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bakerstreet2018-07-14 12:16 pm
hydrates) wrote in bakerstreet2018-07-14 12:16 pm
Entry tags:
Interspecies Love
Interspecies Love Meme
Vampires and humans. Angels and demons. Ghosts and the living. The idea of "opposites attracting" is hardly a new one, but with the rise in popularity of supernatural creatures, aliens, and other sentient beings beyond our human understanding, the forbidden romance trope has been injected a shot of fresh blood- sometimes quite literally.
This meme does just that, taking the whole "not meant for each other" thing to it's most logical extreme. Of course, it's not always angst and depression. These days, mermaids and bird-people can have their relationships in peace to some degree.
Rules
- Comment with your character, putting any preferences you have (ie, "humanoid characters only," F/M, etc). Also, be sure to note your character's "species" for others to reference (Name | Character | OTA | Human, ghost, mutant, alien, vampire, god, zombie-catgirl hybrid, etc).
- Reply to others. If your characters aren't different species, feel free to AU or anything else like that.
- Use the rng to determine your prompt.
- Also I didn't think I needed to say this, but be excellent to each other. Dick comments and anon bullying are not on.
- Meeting: Did you know there were, I don't know, werewolves before this? Or maybe you thought all aliens were evil. Will this...thing change your perception?
- Falling in Love: You know you're not the same, but your feelings don't care.
- Self-Hate: Perhaps you're mad at the being you're in love with, yet you're more angry at yourself.
- Can't Be Together: Whether for self-inflicted reasons or societal rules, you can't be in love with who your heart has chosen and it's putting a strain on you.
- Pushing You Away: Things are getting too intense, and for both of your sake, you want to make friend/crush/lover hate you.
- Beauty & the Beast: One of you is beautiful, the other hideous. Maybe, though, the beautiful one is ugly in the eyes of society, depending on where you live. Whatever the case is, you don't look the same.
- Confession: Screw the rules, you're going to tell that sweet girl/guy/other how you feel! What can go wrong? Or this is something you've put a lot of thought into and you're scared, but you're going to do it.
- First Time...or Not: Finally, the two of you are taking the next step and getting physical. It may go off without a hitch, depending on your...you know, or- OH GOD, HOW IS THAT GOING TO GO IN HERE. Wait, you have a...?
- The Kinky Option: Hey, maybe being different will pay off. Think about it. A long tongue? Ghost powers? Sounds like it could be fun in the bedroom.
- Prejudice: "What are you doing with that dirty monster?" "You know we can't be involved with humans!" "We don't take kindly to your type around here." Why can't people just leave you two be?
- Facing Your Instinct: It's hard to be with someone when you want to suck their blood. Or eat their brains. Or possess them.
- Because of Me: Your lover has been dragged into your fight or hurt by others of your kind. Now they're in the crossfire.
- Standing Up For You: Hey, knock it off! I don't care what you think, he's perfect in my eyes.
- You Don't Know You're Beautiful: The fluffy option where you're trying to make your loved one see just how much you care and how they're beautiful to you, no matter what.
- Gifts: Show your affection with a gift from your culture.
- Starting a Family: Can you even reproduce? Is it something you want to consider? Perhaps it's new ground to tread, so you'll have to be the first to think about it.
- WILDCARD
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BUT. i mean, i'd be happy to just inject teddy into fabletown, nbd. he can be like a pseudo-tin man cowboy with a somewhat-developing heart or whatever. either way i can totally see him believing in bigby always and that he can Be Better, so?? he can be there when?? bigby's days are 10000000x shittier than normal?????? and what the hell, i can go ahead and inject one-sided Feelings on teddy's end too because he would (and in his canon his reason for existence is basically to protect this one person, and maybe she was lost in the exodus, and he's just kind of stupidly started to see bigby as that person instead?)
and if you want him to be a wolf and shit i lowkey would dig for teddy to be able to calm him down and just chill with him, too. :|
/ramble ]
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these are all very good and valid concepts and i think i have a good idea of what you'd like from this! admittedly i've only seen half of season 1 of westworld, but i know enough about teddy to be semi-dangerous with canon welding. i can get a starter up tomorrow evening if you're okay with waiting? i'm really digging the idea of teddy trying to calm bigs the hell down when he's transformed so i think i'll just start with that and we'll see what happens, if that's cool!]
no subject
you can add as much or as little of westworld into this as you want, incidentally. i'm not picky! and i'm just delighted about the crosscanon, ngl. i'll adjust as necessary! ]
tell me if this works! (11 and probably more to come)
Lately, he's been trying to take a more active approach to reaching out to Homeland survivors who aren't from any of the lands he's more familiar with, places that are more similar to the mundy world with their reliance on technology and their refusal to stay shackled to the traditions that have governed nearly every kingdom he's heard of. With the way Fabletown treats the concept now, you'd never think it was possible for magic and human science to peacefully coexist, but it could and it did at one point in far out, tucked away corners of their world. The man in his apartment is living, breathing proof of that.
