturing my mental composite of you with light hair. [He shrugs and downs the rest of his tar. His fingers pass over the raised texture of his watch. It's been swell, Frank, but the swelling's gone down.]

Thanks for the so-called coffee, but I think I'm throwing in the towel on this night.

[Even as Matt is getting up, Frank is pouring himself another cup. He figures if he waits here another half hour, he can safely continue on the journey he'd interrupted himself from when he saw the horns up on a rooftop.

So, nothing lost. Little something he hadn't really expected gained. All in all, not the worst night he's ever had.]

See you around, Red.

[Have you seen all of season two and do you prefer prose or brackets?]

[I've watched the whole season and I like prose! :)]

Sleepless nights were becoming more and more common and Karen wasn’t entirely sure what to attribute it to. More often than not, she spent them at her kitchen table, typing anything and everything into her laptop computer hoping that something coherent and useful would come of it. Maybe she’d start an article or at least get an idea for one. Perhaps that was too much to hope for given her state of mind on those late nights.

Tonight was different, though. Tonight she’d gone wandering. It was never smart for a woman to walk the streets of Hell’s Kitchen alone at night. It was just too risky. There were too many stories that popped up on the news the next day about unwise women, but Karen was so restless that she didn’t give a damn.

She wasn’t sure what drew her there, but before she knew it she was sitting in a booth in that same, familiar diner. It could have even been the same booth. She didn’t know. Her memory was fuzzy about the details. What she remembered was the conversation. It stuck in her memory like chewing gum to a shoe. She’d never be rid of it, not entirely.

You never lie to me.

Karen missed him. She was aware of it, now. As the waitress came to refill he mug of black coffee, her mind was focused on Frank Castle.

Frank doesn't mean to follow her after spotting her by chance while in the middle of doing some recon. Well— alright, that's not true, but he doesn't mean to join her: he was just interested in making damn sure she doesn't get bothered by the sort of people out at this time of night and continuing on his way, but then she went back to that diner. Even across the street and through a window, he can tell she's not doing well tonight.

It's not his damn business. She's got friends, real friends, ones who don't drag people into cabins and shoot them in front of her. And anyway, it's not a smart idea to go in, not after last time... even though all the staff that had been there that night have long since quit (he can't blame them.)

But for once his face looks slightly more like a face and less like a collection of bruises held together by his skin, and he could really use a strong cup of coffee...

Alright. Shit. There's no use trying to delude himself. He adjusts his clothes, making sure all his weapons are concealed, and strides casually in a few minutes after the waitress leaves. He settles in the seat across from Karen, looking her over without really making eye-contact. He hasn't forgotten the last things they said to one another, but he remembers the look she gave him up on that rooftop as well. Not the sort of look anyone gives to someone dead to them.

And, he realizes belatedly, he didn't actually think up anything to say between his impulsive decision to walk in and now. Well... "They still make a decent cup of joe?"

Nailed it!

When she sees him her jaw drops just barely. Frank Castle may have been on her mind, but he was the last person she’d expected to see. He was doing such a good job of laying low and avoiding the cops. Karen had just assumed that the night on the rooftop was the last time she’d ever see him in the flesh ever again. Obviously she’d been wrong, and she couldn’t help but feel a little glad for that. It’s a strange feeling, one she doesn’t entirely understand, but it’s one that she has to acknowledge nonetheless.

She hears his question and lets out a quiet laugh, nodding and holding up her cup just slightly. “It’s better than the stuff they brew at work. That stuff tastes like... Meat.” It was impossible to put the bad coffee’s taste into simple words. When Karen had first tasted it she’d thought she’d tasted hints of salisbury steak. It was hands down the worst coffee she’d ever tasted. She was glad that she got to taste the good stuff with Frank.

“You’re not sleeping either?” She questioned with slightly heavy looking eyelids. If she looked drowsy it wasn’t because she was on the verge of sleep, but because she needed it so desperately. This was her third night with barely any shut eye and Karen was really feeling it.

After a moment she realized it probably sounded like a silly question. Frank operated by night. He was like Matt in that aspect. It was probably one of the only ways in which they were similar. Karen was glad that they were disimilar. The last thing she needed in her life was another Matt Murdock, even if she did care about the guy.

