the dead sing songs to me every night

Théo Laurent, Indie OC, Private and Selective

[girl-with-the-11-tattoo]

[ghostsandwhiskey]

singingrass-archive:

Wrapped up in his thin jean jacket, Job accepts the lighter with a small smile and a dip of his head, a crooked Pall Mall cigarette already parked in the corner of his lips. He is, admittedly, quite the talkative person – which make Nat the perfect dinnermate as far as he is concerned, matching his chattiness with some of her own – but he cannot help but feel as though this has been more of a burden for Théo than it has been a pleasant dinner with a grateful client. Some people just don’t handle or even desire idle chatter and company as well as others… which makes Job wonder whether he should have stayed for dinner at all. Maybe a better token of his appreciation would have been to simply prepare a meal for Théo and allow him to enjoy it on his own.

He’ll learn. Next time around, it’ll be better – if Théo deems it appropriate to have him over a second time, anyway.

Job opens his mouth to speak – then, after a short moment, closes it back shut again without saying a single word. Not all silence needs to be filled with words. Yakking on and on about how Théo has a nice place or how Nat seems very friendly will only be a farther invasion of his privacy. So he simply hands the lighter back as he takes a long breath of smoke in, gaze set to the street below them, and allows the welcome sounds of the city at night to slowly fill the space between them.

However – he still is, at the end of the day, only Job Edwards. A long few minutes pass in relative silence, a few more drags on both their cigarettes, before he mutters quietly, “Back home, when the weather allowed for it, we used to have dinner out in the back yard. I mean, uh – we didn’t really have a yard, huh? Just like, this open… nature… space.” He huffs quietly, a sound reminiscent of laughter – smiling at his own inability to properly describe his childhood home. “There were grass ‘n weeds growin’ wild out back, and my daddy ‘n my brother Gene would take the kitchen table and all the chairs out. I’d set some jars with candles in ‘em along the patio ‘cause my sisters were too young to handle matches on their own.”

There’s no real point to this story – which isn’t new for Job, as most of his stories are pointless – but this might seem peculiar to a man who doesn’t really know him yet, he realizes. There is absolutely no relation to this little fire escape with its city noises and practicality and the farm-country Job had grown up in. He watches Théo from the corner of his eye a moment longer and then shrugs, taking a short drag off his cigarette before explaining, “Don’t really get to share my dinner with other people often no more.”

    Those that know him well, know he isn’t one for idle chatter. Still, so long as the rare company he keeps isn’t particular about him responding, Théo doesn’t make a half-bad listener. So as Job reminisces, he simply angles his head slightly to show that he’s not ignoring him – a courtesy that he doesn’t often remember. His eyes remain fixed to the night sky, and his feet tap an unconscious syncopation.

    He doesn’t know why it surprises him. That this kid obviously came from somewhere. Had a history, a hometown, a family. Théo had discarded his past so nonchalantly at the first opportunity, that he supposes it doesn’t get him in the habit about wondering about other people. So comfortable and safe in the present, that it never even occurred to him that those that he encountered didn’t just apparate from some negative space. He supposes he’s not curious enough to inquire about these things anyway.

    There’s an emotion he can’t quite place in the short tale. A resignation but a wistfulness at the same time. The story is not just a presentation of facts. Glances minutely at Job, and for just a second, he imagine other kids with similar features. Dark hair and wide, earnest faces. Playing in country fields. Then suddenly, it’s just the two of them again on the balcony. Alone, but not.

    Takes a deep inhale of his own cigarette, and taps the ashes into the mouth of Nathalie’s frog ashtray. It’s not his business how the kid got from Point A to Point B. Other’s might find this indifference callous, but that’s not Théo’s intention. Quite the opposite in fact. It’s a show of respect that he doesn’t pry.

    Clears his throat, voice a low rumble, “Nat likes having the house packed. Februaryfest. Halloween. Hannukahmas. Just excuses to feed people she takes to.”

    It’s his way of noting, that the kid probably won’t have much opportunity to eat alone anymore, now that Nathalie has gathered him in the fold.

[ghostsandwhiskey]

shaldagim:

Though smiling wide at Théo’s last remark, Kfir does his best to curb down a quiet laughter bubbling in the deep of his throat. It doesn’t take even half his training to notice Théo is clearly nervous in his presence – though someone, that doesn’t make Kfir feel bad or awkward. It doesn’t make him want to relieve Théo of his nervousness – or rather, he will, because he just isn’t that mean, doesn’t need that egotistical stroke – but, if anything, it makes Kfir happy to know. To put things simply: if there was nothing here, between them – there would be nothing for Théo to be nervous about.

So he smiles and nods and tries not to look Théo’s way for too long as he considers his observations.

“He was just such a good director. I mean, it’s undeniable, watching his films. It’s just… he’s perfected his method of storytelling. I mean – that’s what humans do, right? That’s art. It’s just different methods of storytelling. Cave paintings, Da Vinci and – yeah, Hitchcock – they all just wanted one thing. To tell a compelling story in a compelling way.”

Maybe that’s a little too heavy on the art history philosophy, but Théo is far more than just qualified to understand. He pauses, mouths a small handful of popcorn – then instantly carries on.

“– which is why I’m not really sure whether I agree on the romance bit. Is it cheesy? Sure – but everyone wants to be loved. If anything, it’s more real than if Jeffries didn’t have a love interest. He’s a successful photographer and a handsome man – it only makes sense that he has some sort of female presence in his life.” He pauses a short moment. “Or, well, you know – just a romantic or sexual presence – but Jeffries being gay would never have flown back then.”