Too bad he's the only one Bigby's been able to find so far. He thought that might have changed tonight, but shock and awe, anything that seems too good to be true usually is for a reason. This is what happens when he thinks with his heart instead of his brain.
It's for Teddy's sake that he makes an effort amidst the rolling, crashing force of his disorientation to try to be quiet when he finally makes it to his apartment, but it's still not enough. In this state where all of his senses are heightened and still growing sharper despite every attempt to keep his body under control, every creak sounds like a cry and the sound of his heavy footsteps may as well be miniature earthquakes. Bigby closes the door behind him, makes sure it's locked, and makes a beeline to his kitchen for the half-full bottle of rum that's been on his mind for the last eternity-and-a-half.
The numbers glowing on the digital clock by his scuffed-up coffee table read 4:00. Distantly, he feels the fur growing on the tops of his knuckles prickle as his cracked fingers curl around the neck of the bottle. This is fine. Once he starts calming down, everything will be fine.]
it's perfect ;_; i'm sorry this got so long meanwhile christ
He knows, as most Fables do, that he's a character in a story. The only difference is that his kind had been characters in a story within their story. Built by a fallen king who wanted to play god once his subjects abandoned him and made sentient with black magic, Teddy and the rest of his mechanical kind were subjected to pre-created scenarios of courage, depravity, romance, misery, and everything else in-between. Teddy was the brave warrior who died in every one of the king's tragic stories, but at least the whole Westworld narrative in itself had ended with a happily ever after: the king being overthrown by his creations, and young Dolores becoming the new queen who ruled them.
But even that hadn't lasted long. With time, Dolores had fallen into an even worse pitfall than her predecessor, to the point that when the Exodus happened there was no-one left in Westworld to run away with.
Teddy is used to misery, and to hopeless scenarios. And in the grand scheme of things, the dirty hole-in-the-wall flat that Bigby lives in is better than the chop shop he used to spend most of his time in back in the Homeland. Teddy likes the smell of cigarette smoke and old takeaway more than the smell of piss and shit and rotting limbs. He likes sitting on the dirty floor sweating his ass off instead of lying on wet stones with bullet holes in his body and blood gurgling up his throat. He likes Bigby's quiet company more than the quiet company of corpses. And he likes that Bigby tries to be kind to him. It's pitiful, but Teddy can't remember the last time anyone had.
So when Bigby comes home, Teddy isn't sleeping, but that's obvious enough given Bigby refuses to use the command to put him to "sleep". After cleaning and sorting what he's allowed to touch (even if there isn't a lot of it), he'd put himself on standby mode, and the vibrations of the floor that come with Bigby's heavy steps forcefully shake him out of it. Teddy's head straightens up from where he'd had it leaning to the side in his false resting, and his lashes flutter prettily as he comes back online. He turns his head towards the kitchen where he can hear Bigby moving about, and then pushes himself up on his feet to meet him. Teddy doesn't enter his space so much as he stands close enough to see into the room; it's in his programming to do what's best for others, including sticking to their comfort zones, but he figures that Bigby wouldn't want him too close, anyway. ]
You're hurt. [ Teddy's voice is subdued, but not any less firm. There's really no room for denial, here. ] Once you're done drinking, [ no judgement, only observation as his eyes flick from the rum up to what bits of Bigby's face he can see ] let me patch you up.
Yeah?
IT'S OK let me sing you the song of my tl;dr ppl
If there are any survivors from Westworld, they're going to stay hidden, and if they want help, they're going to find creative ways to reach out that won't draw attention to their whereabouts. With the way the Adversary was able to move in on their lands and steamroll over everyone and everything, most Fables have good reason to distrust artificial beings. The ones that don't see them under a lens of disgust and fear tend to be like the guy Bigby had the displeasure of meeting tonight: greedy, slimy like slugs and endlessly creative when it comes to figuring out exciting new ways to make money at the expense of everyone beneath them. In this case, it was an underground fighting and gambling ring built around pitting artificial humans (androids, that's what the mundies call them) against one another.
