bakerstreet | Find my home with you

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[meme] shipping

Find my home with you

The ＴＯＯＫＹＯＵＩＮ Shipping Meme

They were on your front door, in your yard, or on the street, confused and clearly in no position to fend for themselves; in a worst case scenario, they were bruised and battered, possibly close to death. Bleeding heart or not, you can't just be so cruel as to let them suffer. They need a place to stay, and you'll open your home to them...long enough to get back on their feet, anyway.

Speaking of feet, the shoe could be on the other one. You're worse for the wear - in a new place, possibly injured, certainly not in the best state of mind. You could not even remember how you got here or who you are to get here, for that matter. You may not want to remember. Whether willing or not so willing, you're in no position to turn down help, especially if said helper won't take no for an answer. No matter how dedicated you are to looking after yourself, there's only so much you can do in your position.

The two of you are staying together, at any rate. Only for a while, the plan is. But after said while, even though strength and confidence is returning to the injured, there's something a little different between you two. It could be the close quarters, the kindness shown, or a number of things, but quietly, softly, feelings have grown. Could more confusion and hurt spring from this? What about when it's time to go? Can the temporary resident leave as easily as they intended? You're so close now, perhaps a little while longer can't do any harm...

...until whatever it was that put them in such a perilous position in the first place comes back, and there could be "justice" for anyone who's dared to help.

ＲＵＬＥＳ

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ＰＲＯＭＰＴＳ

ғɪɴᴅɪɴɢ — Who's that? They're no ordinary passersby! Were they in an accident? Are they foreign? ...should you approach them?

ʀᴀɪɴ, ʀᴀɪɴ, ɢᴏ ᴀᴡᴀʏ — The elements make this night no time to sleep out of doors.

ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ — Cuts, broken bones, injuries all of sorts...you have to stitch them back up, then make sure they don't get any

ɢᴏᴏᴅ ɢᴜᴇsᴛ — It's all you can do to show gratitude to the person who took you in. Fix them a meal, care for their house, whatever you can do once you're able.

ʙᴀᴅ ɢᴜᴇsᴛ — FUCK THIS PERSON AND FUCK THEIR COUCH. You didn't ask to be brought here. Let them clean up after you, you don't even care.

ᴡʜᴏ ᴀᴍ ɪ? — How you got into this situation is a mystery. Even more of a mystery is your identity, and why the person you were would be so displaced.

sᴇʟғʟᴇssɴᴇss —

ʟᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ — If you've been injured badly enough or can't remember all too well, you might have to relearn a good deal. Luckily, you have a helping hand.

sᴄᴀʀs — Scars from the encounter that lead you here or scars from prior, you don't want them to see either. You still have your secrets to keep.

sᴛᴜʙʙᴏʀɴ — Ugh, your house guest is so stubborn! They always get up when they should be resting, have the worst habits, and completely disrespect your home! You'll get to them, one way or another. Or you'll throw them out. You don't want to, but you will.

ᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛ — Bad memories or nightmares wreck you; your host and nurse comes to your side unexpectedly.

ᴄᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴄʟᴀsʜ — The person who's taken you in is from a different culture or lifestyle than you, and adapting is harder than you thought.

ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ғᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ — Think learning about a new culture is hard? Try being a different species. Can you keep your little eccentricities at bay for the good of your station?

ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜsʏ — Now that your emotions towards your caretaker/host/jailer are softening, you're finding yourself unusually jealous of those in their life who were close to them before.

ɴᴇᴡ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠɪᴛɪᴇs — You never thought you'd have fun after all that's happened, yet such simple gestures as a picnic or a movie make all the difference.

ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ — You love them, this person who's taken you in or this person you've found. It's not a pity or a thankfulness, it's love, and you know that now. What you choose to do with this information is

ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ — Suddenly, the person who's been so nice to you finds out that the two of you have a history. You killed their loved ones or caused something terrible. How can they forgive you?

ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ — So much has been done for you. The least you can do in return for the one who helped you at your lowest is make sure they never have such a low point.

ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴍᴇs ᴋɴᴏᴄᴋɪɴɢ — Anyone in the way of getting to you will be destroyed, and that includes the person you're staying with.

ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇᴍ — You've been given a home, maybe which you've never had before. You don't want to leave.

ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ — Not only are you living with them, but you're starting a proper life with them.

