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

Comment with your character and preferences. Say if you'd rather play the taken in or the person taking them in.
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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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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)

[There's no way Vrenille can escape the implication, even unsaid, that he's taken advantage here, used his skills and his experience to manipulate and exploit, to dismantle defenses, get closer than Jericho would usually allow. He's used what he knows to spin this silken netting of care and intimacy and trust, knowing the whole time that it's been nothing but a castle in the sky.

The worst thing about it isn't that this might be true. It's that it is true, but true for them both: he's not just done it to Jericho, he's done it to himself as well. From the moment he found him out on the piazza, he's been walking a tightrope that he must have known wouldn't bear his weight. But it's worse having led someone else out across the span with him. If he'd only done it to himself, at least he'd have the solace of being blameless where Jericho was concerned. He can't even claim that, and the guilt of that knowledge is like cold iron in his stomach.

He gives a hollow nod at the answer, bereft as he sees the man dressing in the periphery of his view and pierced by the sound of his breath through his teeth when the wound pains him. He doesn't watch, too keenly aware that a few moments ago he'd have been able look at him with casualness and ease. Now he feels ashamed. He can manipulate time--small pushes and pulls; it's a component of his magic that he hasn't told Jericho about--but even chronomancy can't recover this illusion now that it's shattered. And he can't blame Jericho for any of it, not even for the kiss which feels all but designed to hurt him, a small revenge for what he's done, and no more than he deserves.

It surprises him and doesn't when their lips meet, but he knows in his bones that he'd let Jericho do much more than just kiss him now if he felt it could repair what's been broken. With his whole body he wants to fix it. But the contact is only an afterimage; it momentarily pulls the illusion around them like a veil...while it also hammers home the loss.

He's not ready to go back to being the person who's reliably composed and mercenary about the touch of his skin, even if that's what he's being reminded that he really ought to do.]

Nothing. You don't owe me anything. [The question feels like a punishment, and he's more than aware how debt is a notion which hangs over the whole exchange. He can't meet Jericho's eyes for more than a moment now.]

I know something about being taken in too.

[A pause. Probably it doesn't matter. He feels wretched, but that's his problem, and he's sure that Jericho just wants to get gone.] I'll show you out.

[ This isn't right. And yet he makes no move to correct it, does nothing even when the haunted, guilty expression on Vrenille's face cuts into him unexpectedly. He doesn't want things to be like this, and he can't explain that he's simply collateral damage, caught in the cross-hairs of Jericho's life. He hasn't wronged him, not really -- he's just reminded him of all the ways that this cannot be. His life isn't his own, and there's no part of himself that he can give that doesn't come with a price. A price that isn't up to him.

He nods slightly, barely a lift of his chin while his eyes graze over his face, still just inches between them. Vrenille refuses to hold his gaze, so he lets him go, his fingertips ghosting down the length of his jaw before he slowly steps back. ]

Maybe we all do. [ It feels forced even though he is genuinely interested in what he has to say. His life is so different, his world so different that Jericho can't help but want to know more. There's a whole story behind his being taken in as a child, and maybe some part of him still thinks about how it feels to have nowhere to go, and that's how this whole thing started in the first place. But he doesn't feel like sharing it is the wisest move in this moment, not when he's grown too comfortable to begin with.

He nods again, feeling naked without any of his weapons -- his gun might still be outside somewhere, lost when he was too preoccupied with trying to stay conscious and not bleed to death, but his knives are probably still hidden somewhere in his sodden jacket. The fabric of his shirt feels soft against his skin, with some scent he can't identify but it reminds him of this place. He'll have to return it eventually. ]

I need to clean up the mess downstairs. [ Someone might have already done it, but he has to ask. Why is he stalling? Vrenille has already offered a way out. ] And I need my jacket.

[Already Vrenille is distracted, thinking about two things at once--not just his sadness and regret over how this all has gone, but his very real hesitation about what will happen next. He knows some things about this house that Jericho does not after all, and the moment that he hears him say those things about the mess downstairs and about his jacket, already he's being reminded that he needs to focus on something more pressing and practical than his lingering futile wish that they could talk to each other differently, longer, more.

He doesn't say so now, but he's sure that the mess in the foyer will have been thoroughly cleaned. It's not like spilling words over the particulars will make the whole thing any less awkward though. The bottom line is simply that there's no way back to the front door except to go through the kitchen. And the kitchen is by no means going to be empty, not for hours. Caught between the rock of Jericho's retreat and the hard place of how his housemates are bound to act, Vrenille has no option but to go inexorably forward.]

