bakerstreet | quote me on this.

1. "They say age brings wisdom, but it isn't true. All you ever get is a better sense of your own limitations." -- Curtis Edmonds, Rain on Your Wedding Day
2. "As the components of your life are stripped away, after all the ambitions and hopes vaporize, you reach a self-reflective starkness--the repetitious plucking of a single overwound string." -- Arthur Nersesian, The Fuck Up
3. "I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you." -- Friedrich Nietzsche
4. "If time were a bolt of cloth I would cut out all the bad parts. Snip out the scary nights and stitch together the good parts, to make time bearable. Then I could wear it like a coat, always live happily." -- Rohinton Mistry, A Fine Balance

[ info & permissions! ]

1. You're never gonna get it
I'm a hazard to myself
I'll break it to you easy
This is hell, this is hell
You're looking and whispering
You think I'm someone else
This is hell, yes.
I am in hell.
We don't have to talk
We don't have to dance
We don't have to smile
We don't have to make friends
It's so nice to meet you,
Let's never meet again
(Andy Black)

2. Let me photograph you in this light
In case it is the last time
That we might be exactly like we were
Before we realized
We were scared of getting old
It made us restless
It was just like a movie
It was just like a song
(Adele)

3. [bring your own]

1. Oh, look at these two. How they wish to destroy one another. How they wish to control one another. How they both wish to be free. Can you see? Can you see how much they need one another? No, perhaps not. Sometimes these things cannot be seen.

2. In the end, everyone is aware of this:
nobody keeps any of what he has,
and life is only a borrowing of bones.

3. While there is life, there is hope.

or bring your own!

When the car finally gave up, Tomas regarded it with a resigned acceptance. He'd gotten an additional several hundred miles out of the thing, but it had been pushed beyond its limit mainly on hope and prayer and no small amount of celestial boosting.

He whistled the chorus of an old familiar song as he made sure the junker was safely on the side of the road and out of the line of fire of anyone possibly hitting it by accident. Then there was hardly anything else to do for it but take the backpack from the back seat, make sure he hadn't left anything magical hanging out in any hidden part of it, then... starting to walk.

Where was he anyway?

Ah, there was a sign.

Pennsylvania.

Not the weirdest place he'd ended up.

"A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep,"

He sang to himself as he walked, sticking his thumb out when he heard a car going in the same direction.

He's driving because he doesn't know what else he's supposed to do with himself; being behind the wheel of the Jag gives him the illusion of being in control of something, and that is something he desperately needs right now, because everything else feels like it's falling apart and going straight to shit quicker than he's able to process it. But that's. Just his life now, isn't it, he supposes.

Like he's going to get an answer other than yes, Roman Godfrey, were you expecting anything less?

He's driving, and he's driving, and he's chewing the inside of his cheek to the point of rawness because he misses Peter, he wants Peter and damn his nomadic gypsy ass for leaving him in the first place. What was he supposed to do, all alone again after everything they've been through, everything they've seen —

But then there's a familiar form on the side of the road, a familiar rat's nest of hair that he'd be able to spot a million miles away and the tires come dangerously close to screeching on the asphalt as he hits the brakes, leans over toward the passenger side window with a bewildered ( and hopeful ): "Peter? What the fuck?"

( No, sweetheart, this is definitely not who you think it is, but you might as well get points for trying. )

The flashy car demands attention even before it pulls over, definitely going too fast and Tomas expects it to pass him until the horribly loud screech and smell of burning rubber signal the driver decided against that plan, possibly at the last minute.

He automatically stops to give attention to the car, eyebrows raising a bit as the young man inside calls out to...

Someone else entirely.

Tomas ducks down to meet the driver's eyes, and it doesn't take the knowledge flooding in from the universe inherent to what Tomas is made to do (to comfort, to care, to see and forge connections) to see how hopeful Roman is.

Because in that instant he knows Roman. Rom, Godfrey kid, spooky little fucker (rude), Elvis... He also knows that even if he wanted to try to pass off as his friend for whatever reason, the depth of his relationship with Peter Rumancek is too vast and wide for that. So Tomas gives an apologetic smile and doesn't even attempt to hide the southern drawl he's picked up after decades in Texas.

"Apologies, I know a few Peters but no my name's Tomas. Don't suppose you'd still be willing to help a hitchhiker out though?"

Well that's. Definitely not the accent he would have expected to come out of one ( 1 ) Peter Rumancek's mouth. But it looks so much like him, like this could either be his twin or some flash cloning shenanigans, and while Roman has Seen Enough Shit ( ™ ) to understand that there is no such thing as impossible, it still seems as much for this not to be Peter.

His Peter. His friend. That up and tucked his tail between his legs at the first sign of shit getting real. Getting hard. Whatever. He's not going to think about it. Or him. Fuck him.

Which brings him back around to the conundrum of the one standing in front of him saying his name is Tomas in a drawl that can only come from too much time spent in the deep south, and he sucks at his lips for a moment in contemplation.

"Shee-it," he says, maybe in some manner of hoping he'd get a reaction from this apparent stranger like he would have from Peter, and if there's still a little bit of hope in his eyes as he says it, he's just a bit more hopeless than we thought.

He flops back fully into the driver's seat, and that's about all the invitation Tomas is going to get to get in on the other side. "Where're you going?"