ʀᴇᴠᴇᴀʟ — All secrets are laid out on the table. You've decided to tell about your past and what lead you here.

ʀᴇᴠᴜʟsɪᴏɴ — What you've done and who you are is so heinous, they want nothing more to do. You're to leave their home and leave them alone.

ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ — It doesn't matter what they've done. You've opened your home and your heart to them, and nothing's changed.

ᴘᴀʀᴛɪɴɢ — All things must come to an end. No matter what you feel for each other, it's time to leave. Hopefully, you'll see each other again.

ʜᴀᴘᴘɪʟʏ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴀғᴛᴇʀ — Come what may, you've decided to stay at your new home with the person you love. Now, it's safe enough to do so.

ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ

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[ He doesn't have much inclination to rush back home, where he'll likely be reprimanded for either nearly dying or disappearing -- he doesn't yet know which one will get him in more trouble. And he doesn't know his way around this world, not that he thinks he can't figure it out, but he'd rather not do anything at all except crawl back into bed and quietly fall asleep once more. ]

Somehow I feel like you can handle a few questions just fine on your own. [ The smile he keeps giving him makes him want to relax. There's no one here he knows. For all intents and purposes, he could hide here. He hesitates, glancing at the door to look away from the distracting thing Vrenille is doing with his dark lashes. He really doesn't know what he's getting into, considering the company here, but something compels him to give in. ] But I could stay just for a little while. I need your help with this bandage again.

That's what you think. I mean, you haven't seen their interrogation techniques. It's beyond anything I could resist. [Okay, so he's obviously being facetious here--clearly no one is getting interrogated. But that's not really the point. The point is that in spite of the hesitation and reticence, he's managed to get Jericho to agree to stick around, at least for the moment, and he's quite pleased about that. He wants him to stick around; in spite of all the reservedness and constantly trying to warn him off, he finds him quite good company.

Smile broadening at the answer, he reaches up to brush his knuckles briefly over the soft stubble on Jericho's jaw before swinging himself out of bed.]

I'll get some clean bandages. [He pulls a soft white cotton shirt over his bare chest, and gives a brief gesture towards the hallway.] The washroom's the second door on the left if you want it.

[And so saying, he leaves Jericho on his own for the moment, at liberty to do as he will.]

[ He's coming to learn that Vrenille is a very tactile person, offering his touch freely and seemingly without the same slew of reservations that accompany Jericho's mind before he lays a finger on anyone. It's an effort not to stiffen beneath his fingers -- an even greater one not to shove him away. Yet there's still a part of him that remembers the gentle comfort of touch, Vrenille's fingers tickling at some long-buried memory he's tried to forget.

He busies himself with pulling his jeans on and following the instructions down the hall, where he finally gets a good look at himself in the mirror. A splash of cold water on his face does little to hide the exhaustion set into his eyes, and while his skin had been unnaturally flushed last night, right now he looks pale as his body fights to replenish the extensive amount of blood he's lost. His face becomes less of a concern in comparison to his shoulder, even with knowing that ultimately even the scarring will heal. He looks like extremely questionable company at best.

He cleans up the residual blood and then spends a moment on his hopelessly tousled hair, eventually giving up when he realizes he has absolutely no concern for the opinions of anyone here, except possibly Vrenille, but he's already seen him looking much worse, so there shouldn't be anywhere to go but up on a regular day like this. He feels like he could fall asleep standing, which he nearly does while leaning against the sink and watching the water swirl pink in the basin. ]

[Vrenille is quite tactile, it's true--he's very used to touching people and to being touched. But he's also being free with Jericho in a way that he'd almost never be with a man who was simply a client. When it comes to that kind of work, every touch has something calculated behind it, even if it's calculated just to make him seem natural and uncalculated.

It's not the same as this, where he's guided simply by feeling glad to have Jericho stay for a while longer and a sense of affection and warmth towards him that he should...probably pause to reflect on at some point. Anyway, he doesn't reflect on it right now as he slips downstairs to collect the needed supplies.

Provided Jericho does not in fact fall asleep on his feet, when he steps back into the hallway, he'll find someone else just stepping around the corner. It's not Vrenille though, as the sound of footsteps might have better told if the person in question didn't seem to be taking pains to walk as softly as he could possible manage.