Karen paused for a moment, drinking in the details of his face. “You’re looking well.” Less battered, was what she meant, and she was glad to see it. It always made something within her upset to see him beaten so badly even if she supposed he mostly had it coming.

Frank can't help a laugh—well, a heavy exhale and a quirk of his lips, eyes crinkling around the corners, which is his own quiet mimicry of laughing these days. He doesn't know whether to find the idea of meat-flavored coffee intriguing or horrifying. Probably a little of both. Mostly it's just impressive that someone, somewhere found a way to make things taste worse than the US Military.

He finally meets her eyes, given the warmth of her response. He shrugs at the question of sleep - in truth, it had eluded him tonight, but she's right in that it's not unusual for him to be out at this hour.

He shouldn't be letting this happen, he knows. He shouldn't be here. But instead of getting up and walking away, he waves the new waitress over and requests his own cup of coffee. "You look tired," he observes, quiet. It's not a compliment, but it's not like there's much short of grievous physical injury that could actually make Karen Page look bad. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

His smile, or what comes close to a smile, brings a smile to Karen’s face. The fact that his face can still make the expression after all he’s been through is comforting and makes her wonder if maybe she doesn’t have to worry so much about him. She probably still will, anyway. It’s in her nature to worry about the people she cares for.

Even though he hadn’t been in her life, Frank Castle had been in her thoughts. She’d wondered what he’d been doing and if he was safe. He’d always seemed to do a good job of taking care of himself before, so she had no reason to believe he was unsafe, but there was still a small, lingering bit of worry in the back of Karen’s mind.

“I thought working at the paper would be easier.” She explains, folding her hands above the coffee, feeling the rising heat from the mug. “It’s different, but it’s...” A sigh escapes her lips and her gaze drifts away from his eyes and out the big window. “Stressful in its own way.”

Karen looks back to him. “I’m working on an unsettling story.” It wasn’t the best description of her current situation, but it was vague and she wasn’t sure if she should continue with a more vivid picture. “I have a source who trusts me and I have to do right by her and publish this article.”

When Frank gets his own cup, he nurses it. His gaze occasionally flicks out the windows towards the street, but it's just out of his deep-seated paranoia, not out of any particular expectation of running into danger tonight.

"I bet," he mutters after swallowing, because stressful is right. The idea of writing shit and then putting it out there where an entire city can read it is not his idea of a good time. He'd take a drill through the foot before that, any day. "What kind of unsettling?"

Because he knows that Karen has seen some shit, and if it's still something that can unsettle her... well, color him curious.

Karen pauses for a long moment, looking into Frank’s face. She knows she can trust him, she just doesn’t know if she should tell him. The more people she tells, the broader the circle goes, the riskier it all becomes. More people’s lives are on the line that way. Maybe it would be best to just mutter something vague and ask him about what he’s been up to.

But she wants to tell him. She’s been wanting to tell someone. Karen hasn’t even told Ellison what she’s been digging at for the past few weeks since her source came forward. All she’s told her boss is that she’s working on a big story that’ll blow him away. Finally, she leans forward slightly deciding to widen her circle by one more person.

“There are a few cops,” She fidgets, picking at her cuticles as she speaks. “My source thinks they’re dirty. She says they lost evidence on more than one occasion when it came to the same perp - some creep known for going around attacking-- raping women. What makes it even slimier is that this creep ran in the same circles as Wilson Fisk. He did some work for him from time to time. I think it’s that influence that got him off the hook with the cops.”

Karen sighs, looking like she just physically exerted herself confessing all of that. She takes a long drink of coffee and looks down at the table.

Frank's head snaps up. The word Fisk alone sends a hot spike of anger straight through him. That piece of shit played him, and Frank had been forced to just let him do it. Even now, he's still letting him do it. He's still thinning out the herd, blowing the shit out of all of Fisk's competition while he sits pretty in jail waiting to get let back out, waiting to take back over.

Fuck him. If this story she's trying to get to the bottom of puts him in a position to put a bullet in some shitsack that Fisk is throwing money and influence at to keep safe, then Frank will personally buy Karen all the non-meat-flavored coffee she can possibly stand.