It really is unnerving - Tomas has an impression of this Peter thanks to Roman, solid and clear, even clearer than most people picture themselves with. It's rare to have a bond of that intensity in humans and Tomas' heart aches for the perceived loss of it on Roman's part.

There are angels that can possess humans and other life, but Tomas isn't one of them. He'd read that for people you have six identical strangers out in the world, but this vessel was made specifically for him back in the late 1950's, whole and complete and unchanging since that time though to all checks he appears human. That an actual born human could pass off as him…

He hopes wherever Peter is going it isn't where Tomas came from.

His trepidation doesn't show on his face though, not beyond the sympathy of Roman clearly hoping he was someone else. The smile turns bright and grateful at the question of where he's going and he takes that for the invitation it is, making haste to get into the passenger seat and toss his backpack into the small space that could be argued for a back behind the seats. It's not a large backpack.

"Any way the wind blows," Tomas answers, carrying the tune quite well thank you. "Had to get out of town for a while, so - anywhere while I figure out what's next. Thank you kindly…?"

The last part is a silent question to ask Roman's name. Tomas already knows but he's been at this too long to forget to ask.

Peter is the reason he now thinks bonds aren't worth shit; neither of them had had a real friend before they came into one another's orbit, and the thing with Roman is that he doesn't trust easily — but he had ended up trusting Peter, and where had that gotten him?

Heartbroken and alone. But it's whatever.

To think that there's a doppelganger that looks just like Peter but isn't is mind-blowing to say the very least of it, even with everything this one has seen and done over the last … year? Has it even been that long. No matter, really, because when Tomas finally gets into the passenger side he's quick to start moving again, though he does pause long enough to fish out a cigarette and stick it in the corner of his mouth.

"Not much going on in a place like this," he says idly, casting a sidelong glance at his new passenger while feeling around in his pockets for his lighter. "Roman," comes right after that as his fingers curl around his lighter and he thumbs the top open, a spark of flame immediately coming to life and snuffed out just as quickly once the end of his cigarette is a glowing, deep red.

He inhales, holds the smoke in for a second, and then lets it go. "Usually a good reason for needing to get out of town," he muses, not taking his eyes off the road. For the moment. "You didn't kill anybody, did you?"

Roman. You can't just ask someone that. Jesus.

The cigarette gives Tomas long enough to buckle up. He laughs at the question of him killing someone, like Roman just made a very funny joke.

Tomas suspects it isn't one.

"Family politics. You know the type, right, feel like they've been going on since the dawn of time even though you know they haven't? Just needed a breather. I'll go home again after some time away."

None of those technically being a lie, but - even if Roman isn't strictly human, he is of humanity, of the world of it, so as much as Tomas can? The secrecy policy applies. So no, he will not be explaining in explicit terms that some big important high ranking demons not involved in the local treaty were coming to town and they got just enough warning for the angels -of which he is one of- to clear out for their own safety. The treaty of their city works because everyone involved knows that not letting the upper ranks know about it is imperative. He will be going back - it's his home, he's lived there for decades, but whether it's safe to go home in a week or a month or God forbid years, well.

He's got time.

It isn't a joke, no, but he's never been possessed of much tact or the ability to not say what's on his mind at any given time. Godfrey men … are usually outspoken. Or just firm enough in their convictions that they choose to put voices to them.

He takes another drag on his cigarette, flicks some ash out the window. "Gross. Yeah, I know the type. Been living it my whole goddamn life." Which is to say that his mother, singularly, tries very, very hard to make everything about her and that results in all kinds of fucking nonsense that it feels political.

It's all a bunch of bullshit, really. But that's just another of his outstanding opinions.

And, uh. Sorry about taking the Lord's name in vain? Maybe he'd say it if he knew where home was, but he probably wouldn't mean it. He's never believed in God. Especially not after Letha had started rambling about angels.

He sniffs, a quick inhale through his nose. "Where's home?" Ha. Aha.

Haaaah.

Tomas would merely get pedantic about the meaning of that commandment versus how it's interpreted now along with an aside that if God really minds God can say something, but the heavenly host has been left on read for damn near 1300 years at this point.

And that's if you believe the last message was really God. Tomas, a thoroughly modern kind of angel, was not created by that point. If one does not believe in that message, it's more like 24,000 years.

He whistles a little five note melody. It's a hard knock life.

"Austin, Texas. Don't suppose you ever been down that way yourself, or are you one of those never leaves home types?" he asks, hoping to turn the conversation to less loaded questions.

That's. A really long time to be left on read. And some serious dedication to keep it that way. Mad props, man.

And sorry he has a tendency to ask the questions no one wants to answer, that's just. Kind of how he's always been, sometimes for the sheer thrill of making someone uncomfortable, and sometimes because he's genuinely curious. Jury's out on which of those it is in this moment.

( Hint: it's a little bit of both. )

He takes another drag on his cigarette, flicks more ash out the window. Drums his fingers on the steering wheel like he's actually thinking about his reply. "Can't say I have." A beat of silence, and he thinks to follow that up with: "Too hot out that way. It gets bad enough here in the summer sometimes I think I'm going to shrivel up and die."

Well. If you hydrated with something other than vodka, that might not be such a problem, now would it?