He's a giant--not a proverbial "giant of a man," but an actual giant: probably close to eight and a half feet tall with arms the size of tree trunks, he looks a bit cramped even with the house's tall ceilings and broadly build spaces. He's got skin the color of dark chocolate, but hair down to his shoulders that's bright as a polished copper penny and the same copper dusting of a light goatee. He's dressed only in his underwear, which is stitched of heavy woven cloth, and there are pale tribal-like tattoos that ring his shoulders down to his flanks.

The impression he gives overall is probably a bizarre mix of Norse, African, and Celtic. But perhaps the most bizarre thing is how this giant reacts to the surprise of coming around the corner and seeing Jericho there--as though despite the fact that he lives here, he's the one who's in the way.] Oh, I'm sorry. [Though deep, his voice is very soft spoken, and he seems embarrassed enough by the unexpected meeting that he'd withdraw right back down the hall...if that didn't risk being rude. Instead he sort of averts his eyes, so as to be sure not to stare.] I beg your pardon.

[ He's not sure what exactly he expected to see this morning, but the giant coming into view immediately upon exiting the bathroom isn't it. Jericho tilts his chin to angle a better look at the man, taking a half-step back simply out of surprise. Even without a shirt, he's still somehow the more dressed of the two, and the closer he comes, the larger he seems. ]

It's fine. [ His eyes fall onto the markings on his skin, tracing the patterns with a sharp gaze. He doesn't smell danger from the man, instead a strange sort of nervousness invading his senses. If this place is full of oddities just like him, The Factory would have a field day with all the new subjects to research, experiment with, and ultimately end up killing at least half of them.

He gestures with a quick jerk of his chin that inevitably pulls at his shoulder. ] Go first. [ He can't imagine what strange company he looks to be, half-dressed with a painful-looking bullet wound on display. And though he feels relatively safe here, he still doesn't want anyone at his back. Especially not someone of this stature. ] I'm waiting for Vrenille.

[It's not precisely nervousness, though it's easy to see where the impression would come from. In general, the giant manages to convey an impressively accurate sense of a very big person who would much prefer being a very small one. But perhaps he can be forgiven for being a bit off his game: he really wasn't expecting to round the corner into this meeting any more than Jericho was.

Hyperaware that wearing so little makes it even more obvious how much of him there is, he looks sheepishly at his feet when Jericho suggests that he go first. If he does that, he knows, he'll take up the whole hallway.] Oh. No, it's okay. I don't have to go this way. [He makes a vague gesture back the way he came.] I don't want to be in anyone's way.

Only...I don't mean to pry, but is Vrenille looking after you? [He makes a small, subtle gesture towards the gunshot, because yes, the wound and the pallor are indeed combining to give Jericho a fairly unhealthy look. It's a much less intrusive thing to say than remarking how Vrenille has almost never brought anyone home with him, let alone to spend the whole night, and a much less brazen one than demanding to know who the stranger is and what he's doing wandering around their house.]

You won't be in anyone's way. You live here. [ Still, Jericho goes before him at his insistence, turning around at the question. Looking after you is probably an accurate description of what had taken place last night, but now that he's back to his senses, he's suddenly very aware of how much he's leaning on the other man, and he's fairly certain he doesn't like it. It's a show of weakness, and while he does feel weak, he's supposed to know how to handle it better than this.

If Vrenille hadn't come along, he might have still made it to the morning, stiff, miserable, in terrible pain, but alive. But there's also that niggling feeling that he might not have made it at all, and that's what sets him on edge. Killed by a hunter isn't how he wants to go -- or more accurately, bled to death alone by an ale cart. He should have done better, but he's all but useless after a shift.

He shakes the thought away, resettling his gaze upon the giant, standing right before him in the middle of the hallway. Now he couldn't pass even if he wanted to. He feels suddenly defensive, and he can't pinpoint exactly why, but he reminds himself to control his tongue. ] Yes. Just for now.

[ He turns and heads back toward the bedroom; even though there are other questions on his tongue, they go unasked. But when he places a hand on the doorknob, he casts another glance behind him. ] I'm Jericho.

[The giant smiles at the reassurance, though it falters a little as he backs right up against the wall to give Jericho as much room as possible, a gesture which doesn't do any real good in the taking-up-less-space department. Then the smile returns and with it an admission that he shares almost confidentially, like an open secret.] As I have often been reminded, but between living here as the mouse or as...the bear, [the hint of a veiled joke there, some sort of double entendre] I'd prefer the former.