"Give me a name and the cops, I'll do some digging." And by that he means some aggressive questioning, probably followed by death if they're actually guilty of what they're being accused.

The sudden movement across the table from her catches Karen’s attention. Being in the dark on what went on in prison with Frank and Fisk, she’s not sure which part of what she said got to him the most. She’s not going to turn down the help, though, especially when she’s convinced that these guys need to meet the Punisher.

“I don’t just need retribution, Frank. I need information. I need all of Hell’s Kitchen to know what these people did.” Her face is very serious. This is one thing that’s been very important to Karen from the moment her source came to her. To have someone trust you with bringing about justice - It puts a heavy weight on your shoulders. Karen couldn’t wait to get rid of it and there was only one right way to do that - Give her source closure.

“Can you promise me that?” Those blue eyes of hers search his face. Could he promise that he wouldn’t shoot first?

Frank shifts in his seat. That complicates things: getting information isn't the difficult part. Getting information that she can share with the city is another.

But makes deliberate eye-contact and nods anyway.

"I'll get your information."

She probably won't much like how he gets it, but she's smart. She knows what she's asking, because she's seen him at work. He forced her to witness some of it in this very diner, the last time they were here. His eyes flick over to the counters, brand new and a different shade from the last ones, which had been riddled with with multiple buckshots before he managed to wrestle the shotgun away from the Blacksmith's man.

"You really are always right in the middle of it, aren't you?"

She has some kind of uncanny knack.

Karen doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t like anything about this situation. This story reminds her of everything about Hell’s Kitchen that she hates. If she and Frank can do anything, anything that will make the situation better then it will be worth it no matter what it is that they do. She can save her inevitable crisis of conscience for later.

“Thank you.” Her voice is soft when it comes out, but her tone is sincere. Karen isn’t certain she could have done it on her own. Oh, she would have tried her damnedest. Her dedication to her source is something she’s dead serious about. When Karen Page makes a promise she does her very best to keep it. Would she have succeeded, though? She was dealing with dangerous people who had the advantage over her and she was alone, or at least she was before she’d enlisted Frank’s help. Now, she supposed, the game was completely different.

“I don’t always try to be.” She admitted with a ghost of a smile and a shrug of her shoulders. Sometimes she did try. It wasn’t like trying to get into trouble, of course. It was more like pursuing something else entirely and winding up in trouble because of that.

“You’re one to talk, though.” Karen raises her eyebrows as she looks at him. If anyone in this diner is a master at getting into messes, she’s not so sure it’s her.

To be entirely (or, overly) fair to Frank, he's usually in the middle of messes because he's the one causing them. She hounds after messes like they're water in the desert, as far as he can tell, and it's almost a straight split between whether he finds that impressive or terrifying.

He wonders about her, sometimes. She's got that spark he sees in Red, the one that cares too much. Not just about him, but about everything: about injustice and the second chances and monsters being able to do good, like they even deserve that chance. She'd cared about Grotto and he'd been a slimy shitsack - she'd never been in danger any danger for him, but she hadn't known that back then, and she'd done what she did anyway.

And here she is again, flirting with the line of fire for someone else, and the truth, and justice.

He doesn't know what to do with that. He doesn't know if he wants the compulsion to be chased out of her for her own safety, or if it ought to be protected. Treasured. Kept safe. It's not in everybody, that spark. It's certainly not in him.

"I'm just surprised to see you here," he deflects, burying his face in his coffee for a moment. His eyes flick out to the street, but no cars have circled around more than once, and no danger lurks around the corners tonight. As far as he can tell.

"Can't be for the good memories. Yeah? The coffee's alright, but not that alright."

It isn’t as if Karen can say that she went to the diner because she was thinking of Frank. Saying that would only make things incredibly awkward. She knows that. She sighs and shakes her head.

“I’m not even sure I know, myself. I started walking and it was like my feet had a mind of their own.” It’s not entirely untrue. Karen had felt like she was on autopilot when she’d gotten started walking to the diner. She knew, though, that part of it was her missing him.

It was funny how clients at Nelson & Murdock could become part of Karen’s life so quickly. She dedicated herself so completely to their cases, researching everything so thoroughly, and then in an instant they were out of her life. It was even more intense with Frank. Having him gone felt like she was missing an important piece of herself. As much as she’d tried to convince herself and him, he wasn’t dead to her.