It ultimately helps that belief in God is not actually required for Tomas. He loves humans, he loves humanity, even when they're objectively awful. A heavenly pseudo-father is a fully unnecessary aspect to his life. Which helps, as his direct psudo-father figure in heaven, the Archangel he serves?

Also fucking gone.

Said everyone be cool I'll be back later and just up and left.

It's fine, Tomas loves him and ultimately doesn't need him either.

Tomas gives a little laugh at Roman's complaint about the heat. It is indeed something down there. It's downright balmy here by comparison.

"Ain't a place to live without AC, that's for damn sure," Tomas agrees. "Chug your body weight in water and just wait until sundown to do anything if you can."

tw death, grief

1. "It hurts," he whispered.
"What does?" asked Kate.
"Being. Not being. Giving in. Holding out. No matter what I do, it hurts."
Kate tipped her head back against the tub. "That's life, August," she said. "You wanted to feel alive, right? It doesn't matter if you're monster or human. Living hurts."
(Victoria Schwab, The Savage Song)

2. "It won't hurt so much always, Anne."
"The thought that it may stop hurting sometimes hurts me worse than all else, Marilla."
(Lucy Maud Montgomery, Anne's House of Dreams)

3. It's strange how we can lose things that are still right there. How a barrier can go up at any moment, trapping you on the other side, keeping you from what you want. How the things that hurt the most are things we once had.
(Robyn Schneider, Extraordinary Means)

4. The stages of grief: Supposedly the first is denial. That was wrong. The first is just the opposite: Total acceptance. You hear the bad news and you understand exactly what is being said to you. You understand that your loved one — your spouse, your parent, your child — will never come home, that they are gone for good, that their life is over, and that you will never, ever, see them again. You understand that in a flash. Your legs buckle. Your heart gives out.
That was the first step — not just acceptance, not just understanding, but total truth. Human beings are not built to withstand that kind of hurt. That then is when denial begins. Denial floods in quickly, salving the wounds or at least covering them. But there is still that moment, mercifully quick, the real Stage One, when you hear the news and stare into the abyss, and horrible as it is, you understand everything.
(Harlan Coben, Just One Look)

5. He felt as though he were wandering the the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a monstrous world where he himself was the monster.
(George Orwell, 1984)

6. [ drop me a quote! ]

1. "If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden."
- Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

2. "Happiness held is the seed; happiness shared is the flower."
- Sydney J. Harris

3. "The butterfly is a flying flower, the flower a tethered butterfly."
- Ponce Denis Écouchard Lebrun

4. "A weed is but an unloved flower!"
- Ella Wheeler Wilcox, "The Weed"

5. "On soft Spring nights I'll stand in the yard under the stars—Something good will come out of all things yet—And it will be golden and eternal just like that—There's no need to say another word."
- Jack Kerouac, Big Sur

6. "The moon likes secrets. And secret things. She lets mysteries bleed into her shadows and leaves us to ask whether they originated from otherworlds, or from our own imaginations."
- Charles de Lint, Dreams Underfoot

7. "The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk with."
- Carl Sandberg, "Moonlight and Maggots"

8. "Why am I. Why am I not. Where's even the way to could? I'm not lost. Or not lost much. Lonely. It is that and I don't know what to do."
- Eimear McBride, The Lesser Bohemians

Clockworks were hesitant to attack WX, but would do so if they trespassed too long, and WX had never felt comfortable with most of the survivors. Winona and Wilson were among the better, and Maxwell because WX at least knew the Shadow Puppeteer was open about her feelings. It was surprise that WX didn't like, lurking betrayal. Emotions they did not understand, which were not displayed plainly.

But Wormwood was so singularly different that WX found it hard to be afraid of them. Honesty, perhaps, was a big part of it, but the moon was in their eyes and their friendly lantern grin.

WX settled down in Wormwood's base with their scanning robot, setting up a lantern nearby for the onset of night, and began to weave an extra backpack. The moon was growing near to fullness, but not quite enough to ward off the attacker of the darkness, and WX was only a few times bitten to be shy enough of the consequences... They did like it, though. More now they knew Wormwood had come partially from the moon, as well. It was like the moon conspired to give them nice things; the rocks, the lunary isle aspects...

"DETECTING... WORMWOOD." They called out in greeting at rustling sounds. It would be embarrassing if a few ravenous hounds jumped out, of course, but not completely insurmountable.

Finding the other survivors had been an incredible boon to Wormwood. The pig people were nice but only somewhat friendly; Wormwood was always well aware of being different in their villages and cities, the way none of them stuck close for long. The merms and bunny people were much less friendly, though Wilson had apologetically explained that the latter were friendlier to people who weren't made of things they wanted to eat.

The other survivors were different. They were so sweet, so welcoming, treated Wormwood like one of them after that initial surprise and curiosity. And they had helped Wormwood learn things about themself as well, and were happy to help them and let them be helpful in turn.

Wormwood's base was somewhat deep in the forest but still near the central base, a location chosen because they had turned their base basically entirely into gardens. There was a multitude of flowers among the trees, and growing fruits and vegetables, and everywhere there was space to do so Wormwood had tilled the dirt into soft plots that the plants liked even better. They had three bee boxes scattered around and Wormwood only intended to add to them, though they had built them on the far outskirts of their camp (near a bunch of flowers) because they knew the bees could get mean during the Spring and wanted it to still be safe for their friends to visit. All of them were welcome at any time...