    At the mention of storytelling, his mind drifts to his brother. It’s not something he can control, this segue of thought, but it’s not entirely unwelcome either. He knows it’s useless to dwell on where the kid might be at the moment. But if there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s that he’s spinning a tale to someone lucky enough to encounter his sunny presence. Job is a modern day roads scholar, if there ever was one. Able to do with the sound of his voice, what Théo could never accomplish in a thousand years, and that’s fine. If anything, Théo likes to listen. But there’s something to be said about this preservation of his story, even if there’s sometime no discernable point. It has different meaning to different people. To Théo, it is reassurance that his brother is alive.

   There’s a minor change in his demeanor, as he thinks. If Kfir blinked, he would miss it.

     Then he’s clearing his throat softly, filling his mouth with a couple pieces of popcorn. Everyone wants to be loved. Looks nervously at Kfir for just a moment, then back at the screen. He can’t verify whether this is a truth for himself. He’d never actually felt that need, content to be on his own, but he supposes he can understand. But then, why was he inviting this man into his home? Why were they sharing a snack and watching a movie and talking and generally keeping each other in good company? He supposes being able to relate to someone. The idea that someone understands a part of you. That could be a type of love, as well.

    For now though, love is too big of a word to fathom, and he swallows down that slightly hysterical sense of anxiety that comes with it. Doesn’t examine that he’s open to the idea of a future, one that’s past this moment.

     “…He is a great storyteller.” He concedes, nods. “Knew how to pull people into their own minds. Knew how to build up a mood. Unpredictable until the end.”

    Their knuckles brush on the next venture into the popcorn bowl, and Théo pulls back awkwardly, heart jumping into his throat. Not that he hasn’t noticed the other man’s fingers before. Knicks and scars from his trade. Ink stains on his fingertips. Returns his gaze pointedly to the screen, face flushing.

    He doesn’t have any more commentary about the logistics of romance or sexuality in the film, that he figures would make sense to anyone other than himself. Not that he’s worried about his thoughts around Kfir. It’s just a non-issue. He can acknowledge the other man’s point of view, and the point of view at the time without having to understand it. He also gets the sense that Kfir would never demand or pry an opinion out of him just for the sake of conversation, and he’s more grateful for this than he can enunciate.

   There’s silence for a couple scenes, visits from Stella and Lisa, and the eye-rolling plug that Jeffries should just settle down and marry his girlfriend. It makes him think about Nathalie, lamenting about how her brother might die alone with no one to take care of him but a filled breadbox. (      “But can the baguette keep you warm at night, Théodore? Can it?”     )

    Then the fateful night of the thunderstorm, where the story really gets interesting. Théo leans forward slightly, exchanges a shy smile with Kfir because they’re both obviously aware of getting to the nitty gritty part of the ever-thickening plot. “…Such good plot development here. Like a hook and line. Get to see the start of that trademark paranoia. …I like it.”

[singingrass-archive]

@ghostsandwhiskey i love you and job loves théo 💕

[ghostsandwhiskey]

singingrass:

He leans back into Théo’s side, the laptop still propped atop his knees, and contemplates the notion for a moment. He’ll stay the night either way (no reason for him to leave just yet; no unpleasant dreams or any other sign of Boucher), perfectly comfortable on his brother’s couch even if it is not quite suitable for his size; but gets the feeling Théo would be farther reassured of this if he postponed the rest of their business until tomorrow. Really, who can blame him? Job’s habit of abruptly disappearing (from people’s lives generally and from Théo’s in particular) isn’t new. Any excuse, any hint of him spending yet another night here, where he’s wanted, is probably a blessed one as far as the older man is concerned.

So Job will give him this much grace. It’s isn’t much – but whatever puts that faint, barely-there smile on Théo’s lips is good enough for him.

“Sure. It can wait.” He smiles, closing the laptop’s cover before transferring it to the coffee table, then quickly returning to Théo’s side once more. He removes the blanket from over one of his own shoulders and wraps it around Théo’s back, so that they are both nestled comfortably underneath it.

“Think we can take her out on a joy ride when she’s finished? Before we sell her.” Cheek pressed against his brother’s hard shoulder, Job glances up at him with a tired little smile. “Y’know, just once – see what it’s like.”

    What many people don’t understand about their relationship, is that it’s one of safety, despite the darkness that follows Job. There are very few people that Théo can honestly say that he feels safe around. It’s not something that he understands, just this fuzzy, intuition in the back of his brain; probably meant to protect him from the hurts of his past.

    He knows it should be the other way around. Job is younger, and has worse cards stacked against him in life, than Théo ever did. By all rights and purposes, he should be protecting him. How can he ever begin to explain how these very simple, yet very complex feelings work?

    All he knows, is that he can be purely himself with his brother around. That he knows without a doubt, that he is unconditionally loved and accepted by this young man, and that he prefers his company to anyone else in his life. That he doesn’t get that prickly feeling of discomfort, that need to hide in the deepest, quietest corners of his mind when Job’s around.

    He allows himself to be leaned on. To be wrapped in their brother cocoon. Looks down at the top of that messy mop of dark hair, like he’s done so many times before. In the hospital. On the drive to their cove. Falling asleep on the Laurent couch to a movie. For a moment, it’s just the two of them, out of time. A comfortable and reliable solidarity. He returns the smile with a softness that only his siblings are familiar with.