Sure, come on. [He leads the way out of the room and down the hall through which they'd come last night. The sounds of the building's other occupants are more established now that everyone's awake, and the house is filled with light and fresh air, smells of freshly baked bread and something almost woodsy, like a greenhouse of unlikely plants. They see no one though. In fact they pretty much have the space all to themselves until they descend the stairs to the first floor.

There are voices that await them as they descend--casual and relaxed with accents that are vaguely English-sounding, one of them the voice that had come knocking at Vrenille's door this morning asking if he was well. But voices alone are probably not enough to really prepare a person for the meeting that is to follow.

The first floor landing opens directly into the broad space of the kitchen. It's a huge, open, rustic looking space of whitewashed beams and brick and clean marble counters. At the far end of the room there's a massive lacquered cast iron oven and stovetop, which looks shiny and new despite its antique design, an oversized farmhouse sink faces an open window, and in the center of the room is a large kitchen table easily big enough to sit a dozen people. The table is set for breakfast--not, granted, for a full dozen at once, but with serving plates piled high with food, and crockery ready for anyone to sit down at take their fill. It all looks and smells delicious.

At this table are two people, but people that Vrenille is willing to bet are unlike anything Jericho will have ever seen, because despite having bodies, faces, and limbs of human-like size and shape, they are, unmistakably, plants.

The first one, seated in a chair pushed slightly back from the table and with a cup of coffee near at hand, is reading a newspaper. He's got sharp features, a fine willowy frame, and light silvery blue skin with "hair" like the leaves of a Japanese maple tied back in a short ponytail at the back of his head. He's wearing wire-rimmed eyeglasses which he pointedly looks through, never over, as he raises his head to regard the two men entering the room.

The second, who's got a mug of tea held between his hands, is leaning casually against a counter's edge as though having only momentarily paused to perch there like some butterfly caught in an otherwise busy routine. He's smaller--only around 5' tall--but stockier, and his pistachio-colored skin has a succulent-like smoothness to it. His hair is a thin upright mohawk of burgundy leaves and fine branches, and the expression in his amber eyes when he looks up at them is all kindness.

These, quite clearly, are like the human editions of Calamus, a dog made out of leaves, a dog who happens to be currently lying at the first plant's feet...at least until he spots Jericho, at which point he gets up and pads over to nudge the man's palm with his nose.

Vrenille shifts uncomfortably, silently embarrassed for knowing that he'd looked forward to this meeting, but under very different circumstances that didn't involve it interrupting Jericho's wish (this is how Vrenille sees it, having taken his desire to go simply at face value) to put whatever distance he could between the two of them as fast as possible. It's something that of course neither of the two sylvari seated here could possibly know (Vrenille doesn't even think he wants them to know, certainly not just now), so he can't even be surprised when they innocently act like everything is sociable and fine.]

I see your stray is taking in strays now. [This, very dryly, from the first sylvari to the second. (Vrenille momentarily looks like he'd like the floor to open up and swallow him.) The crisp curtness of his voice makes it perfectly clear that this sliver-skinned plant is not the one who knocked on the bedroom door earlier--that, clearly, must be the smaller one. The first barely pauses before addressing Jericho directly,] So I take it you're the one we have to thank for redecorating the foyer in the middle of the night.

[[The plants in question.]]

[ He shouldn't be surprised by anything he sees here by now, and yet the people in the kitchen still take him a moment to take in. They're just like the dog, and he momentarily forgets about the discomfort of what just took place in the bedroom, but it doesn't take long for the guilt to inch its way back. Clearly, breakfast is an actual thing in this household, and they hadn't been kidding when they said they'd set out an extra plate for him.

The nudge at his hand makes him look down at Calamus, and for a moment he feels entirely thrown off. He doesn't remember the last time he sat at a table in someone's home and had a meal that was cooked in that same kitchen. He hasn't done it in years, at least, and the last time it had been real and not part of some cover pulls swiftly at his chest, memories of stability and warmth and a love long lost rising to the surface. This is what this suddenly feels like, and he's not sure he can do it. He flexes his fingers lightly before giving Calamus a tentative rub between the ears, and when one of the men addresses him, he's taken off guard. ]

Extenuating circumstances. [ He glances at Vrenille and is struck by how strongly his discomfort radiates from him. He can only hope that his own unease isn't quite so palpable to the others in the room. ] I'm not sure I'd be in traveling condition right now if not for Vrenille. You have a good one in him. [ And he doesn't look at him when he says it, but his sincerity is there. ]

[It's the smaller sylvari who answers first, relaxed and friendly while the other seems to make it a point to stay stern-faced and cool.] It's fine. Don't worry about him. [He shoots the other sylvari a quick look that's seemingly reproachful, but the sort of reproach that doesn't really disguise all the affection underneath.] The domest-o-matic already took care of the whole thing. It took your jacket to clean too--gone before I even knew it--but I'm sure it will be back soon. And Vrenille is a gem. We're lucky to have him.