[An odd shift of energy happens when the two of them are standing face to face in the hallway. Wound or no wound, this giant is clearly not driven by the predatory spirit that looks for advantage against a weakened rival. But he's actually not so wholly faint-hearted as he might have seemed at first either. He actually seems less timorous the more direct that Jericho becomes, like it makes him steady and calm to talk to a person who faces him this way.] You're in fine hands while you heal. There's no shame in having the shelter of a burrow while you do so.

My name's Bertolt. [And he won't press for any further conversation if Jericho doesn't want it, but he waits to allow further question or remark if he decides that he does.]

[ He wonders if people are afraid of this man here, or at least set on edge if they're otherwise so accepting of different creatures. Jericho doesn't feel fear, but then people have never been the stuff of his nightmares. He feels a strange sort of intrigue, which he normally also doesn't feel, preferring to pass by with largely ignoring most everyone around him -- just like he ignores the compliment to Vrenille, because he has no real reason to care. Still, it sticks in his mind, adding stock to the growing belief of his goodness, and how very different they are.

He doesn't yet open the door and go in. Vrenille isn't back, and he needs those bandages more than anything else in the room. He regards the giant -- Bertolt -- again. ] I don't see many that look like you where I'm from. [ It could be from a necessity to hide or a complete inability to do so. Jericho at least has the luxury of passing as completely unremarkable on most days. Then again, that hadn't saved him from becoming tangled in this web of hatred where he's lauded and despised for his abilities in the very same breath. As long as he's useful, he's afforded some semblance of freedom. The second that he's not, there are many ways to remind him. ]

Then you must be from very far away and probably haven't been in Lion's Arch very long. [There's no judgement in the observation, but perhaps the casualness of it points to a general social acceptance without fear or censure.]

There are a good many norn who've come to these parts, especially what with the Consortium rebuilding the city and now the Guild Initiative. [He breathes a bit of a sigh.] It's very hot though. Especially for the biggest--they feel it the worst. [At the moment, it's actually not very hot. In fact it's quite pleasant and mild...or at least it is for anyone whose body isn't made for life in high frozen mountains where the ground is perpetually covered by meters of packed snow and ice.

Of course it doesn't occur to Bertolt that Jericho has no idea about norn in general. If he knew, he would be the first to say that he's absolutely the worst possible ambassador for his race (though whether he likes to admit it or not, being the 'worst' might also be what makes him the 'best,' since he's much quieter, calmer, an less brash and blustering than what's typical). Regardless, he can't help but be presenting a rather partial and skewed impression.

For example, he hesitates for a moment as though trying to decide if it's too prying to ask (no other norn would bother to second guess)...and then decides to risk it (as a rule, most norn would run headlong towards risk of any kind).] Are you from Ebonhawke as well?

This is my first time here. [ It had been accidental in the first place, but a necessary accident. Though he hasn't heard of this race, it's easy enough to follow his words without too many prying questions, and a small part of him marvels at how a man like this can make a life here at all. It wouldn't happen back home.

His blood runs hot as well, and he almost smiles, though as it is his expressions just softens a bit as he leans back against the door. He's grateful Bertolt is as mild-mannered as he is; he doesn't have the energy for much else. He doesn't divulge his own identity, but he feels like he could if he truly wanted to. But once in the habit of keeping secrets, it's a hard rule to break. He doesn't want to think about how he's broken it with Vrenille already. ]

I'm not from around here. Home is very different from this. [ Less welcoming, less diverse. Humans live in fear of the monsters that walk among them. He could be openly killed and it would barely make a ripple -- he's just lucky that he's exceptionally difficult to kill and doesn't fear much at all. ] Back home you would be in hiding, living in some remote land. There's little chance you'd be welcome in the city. They'd take one look at you and cry for your imprisonment. Needless to say, it's nicer here.

[Bertolt looks a little taken aback by the grim picture this description paints. It's not only nothing like Lion's Arch. It's nothing like any city of humans, charr, asura, or any other race he knows anywhere in all of Tyria.

It's even harder to imagine because the norn have always had good relation with the other races. They have their own internal conflicts and struggles of course; everyone does. But for all their pride, they respect life thoroughly and honor the courage and cunning of the creatures that live around them. It's hard for Bertolt to imagine a place where humans would wish to see them all imprisoned or what possible purpose it would serve. Instead he gives Jericho a careful look and a serious answer.]