    “…Count on it.” The older man murmers, “Best part of building something is the process. ...Result’s aren’t bad, either. Never drove a vehicle like that before.”

    He can picture it now. Windows rolled down, stretch of open highway, sun setting with a blaze of orange and red on the horizon. Palm catching the warm air as a cigarette glows lazy between his fingertips. Job singing along to something quaint and folk sounding, and the gentle rumble of a motor. “…Give you the first test drive. Discovered her, after all.”

[ghostsandwhiskey]

axgmented:

    she doesn’t dignify the indignant squawk of her partner, rather just lets the smirk do all the talking. rem should be more sympathetic to his personal space, how he doesn’t like being touched or his boundaries pushed, but that fact that rem can pull rank on him every now and then does sweeten the deal just a tick. if he was going to be her partner, he needed to loosen up; this was why she requested reno for this particular mission — at least she probably would have gotten a quickie snuck in. theo was a prude and she idly wondered if all of the soldiers were like that. rem nudges the door open and she rolls her eyes when he awkwardly nodded his head and followed her out.

    her eyes flicker towards the group near the elevators and it seemed like someone hit the jackpot while the other would probably be up to his fat neck in debt. she never understood the appeal of gambling. without missing a beat, she lifts a flute of the cheap champagne off of its silver platter and tips it towards her lips; rem faintly jumps at the sudden warmth at the small of her back. she has to remember not to bare her teeth, to jerk away from him or cause a scene – that’s when she seems smarmy walk by with that critical gaze and rem meets it with a practiced, smug smirk; she leans heavily back against theo, lips curling at the corners before he deems them a couple and wanders off. immediately she leans up from his warmth before taking another long sip.

    “ – yer a brok'n fuck'n record, theola.”

    her voice is soft in his ear, teasing as a smile covers the bite. she knows what to do and the moment the lights dim and the announcer comes over the pa systems, rem nearly gets shoved out of the way from all the sick gamblers. tiny hands curl against the flute of champagne, wanting nothing more than to smash the glass against some of their faces, but she figures that’s not recon. after a few moments, she watches the huddle of guards sneak away to watch the match and rem nearly loses it when her hearing picks up on the pained screech of one of the birds. her heels grind into the polished floor, teeth bared and hands crooked into claws. she can’t express the rage she feels, the sudden sadness before another pained squawk causes her jaw to tighten, the muscle jumping beneath her skin; this wasn’t right. how could any of this be legal? she takes a slow breath, quickly regaining her composure before heading towards the elevators – she’s abandoned her heels behind a pillar, they made too much noise.

     rem’s visibly shaken once the two of them were alone, her fingers jabbing at random buttons; the first was the basement — it was the most obvious, and should that prove to be fruitless, the next stop was the top floor. she feels sick, flesh itching as flashbacks started to play within her minds eye; she’s been where those birds were before – on display for anyone to watch, to have to prove your strength just to survive. the elevator feels too small and she can’t seem to catch her breath. her back aches, the bruise causing the flesh to feel as though it were melting right off of her bones; rem closes her eyes tightly before a quivering hand grips the handrail to steady herself. all she can hear is the echoes of that poor animal.

     " — i need a cigarette.“

    Sometimes he thinks that Rem is more human than anyone he’s ever known, despite her origins. He doesn’t know if he could ever feel anything half as intensely as she does. Her rage. Her despair. He knows it isolates her from her peers, just as his lack of reactivity isolates him from his own. Perhaps this is why he continues in her orbit. Passing satellites in the dark. There’s a kinship there, one he can’t name and doesn’t care to. He knows if he made enough noise, that Lazard would reconsider their partnership, but some months ago, when their arrangement came under review, he was surprised to find he didn’t say a word about it.

    He watches her reflection in the mirrored elevator. Her breath is shallow, her crimson eyes hidden from sight. She seems very, very small suddenly. Bare feet looking tiny against the floor. A ghost in a red dress. He realizes that she knows what it’s like to be caged. To be property. To be a weapon for someone else. She doesn’t want sympathy, though, he knows this much. He’d be garbage at offering it, anyway. So he stays silent, but by her side. A stony sentinel.

(     And he’ll even light her cigarettes after this mission. Hell, he could use one himself.     )

    A cool toned chime announces each passing floor, and it’s just as they suspected. This elevator isn’t for public use. When the movement finally stops, it feels like they’ve been in that little box forever. They brace themselves, he can feel Rem getting combat ready beside him for when the doors slide open, he doesn’t even have to look at her to know – but they’re greeted with… silence.

    Darkness and silence. Théo’s mouth thins and he holds up two fingers to signify that he’ll go first. His footsteps sound thunderous against the cold concrete of the hallway. Even with the total lack of light, the atmosphere has a completely different feel than the Saucer. Industrial. Sterile. One would expect there to be a ton of windows considering the view to be had. But nothing.

    Handleless doors line the hallway, each with a keycard type entry. They try a couple, none of which their own pilfered card opens, but Théo suspects that none of those matter as soon as they come to two wide sliding double doors, flanked by huge crates. Tilts his head curiously at Rem, fingers investigating the seams of one of the boxes. An eerie, familiar glow illuminates from the slats. Théo kneels down and immediately recognizes it. Mako. Even watered down as it is in these tanks, it still burns bright and chemical. “Rem.”