What drew Bigby to it were the rumors. Originally, he'd heard it was a safe haven for survivors of the fallen kingdom of Delos. What a fucking joke, what a fucking stupid conclusion to jump to. That was how they found their marks. When he thinks about how many actual survivors they probably able to ensnare from that one lie alone, he wants to start smashing things again. How many of them were forced to fight until their bodies gave out while crowds of lowlife scum stains around them hedged bets on who would be the first to die?
Something cracks under Bigby's grip. Looking down reveals it to be a spidery crack that snakes down the side of the bottle. Guess this means he's finishing the rest of it off tonight.
Teddy's not a surprise, but he was at least hoping he'd have a few more minutes to himself before he showed up. And then he's using that tone and that's going to lead to Words being exchanged and god, this isn't the best time.]
'm not. [It's the only thing he manages before he takes his first big swig from the bottle, followed by:] It's not even my blood. Not all of it.
[Conveniently ignoring the big dark spot that looks suspiciously like a stab wound below his ribs. Well, Bigby is at least; it stopped hurting as bad little over twenty minutes ago.]
What're you still doing up, huh?
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[ He shoves his hands into his pockets. Teddy's still not used to wearing anything other than a suit, but the denim isn't so bad. He misses the hat, though. It's a shame cowboys aren't exactly typical mundy fashion. ]
You really wanna just stand there? [ He cocks his head to the side, motioning towards Bigby's chair. ] Might as well drink in comfort.
[ With that, he walks to retrieve the measly first-aid kit. He doesn't know who gave it to Bigby, but he does know it hadn't been used since Teddy had started staying. Fables heal quickly, so it only makes sense, but it leaves Teddy to wonder how often Bigby has sat around bleeding because no-one-- not even himself-- had cared enough to patch him up. Or, at the very least, Bigby wouldn't let them. The image twists him up inside, even though he's got the feeling that's an overreaction. Kind people aren't supposed to hurt as often as Bigby does, and having seen his fair share of pain, it resonates with him more than any other empathetic reaction might.
In a way he supposes he's being overbearing, insisting on patching Bigby up here and there. But Bigby's fur is showing-- a sign of duress, he's learned through inference-- and some of it has been matted with blood, and Teddy was created with the core drive of compassion and care. Heroes don't leave people hurt, and even if he isn't a real hero, it doesn't change the fact that he wants to be.
Whether Bigby sat or not, Teddy's already taken the kit under his arm. ]
Suppose your lead was a dud, then. [ He isn't looking at Bigby as he says it. ] You should have let me come.
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Instead, Teddy gets a growl from the back of Bigby's throat that doesn't even bother to hide its frustration as stalks his way into the living room proper with the bottle in tow. He can't bother making it into a proper storming off, though; he'd have to be a little angrier all around for that not to mention in a better state for harrumphing.
Instead of making for his chair, he goes for the couch because he expects he's going to be followed anyway. Why put off the inevitable?]
No, no fucking way. [That's a tone that says there's no room for argument. Sounding as throaty as he does right now probably helps hammer the point in.] The one good thing to come out of this shitshow is that you weren't there to see it go down. If that's the one victory I can get here, I'll take it.
[He takes another drink. His eyes, luminous and golden, peer out into the dark to meet Teddy's.]
You didn't miss much anyway. [By that he means that it ended exactly the way Teddy should expect by now.]
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Briefly, Teddy wonders if anyone has ever felt comforted by the glow of the Big Bad Wolf's eyes, or if he's the first of his kind. His own eyes soften a little around the edges, and though he'll never quite let go of the fact that he ought to be out there, helping, that's probably enough of that for now. It's past four in the morning, for Christ's sake. ]
I'm glad you're home. [ He won't argue further, and instead moves so he can crouch by Bigby's feet and consider what looks to be a stab wound, not that he can really tell on sight alone with all the fur that's gotten all matted and thick with blood. It seems to be the most pressing of all his wounds-- the kind that would need actual attention, and not just attention because Teddy's a god damn fool with sentiment.
But he doesn't reach out to touch it, not without asking. ] Can I?