It's very good that you are here then. Good that we both are. [He may not know that Jericho is anything other than human, but a city like the one he's describing would be a terrible place for anyone.

He's just opening his mouth to say something else when Vrenille returns, coming around the corner behind him with a canvas-wrapped med kit under one arm.] Hey, Bertolt. You all right? [It's a very relaxed sort of meeting: the norn angling himself slightly into the corner so that the human can get by, Vrenille giving him a casual pat on the flank the way one might pat a friend on the shoulder--Bertolt's flank being about shoulder height on a man--and then him catching sight of Jericho standing by the door and giving him a crooked bet-you-weren't-expecting-that-now-were-you? sort of smile.] Oh, I see you've met.

Good morning, Vrenille. I'm quite well, thank you. I was just about to suggest to Jericho that perhaps he might visit Hoelbrak sometime, [the remark is really addressed to both men at once now, as Bertolt looks back to Jericho once more] if you've never seen the norn capital before. Perhaps Vrenille might show you around, if you've time--ah, when you're healed, of course.

[ He gives a one-shouldered shrug that could be agreement or indifference. As shocking as it might be, it's what he knows. He can hardly imagine living in a place like this, though he's sure he would adjust more easily than if either Vrenille or Bertolt came to live in his world. Bertolt especially.

He watches the comfortable exchange between the two men, but all he really sees is the med kit. ] I doubt I'll have time for sightseeing, but I'll keep it in mind. [ It makes him question how long he really intends to stay. He should already be gone, and yet he's standing in someone else's hallway, making conversation with a giant. It's possible that he hit his head after he was shot.

He holds the door ajar for Vrenille. ] A pleasure to meet you, Bertolt.

Of course. [Bertolt agrees with a bow of his head, absolutely the last person to press or pressure.] My pleasure as well, Jericho.

[And Vrenille, with the flash of a departing smile at the norn, follows Jericho back into his room, practically brimming with interest to get his reaction to the meeting in the hall. He sets the kit on the foot of the bed, rolling it open as he gives a nod for Jericho to sit.]

So I see you found the washroom okay. [That coy, crooked smile of his is back, this time a surreptitious invitation to a bit of gossip, because while there are lots of areas which are absolute no-goes for Vrenille when it comes to talking about other people (namely, anything to do with his clients, their proclivities, or work in general), this is definitely not one of them. Given what he's learned so far, he'd wager money that the run-in with Bertolt was a genuinely new and different experience, and he doesn't wager money on much.]

[ For some odd reason he doesn't feel a desire to forcibly remove that coy smile from Vrenille's lips, and once he obediently seats himself, he offers his shoulder for attention. ] It wasn't hard to find. And the giant was hard to miss. [ Not exactly what he was expecting, but he isn't ruffled by much -- though he does have his buttons. ]

I'm assuming the others who live here are equally as... inspiring. [ Colorful, varied, different. He doesn't mind, not really. His dislike mostly extends to just vampires, but then there aren't many of those that survive The Factory anyway. ] Humans don't fear someone like him? [ Clearly not, seeing the ease at which they live. There's no hiding, no wards around the house like he finds when he visits old friends who've managed to escape The Factory's pull.

He catches Vrenille's gaze, holding it suddenly, and he stills the hands that are skillfully attending to his shoulder by clasping his fingers around Vrenille's wrist -- not forceful, but insistent all the same. If he's overstepping, he clearly doesn't shy from any potential consequences. ] What can you do?

Yeah, well don't say giant in front of him--you're liable to hurt his feelings. [Vrenille offers the suggestion helpfully as he dips a square of gauze in some salve, knowing the personality quirks of his housemate well enough to advise.] I mean, he'd never say so. It's just that he really values small things.

[He tilts his head slightly as though to punctuate the deliberate coyness of his answer to Jericho's next question.] Well Bertolt is the only norn in the house. But no, humans have no fear of norn in general--there's no cause to. We've always been allies. Centaur and charr, now those humans fear. But we've been at war with them for centuries.

[He might have gone on trying to elaborate further, explaining how things with the charr at least are changing now, but then Jericho takes hold of his wrist and he asks that, and well... It's not like Vrenille is really all that secretive about it, certainly not here in his home, and the time does seem right.