    He taps at the crate, meeting her eyes, a cold feeling in his stomach. They’re medical grade containers. He’s seen them in the labs at ShinRa before, when he had to go for his injections and subsequent induction into SOLDIER. What in Ifrit’s name where they up to here? Even with strict medical supervision, it was lunacy to do your own mako infusions. Whispers, “We need to report back.”

    But then the doors are sliding open and he’s hustling them into the shadows of the boxes.

[ghostsandwhiskey]

The Open Road, It Calls To Me (+Archer)

[ghostsandwhiskey]

archerwhiterp:

Archer sat after him, pushing their plates and cups towards each side. He waited to eat his own, smiling as he watched Theo chow down. He was starting to think he should have made more, the man looked almost starved. Archer had been there more than once. 

After a few moments he decides to dig into his own food, purposefully leaving half his plate uneaten.

The question made him raise his head and turn up to the farm house. He squinted in the light, sun glaring in his glasses but he nodded. “It was my parents.” he explained with a half smile. 

“When they died the state took the property. I was put in an orphanage. I’ve only just managed to get it back.” He took another bite from his eggs and pushed the rest of the plate towards Theo. “I’m full… if you want this too.” 

Folding his hands together he glanced back up to the house as he sipped his coffee. “I’m trying to restore it to how I remembered it… funny thing is my memory is so bad but the house, I remember it so clearly.” 

    He doesn’t hesitate. Shovels the rest of the food with the gracelessness of a bear devouring a salmon. It occurs to him that it’s been a hell of a long time since he’s eaten a home cooked meal. That was Nat’s forte, the cooking. Théo was more prone to eat things that came in a can, or pre-made. Clearing the plate, he’s too awkward to know that he’s being awkward about table manners. “…Thanks.”

    He follows the other man’s gaze back at the decrepit building. He can agree about memories. Although what he remembers about growing up in Lyon, is moreso what he chooses. He hasn’t thought about his own parents for nearly twenty years. Finds he’s okay with that as well. Unlike Archer, he chose to be an orphan of sorts, and he can’t relate. Although he does find peace in familiarity, so he can see where the other man is coming from, but he still has to ask. “…Why? Restore it like it was, I mean.”

[ghostsandwhiskey]

singingrass:

Sucking remnants of sticky dough and soy sauce off his fingers, Job pushes himself up out of the armchair with a grunt and then plops right back down on the couch next to Théo in a mess of lanky limbs, their shoulders bumping, Job pressed into his brother’s side (not dissimilar to the way he’s fallen asleep against him several times in the past while watching television together), props his socked feet up atop the coffee table (hole-ridden as well, of course, his thumb poking out the left sock), props the laptop in his lap and opens a new Google Chrome tab. Of course Théo has no clue how to use this — and on a selfish level, Job is kind of glad that he doesn’t. He likes instances like this — the very few and rare in which he can offer Théo anything, however meager and insufficient, for everything Théo’s offered him.     He already feels as though they’ve been working on this project for years together, and they haven’t even really begun yet. It already feels theirs.

“So this is a browser, right? You need a browser to browse the internet. Get it?” He grins, mostly at the screen — but glances to Théo every once in a while, to seek out understanding in his otherwise sealed expression — or, well, seemingly sealed, anyway. It isn’t, not really. Most people just don’t look hard enough. “And now we’re gonna go to the search bar ‘n we’re gonna type in… nineteen… fifty one… Cheeevroooleeet…” he explains as he types away slowly; 1951 chevrolet 3100 carburetor; not as computer-savvy as most, but also not entirely stunted like his older brother. He shoves Théo’s shoulder slightly with his own when the results pop up on the screen, “’n there we have it! Now all you gotta do is right-click all the links on the first page,” he demonstrates, “and compare all the sellers we find ‘n see what suits us most. I’d say it’s a combination of price, shippin’ cost, location ‘n credibility. I mean — you don’t gotta do this — I can definitely do it on my own. Like, after you’ve gone to bed or somethin’. Just run it by you before I make the purchase to make sure we’re good. Then all we gotta do is either ship it here or wait for me to pick it up.”     He hopes he isn’t rambling too much. Hope it wasn’t too overwhelming all at once for Théo — who isn’t slow, but strongly dislikes change — to comprehend. He leans into the man’s shoulder as he glances back at him again.

      Théo watches with a blank expression as Job opens up the laptop. He’s familiar with the little fruit shaped button (“Google Chrome,” he mouths). He’d always associated it as the gateway to The Internet, even though he’s not entirely sure how it works.  More than anything, he’s just grateful for Job’s expertise with technology. The kid had a way of speaking to Théo so normally, that the older man never felt like he was being belittled as with others that are Job’s age. It’s why he’s loath to ever ask for help when his cellphone or the computer at work did something confusing. He’d simply file the situation away for later when he could ask Job.

    There’s a flurry of activity on the screen, and Théo’s eyes can barely keep up, images of carburetors, price points, lines of text all popping up at his brother’s key strokes. He doesn’t respond for a full minute. Is glad that Job never hurries him along, and simply lets him take things in. It’s like being known and accepted all at once in a way that no one has ever known or accepted him before. He leans forward slightly, arm rubbing against Job’s, then glances at him, “...Might be a good idea for you to do this. Trust your judgment.”

    Then he’s pulling the blanket on the couch around the kid’s bare shoulders. “Not if you’re too tired though. Can do it tomorrow.”