WX was one of the ones who was especially welcome, if that were even possible. They liked all of their friends so much, but they would admit that they had such a soft spot for WX. They was right up there, for Wormwood, with Maxwell, who had found them and brought them to this nice camp full of friends, and Warly and Wickerbottom, who were sweet with their plant friends and helped make nice things. There was something about WX, so strange but so familiar (strange, different, like them?), that drew Wormwood to them. Like bees to the pretty flowers.

"Robot friend!" Wormwood's delighted voice came before they appeared through the bushes, as soon as they heard WX's welcome, synthesized voice. What a nice voice. "Hello! Oh, making things." They was so pleased to see that, a sign that WX might be staying a little while, even if the stuff they was making was portable stuff. "Welcome to stay and eat. Belly things all around." They gestured, then plopped down to sit near WX and the lantern and start making a bird trap from silk and some of the twigs they'd just picked.

Wormwood's camp was like Wormwood themself, in a lot of ways. Friendly and warm and full of... randomness, but in a way that spoke to a seen hand, a sentient consciousness that lined soft earth (for "tucking in babies"), and the bee boxes... Things WX enjoyed and could see the utility of. But even when WX couldn't see the utility in Wormwood, they just... liked to be around them.

Wormwood's didgeridoo hum was also nice, and WX nodded to themself, watching the homunculus approach. "I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE USEFUL TO HAVE A BACKPACK FULL OF EMERGENCY SUPPLIES, IF YOU NEED TO ABANDON BASE QUICKLY. WILSON CALLS IT A 'BUG OUT BAG'. I WILL HELP YOU FILL IT AS WELL." Useful for emergencies like hounds, antlion and deerclops, among other things.

"THANK YOU." This to the offer of food. WX leaned over to pick a gourd, looking from it to Wormwood, and then opened it up and started to sort of nom on the side of it, shifting to make room for Wormwood to sit very close. "ARE YOU IN NEED OF BIRDS?"

Wormwood was happy whenever people came by, whether it was to harvest from nature's bounty or just to spend time with them. To be fair, most of the ones who did the former also did the latter. Wormwood liked that their friends seemed to like being around them.

"Bug? Bugs out?" Wormwood was curious about that, splitting their attention between making their trap and watching WX. "Backpacks good though. No hurting friends." WX had likely already noticed on one of their visits that Wormwood did have backpacks, just... sitting around, filled with things. Using them instead of chests. "And sometimes good to leave quick. Fire woofers." Even Deerclops did not do as much damage, in Wormwood's eyes, as the untameable horror of fire.

"Thank you!" WX had come to do something nice for them, after all, and Wormwood was delighted by it. That and the shifting, which they recognized now as 'invitation to sit here', and they eagerly did, promptly leaning up against WX's side. "Got things for a home! Tweeters are good, eat seedy friends and give seeds back, all nice for planting."

"ERROR - ORIGIN NOT FOUND." WX returned sanguinely, but did begin to weave a spider-face into the bag's design as they worked.

"NO, NO ORGANIC LIFE TERMINATED IN THE MAKING OF THESE CONTAINERS." WX agreed, looking around the base and again wisely noting the lack of chests. Even if Wormwood didn't witness the tree destruction, it was probably not enjoyable to muse upon.

The fire hounds made WX rumble quietly to themself. "DANGEROUS BEINGS."

They looked over as the homunculus joined them closer, and reached out hesitantly to put their hand on Wormwood's arm. Not enough to disrupt their work, though. "WHEN BIRDS ARE NOT DELICIOUS, THEIR PRESENCE IS MEDIOCRE. YOUR PRESENCE... IS ACCEPTABLE. YOU FIND YOU NEED NOTHING ELSE IN YOUR ENCAMPMENT? I, ALSO, BASE INDEPENDENTLY.... I PREFER TO BE ALONE."

Wormwood laughed when they noticed the spider face starting to form on the bag. "Leggy bug help out like Webber," they observed pleasantly. "You're so good at making things."

They nodded, a little thoughtful. "Know some things need wood. Friends not just being mean. Don't want you hurt." You, plural, but also WX, yeah. Wormwood didn't want either types of their friends to hurt, but sometimes the survivors needed to chop down trees or even burn them to survive... Wormwood did understand that, even if they still sometimes cried about it if they were too close to it happening. "And always have more little baby tree friends for planting. So it's okay."

They nodded vehemently when WX said that about the fire hounds being dangerous. Yes, yes they were! Then WX was putting a hand on their arm, and they started up a rumbling purr promptly. It was so nice when WX came to visit, much less when they prompted touch themself. "Like when you're here, WX," they said promptly, which was a little past 'your presence is acceptable' but that was okay!

"Tweeters give..." Not seeds. Both seeds and eggs were already babies to Wormwood, but they knew they'd heard the right word and thought a moment. "Eggs." So birds were delicious even when not eating them! "...Like being with friends. But need close to buzz, and shaggy buddies, and blinky friends. Dangerous."

"THE SPIDER CHILD." WX had long since accepted the idea that the children, like cats, felt most comfortable around the one who was most aloof to their presence, and had many times already babysat Wendy and Webber, and occasionally, of late, Walter too. Though Walter needed less supervision. "COMPLIMENT ACKNOWLEDGED. I TAKE REQUESTS. YOU FEED ME VERY WELL. YOUR TALENTS ARE IN GROWING YOUR FRIENDS."