That easy smile of his never falters, but Jericho will feel...not precisely a tug. It's more like the feeling of dropping a glass that's gone unexpectedly slippery, which is odd because Vrenille never moves and Jericho's hand is still on his wrist. In fact for a moment, Vrenille seems oddly quiet, like there's a weirdly elongated pause in his answering.

And then, in the span of a breath, he's standing next to himself just a few feet to the side--a whole second Vrenille.

It's the second, "new" one who speaks, giving a little shrug.] That. Among other things.

Noted. [ He'll use his name, should he see him again, which shouldn't be likely because he shouldn't stay much longer. He lets the thought slip from his mind, focusing instead on how Vrenille doesn't seem to respond to his question. Maybe he doesn't want to, and Jericho certainly can't fault him for that, and he's about to let go of his wrist when he feels a curious sensation slip through his fingers, and then, startlingly, he blinks and a second Vrenille materializes next to the first. ]

You can duplicate yourself? [ His eyes widen just slightly as he shifts his gaze between the two, settling on the second because that's the one that answers his question, yet his fingers are still clasped around the first. He slowly lets go; it's not the strangest thing he's seen, but eerie nonetheless. ] Useful in a fight. [ He stands, just so he can touch the second one, fingers trailing curiously down the side of his throat, settling against his chest to feel for a heartbeat. ] Useful in many situations.

Yeah, well--clone myself, as many as three at once. And turn myself invisible. Or turn you invisible. Teleport, but only a little ways... [There's a certain self-deprecation in the way Vrenille rattles off this list. On the one hand, he's proud of himself since a couple of years ago he couldn't do any of these things, and he knows that they all sound pretty impressive on the surface of it. But then compared to really powerful mesmers, he also knows he's nothing special.

It's the sort of thing that makes his usually practiced composure crack a little, the risk of nervous babbling rising near the surface. There's something grounding in Jericho's touch though--the warmth and weight of fingers on his skin, the feel of his palm through the soft cotton of his shirt. When he thinks about it too much, his magical skill set does a real number on his brain, makes him start to feel like he's pretending to be something he's not. But having another man touch him? That's familiar. That's the him that he knows, the one he's confident and sure of.]

It is really useful. And it gave me a part to play here that I wouldn't have had otherwise.

Besides, [he looks at the clone for a moment, willing it to shatter, and it promptly bursts into shards of pinkish purple light that seem to arrange themselves in a spray of butterflies that flutter about them through the room before dispersing,] it comes with a great light show.

[ He can hear the way he downplays his abilities, but Jericho is thoroughly impressed, even down to the way the body seemingly explodes right around his hand, the light blurring before his eyes as it dances through the room in a shower of butterflies. And then he does smile, soft, faint, but there. It's a special thing when people find a safe place to flaunt their powers back home, and even if there's nothing to hide here, it still feels like Vrenille has shared something personal with him. ]

You would be a prize back home, though that's not necessarily as good of a thing as it sounds. But your abilities are exceptional. [ What Cyril wouldn't do to get his hands on someone like this in his employ... he doesn't want to think about it. He moves back to the bed, sitting down and regarding Vrenille with a curious tilt of his head. ] I see a lot when I'm working. But nothing like that.

[There's a kind of intimacy to it for Vrenille too, not because his magic is a huge secret overall, but because between him and Jericho it certainly had been to start. When he first approached the man in that bar, the last thing he could have guessed was that magic would run as a common thread between them, just like he never could have guessed that Jericho would end up here. He can't really see what he does as exceptional though, no matter what people tell him. He smiles at the compliment but shakes his head.] Well, in this city it's nothing lots of people can't do.

Y'know, [bandages once more in hand, he returns to the job of getting Jericho's shoulder wrapped with a fresh dressing on it,] you haven't really told me much about your work. I'm getting the feeling that they're not just standard bounties that you go after. And those hunters who did this to you?

From everything you've said, it doesn't sound like the wolf side of you is something you'd bring out lightly or without cause, and no way in front of ordinary humans. Even if them seeing you wasn't part of the plan, you must've had your reasons for doing it. [Maybe Jericho still won't tell him. And Vrenille knows that just asking might bring that guardedness of his back up, but he ventures the attempt anyway.]