    Plus, there’s something comforting about the idea of Job being there in the morning still. Taking their coffee out to the garage as he works his Internet magic, and Théo can steal glances his way as the dawn’s light breaks through the windows.

[ghostsandwhiskey]

singingrass:

“Uh…” he doubts he’ll be here until February. Sometimes it takes Boucher only a single day to find him; sometimes it takes him a week; sometimes it may take him up to two months and, though Job clearly prefers the latter timeline — it also allows for it to become increasingly clear to him, with each passing day, that his amount of time left in one place or another is dwindling; that whatever time he has with people he’s found, people he may like, is growing ever-shorter. He’s been in Victoria almost a full month now.     Either way, the celebration does sound like a lot of fun. It’s been a good while since Job has attended a proper party — especially one thrown by people he actually knows. He hates the thought of letting Nathalie down — at least not now — so he simply offers one of the usual crooked smile and replies, non-committal, “Yeah — of course. If I’m still around by then, I’ll be happy to come.”     If. If, because the reality is, he’ll likely be back on the road by then whether he likes it or not.

Job takes another small sip of whiskey, baring his teeth and stifling a groan when it burns down his throat again; damn, this shit’s strong muttered under his breath. He consumes enough beer so the liquor doesn’t go straight to his head, but he is feeling slightly more comfortable than usual nevertheless, and likes the way it seems to warm his chest. He smiles over the rim of his mug at the siblings.     “Say, uh — pardon the rude question, but uh — you guys got a designated smokin’ area, by chance? Totally, completely understandable if you don’t — just uh — I think I saw you smokin’ at the garage, Théo? ‘n I was wondering.”

    Nathalie pouts for just a moment before heaving an almighty sigh, “Of course, Chickadee. I mean, your VIP invite will always stand, but I understand the call of the road. I get that way too, you know. Stir fucking crazy if I stay too long in one place. Thay knows what I mean.”

    Théo responds with something between a grunt and a shrug. He doesn’t want to examine his sister’s propensity for leaving just when he’s appreciating her company again. Not in front of Job. He understands why she does it, sure, and he’d never be so selfish as to clip her wings, but he does miss her, more than he cares to admit sometimes. Stands up wordlessly, mug still in hand, and tilts his head for Job to follow.  

    They collect their jackets, Théo shrugging into some battered flannel work jacket with shearling on the collar, and make their way out the kitchen balcony. The temperature difference is noticeable immediately, their breath appearing in puffs. It’s already dark out, though the glow of downtown Victoria blots out much of the stars that could be visible from here.

    It’s been awhile since someone came out here to smoke with him. Nathalie rarely does. Still, there are two battered lawn chairs and a little folding TV tray out here with a makeshift ashtray. It’s supposed to be for plants or something, but Hunter had commented on how the gaping fish mouth was perfect for when they smoked. Théo is unsure about this new person in a space that’s very clearly the Laurent’s, but there’s something so wide open and honest about Job’s plain face that makes it seem… okay.

    He taps out a cigarette, pulls out his Zippo from the pocket of his jeans. His face is briefly illuminated, blank as a stone as he lights up. Is silent save for the brief inhale and exhale, occasional sip of whiskey in between. After a minute, he offers the lighter tentatively to the kid. Hadn’t even checked to see if he had his own smokes, though assuming he does considering he’d asked for somewhere to smoke in the first place.

[ghostsandwhiskey]

Sway to the Rhythm of the New World Order (+Astrid)

[ghostsandwhiskey]

eteriskromling:

When the topic of payment was mentioned, Astrid laughed. It would have sounded gentle from someone else. As if she had really heard or witnessed something funny. 

A good joke, someone accidentally walking into a door. But no, it was about being repaid. And, since it was Astrid Vivienne Lovaas, that gentle laughter–so lovely, if it wasn’t her laughing–was laced with high superiority. Condescending.

“Darling Théodore,” she called, still seemingly finding something hilarious. “Even if you had something to repay me with, I’m in doubt you could afford me. This should be seen as an act of charity, no? Not a guarantee of kindness.” The immediate idea of dumping him at a clinic was satisfying in its own shallow way, but she knew she would think about his fate. 

Too much, she figured, so she’d rather watch him recover.

“Besides, sending you to a clinic would spell out something worse than a broken limb. Where else do you have a guarantee of privacy? A hot meal?” Something changed in her face, “Cleanliness? You won’t even catch the slightest cold here.” She scratched at her neck absent-mindedly, exposing a deep scar for the ghost of a moment.

“I doubt we will enjoy eachothers’ company. I dislike people,” A statement that seemed obvious by tis point. “But I will make sure you heal. Since I am your saviour. The hero of your story.” She couldn’t recall what made her this cynical. Perhaps it was more than just one incident. Many that piled up on eachother, tangling like thread that wasn’t paid enough attention. 

“There is a guest dwelling, downstairs. I can’t imagine you could travel there now, but there is the option, should you take it. There are spare clothes, too. They should fit you. Dixon preferred loose things.” 

    Her laughter is strange in his ears, joyless despite its sophistication, and the way that she calls him by that endearment, twice as artificial. He is ‘Théodore’ by legalities only. The world knows him as ‘Théo’, no matter the level of familiarity. And there is something so unsettling about her use of his name, the easy way it falls from her lips that feels like ice up his spine, despite his fever.

   And even though she explains herself somewhat, he’s still clueless about her motivations. A charity case, for sure, but for what? Out of boredom? For some greater maliciousness to show itself in the future? Not like he’s in any shape to think about his next actions, right now. So he accepts it. Not knowing. Hadn’t this trait been what had made him such a good SOLDIER? Perhaps all that training still had a use, after all.