[ He doesn't want to agitate Bigby further, both because he doesn't want this to be any worse for him than it already is, and because he's sure Bigby wouldn't enjoy the idea of attacking him, even if in this state Teddy can hardly blame him for any lack of control. ]
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[Eventually his body will repair itself, but if Teddy wants to play doctor, what good would it do to stop him? At least it'll give him something to do. The alternative, he's sure, would be feeling helpless. Useless. And Bigby is very well-acquainted with what it feels like to be both.
The rum gathers in his stomach like a cozy ball, but there's an undercurrent of sharpness beneath it that reminds him he isn't out of the woods just yet. Whenever you invite warmth and niceness in, you open yourself to its opposites. It's just how life works. There's always a price for anything that feels good.
As if on cue, another sharp jolt of pain rushes up his ribs. He clenches his teeth hard enough to make jaw ache. Like he alluded to before, this is nothing because things could always be a million times worse. He could have given in and taken Teddy along. Maybe filled his head with the false promise that they'd find a lead to someone from home if not see them there themselves. That would be unforgivable, on par with the look he could imagine on Teddy's face if he saw the kind of set-up those twisted bastards had. The ring hadn't been entirely empty and neither had whatever passed for the chambers the fighters were kept in. There had been pieces left behind. Things that wouldn't mean much by themselves, that may look like less than garbage to someone like him, but put them together and they're the only reason why the man in his apartment is able to talk and kneel in front of him right now.
Another gulp. Bigby's nails, lengthened into sharp black claws, slowly scratch the ratty armrest back and forth, up and down, and the sound gives him some comfort the booze isn't able to provide.
»You don't have to worry about me.
»How long have you been waiting?
»I'm sorry.
»...]
You weren't waiting around for me, were you? [It's a tired sort of question because it's more or less rhetorical.] Give me some good news and say no.
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He doesn't take too much time, returning to Bigby's side as soon as he's able. But he looks up when he's questioned, and then offers a small smile as he shakes his head and lies: ] No, I wasn't. [ Does it count when Bigby's the only other person he really talks to, though? Teddy's not sure. But now that that's done, he's dipping the rag in the water, squeezing the excess out, and swiftly cleaning the immediate area around the wound. He's careful to stroke the fur he cleans away from the bleeding parts so he can see better, and he doesn't like one bit how awful it looks, even on a Fable. ]
I cleaned a little. I'm not sure if you can tell. [ There's not a lot that Teddy's allowed to touch, so Bigby probably can't. He washes the wound with water gently, but dutifully, and then pulls the bottle of alcohol from the kit and screws it open. ] But there ain't much else to do in here.
[ Taking a ball of cotton out, Teddy pours some alcohol onto it, then hovers it over Bigby's wound. ] Gonna sting. [ It's all the warning he gives before working on disinfecting, and as one hand works on that, the other reaches out to settle quietly atop the back of Bigby's on the armrest. He strokes with his thumb, tracing in subtle reassurance, and then lets go when he has to take the medicine out and use that next.
Teddy doesn't fix Bigby up because he needs it. He's just piss poor at telling him he cares. ]
One of these days, [ he murmurs, gently spreading the medicine over the wound ] you're going to need to sleep more'n two hours.
i feel that edit game dude
Funny how some things can change so quickly without anyone really noticing.]
Huh... so that's where my hamper went. I was wondering why I didn't break my leg on it coming in. [It's meant to be a joke, but you'd never guess from his tone. His lip does curl a little, so there's that?] Gonna miss it th—
[Annnnd that's when he starts feeling the rubbing alcohol. He stifles a growl down to a much more manageable hiss. That was nice while it lasted.
The fur coming in as patches on his skin prickles in irritation. Rather than focus on it, he turns his attention back to forming words. It doesn't just help him force his body back to normal instead of escalating the changes; it's also a good distraction.
To a point.]
I agree. One day I'll make it to three.
[There's a pause as he settles into the initial sting of the medicine doing its thing, and also as he considers on how to broach the more pressing topic at hand.]
...You know, you don't have to settle for what's lying around here to keep busy. I can bring you whatever you want: books, music, movies, anything. Just to give you something to do while I'm at work. [a beat.] If you want.
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He does offer Bigby a smile for the thought, however. The kindness in him really is remarkable, even if it seems to shine through small cracks in concrete instead of a glass window. ] Thanks, though.