[ Even if all of these feelings Vrenille's getting are closer to the truth than he prefers, his expression doesn't change except for a soft wince when the bandages are pressed to his skin. ] That was a botched job. [ He's normally good at feeling out his surroundings and reading people to an acceptable extent, but this time he'd chased his mark straight into the wrong people. ] I normally just follow the orders given to me. Sometimes they're standard. Sometimes they're something else. [ And the something else is the reason he's seen as a traitor to his own kind. It raises his hackles every time he hears it, but he's gotten good at controlling it. Trying to explain would be futile, and trying to escape would end up with him wishing that they would put him out of his misery.

He breathes in slowly, relaxing his shoulder and speaking softly. ] I haven't shifted outside of the moon in a long time. If you saw it, you'd understand perfectly why I don't. [ It's a harrowing, gruesome process, hardly worth the payoff except in dire matters of life and death. Keeping control of the beast is difficult enough, and impossible on the full moon. ] I'm not a pure wolf. The toll it takes on my body is too much of a liability. Take now, for instance. Even without the injury, I wouldn't be at full strength after what I pulled yesterday, and that's a dangerous weakness to have.

[ And despite this, he hadn't thought twice before confessing to it. He stops himself there, blinking unseeingly at some point in the far wall. He's being careless, and he has too much training to act this way, yet for some reason all that comes to mind is how despite the pain and restless exhaustion, last night had been the most comfortable bed he's been in for too long. ]

My work is not interesting. [ It's a pathetic attempt to shift the conversation. ] It's not what I'd really be doing, as I'm sure you'd rather be doing anything but looking at my shoulder again.

Edited 2017-05-12 00:51 (UTC)

I guess it's not so like what the norn do then. [Vrenille is thinking about how the first associations that had come to mind last night don't align with what Jericho describes now, and he knows it's true that he can't really understand, not having any good frame of reference to compare to.] When they become the wolf--or the bear, the snow leopard, whatever--they do it quickly, a couple of minutes here or there, and they're fine after, maybe just a bit tired.

[He's careful with this topic, though, because he can tell that there are places where what's behind the words is as tender for Jericho as the gunshot to his shoulder. And while it's true that making men feel safe, producing a sense of respite from soldiering or war or life patrolling a siege wall are very well-honed tools of his trade, this feels different to him. It's more than just hand-to-mouth survival that's motivating him here.

His careful fingers smooth the bandage in place as he makes sure it's wrapped well and secure, and once it's fastened, he lets his fingertips linger lightly, fleetingly at the center of Jericho's chest.] Yeah well, it turns out I might be sort of partial to all what the shoulder's attached to. I could think of worse things to be looking at.

[That liquid smile is back again, and for a moment it might seem as though Jericho's attempt to shift the topic has worked. Except that presently a more serious look comes over Vrenille's face.] So whose orders are they that you follow?

I don't know. It's possible that I'm a defective model. [ He offers a thin smile, but there's an inkling of belief there, and it doesn't help that he's separated himself from any others of his kind. Navigating this side of himself with no positive guidance had been a grisly, drawn-out process, each full moon worse than the last until he'd developed a strong sense of fear and hatred toward it.

He brings his eyes back at the feel of his fingertips against his chest, and he softens very slightly and shakes his head at the compliment as if Vrenille has said something foolish but endearing. That easy smile is distracting, and he's just the right amount of tired to want to fall into it, but his next question throws him off guard in the worst way. His gaze stays locked, but his suspicions are immediately piqued; despite how he doesn't move away from him, the size of the wall between them has just doubled. ]

Why do you ask? [ It's a complicated answer, his personal history so intertwined with the founder of The Factory that he might as well have a stake in it himself. But he doesn't, because at the end of the day, no matter how close they are, he's still under a binding contract. The only thing his history gets him is a possible pardon from death. It doesn't grant him freedom.

His eyes are steady, challenging, adopting a sharp edge to his gaze. There's no need for this, not really. They could continue to exist in this bubble of comfort and safety, and a large part of him wants to, a rare indulgence in an otherwise taxing existence, but he doesn't like to feel cornered. ] This should not be important to you, so why do you ask?

[Vrenille realizes almost immediately that he's said something wrong, misgauged how much weight the fragile web being woven between them could take, and he regrets it at once, because he knows he can't take it back, can't avoid, can't "never mind, forget I asked" his way out. He can see clear as day how those words would be brick and mortar to the wall that's already going back up, higher by the second, with Jericho retreating back behind it.