     And it’s not as though they have to enjoy each other’s company for him to heal. He’d never been one to require any sort of joviality from the world around him. Best not to look a gift chocobo in the beak. He can wait. He can bide his time. He does not require comfort or affection. He will survive this.

   Glances up to catch a glimpse of scar tissue, like a perverse smile across her pale, long throat. Knows better than to be curious, and casts his gaze back at his bruised and battered palms, face placid. Dixon? Someone else lived here?

(     It’s hard for him to picture her having family. Friends. For the short time that he’s been in her presence, it just seemed to make sense that she had existed independently from every other human for as long as the world existed. Like she was from a different time.     )

     He nods shortly. It’s acknowledgement of what she’s doing for him, whatever the reason. Examines his blood stained, ripped and dirty clothing. The crimson having dried to some dark color some time ago, making the fabric stiff. “…Could use a wet cloth. Change of clothes. Please.”

     Wonders if he has any qualms about wearing a dead man’s clothing. Not that he knows for sure.

[ripleytwd]

Norman Reedus on the Golden Globes red carpet: January 7, 2018.

[someone-worth-racing-for]

His ears 👂👂👂 I love them 😆😍

[ghostsandwhiskey]

singingrass:

Job wants to tell her it isn’t so much that as much as he simply hasn’t found the right person to settle down with yet — but the pace in which the Laurent siblings move to clear the table and wash all the dishes makes it impossible for him to follow through. They do not let him help even when he tries physically butting in between them and, though Job isn’t quite used to being served on — it makes him smile nevertheless. He gives up after that, does not protest their refusal to let him help, and does as he’s told, following them through to the living room and plopping down on the couch beside Théo.

“Uh — sure — I’ll have some of that whiskey, if it ain’t no trouble. Thank you.” This is replied to Théo’s offering of a mug, and Job sits up and holds it close for him as the man pours him a serving of the drink, sucking the icing off the fingers of his other hand as he turns his attention back to Nat.     “That was abso-fuckin’-lutely the most delicious… thing I’ve ever eaten. What did you say they were called? Ben-yays?” He finishes sucking the last of his fingers and pauses to take a quick sip of the whiskey before carrying on, twisting his lips somewhat at the harsh burn in the pit of his throat. He stifles a small cough against the back of his hand. “— pardon — uh — yeah, I was stayin’ there with him for a bit, but uh, I just moved to the trailer park up on the northern side of town. Kitchen’s tiny but, uh, I guess it’s about the resourcefulness of the cook ‘n not the size of the kitchen, huh?”

    “Hey, his pronunciation’s not bad!” Nat grins in approval and pours herself a generous splash of wine. “That’s correct. It’s just a fancy word for a hunk of deep fried dough. Honestly, we French are so fucking extra, sometimes.”

    She pushes another one at Job, encouraging him before shoving one at her brother. Théo puts his palm up to decline, but she’s already dropping it, so he’s forced to catch it. “Oh! I’ve heard of that little place. Nice view, actually. Backs onto some trees and a clearing. What is it called, Sunny something? Golden Court something? Well we’re glad you’ve found a place to stay. It gets ridiculously cold in the winter here and we always worry about our friends that don’t have roofs over their heads. Of course, our couch is always open for you to lay your head down if you ever need to, no questions asked, isn’t that right Thay?”

   Théo looks a little deer in the headlights at the moment. He’s never going to turn someone out onto the street, but the idea of more strangers sleeping in his home makes him anxious. He pops the beignet into his mouth, chews in lieu of a response. Nods. Downs it with some of his whiskey, and in no way feels the burn as much as Job does.

    “You’ll have to have us over too. Small kitchen or not. I’m a potluck type of girl. And I’d love to dig into your cooking again.” Nat scratches and pets at the back of Job’s neck. An unconscious gesture, that Théo’s always noticed she does with her younger friends. There’s something doting and familial about it. “Théo, we should invite Job to our Februaryfest. Though I can’t tell you when the date is. We’ve got to listen to the winds.”

    Théo offers a shrug at Job, explains to the best of his ability, “…Nathalie used to have a party on Valentine’s for all her single friends. Then we’ve got some birthdays in February. She decided we’d combine it all. Februaryfest. Food. Karaoke. A piñata. I’m not sure what it’s about now. For some reason, there are costumes involved. It’s… Confusing.”

    Nat reaches out a long leg to kick Théo in the shin gently, “Oh shush you, Mr. ‘Grumpy Pants’ Laurent. As if we ever need a reason to get together and have fun. What do you think, Job? Can we put your name down for a ‘yes’?”

[ghostsandwhiskey]

singingrass:

There hangs a saying at the tip of his tongue, something about how he’s a big boy who can handle himself and doesn’t need Théo feeding him (mind, he’s already eaten double what the older man has) — but Job doesn’t speak a word of it. Rather, he smiles gratefully when his brother keeps piling his plate up with dumplings, which keep vanishing almost as soon as they appear. It’s nice, being cared for like this — and it is nice for Théo to be able to care for him this way, for a change. Job will let them both have this small moment of grace.     The internet. Théo has a funny way of talking of things he doesn’t understand, the internet consisting of about eighty percent of that category. Were this any other person, Job would laugh — but he knows not to. Knows he is the only person Théo can ask without getting ridiculed — and more than anything — Job loves, so very deeply, the fact that he is able to be this person for his brother. So he smiles, cheeks round and swollen with pork dim sum, and listens to Théo speak.