[ He's done with the medicine, and finds a bandage big enough to put over the wound and set it in place. Bigby's body can stitch itself back together better than Teddy's skills with a thread and needle can, and it does so quick enough that sewing him up would be more trouble than it's worth.
When that's done, Teddy cleans the rest of Bigby's wounds up. They don't seem to need medicine, for the most part, so he settles for washing them instead. Having noticed the way Bigby had calmed when he did it on the stab wound earlier, he supposed it might help here, too. ]
What do you like? [ Teddy's voice is low and murmuring in some attempt to keep the atmosphere as calm as possible. He washes blood away both with the rag and the interference of his fingers as he combs them through Bigby's fur. The blood that stains his skin bothers him if only because he enjoys the idea of Bigby bleeding as much as the man himself probably does. ] Books, music, movies, anything.
Don't think I got enough of a handle on this world to be able to pick, so maybe you can pick for me.
no subject
Like this one. As much as he likes the tone he's hearing right now, as much as he wants to just close his eyes for one minute and pretend that stewing in a glaze of his own sweat and blood (well, more of the former rather than the latter thanks to Teddy) with a sentient imitation of a human's hands on him is slightly south of normal instead of all the way on the other side of the planet, the black and white reality of the situation doesn't escape Bigby. Teddy's comment sees to that even if the other isn't aware of it.]
No.
[It's sharper than he intended, sure, but Bigby hopes the firmness in his voice will correct any wrong impression that he's too exhausted to let something like this slide so easily. He rounds his gaze fully on Teddy, grabs his wrist to stop his hand dead in its tracks. While his sclerae are no longer black and his pupils aren't the narrowed animal slits they were when he entered, the rest of his eyes are still yellow. And his nails, while no longer the pointed black claws they were previously, are still sharp.]
What I like isn't the same as what you like. And it shouldn't be.
[The very idea that it should brings back the same images he's been trying to shove to the back of his mind for the past hour — scraps of machinery littered in corners of a filthy basement where the sun has never been able to shine, only existing to be forgotten now. And beneath them, even older memories of darker places, forest floors and trees tall enough to canopy the sky, bleached scraps of bones, some animal, some not.
Bigby can't allow it. He just can't.]
You're your own man. [Not a toy.] You're the only one who gets to make your choices, not me, not anyone else. Got it?
no subject
Then he finds himself, remembering where he is instead of being caught in a rolodex of memories where a grip like that on his arm had only meant something terrible. Teddy relaxes, a literal switch being flipped as he goes from programmed instinct to working improvisation, but not without a modicum of shame at the way he reacted. Defence mechanisms like that are why his kind isn't trusted, but with Fables everywhere only knowing of magic and not technology, there's no-one left to fix the mess of his programming.
The smile he offers Bigby is weary, apologetic. He didn't mean it. He never means it. God. ] I know. [ Really, he does, even if he's got a poor way of showing it. Just because he's woken up from the illusion he'd lived in doesn't mean it's easy; before the uprising in Westworld he'd believed himself independent without knowing any better, after all. When your entire world comes crashing down around you like that, when you realise you're neither a hero nor responsible for any good deed you've ever done, it's hard to trust what's real and what's not.
Even now, Teddy still finds himself prone to asking "is this now?", though he tries to keep it to when Bigby isn't around. Host memories are perfect, wholly intact without any degradation, and every time Teddy remembers something it's like he's living it in present time.
He almost sees King Robert instead of Bigby holding his arm. Asking him questions, teaching him how to behave, how to play human. He almost sees it clearly, if not for the unnatural yellow of Bigby's eyes and the nearly imperceptible sting of his nails. ]
But I want to know what you like. Not to-- copy, [ he shakes his head ] but to get to know you. [ He's comfortable now, whether Bigby lets go of him or not. Teddy's stopped washing the rest of his wounds, not wanting to look as if he's ignoring Bigby's concerns. ] And have some reference points to start. I really don't know a god damn thing about this place.
[ However, like some kind of pathetic consolation: ] ...suppose I do like the potstickers you order in sometimes. But I don't want to eat all day.
no subject
Except for Teddy. He doesn't smell like anything at all. His scent is that of the apartment and of the traces Bigby leaves of himself behind in it, but beyond that, nothing. It makes the subtle shift in his eyes all the more stark before his muscles ease up and Bigby feels the other man loosen in his grasp.