[The first sylvari, whose eyes are now once more on his newspaper, gives a passing Hm at this, which could be agreement...or mild dissension, or any number of other things.

Vrenille, looking a little sheepish, takes the opportunity to make introductions.] Kyinnlen, [small, cheery] Sesyria, [grumpy, nearsighted] this is Jericho.

[But introductions are the easy part. It doesn't change the fact that he knows this whole situation has just swung right out of his control. Because Kyinnlen is sly as hell, and the moment he made that remark about Jericho's jacket, Vrenille just knows that he's already read the awkwardness and the strain and has decided that he is by no means simply going to leave things to flow their course.

He could be accused of meddling, certainly, but without Kyinnlen's meddling and his patient persistence, his refusal to give up on stubborn people even when they say they don't want his help, Vrenille wouldn't be here. There's no more sense in arguing with Kyinnlen than there is in trying to tell the sun not to shine on you.

The difference is that Vrenille has long since accepted this as a fact of life--long since, but not nearly so long that he can't remember how scary it first was, how vulnerable he felt, how much it hurt to feel the things it made him feel. And he really has no idea what Jericho might do with it. It would have been one thing to bring him down here when everything felt comfortable and intimate between them, with a cushion of dreamily safe feelings to pad it. It feels like something else entirely now that they've both been pierced by the shattering of illusion. Now it's like being arrested on the cusp of retreat by someone who is fundamentally unwilling to watch people break themselves stupidly apart.]

Come sit down and have some breakfast. [Kyinnlen gestures to the table as he puts down his mug.] There's fresh coffee and I was just brewing another pot of tea. I'm sure you need to eat after the night you had.

[Vrenille gives Jericho a careful, questioning look. He wants him to stay, wants this to be all right, but it's not up to him (though he seems to be the only person in the room who currently thinks so).]

Yes, it would be terribly rude to bleed and run, [Sesyria pointedly raises his gaze from his paper to look at Jericho directly once more,] wouldn't you agree.

[ He needs his jacket because he'd be foolish to set out unarmed -- and just like that, he's stuck in this scene of a perfectly normal breakfast. The small one seems all right, more on par with Vrenille's soothing temperament, but he dislikes the other one already. He dislikes feeling trapped. ]

I'll wait for the tea. [ He doesn't much like coffee unless it's a late night poring over a dossier, and even then, he'd rather it be brandy. ] The night wasn't so bad once I got here. I'm fine now. [ A half-truth, and he feels a twinge in his shoulder when he reaches out for a teacup. He gives Sesyria a sharp look at his words, and he can't help the bite in his voice when he responds. ] If you have a question about what happened, you should just take your chances and ask.

[ If there's a part to be played, he can do it; there's nothing new or strange about pretending to be someone he's not when he does it regularly for his job. But just because he can doesn't mean he wants to, and when he meets Vrenille's eyes, there is silent agreement but also a disgruntled sort of warning that says his patience is wearing thinner than usual. ]

[Moving to take a seat at the table, Vrenille is silently thanking all six gods that Kyinnlen is here right now, and that's before Sesyria even replies (in a tone that's even drier than it was before).] Why thank you for graciously granting me permission to ask questions in my own home. [He snaps his newspaper to a fresh crease on a new page as he continues reading, not bothering to look up.] But rest assured when I want answers I am quite capable of inquiring for myself.

[Vrenille's teeth worry his bottom lip. He's aware that Jericho has already been, however gently, strong-armed into a situation that he walked him through the door of, and he's caught the warning of that glance loud and clear. He really doesn't want to further test whatever already-frail bond had started to build between them, and he can see that this is all a recipe for escalation. But while he'd usually be up to the task of trying to defuse things with most people, with Sesyria he's always just a little backed off. Their relationship is a complicated one, not least because it's not analogous to anything else Vrenille has ever known in his life. Sesyria is purposefully standoffish and discomforting, and Vrenille is never quite sure how much deference he's supposed to be showing in any given moment. It makes his usual social grace flounder.