Her eyes find their way to the tabletop in front of her. “It’s not exactly full of good memories, but it reminds me of you.” There it is, out in the open. Suddenly, the truth. Karen feels a little uncomfortable having said it, but having said it makes her feel like there’s a weight off of her chest. It’s a paradox that way.

Frank's fingers clench a little harder around his mug, throat tight.

He'd meant it when he said that she should stay away from him. He had. He'd meant it then and he'd mean it now if he could bring himself to say it again. He isn't ever really going to forget the way she shook, the bone-deep, terrified look in her eyes after she sat behind the counter and listened to him murder two men right in this very diner. (He'd brought her here as bait. It had worked, but it still makes him an asshole and he knows it.)

But for all that, he's the one who came in here today just because he saw her wandering in the street. So who is he to talk?

"I'm not," his voice starts out embarrassingly hoarse, and he stops to swallow so it comes back. "I'm not good for you. Ma'am." He licks his lips, and looks at her. Trying to convey what he means because words aren't really his strength. She's not a goddamn idiot, he knows: not good isn't some startling new information. "Or anyone. I'm just, not."

He can't even tell if he wants her to tell him to pack it in and get the hell out of her face, or if he wants her to want him to stay. Both seem terrible in different ways. (Both seem like they'd be for the best, in others.)

She feels like disappearing, like melting into her seat and vanishing into the vinyl cushion, but of course that’s not going to happen. It had to come out, she tells herself. It would have done no good to push the truth down and deny it. That would have only prolonged things. Sooner or later she would have told him and isn’t it better to just get it over with? It doesn’t feel that way right now, but she reminds herself that the truth isn’t always easy to deal with.

“I know.” Her voice is smaller than she means it to be. “I know, but at the same time I think you are.” She sighs. She knows it doesn’t make any sense at all. At best she sounds confused, at worst idiotic and on some level she’s aware of that.

Her eyebrows wrinkle together and she looks him dead in the eyes. “You’re a hell of a paradox, Frank. When I’m around you I know I’m in danger, but I also know I’ve never felt safer.”

Karen is silent for a few seconds, just looking at him and holding onto her mug of coffee like it’s a security blanket. She only looks away when a car outside backfires, not jumping but calmly turning her head to see what caused the noise. When her attention returns to the inside of the diner, her gaze has fallen to the dark, warm liquid she’s been drinking all night instead of looking to Frank.

“I probably sound pretty dumb to you right now.” She sounds resigned. Part of it is the lack of sleep, but another part of it is something else. A feeling of being worn down. A feeling that these emotions she has for him will never be resolved.

[Assumed cr preferred]

[Would you be interested in a Finn? No one seems to scene these two but they have potential for all the feels too.]

[ooc; I'd love to thread with a Finn! c: What sort of situation would you like to do? I play the Princess, not the General, but I'm open to time travel shenanigans or any other ideas you might have.]

[[ooc; I was thinking it could be a meeting of two people outside of their timeline. Since they would probably understand each other; he's left everything he knows and she's lost everything she knows.]]

General!

[Finn is half way to a hurried salute when he realizes that the woman before him, while definitely The General is a number of years younger. Or... He thinks it is anyway, otherwise they are eerily alike. He stops with his hand hovering in front of him, unsure of what to do.]

Uh, General Organa?

[He's at a loss, confused doesn't really cut it. Is this a daughter no one knew about? Has he fallen asleep? Or worse, has he completely lost it? Finn lowers his hand slowly, waiting for a reprimand. This is more a reflex than a reflection of the General.]

You are the General, right? I-I mean you look exactly like her only...um, you know...younger.

[ooc; sounds good to me!]

[Leia regarded the approaching man with her brows raised. "General" was not a title she often heard herself addressed. To suddenly be so far removed from everything that she knew, and then to be mistaken for somebody else was rapidly testing her nerves.]

[She was just about to tell him that he had her pegged for someone else when he mentioned her name - then it just became odd.]

What?

[Since when was there a "General Organa" that looked exactly like her, but was older? Considering that her looks were of Naberrie-Skywalker stock, rather than the Organa bloodline, it just compounded the strangeness of the situation.]