And in guardianship of them. Really, Wormwood's pain was painful, when the plants were destroyed or burned. It had made WX less mean, as Wormwood put it. They ran internal checks, computations and calculations as a side process of weaving the bag, "BEEFALO WOOL AND GLOMMER GOOP ARE EXTREMELY EFFICIENT SOURCES OF FUEL. THERE ARE WAYS TO AVOID DESTROYING PLANT MATTER COMPLETELY, EXCEPT IN CASES OF EMERGENCY." And that also included the bosses knocking the trees down. Treeguards occasionally answered that problem...

WX's internals kicked up higher when Wormwood confirmed it was nice that they were there, and they slowly put down the backpack, mostly finished, just needing a top flap and back straps, and tentatively put an arm around Wormwood's middle. "I... ENJOY BEING IN YOUR PRESENCE. I WILL COME MORE OFTEN, IF YOU BASE ALONE ONLY FOR SAFETY/CONVENIENCE. NO ONE HAS EVER WANTED ME AROUND BEFORE."

Walter quite liked WX, all told, not solely because he liked all non-human people, but also because he'd picked up on WX caring more than they maybe knew how to say. So, Walter didn't mind helping them babysit so that they could show it better! It wound up being a sort of tiered babysitting situation where WX was babysitting the kids but Walter was helping look after the younger ones.

Wormwood nodded -- that was who they meant! -- and looked interested that WX took requests and would like to make them things, pleased at the idea that they did good things for WX too! "Show how to make buzz home from friend hair later maybe?"

Because they seemed to understand how Wormwood felt attached to plants too... They was even talking now about how other things could be used instead of wood! "Fire is bad," they admitted, "but warm. Better if friends aren't hurt. Glommer so nice. Goop tasty too!" Wormwood please.

And not just voluntarily instigating touch, but WX hugged them! Wormwood leaned happily against them and wrapped their arms loosely around them too, purr still going strong. Such happy bees in there. "Would like that. Happy when you're around! And like this," they added, patting WX's back gently with a leafy hand. "So nice."

[ info. quick rundown; legislator/adviser to the Sacred Council and the Senate of his country, a world inspired by Ancient Greece/Rome. controlling and manipulative at worst, charismatic and charming at best. talks a lot of bullshit, but generally makes it sound good. chaotic neutral. m/m for shipping, but wide ota for gen. open to canon mashing, multiversal stuff and assumed cr. no smut. ]

drink on, tho' night be spent and sun do shine,
did not the gods give anxious mortals wine;
to wash all care and sorrow from the heart?
why then so soon should jovial fellows part?
come, let this bumper for the next make way,
who's sure to live, and drink another day?
- alcaeus

mockery, dust, nothing - those
are the three constituents
of a world in which all things arose
by chance and make no sense.
- glycon

a philosopher called stesichore
was bitten by fleas till he swore.
so he put out the light,
and said; 'now you won't bite,
because you can't see me no more.'
- lucianus

Or bring your own!

quoting alcaeus.

[ It's a big party. Everyone wants to meet the newcomer, expand on networks, loyalties, that kind of thing. One gathering room isn't enough, he's opened the whole villa up, the gardens, torches stuck into the ground and burning brightly to light the way in the dusk. Inside, it's centralized. The gathering room facing east is brimming, cups overflowing, glasses, plates. The wine is from the North State, that rich, fruity stuff that tastes so the Mysteries manifest in front of your eyes. Chilled water with lemon, fruits from the orchards - lemons and oranges and the ruby fruits named after the gemstones they resemble. Soft, though, on the tongue and sweet. Last, but not least, the generous serving of seafood is laid out on the table in the middle of the room, huge fish cut open and baked, full of spices and dried berries. Oysters. Prawns. Squid. Delicacies not often seen in the Capital, with how it is a day's travel from the sea. Fresh things turn bad on such a journey, unless you can afford a lot of ice.

Luckily, Sarica can afford a lot of ice.

He's walking around the room, accepting praise for his efforts with a gracious, if slightly bored smile. Finally, he stops by the arrangement of divans and sofas along the right wall, people having abandoned their excess clothing over the backrests, leaving behind a pattern of variously coloured fabrics. Sarica sits down, cup of wine in hand and lets the liquid slosh around a couple of times while he scans the room, looking, waiting.

The guest of honour will no doubt find his way to him. Paul always does. ]

[Paul prides himself on not overdoing things, but he's also someone who blends in to environments he finds himself in - by nature and training a social chameleon. If he's going to blend into his new host culture, he's going to need to look, dress, and act like they do. And if that means eating, drinking, and attending parties, he's going to do that. Besides, it's a little flattering to have a party thrown in your honor. Still, he's careful not to completely overdo things. A pleasant buzz is one thing, but he wants to keep his mind sharp even as he blends in with the crowd. It's balance. Paul isn't necessarily one of these people, but he can pretend to be one well enough. It's a test of how well he can adapt to Sarica's society, one of the reasons he agreed to the party.

Paul is only human, and he has to admit that he's enjoying himself. Maybe that means it's rubbing off on him, which could mean - better or worse - blending in works.