    “Oh — yeah, sure thing. I could show you how to do it, too — y’know, for the garage.”     He likes this. He likes them sitting together, talking shop over dinner. Working together. It reminds him of being a kid and working on the neighbors’ farm with Gene. It is what a brotherly bond should look like, the way Job knows it. In this moment, he is as happy as can possibly be.     Retrieving another beef and broccoli serving from its container, Job dips it in a generous amount of soy sauce before stuffing the whole thing in his mouth; tonguing at the sauce that drips down his chin and muttering around it as he carries on. “Do you one better — we can figure out whiff if fhe beft deal on fhe internet — fhen I can juft…” he swallows, “— pick it up on my way comin’ or goin’ ‘n save us the shipping cost.”

    He doesn’t show it, but Théo is beaming inside as he watches Job eat. There’s something about the kid being back home and back in his care, that is so damn special to him, he can’t enunciate it. It’s a feeling more than anything, and Théo has never been very good with feelings. So he just props his chin on his palm, listens diligently to Job’s proposition. And tries not to let his face fall at the mention of leaving.

    He knows this. The inevitability of it. Job can’t stay in one place forever, as much as Théo would wish it. He’s been over this a thousand times in his own mind. But it doesn’t stop him from flinching from the idea. It doesn’t stop him from feeling that great sudden surge of loneliness at the thought of Job stepping through the doorframe, not knowing where he’s going or when he’s coming back.

    There’s an unspoken rule that they don’t talk about it. It’s for everyone’s safety. But even more so, Théo has found that it makes him relish the time they have together even more when he doesn’t know how long Job is able to stay. He’s always lived in the present, but that’s never been so true as it is when he’s with his younger brother.

    He tries not to let anything show on his face. It’s harder with Job, whom he’s most comfortable being vulnerable with, without even knowing. Busies himself by scooping up his plate, sealing up the containers for a quick lunch tomorrow. Carts everything over to the fridge, and without making direct eye contact, continues their conversation, “…Kids usually handle that at the garage. The ordering. I tell them what we need and they get on the computer and. Do whatever it is. Might be nice to learn.”

    Truthfully he’s been terrified of using the shop’s PC. Kai had laughed himself into a stupor when Théo had thought it had broken when the screen went into screensaver mode. Needless to say, he doesn’t use it a lot. “…Nat’s got a laptop. She doesn’t mind us borrowing it.”

    Disappears into his sister’s room, which always smells of incense and something flowery. Finds another strip of photos tucked into her mirror, as he picks up her laptop from the vanity. A younger Théo with longer hair, looking sullen in a ripped black hoodie as he sits at a drum set. Then underneath it, a picture of Job from some months back, plucking away at his mandolin. They’re both leaning down over their instruments, hair hanging in their faces. Nat’s written the caption “SHOCKING FAMILY RESEMBLANCE” on the border of the photo of Job. Théo blinks at the pictures, doesn’t remember when they were taken. Time’s a funny thing. The minutes tick by, but in the end all that’s left are not even the memories. But the people you’ve chosen to share them with.

    He shakes himself, returns to the living room and places Nat’s laptop down gently like it’s some precious artifact. “…You. Know how to open this?”

[ghostsandwhiskey]

axgmented:

          it takes him too quick to just be a casual trip to the bathroom. if rem knows her partner, he’s trying to force his steps to be casual but his pace is too brisk and he’s probably clenching his jaw too tight and ten gil says he still has the flute of empty champagne in his hand –

    “ ya owe me ten gil.”

        she mutters softly to him, leaning against the porcelain sinks. rem’s fixing her lipstick, giving a fresh swipe across her lower lip when theo leans down to check the fat fuck’s pulse. yeah yeah, she let him live, he was just out cold. she scoffs lightly, sheathing the little tube of makeup back into the clutch purse before kneeling at his side. she can’t help that impish grin that tugs the corner of her mouth upwards; he’s practically sweating in that suit. all over her? they haven’t been partners that long, but reno tried to warn him about rem — she’s taken her eyes off of three potential partners so far. there’s something about the big hulking mass of muscle who seems to breathe a sigh of relief when she was within arms length. it’s not that she wouldn’t be upset if someone lodged a bullet in his head, but she wouldn’t exactly be happy about it either. she’s young still, new to the turks and has a hard time reigning in her thirst for a hunt.

           "– whatcha got, theola?“

        she purrs, leaning over from stashing what currency she can find on his unconscious body and into her purse; he’s got some kind of non-descriptive keycard, unmarked by any logo. she frowns, eyebrows pulling together before impatient hands swipe it from his grasp, turning it over and over in hopes that maybe something would show up; the card is lodged between her ring and middle finger, as if she were handing it back to him. a sinking feeling hits her stomach; this wasn’t just a mythril smuggle-deal. this wasn’t just a replicating arms deal. rem scoots a little closer to theo before standing, arms over her head before she can let him catch on about her unease. he’s already standing, his hair falling in his face.

        he wants them to stay together, do some boring recon: "behave” is spoken between the lines. she’s got half the mind to tell him to head back to the hotel, she’ll finish this mission on her own without his constant mother henning but she steps over the dead weight at their feet, standing just a bit on her tiptoes to push his hair back gently; that’s when those hands go to messing up his hair, pulling at his tie before undoing his shirt at the first two buttons — only to fist the materials in her hand and wrinkle the nice white press. she leans forward, placing her red-stained mouth just beneath his ear where the collar would hide most of the lipstick mark. her thumb smears it slightly, and her hands go back to fixing his shirt and his tie. she turns her attention to her reflection, holding her wrist beneath the faucet before the warm spray of water hit her flesh. she dabs the water gently at her neck, down to the curve of her chest in the dress before pinching lightly at her cheeks. a hand raises to break free some of her curls, musing the silvery locks this way and that before attempting to tame them back down. a hand drifts down to the hem of her outfit, wrinkling it before heading towards the door.