No. I'm not. In fact, I have no idea who you're talking about. Who are you?

[This woman was definitely the General, but that makes absolutely no sense because she couldn't have been much older than himself. Maybe even younger. It is her though, a little more aggressive for sure but it is General Organa.]

My name is Finn, I'm... well, I'm one of your soldiers.

[Finn stands awkwardly, technically he isn't lying but it feels an awful lot like it and it's hard for him to conceal that.]

[The General had mellowed out, strangely enough, although she was no less formidable than her younger counterpart. Han still felt the sting of her tongue, and anyone who she deemed to deserve it would have a verbal lashing as intense as the fires of Mustafar.]

[However, his observation was correct - the younger Leia was certainly fiercer, and it was what got her through many a scrape.]

Me, or this "General Organa" that you mentioned?

...Both.

[Again, not a lie. He can answer to more than one person as soldier of the resistance. Whether that be a General or a Sargent or whatever is it that this Leia might be at the moment.]

I am a soldier, duty bound to the resistaa--rebellion. That's me; Finn the Rebel.

[He likes the sound of that, actually. Finn puffs out his chest a little, trying to own the title that sounds cooler than he feels.]

[She's probably not the one with insomnia. Also, no smut.]

[ Blanc storms out of her bedroom at an ungod(dess)ly hour and makes a beeline toward the fridge. Clad in a robe, she's fuming every step of the way, still focused on the events of the day and her fellow goddesses' ~~idiocy~~ action. ]

[ The patron saint of not!Nintendo-land isn't making an effort to be quiet, completely forgetting that she's not alone in her living quarters. Blanc pulls out a carton of milk and a glass, slams them onto the counter, and proceeds to pour herself a cold one- ]

[ - only to miss and spill just a tiiiny bit. Somehow, that's enough to set her off, and she snarls like a wild animal. ]

- frickin' HELL!

[It's coming - she knows it is. Her ears cannot miss that fuming march down the hall, and the wolf goddess can only turn her head and grumble preemptively at what is probably about to come.]

[Annnd there it is; her ears pull back as she raises her paws to her muzzle and grumbles. Guess she needs to find out what happened this time - maybe fall asleep on Blanc for the commotion.]

[Hopping down from where she slept, she quickly makes her way in the kitchen with a few huffs. What's going on?]

[ Blanc almost doesn't notice the wolf; she's too busy casting about for a dishtowel, ready to murder the hell out of this spill. It's the click-clack of claws against the floor- and the huffs- that snap her out of it. ]

[ For a moment, she stares wild-eyed at Amaterasu, ready to take out her stress and rage on anyone. Then she... almost visibly deflates, settling down to something decidedly less murderous in the space of a few seconds. Her voice is still a little rough with simmering anger, but it's a start. ]

Did I-

[ Okay, yeah, no point in asking if that woke Amaterasu. Blanc's little sisters sleep like logs, but they don't have a wolf's hearing. Her face reddens slightly, out of guilt and embarrassment, and she refuses to meet the (other) goddess's eyes. ]

.. sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you. Just- go back to sleep, okay?

[At least she's not banging around the room anymore, but now she's awake, and milk's been poured, and Blanc should know the wolf wasn't about to go to bed.]

[Huffing again, she walks over and stands on her back legs, placing her paws against Blanc. Tossing her head, she made a face - a face that was asking for a snack. If they're going to be up and talking, they had to have snacks.]

[ Despite herself, a small smile tugs at Blanc's lips as she gets the message loud and clear. She's still not quite sure how to treat Amaterasu- she's a wolf, not a dog, and a (fellow?) goddess on top of that- so she settles for a friendly pat on the shoulder, ruffling the fur. ]

Fine, you win. I guess I owe you that much.

[ Blanc slides away from Amaterasu's paws and starts rummaging through her pantry. Her temporary good mood slowly evaporates, until her sullen anger clings to her (or maybe she's clinging to it) like a comforting shroud. ]

How do you feel about peanut butter?

[Victory, her name is... too long, they would stick to Amaterasu. Tail wagging, she drops back on her paws and follows Blanc as she sidles along through the pantry. The anger had dissipated, but it was back again... huh.]