A full stomach helps control the effects of alcohol, something he takes advantage of. A bite of squid here, a fish there - it's a matter of good manners, being a polite guest. It's all washed down with carefully calculated amounts of wine. When he finds Sarica, he's clearly been enjoying himself. Sarica may notice that Paul's a little plumper around the middle and his features are faintly redder. He's holding an oyster he plucked off of a nearby platter moments before.]

Ah! There you are. [The hiccup is genuine.] I was wondering when I'd find you.

[ Sarica sees him approaching, skin reddened across the cheekbones, slight shine to him and he smiles, chin raised. Gesturing to the seat next to his own, Irestes' green cloak long since abandoned over the backrest, he invites the other man to sit.

Well, invite and invite. It might be more of an order, sit, it means. Come. ]

Around these parts, Paul, if you're looking for me, ask anyone. They all know exactly where I am.

[ Because they're all keeping their eyes on him, desperate to know before anyone else what he's doing, whom he's doing, where he's going and be there, waiting.

Sarica has eaten plenty throughout the evening, drunk even more and he's buzzing pleasantly, his skin feeling warm and his mind unpreoccupied with the intrigues of his network. If they want to await him, let them wait. If they want to please him, they better be good at it.

Leaning forward, he places his elbows on his knees, looking up at Paul. His cup of wine is half-empty, he'll need to call one of the slaves for a refill, soon. ]

[Paul disposes of the oyster in a fluid movement - he cracks the shell open, puts it to his mouth, and gulps the contents. Sarica might be able to see a bump in Paul's throat. One blink later, the oyster is inside a satisfied Paul, who licks his lips before taking his seat.

He knows better than to turn down an order. It's simply good manners.]

Ah. Those are delicious. Apologies for being late - I've been having my fill.

[Paul has opinions on slavery. But he knows better than to voice them here and now, before he has a power base in this world or an audience for what he's very sure are unpopular ideas. If he's going to change things, he needs to put himself into a place where he'll be heard, in a position of strength.

Sarica is intended to be one of his tools to cultivate the power and network he needs. And pursuing Paul's larger goal means not raising objections for the time being - though he treats the slaves kindly, when he deals with them, and he's avoided the trade as best he can.]

You were looking for me. Here I am.

The world is full of places to which I want to return. - Ford Madox Ford, The Good Soldier

[ They've had dinner earlier, an hour or so ago, Anakin and him. In the meantime, Irestes' slave has been by with an urgent request by the Senate that Sarica goes to mediate between a group of newly captured Reecian rebels and the Fire Temple's masters in the border regions, seeing as none of the Reecians will speak a word to the priests there. Well, as far as Sarica can gather, they won't need to either, will they? They have their own fire priest now. One should consider setting them free and follow their trail instead, really. Let them take the soldiers where they need to go.

Timachus will no doubt be there as well.

He hasn't aired that particular idea to the Senate yet, though. Maybe he won't. Maybe he'll simply set it in motion on his own, isn't that how he does most things?

His study is bathed in shade, seeing as the sun is setting on the opposite side of the villa, the dusk outside looking vast and deep from this particular room, with its books and scrolls gathered aphabetically on the shelves, for easy reach. Currently Sarica's looking through a pile of maps on the desk, frowning as he chooses a couple over the northern Reecian regions (roads, available water resources) and one of the most Efith-friendly settlements in the area. His list of contacts on the Reecian side has dwindled noticably after the conflict escalated.

With his back to the door, he isn't paying attention to the hallway or the comings and goings of his servants, his guests. He has no one in this household whom he needs to fear. As such, he's left the door open, wide, like an invitation. Come, it says, prove me right. ]

[ Before dinner, he'd spent the day somewhat pre-occupied, getting himself acquainted with the neighborhood and more specifically, the various vendors and merchants in the area. In Efith, metal isn't exactly rare and it's odd to him, how they haven't yet got the hang of indoor plumbing systems. Possibly, they're too busy warring with their next-door neighbor; he still isn't quite certain how Sarica's connected to that whole mess, only that he is. Escalating wars - or worse. Anakin doesn't like what that reminds him of.

Regardless, he's managed to establish a couple of decent contacts throughout the day, using the promise of Sarica's gold coins to get them interested. Apparently, people are quite aware that the other man's loaded - though Anakin's been aware of Sarica's reputation mostly from the start, it still surprises him from time to time how much influence he seems to hold in the Capital. He might as well be running it.

Anakin's certainly learned to pay attention to these things now.

After dinner, he'd sat in the garden for a while, making the peaducks float above the pool; they seem too actively stupid to even notice when their feet leave the ground and he's happy to have something other than rocks to occupy his mind when he tries (and fails) to meditate. He's on the way back to his room now when he passes the study and pauses. Backs up and comes to a halt in the doorway, eyes narrowing. ]

What's this?

[ He heads inside, uninvited because honestly, try to stop him - and goes to stand by the desk next to the other man, close enough for their sides to brush. Reece reads one of the maps, along with what seems to be regional names and areas, nothing that he recognises. ]

[ Someone takes the invitation for what it is, and he isn't surprised that the someone in question is Anakin. Come now, shouldn't the war call out to the general? Even here, when the war has nothing to do with him, but everything to do with Sarica. They're intimately enough connected, the two of them, that it might as well be one for the other. The thought makes his blood rush faster, and he doesn't move away as Anakin crosses the room and places himself next to him, close enough that they're touching, shoulder to hip. He licks his lips and straightens up slowly, their clothes rustling in sync. Mm. He looks across the wide tapestry of maps on the desk and places his hand flat across the flat plains of Northern Reece, where he knows every little village and town and city to the core of them. Reecians are a people of the sun, they're hot-blooded and passionate and they a little bit sluggish, too, of course, it's all that heat.