This time, though, Kyinnlen doesn't wait before stepping in as peacemaker.] Oh stop it, Sesyria.

I'll admit that I'm curious. It's not like Vrenille to bring men home. [The smaller sylvari brings the teapot over and pours Jericho a cup before setting it down. Calamus finds a sunny patch of floor where he curls up nearby. Kyinnlen is still talking, the shrewdness of his words disguised by their casual delivery.] But then by the look on your face when you came in, I'd guess that it's not like you to wake up in a house full of sylvari. So perhaps we each have a bit of mystery about us.

[He doesn't ask directly, but the invitation to talk is certainly there. Instead, seemingly changing the subject and letting both humans off the hook for the moment, he points out the selection of food trays on the table.] There's scrambled eggs--moa today, not chicken--sausages, bacon, fried potatoes, mushrooms and tomatoes, buttermilk biscuits, steel-cut oats, a cooked apple-raspberry compote, and I've got batter ready for fresh crepe-style pancakes if anyone wants some.

[There's a conciliatory sort of expression in Vrenille's eyes as he looks at Jericho, this wish that maybe even if he's screwed up, there's something in all of this that might sort of make it up to him. It doesn't really occur to him that for Jericho this might come down to the requirements of playing a role--playing at the domesticity of normal people. For Vrenille, this is more than just genuine; it's also unlike the way he lived for most of his life and something he never takes for granted.] You can't go wrong with any of it. Kyinnlen's a great cook.

[ There's a tense silence on Jericho's end at Sesyria's words, like he's considering lunging across the table to grab him by his throat, but after a moment he shifts his gaze to the other one, who's clearly trying to play peacemaker. He decides that now isn't the time to inform the room that he might just be the world's pickiest eater, instead reaching for the compote. He does like apples, after all, and Vrenille looks apologetic enough that he doesn't particularly want to make things harder.

The information that Vrenille doesn't normally bring anyone home is new to him, though he doesn't have much of an explanation for being an anomaly beyond nearly dying. ] I've never met one of your kind before. Right now I think the dog is my favorite. [ There's a pointed glance at Sesyria at that, but then he goes on as if he hadn't said anything rude. ] You have a very colorful mix of people here, and I'm grateful for the invitation.

[ This is grating in an uncomfortable way, too familiar and much too foreign all at once, but he can at least admit the food is good as he breaks open a biscuit. Some of his strength returns as he eats, and the tea has a soothing effect despite the tension that still resides in his shoulders. ] It's very different, where I come from. It's peaceful here, from what Vrenille's told me.

Edited 2017-05-31 23:58 (UTC)

[Vrenille is pretty sure that everyone, Sesyria included, catches that look, but likewise, everyone just seems willing to ignore it. Sesyria keeps right on reading his paper, and Vrenille knows that he will probably continue to, not for fear of inciting conflict, but because he's already accomplished what he set out to do. There's no one Sesyria meets with whom he doesn't establish right from the first "I am not a nice person and you will dislike me."

Very few people outside of this household are in on the secret that he actually is a nice person, albeit forever grumpy. He is also the team leader, the strategist and tactician, despite the fact that much of the time it ends up being Kyinnlen who acts as the glue that holds the group together.]

Well, Calamus is a very good dog. [Hearing Kyinnlen's praise, the dog's eyebrows twitch in interest, his tail thumping lazily against the floor.] And yes, we are: five sylvari--plus the two Secondborn next door, they might as well live here--one norn, and two humans. [Kyinnlen lists the house's inhabitants as though the colorful mix is a source of pride.

Vrenille, who's tucking into a plate of eggs and bacon, contributes one addendum that produces a sort of collective, long suffering sigh.] There's also a bear.

It's kind of a dumb bear. [Kyinnlen supplies by way of explanation before tactfully shifting the topic.] Lion's Arch is peaceful--for now. But after the attack on Divinity's Reach and the events in Lake Doric, I don't think anyone's willing to trust that it will necessarily stay that way for long. And with two more elder dragons now active...

[Vrenille pauses mid-forkful to look at Jericho. Yeah, he hadn't mentioned the whole dragons thing. Or the fact that every civilization on the face of this planet is under threat from them. It just sort of...didn't come up. And now here's Kyinnlen just presuming that Jericho is every bit as aware of this fact as anyone native to Tyria and, well, "oops" feels like a little bit of an understatement.

Look, he said there might be some strange things this morning. Does "strange things" cover having a sentient humanoid plant tell you that dragons might come kill everyone?]