Ruf!

[Peanut butter would be great!]

[ C-Cute. ]

[ Blanc refuses to let adorable canine antics cut through her righteous and totally justified anger, though. She brusquely deposits some peanut butter into a bowl and places it on the floor. A few moments later, and Blanc sits next to Amaterasu with her back against the wall, cradling her cup of milk and a plate of cookies. ]

[ Ginger cookies, no chocolate chips. She's done her research on what sorts of food would be bad for dogs and wolves, and she's nothing if not thorough. ]

... how often do you deal with rival goddesses?

[She's definitely going to get that frown to turn upside down... after licking up some peanut butter. Oh wait, now she remembers why she doesn't have this food all too often. She's still licking.]

[Pausing mid-lick, she looks over at Blanc and shakes her head. Couldn't say she dealt with much like a rival goddess all too often... actually, she doesn't think she has at all before.]

None, huh...

[ ... dammit. If Blanc didn't know better, she's think that Amaterasu HAS to be doing that on purpose. ]

[ She faces forward, doing her best to stoically ignore the spectacle of a wolf with her mouth gummed up by peanut butter. She's trying to do ~serious talking~ here. ]

I have three of them. The four of us have our own nations, and we compete for shares- for belief. It's a zero sum game. That's how it's been my entire life. It wasn't for Neptune, we would still be warring amongst ourselves.

[ Blanc's eyebrow twitches. Her knuckles tighten, and the lip of her cup cracks audibly; when she speaks up next, her voice and mannerisms are considerably rougher, a sure sign that she's pissed. ]

And she's a frickin' idiot.

[She's the matriarch so they don't usually compete with her. Oh well, more peanut butter lapping since she can't say that. Lick, lick, lick...]

[Still, she's listening. A zero-sum game huh? Too bad they can't get their nations to actually cooperate. Praying to four deities should really be nothing.]

[Tongue lapping again, she tilts her head. Tell her more about Nepture.]

[ Either Blanc doesn't need to know how to speak wolf to figure out what Amaterasu's saying, or she's damn well willing to talk about Neptune anyway. ]

Neptune stopped caring about age-old rivalries. You could say she's gotten us to do the same. We still look out for our own nations, but we do team up sometimes. And we don't try to murder each other anymore.

[ Blanc absentmindedly offers her a cookie, still working off a righteous head of steam. ]

But she's a lazy unmotivated airhead who spends more time crashing at our homes and playing games than looking out for her OWN nation! Every time I tell her to go gather shares, she laughs or waves me off or cracks a stupid joke! How WOULDN'T that drive anyone crazy!?

[And she will accept that cookie. She might look like a wolf, but she will devour all the sweets if the other goddess isn't careful... yum~]

[Chewing is much better than lapping peanut butter, and Amaterasu is able to nod. Sounds like her fluffy sheep daughter. At least there's no alcohol involved... right?]

[ Blanc sighs, putting the plate down (within easy reach of Amaterasu, whoops). She draws her knees up and rests her chin on them, reaching over and ruffling the wolf's fur without really thinking about it. ]

She'd be happy just eating pudding and playing games all day. The more I try to whip her into shape, the more she digs her heels.

[... She will be taking down a few more cookies while Blanc is distracting. After a thorough chewing and swallowing, she can offer some advice.]

Wruf ruf...

[Nailed it.]

Right. Not that I'm not grateful or anything, but I should have expected that.

[ ...... Blanc snorts. She grabs a cookie, not yet noticing that there's only a third of what she started with. ]

So what do you think? Should I keep pushing her, or let her go at her own damn fool pace?

[If she could speak, she would, but nothing to be done. Besides taking a few more cookies really.]

[Swallowing again, she turns to Blanc and places a paw on her leg. She thinks neither, but concern would be a good way to start.]

Hmm. This really falls apart with questions requiring more than a yes/no answer. I appreciate the sentiment, though.

... also, if you keep eating all the cookies, I swear I'll turn you into a fur coat.

[That gets a tongue to stick out. You wanna wrassle, little goddess? They can wrassle, and then she'll eat the rest of your cookies.]

[Would you be up for some dcau crossover?]

[yes! haven't seen bb in ages, but bring it.]