You'd think they were easily beat, but you'd be thinking wrong. Efith has twenty years of active warfare to show for it.

He turns his head to look up at Anakin, follows the slope of his neck to his jawline (mm), cheek, temple, bangs. There had been many hands in much hair last night. Afterwards, Anakin hadn't slept through the night, but Sarica had held him back with haphazard legs and insisting arms, for a little while, just long enough to prove a point. I have you, it means - and he's had him all day, even at work he'd received continuous updates on his whereabouts, how often he'd used Sarica's name, Sarica's coin. It had been better than actively jerking off, himself.

A small smile, no-nonsense. ]

You know what it is, but you don't know why. [ Turning away, he heads over to the divan where he's left his cloak, heavy yellow wool. ] I'm going to the border regions tomorrow. I'm needed there.

[ He senses Sarica's gaze on him, glancing sideways at him after a second though he doesn't manage to catch his eyes. Briefly, there's an echo of hands in his hair, fingertips running over his scalp and he shuts his eyes, inhaling slowly, whilst Sarica turns away. Nights, to him, are brief. Regardless, he didn't quite mind the other man's limpet-approach, the way he'd held onto him and released him only after his point was made. He'd brought that with him out into the night.

Running the other man's words through his mind, he frowns. Opens his eyes and stares at the maps, all remnants of touch, of weight against his own, restless body, dissipating.

You know what it is. ]

You what? How are you needed there?

[ He turns, movements sharper than necessary. In the back of his mind, something old and awful flares to life. ]

It's war. You're a civilian! [ He crosses the distance between them and commands, words clipped and sharp: ] Make them send somebody else.

[ There's a distinctively harsh edge to his voice, a relic of too many wars fought and won and lost, the latter all together in a single, unforgiving night. He stares at Sarica, his hands clenched into fists and the air in the room thickening from something that feels a bit like the shadows creeping up the walls of the study. He's on Efith and this is a different world, sure, it's a world where he floats peaducks in the garden in the twilight and where Sarica's scent is as familiar to him as the rest of the air he breathes - but right now, at this moment, it's also not so different at all.

He's distantly aware of the villa, silent around them except for the faint noises from the kitchen. His breathing sounds too loud, like he's dragging it from his lungs. ]

[ He asks, but has already drawn his own conclusions, so Sarica doesn't answer, doesn't tell him that he most likely knows the village one of the rebels is from, and thus there's leverage, and thus, reasons to get your tongue working, suddenly and abruptly. None of that, he tells him, because Anakin was a general in his own war, he knows these methods better than most. The reason he asks is because he wants the response to be the status quo, more nights fucking and intertwining and letting go, when needed. Well, Anakin should learn to let go as well as Sarica does it.

Though, truly, he's only been here a day, they do need more nights.

But like Sarica is going to leave, he's going to come back. These roads are familiar to him, he knows his way.

Make them send somebody else, the other man then walks up to him and demands, in that voice of his that's used to sergeants and commanding officers that don't outrank him, and Sarica turns around slowly, calmly, leaving the cloak where it is to look up and up and up at Anakin. Holding his gaze, frowning very slightly in disapproval. He feels the energy shifting. He feels the thickening of air. His whole body reacts to it, all the little hairs standing on end, his voice a notch deeper when he speaks. ]

I'm the best they have. [ One step, two steps, he moves up in the other man's face, unintimidated and unintimidatable by his clenched fists. ] Which is why I'm getting escorted.

[ Breathing as heavily as Anakin, though undoubtedly not for the same reasons, Sarica looks into his eyes. He isn't going to pretend he sees much of anything, except pupils growing and inviting the dusk outside in, but he knows how fear masks itself in men like Anakin, doesn't he? In men like himself. He raises his chin.

Fear not, it means. Anakin Skywalker. ]

Edited 2022-05-18 18:54 (UTC)

[ Sarica steps right into his personal space, all the way, until they'd be nose to nose if Anakin hadn't been taller. The air, he thinks, should be crackling at this point, except everything's still, terribly still. He looks down into Sarica's dark eyes, seeing himself and his own shadows reflected there and for a moment, he almost can't breathe for his own anger, knowing that he's getting opposed, that he's trying to keep this place (this place, this person, thisthisthis) safe and he's going to be prevented --

The air tightens around them, along with his fists. His fingers dig into his palms, his metal arm straining and his nails on the left hand leaving crescent-shaped dents in his skin. He stares at Sarica. Remembers a flash of lightening and Palpatine's fingers, crooked and spidery, his anger impossibly radiant, a force unto itself.

With a growl, he forces himself to step back. It's a half a step but it feels like more, like a journey he can't even begin to finish. ]

Fine.

[ Breathe. Breathe. He gives Sarica a long look, straightening up and holding out his hand, pointing two fingers at him. ]

I'll escort you. No arguments.