  “ c'mon now ya look ravished ‘nough. let’s get tha’ info, yeah?”

    He almost backs himself into a toilet stall when she touches him, parting his shaggy, dark hair, brief press of her lips to his throat, then suddenly he feels like he’s being undressed and he makes a shocked, gruff little noise. “—Rem!”

    Look. It’s not that he hasn’t ever been touched by another person before. And it’s not like he shouldn’t be used to Rem invading his rather large and broad personal space bubble with the aggressive way that she speaks, by now. It’s the mere suggestion of intimacy. Théo is ill versed in his body on the best of days, and he could probably go about life never having to examine that particular aspect of himself, ever again. He’s got his duties, and he’s got his place in the world. No need to complicate anything.

    But with Rem, it’s just an expert part of her act, and she seems totally unfazed by the reaction he’s giving. Face roughly the color of a beet, heart in his throat, stomach jumping around, and expression looking more harassed with every passing minute. Watches her with a sort of stupefied distress as she dabs at her skin with water, musses up her own outfit and lets some of her silver hair fall out of place. He quickly tears his gaze away, making a strangled noise of acknowledgment. Nods for her to go ahead, so he can take a deep breath. Settle his nerves again.

(     It’s just an act. She’s covering our asses. No need to get so freaked out, SOLDIER.     )

    Then they’re back out in the noise of the lounge again, the commotion seeming to have settled as they set up for the next match. People are talking excitedly, counting their wins and the alcohol is flowing freely and the music is pulsing loud. He gets a couple smirks in his direction, a thumbs-up from a particularly smarmy looking guy, and feels like he might throw up. Is at Rem’s side again, willing himself to get back to business. Nods in the direction of the goons guarding the vicinity of the elevator. They’re cheering as well, clapping each other on the back and gloating at the one of them that’s apparently bet on the wrong bird. “…Haven’t noticed us yet. Or their missing friend. Should be able to slip away when the lights dim again.”

    Smarmy walks by, looks them over with a curious jeer, and Théo has to fight the urge to step in front of his partner, or stand there looking back awkwardly. He swallows hard, pushes back at the jittery feeling inside and places a chaste palm against the small of Rem’s back. Feels unsettled beyond belief at the feeling of her bare skin, as he pointedly returns the guy’s gaze. He seems satisfied, convinced that they’re a couple, although a little weirded out that a guy like Théo might end up with a girl like Rem, but he moves on. Théo noticeably relaxes. The lights dim down for a second match and people rush back to the viewing windows, jostling them slightly.

    “Time to move. Remember. …Just recon.” It’s more of a suggestion than a command. He knows it’s her call, should she ever want to listen. Lazard had hinted that Théo was someone whose demeanor was good at keeping his more rowdy comrades in check, but he had warned him that the Turks were in their own league. Reno had joked about Théo’s ‘balancing influence’ on Rem, and she had nearly whipped a chair at his head, after all.

[ghostsandwhiskey]

splatteredfingers:

    “Perhaps that happens more often than we think.” He’s never really thought about it in such a way. It seems to him the artist in the one in control. The artist holds the brush, chooses the colors, creates the positive and negative space of the painting. They make all of the choices. But the other’s comments have Daxton wondering otherwise. Maybe some of those decisions aren’t conscious ones. They just happen through some sheer force of their own. His gaze lingers on the women’s eyes a moment longer before he looks over his shoulder.        There’s a huddle of individuals not too far away. They’re all chattering and carrying on, sipping champagne and nipping finger foods from passing trays. Dax recognizes some of them as regular fixtures of the gallery showings in this area. A faint spike of anxiety rises. He doesn’t want to get cornered by any of them or caught in their discussion. Plus, he’s observant, noticing the other man’s step back might be a subtle hint of wanting to disengage.       “I’m probably keeping you.” An apologetic smile graces his features. It’s mere assumption really, but many people attend showings as part of a group or, at least, a couple. “I should let you get back to your viewing.” 

    Théo watches the small pocket of people coming towards them with the same anxiety as the other man, although he’d never know it because he’d never ask. There’s something about their surefootedness. Their confidence and being at ease with all those small social gestures that are a complete mystery to Théo. He doesn’t think they’d engage him, because he’s a stranger to the art community, but they might engage this other man, and he’d be forced to stand awkwardly plotting his escape.

    Oh, if only people were more like machines. Everything predictable and stable. Théo can speak that language. He glances nervously away, shakes his head to dismiss his company. Admits in a low voice, “…Came here with my sister. Don’t know where she went. She’s… Better at these things than I am.”

    The people are within earshot now, and he awkwardly backs up several more steps, looking around for another way out. It seems as though the hallway leads to a back exit. “…Sorry about your shoes, again. Know if it’s okay to smoke back there?”

[singingrass-archive]

take that, love you