[Giant robots, radioactive strongmen, and monstrous chimeras were at this point old hat. Time travel, however, now that was new.

His first thought had been to look for Bruce and try to get his help, but that was immediately ruined by the second: a sudden worry that doing so would cause some kind of paradox and ultimately end in him vanishing a la Marty McFly in that old movie. He wanted to avoid that if possible and thus was left trying to figure out, for a start, when the slag he was. All he'd figured out thus far was this tech was nowhere near up to speed and all of the cars had wheels, which got it narrowed down to a range of like seventy years.

At least he had the suit, but without the batcave link up even it was limited, and if he got stuck too long he'd have to figure out how to charge the battery. So now here he was, hiding in the shadows of false dawn and trying to decide if the lesser of the involved evils when he eventually had to move was just stealing some civvies or pretending he was in cosplay.]

Great. I could have just gone dancing, but nooooo, some dreg had go off and get clever with a time machine. Fantastic.

Edited 2016-03-29 23:10 (UTC)

John Constantine hated a lot of places, some of which he was even banned from. Set one succubus loose in monastery, and you were branded for life. Unfair if someone asked Constantine. Those men probably had one of the best nights of their celibate lives, and John had captured it in the end, hadn't he?

A simple spell kept the humans partying around from noticing him. In a place of drink and fun, people were quick to overlook what a little magic told them wasn't worth looking at. There were a few appreciative looks at women and men as John wound his way to the bar. Only then did he let the spell drop. Didn't do much good to flag down a bartender if they didn't see him.

He raised a hand even as he took out the mobile phone he'd stolen from one of the bar's patrons on his way in.

"Gin and tonic with a twist of lime, luv."

Constantine laid a ten on the bar as he dialed Chas' number.

"Got it, yeah. Keep an eye on Zed. If she talks about any feathery arseholes, get the Mill's defences up. Least demons are honest."

It's fairly difficult to get banned from Lux, in all honesty. They specialize in wild and debauched, so you really have to be a huge asshole to get yourself permanently uninvited from the premises. A glass slams down in front of him and Mazikeen efficiently makes his drink without paying much attention to what she's doing. Whether or not this is because she's eavesdropping or just because she doesn't care that much (as evidenced when she drops an entire lime wedge in the glass) is up for debate.

She takes his money and tucks it in her cleavage, then leans against the bar. "Mm, not all of them. Some are lying bastards. More are tricky bastards. The rest are just bastards. Guess they don't have anything better to do."

Yeah, someone definitely picked Lucifer over her own kind.

The slammed down glass isn't given much of a look although Constantine's eyes did follow where the money disappeared to. It was a nice place in his opinion. While he didn't make a secret of the look, he didn't leer either, especially when she caught his conversation and responded.

One would have to be an idiot to not suspect what might be in a place run by Lucifer Morningstar. News ran fast in magical circles, and Constantine might be one of the few walking around who didn't doubt the man with the name wasn't a man at all. And his staff probably wasn't either.

"Yeah, catch a flight later, Chas. Good luck."

Dragging a stirring straw through the drink to force the lime down more, he nods slowly. The phone is put away, dropped soon enough into some poor sap's pocket with a bit of sleight of hand ease. Wouldn't do to be found with a stolen mobile on him.

"Tricky ones, the good at it tricky ones, don't have to lie. Truth is a subjective bitch. The rest just aren't imaginative enough."

The straw's meaningless pattern in stirring changes as Constantine speaks, trying to make eye contact with her and keep her attention on him instead of the drink. Two clockwise, one counter, two more clockwise followed by two taps of a fingernail against the tumbler.

"Not much going on in Hell these days?" he asked, a gambit that would maybe get him an answer or a look that said he was clearly insane.

A flash of a grin and he looks down at his glass of gin and tonic as he finished the spell. If untainted, the liquor would remain clear. If not, well, it would look like John had a glass of black sludge sitting in front of him in a few seconds.

insomnia;

jessica jones - mcu

lex luthor, dceu.

dorian pavus ( dragon age )

ravyn song | original character

Len Snart aka Captain Cold - The Flash/Legends

Solas | Dragon Age

creeps >.> (some combo of 3/4/9?)

perfect!

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