Ironically, it's Bigby's mouth that starts going dry. His grip softens.]
I don't want you to either. You...do know we don't know what's in those things, right?
[Is this a bad time to tease? All signs point to yes holy shit what are you doing you fucking idiot but it's better than going off the handle and making the other feel worse. There's a small but potent pause before Bigby opens his mouth again.]
I didn't know anything about this world either. If I'm going to be perfectly honest with you, I still don't. I thought I knew what I was and where I stood, and what kind of things I liked, but the moment I started walking on two legs, all of that went right out the window.
And then I came here, and... [Well.] I stopped being me and started turning into someone completely different.
[And that person still doesn't know what he wants; not entirely anyway.]
no subject
[ This is probably one of the worst times to have something close to an identity crisis for either of them. It's almost five in the morning, Bigby's been beaten to high hell, and Teddy's not good at talking. ]
Being different. [ The word is sort of strange in his mouth, like he's had to roll it around a couple of times before actually speaking it out loud. He's different too, in a lot of ways. Though he's not sure if it counts when he'd never had an identity of his own to begin with.
Bigby's let him go, but most of his wounds have been cleaned, so Teddy lets the bloodied rag sit in pink water. He debates whether he should climb onto the sofa with him or not. ]
I don't know what you were like before. [ His brows furrow as he says it, as if trying to picture it. He supposes he has an idea of what Bigby had looked like, and he certainly knows the stories of the Big Bad Wolf now, but stories never quite capture the real thing properly. Teddy, the product of a story even with in his story, doesn't think he's real precisely because of that.
Against his better judgement, he does sit down. He lets his hand rest at ease, and his knuckles brush against Bigby's in the faintest simulacra of holding his hand. ] But I do like how you are now.
You have to be lost to be able to find yourself... [ Head dipping, he frowns slightly at his lap. ] At least it makes sense in my head when I think it.
I don't know who I am as much as I don't know what this world is. [ He links his fingers together loosely, letting his hands dangle between his thighs. ] I'm free now, but... I don't know who Theodore Flood the free man is supposed to be.
[ He laughs, quiet. ] And it's scary. Scary as all hell. [ Turning his head just slightly, Teddy offers a small smile. ] But it's less scary when I know I have you.
no subject
[Actually it's probably more fair than he deserves, all considered. If this is the punishment he gets for everything he did back in the Homelands, he should be doing cartwheels and vomiting sunshine and sparkles nonstop. The reception he's gotten from Fables has improved drastically over the past couple centuries. They're still afraid of him, and the ones that hide their fear better hate his guts, but at least they're willing to talk to him. At least they acknowledge that he's something close to a person.
Unlike what Teddy and the other Delos creations like him have to deal with. Bigby shifts slightly, enough to give the other room to sit down, and just. Watches him. Watches the way his hands hang aimlessly in the space between his legs, the way he considers his words before speaking, the way his mouth droops in a frown that's too thoughtful to be self-defeating. Bigby alternates between assessing all of this in the same way he would a crime scene — quietly, contemplatively, openly — and trying to keep eye contact with him.]
We'll figure it out together. It's going to take some time — a lot of time — but it's going to happen one way or another. Besides—
[He settles into the backrest. He won't lie by saying it's comfortable, but there's a stability in having weight next to him that he finds pleasant. He isn't used to this, or being touched so thoroughly and carefully, which might account for the way he's reluctant to draw his hand away from where Teddy's arm now is. When he blinks once, the glow in his eyes dulls. Once more and they're back to their usual brown.]
If the person you can be is halfway close to who you are now, I don't think you have as much to be afraid of as you think you do.
[His hand settles closer, not awkward so much as unsure when it hovers an inch above Teddy's shoulder before finally settling on it.]
no subject
[ He doesn't think he's ever sounded so grateful before in his life, as quiet as the syllables might be. But then, he's not had a lot of real things to be grateful for, either. It's nice, though-- both the touch and the simplicity of being called a person. Maybe it shouldn't be as nice as Teddy is making it out to be, but here he is, anyway.
A hapless idiot and a damn fool.
Naturally, this means it's his turn to say something ridiculously out of place, palm giving one last pat to Bigby's knuckles. ] You know, I kind of liked the fur. [ His hand slips away from Bigby's, but he does move to lean back into the sofa with him. He settles, too, and though his arms are still tucked a little into himself-- like he's worried he'll take up too much space-- his knee bumps against Bigby's very, very gently.