Still, it catches him a little off guard, how suddenly it all happens, the bared blade of suspicion against which he has no wiggle room, no defenses but his honesty. Blinking, he swallows against the knot that's formed in his chest.]

Just-- because you seem...haunted by something. Sort of trapped. [The final word is small, almost a mutter. Saying it makes him feel embarrassed, ashamed of his presumptuousness in having overstepped by trying to talk about this at all. And he's stung because he knows why he did it, all the selfish tiny reasons hiding in cracks that are usually so well hidden by a patina of copper coins; guarded secret parts of him that don't like to admit wanting elements of a world which pragmatic self-preservation has long since written off, parts of the world where the emotional landscape has a different map and the map has a different place in his life.]

I guess I thought maybe-- [Maybe what? "Maybe you'd want to talk to me about it?" It sounds stupid even in his mind. He looks away. But he deserved this, didn't he? Being put soundly back in his place? He busies his hands with putting the remaining items back in the med kit, tidying up.] I'm sorry. I was just making conversation.

I don't care whose orders you follow. [Just about you, about your life. The words stick in his throat, impossible and unbearable. He doesn't dare them.]

[ The truth that comes from his lips, so soft and yet perfectly clear to him, makes an uncomfortable itch crawl slowly down his spine. Trapped. There's a moment that he wants to shove Vrenille against the wall and demand an explanation, but it's possible it's not his fault at all. Perhaps he's been too loose with his words, deceived by the comforting atmosphere, the warm bed, the welcoming guests, that liquid smile. It hits him all at once that this is his job. Of course he excels at it, and then someone like Jericho who so rarely indulges in anything remotely like this, of course he'd have a weakness for it.

The anger passes, but the illusion around him breaks. And worse than that, he's sorry to see it go. What's the matter with him? He deals in the hard facts of reality, never sugar-coating his situation, never believing in foolish dreams that things could be different. It isn't so bad. His leash is long. Nonetheless, the collar is still there, and sometimes he feels like he's choking on it.

There's a sudden cold with the loss of Vrenille's warm hands, but he knows in moments the sensation will pass. ] A man took me in as a child. I owe him a debt, and I intend to pay it. [ This isn't the reason he's in his employ. He avoided it for as long as he could, until the life of someone he loved was threatened. Now, it's been so long, such a blur of unimaginable acts of horror, that his reasons are muddled, lost somewhere in his despair and a misplaced sense of loyalty.

He looks at Vrenille, and the desire to spill out truths he never utters becomes so strong that he wonders if maybe it's just been too long. Too long since he's let someone become this close in this strange brand of intimacy. It's different than when he collides with a warm body, the only exchange being one of heat and sweat and skin, hardly staying long enough to feel the light of morning. This is different.

This is dangerous.

He stands, moving away and reaching for the shirt Vrenille allowed him to borrow, shrugging it on with a soft hiss when his shoulder protests. His jacket should be somewhere downstairs, probably stiff with blood. He's irritated with himself now, weary, aching, but mostly feeling foolish for falling into this as deeply and easily as he had. He didn't have to stay. The sweet burn of alcohol, the softness of his bed, and quiet conversation -- none of it had been a necessity. Just the initial medical attention, and still, he let it go past that.

Turning back toward him, that same frustration flares up at the look on his face. He's sweet, very much so, and even better than that, he's sharp. Practical, resourceful, talented. He's someone Jericho wouldn't mind knowing, if it didn't come as such a detriment to him. This can't continue, and that dissatisfaction stings.

He wants to say that his actions precede his thoughts, but it wouldn't be true. They're calculated, put into motion for a reason. He steps forward, grasping Vrenille's jaw with a purposeful hand, and pulls him in for a kiss. Their mouths press together, a burst of something warm blossoming unbidden inside of him, and his fingers linger against his skin even after their lips slowly part. ]

How much do I owe you? [ He forces himself to look into his eyes when he says it, impassive, the only sign of stress the way a muscle jumps in his cheek. He somehow feels lower than he had when dragged in half-dead last night. He owes Vrenille for his kindness, that much he knows. But not like this. This, he knows as well. ]

Edited 2017-05-19 02:05 (UTC)

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