That's a lot of people. [ He supposes it's really not that much different from the living quarters at The Factory, even if he doesn't associate with most of the people there, but they certainly don't do communal breakfasts, or communal anything unless it involves some kind of punishment. His eyebrows tick up slightly at the mention of dragons. It's not that he doesn't believe in the existence of dragons -- he'd be foolish to discredit any species after the life he's lived -- but they're sort of in the same category as unicorns, in that the chances of actually seeing one are slim to none to the point that he might as well denounce their existence anyway.

He picks up his tea and shifts his eyes from Vrenille to Kyinnlen and then back (pointedly ignoring the third person at the table). He almost wants to smile, but his mood is too sour to summon one. This world is just so wholly different from where he's from, and if he's being frank, back in the comfort of Vrenille's bedroom, he'd felt he could breathe easier than he had in a long time. Even now, with the threat of dragons disrupting their morning breakfast, he can't seem to conjure the same kind of ever-present tension he wears like a second skin back home. ]

How do you kill a dragon? [ It seems like the obvious next question, though if the dragon is anything like what he has in mind, it should be no simple task. ]

[Kyinnlen sighs.] It depends on the dragon, but with armies as a rule. We killed Zhaitan with airships--it took the whole Pact fleet. With Mordremoth... [His voice trails off slightly, and it's perhaps not too hard to tell that he bears a personal stake in the battles he's recounting.

And since Vrenille knows precisely why this topic remains an open wound for the sylvari, he picks up where Kyinnlen left off.] Mordemoth ripped the Pact fleet right out of the sky, but it corrupted the minds of a lot of sylvari too, turned them against their allies and then re-grew the dead into blighted copies of themselves. You hear "dragon" and you probably think, y'know, a beast with a body and a head and wings and a tail. But fighting Mordemoth was like trying to fight the jungle itself, and knowing it wanted to take over their minds the whole time. [He gives a glance to Kyinnlen and Sesyria here. After what they all went through in the jungle he knows he'll never take them for granted, but the scariest thing he's ever had to do in his life was shoulder the responsibility for shielding their minds with his magic.]

In the end what really killed Mordemoth was a battle inside its consciousness--I mean that's what they say at least. Could have killed that serpentine maw it had a hundred times over, but it just would've kept coming back.

Only it turns out that killing the elder dragons seems to be kind of a flawed strategy.

[ He's no stranger to loss, and something like this can tear a place apart. He finishes his tea while Vrenille speaks, putting his cup down and tracing the edge with a fingertip. ] The dragons in my world are people. They've always been people.

[ People with authority, a following, a cause they fool others into believing is just. And he's right in the center of it.

He can see now why the bond holding these people together is so strong. War can do that, a shared circumstance of horror, and he thinks of the bonds he's made, however few and however much he tries to push them away. Still, they're there. They know. ]

Killing them brought more?

[Kyinnlen gives a smile at this, though it's one with a sadness behind it. He's watching the way Vrenille and Jericho act towards each other, reading between the lines and filling in answers to questions he's chosen not to voice. Jericho's words may be few, but they say quite a lot about him--about the sort of man he is and the sorts of worries that haunt him.]

Not more, no. [Vrenille does his best to explain.] There's six elder dragons--just six. Well, four now. They're tied to the magic of the world like... I dunno, sponges maybe? [He's not very good at this, he thinks, and looks to Kyinnlen who obligingly takes over explaining for him.]

The dragons wake and sleep in a cycle of millennia. Their waking means complete destruction for all life, all civilization. Their corruption turns everything it touches towards them, and in the process of consuming life, they consume the world's magic. When they finally return to sleep, over the centuries magic slowly seeps out of their bodies and back into the world. We're at the peak of one of those cycles now, with the world's magic at its utmost.

The trouble is that a surfeit of magic is a dangerous, destructive force, and killing the elder dragons seems to be destabilizing the world itself. We're starting to see anomalies in the very fabric of reality. So we cannot leave the dragons unchecked because they and their minions will kill us all, but neither can we kill them without, it appears, destroying our world in the process.

[Here, Vrenille interjects, since the cat of Jericho being from another world is now out of the proverbial bag.] When I got myself stranded in your world, it was because of one of those destabilized rifts--I mean, it's complicated and all, but it could explain how you ended up here, too.

[And for Kyinnlen, that's pretty much the missing piece of the puzzle around Jericho's presence in their home. So though he doesn't interrupt, he does mouth a silent Ohhh of comprehension. (Sesyria goes right on reading his paper as though he hasn't heard a word, though really he's heard everything and just stored it away for later reference.)]

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