Teddy's never asked this before, but somehow it seems to him like a natural progression of things. Something that shouldn't be all that surprising given whatever social standing they might have with each other.
It embarrasses him a little, but. ] Do you think [ a beat ] you could sleep here?
On the sofa. With me.
[ Bigby had asked him if he could give him anything he wanted. Teddy thinks this should count, even if he does feel a little bit like a simpleton for counting on a technicality. ]
no subject
Weirdo.
[But that's okay. He can do weird. There's a fine line between the good kind and the bad kind, and lately, maybe now more than ever, he finds that his tolerance for the former is growing a little less shaky. He still doesn't know how to react to really out there comments and gentle touches that could be accidental, could be deliberate, and he doesn't know how to express his own want for them in ways that aren't delayed or outright greedy. That's the reason why he's so halting when he feels that knee nudge against his and hears that comment which is enough to raise both eyebrows — not in distaste but real surprise.]
If you're okay with not getting any sleep. [He speaks slowly, musingly, then he...realizes how that must sound.] I'm not the most comfortable guy to lie next to, just saying.
[That's not gonna stop him from wanting to faceplant into a pillow regardless. Thank God he doesn't blush easily.]
kinda set this up to lead up to and/or be an ending? but im good with All Things and Dead @ 4:56a.m.
Humans would say something else, something like: ] It's okay. [ Humans reassure, they care. And Teddy cares an awful lot. It shows in the unnecessary bandage on Bigby's torso and the fact that his own fingers are stained with blood for the first time in a while. Shows in the way he grins a bit just replaying the memory of Bigby's bewildered laughter in his head (and if there's any good in host memories being whole and intact and perfect to the end, it's that good memories like that one will never fade in detail). ]
You can be a kicker or a snorer or a drooler and it'd be okay. [ His eyes slip shut, voice nearly a low rumble in his throat if not for the fact that Teddy thinks it's important Bigby hears what he says next. ] This is the most real I've felt in a long time.
[ And maybe there's no actual definition for what makes something real. God knows whatever Teddy reads in references never make sense to him. Maybe playing it by ear is okay. Maybe that's what makes all the difference, when in his world nearly everything he'd done was scripted. Everything about his body is a facsimile of a human being, but the weight of Bigby's hand had been felt. Existed. That had happened, and it hadn't mattered that everything in Teddy's shoulder is synthetic as hell.
He breathes in and out calmly, slowly. The false heart in his chest beats nice and even. He's got half a mind to hope the sound of it might help Bigby do the same and lull him to sleep.
Next time this happens, if it ever happens, Teddy thinks he's going to hold his hand. ]
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But sometimes, the noise seems a little duller, a little less dissonant, enough that Bigby can pretend that he's somewhere else. Maybe not necessarily somewhere better, but a place where the night still tastes like rainwater and ivy, and the sounds of the city pulsate like the heartbeat of a living forest. The body next to him has nothing of that lifeforce, not even a fraction, but like New York, like the sound of the car alarm wailing several blocks away from outside his window, like the too-warm draft of wind that smells like the streets and, faintly, of the subway station seeping from the open window across from them...
He can pretend it does. Too easily, in fact.]
I'm glad.
[The coffee table with the digital clock on it reads 4:30 and he shows his appreciation for that by moving again so he can stretch his legs out, propping his feet up on the battered surface so he doesn't have to feel too cramped in this position. Believe it or not, he would like to get some sleep. Enough to make getting up in another couple hours not totally unbearable.
He doesn't edge away from Teddy. Instead, he falls into what he'd like to think is an agreeable sort of silence as he lets his eyes wander off into space, getting used to the darkness. Eventually they wander downwards and to his side where the bloody fingers of Teddy's hand are splayed lackadaisically. The contrast of once fresh, living tissue drying dead on fake skin doesn't escape Bigby, nor does the fact that they match now.
Funny.
He loses track of how long he sits his with his eyes in his lap, teetering between consciousness and sleep. When he bothers to check the clock again, it's 4:59.
Time passes.
It's 5:20 and the sky outside is starting to lighten with the darkest hint of blue when Bigby's hand brushes against Teddy's, halting.
At 5:21, he tucks his fingers between the ones at his side, feeling the grainy flake of rust-colored red rubbing against his palm as it settles.
At 5:55, the city starts to come alive again.]