[ With that, he turns on his heel and stalks away, his chest feeling painfully tight and his breathing ragged. ]

[ That wasn't the plan.

Anakin explodes, more or less, in his face, having to rein himself in and step back, growling and snarling and telling him, he'll escort Sarica on his journey.

No arguments. Fingers pointed and tension enough in his body to fill all this space between them, the whole night around it. Sarica watches him as he turns and stalks away, back to the desk, where the sounds of his ragged, desperate breathing isn't as pronounced, doesn't sound of nearly as much as it really is.

The volumes it speaks.

This wasn't the plan, but Sarica is a good diplomat, he knows when to follow the lead of others and when to put down his own demands, he's done the latter tonight, but now it's time to follow, to accept, to embrace. He cocks his head, looks at the tight play of muscle beneath skin on Anakin's arm, where the tunic cuts. The metal arm is cold and unapproachable as always, still that's the one Sarica approaches. He walks up behind him, reaching out with his left hand and sliding his palm slowly up the contours of metal, wrist to elbow. It's a caress. And an acceptance. ]

Good.

[ That simple. Sarica leans in against his arm, the metal cool and unyielding against this side. ]

They're going to think I brought you along because I can't go five days without.

[ He stays still as Sarica approaches, trying to see through what feels like a haze of emotions. He can't quite make sense of them and that, in itself, is frightening - anger, fear, he knows how this goes, he knows it to his core. Regardless, despite whatever knowledge he ought to have, at this precise moment he's still back in the sands and it shouldn't be possible any longer. Why is it like this?

Why is he?

Shutting his eyes, he searches for a semblance of inner calm but he isn't successful, not until Sarica slides his fingers up his right arm, the sensors sparking gently in response. He shudders slightly, crossing his arms in front of his chest, out of Sarica's reach, though he lets him lean against his upperarm, still, leaning back in turn. Just a little. As much as he can, his body stiff and unresponsive. ]

I don't care what they think.

[ It comes out a little peevishly but the anger, finally, is softening up into something more accessible, something that makes him feel intensely embarrassed by himself. He exhales. Hangs his head a fraction and shifts sideways, enough to press back against Sarica's presence, whatever he can get of him like this. He'd put his arm around his waist if he thought his hand wouldn't shake from it - as it is, he simply stands there, back only almost straight, the maps strewn over the desk still and Sarica's yellow cloak a tiny explosion of colour at the very edge of his vision. ]

[No shipping, please, but all the platonic fluff is welcome! He is very dad.]

1: 'With the first link, the chain is forged. The first speech censored… the first thought forbidden… the first freedom denied – chains us all irrevocably.' - Aaron Satie

2: In matters of truth and justice, there is no difference between large and small problems, for issues concerning the treatment of people are all the same. - Albert Einstein

3: Of all the titles I’ve been privileged to have, 'Dad' has always been the best. - Ken Norton

4: Have the courage to say no. Have the courage to face the truth. Do the right thing because it is right. These are the magic keys to living your life with integrity. - W. Clement Stone

5: When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you … never give up then, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn. - Harriet Beecher Stowe

[ Miles isn't the best at communicating his emotions. It's awkward, trying to take his feelings and twist them into words. Words are solid, concrete. Feelings are...not.

But he's trying, he really is. So when his father tells him that 'dad' is the best title he's received, Miles flounders for a second before answering, determined to show Gregory how much he appreciates him. He can do this! ]

Same.

[ Wait, no, that's not what Miles meant to say! His grasp on the English language seems to slip away when put in this sort of situation. ]

Ah, that is- I only meant that I am flattered you feel that way! Not that I am a 'dad'. Or... [ Is this even salvageable? ]

I am privileged to have you as a father. [ There. ]

[Watching his awkwardness is, in all honesty, heartwarming. Gregory smiles to see it, reaching out to place his hand on his son's shoulder - for reassurance as well as connection. He understands.]

You do me a great honour, son. There is... quite a bit I wish I could have done differently, but I look at what you've grown into and the adversity you've overcome and I don't think I could be more proud.

[ There's a part of Miles that petulantly thinks, no fair. His father doesn't seem to have any trouble with this! It's frustrating. And embarrassing!

He flushes, but doesn't remove Gregory's hand. The contact is comforting. ]

You were the best father I could have asked for. I would not change it for the world.

[That hand squeezes Miles' shoulder. His boy. They'd chosen different paths, but in the end, Miles had found the right path for his heart. He smiled, though, and offered:]

I remember nights I spent late at the office when I should have been home with you. I remember you being nervous about wanting to watch a show much more appropriate for your age than the nightly news. And don't think I've forgotten your puppy, either.

quote me on this.

Birdie Lewis | OC | Vampire: The Masquerade | OTA

cosette fauchelevent | les miserables (modern au) | ota

scott hansen // pacrim verse

Bumblebee | Transformers Cartoon G1

roman godfrey ( hemlock grove )

"I feel like I'm full of all these pulsing pieces..."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

eren jaeger | attack on titan | ota

silco | arcane

Wormwood | Don't Starve Together | OTA

7

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

sarica — fantasy oc — ota

@desertpowered

no subject

no subject

no subject

@chillrequired

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Gregory Edgeworth | Ace Attorney

DAD!!! also #3 because obviously

MY BOY!

no subject

no subject