creature fear

don't bother me.

[nigel-marvalli]

[He’s not, not like she is. Nigel’s head floats and spins, but he knows that she is still so far above him. And she could. He would trust her to get him there, but that’s not quite what he wants.

Nigel laces his fingers tighter around hers; marveling in the way their flesh meets at the junctions. What he wants, is to draw her hand to his lips, to feel how softly it might rest there. What he wants, is to lay his head across her stomach, and drink down both the quiet of their own room, and the beer going warm on the table beside the couch. 

He wants — Well, something too much a wisp of an idea to actually be brought into being.

Instead, he nods. Blearily, and happily; his lips pulling into a soft grin aimed only at her.]

Verne has too much on him for his own good. [And then.] Help me get there. I still feel like I’m standing on the ground.

[It’s kindly, or at least as kindly as a drunk Nigel can manage, that he pushes the guy on the couch next to him off the edge of the cushion. It clears a space just large enough for her to sit, if she leans into him a bit. Or if she leans into whoever else is there, but Nigel can’t see why she’d choose them over him.

He likes being close to her when he’s high. ]

Stay with me?

[rivahhhh]

[River would give the person giving up his spot a fleeting, apologetic look – if she were anywhere near close enough to the ground to even see him by her feet. There are too many people. Just enough people, all swirling with the light and the music, thumping across the floor and beneath her skin. Just close enough to inject itself into her veins so that she can really hear it. So she can really feel it.

It isn’t even the best she’s felt this week. But it’s so close to that sort of good that she can’t remember ever having felt better. Ever having felt more freedom laced between her fingers. That’s how it should feel, isn’t it? Like space and room to breathe, even linked together and pulling one another closer.

She can vaguely feel something crunching beneath the sole of her feet – having lost their boots hours ago – but doesn’t bother to look down. Doesn’t bother to do anything but fill the empty space beside her lover. And then use it just to house her legs, pulling herself up, sideways into his lap.

Her words feel like slow-drip molasses and she hasn’t even started speaking yet.] Reach into my dress pocket. [A heavy sigh. Words are so much energy.] And put what you pull out onto my tongue. [And she lets it peer out from between her lips for a moment, playfully.] And I’ll be yours forever.

[nigel-marvalli]

[The music is far too loud in his ears, and the base shakes his bones as it pumps through the small house. People are scattered here and there on nearly every piece of furniture in the place, and though he’s been upstairs once tonight already, he’s content for the moment not to be headed back up.

An hour ago, he’d been handed his fourth beer.

45 minutes ago, he’d taken Liara by the hand.

20 minutes ago, he’d been dragged out back to smoke.

Now he find himself tucked against unfamiliar bodies on a couch too small for the four occupying it. He’s a large frame in a small space, and while he’s not exactly comfortable, this i the closest he’s felt to home in a while.

Nigel’s eyes scan the crowd as best the can; a heavy daze in his head, and a default calm spread all through his nerves. They settle on only two of the heads he’s trying to account for, but he trusts the third knows what he’s up to, wherever he is. Nigel takes that empty space, and uses the energy to smile at his favorite pinked haired wonder. To reach out to her, as if she isn’t halfway across the room, involved in her own habits.

It doesn’t matter if she’s willing to come over.]

[rivahhhh]

[Parties at the Marvalli-Blane residence always started out so simple. An early night before the flood arrives with just Verne and Liara tiptoeing their way into the room while River tries to make some semblance of an atmosphere. The three of them quietly talking in hushed whispers, spreading drinks around on tables for easier access. River slipping herself into the bed next to the sleeping beauty who wouldn’t wake up for hours if she hadn’t pulled him up out of the restful stupor. With promises of music and hazy lights and an even hazier night.

And yet, somewhere across the hurried bustle of the crowd and the way the liquid flowered itself on her tongue, she’d lost two of the three within the first hour.

There’d been Ed – like the hatter with his head turned upside down and his bag of goodies that Verne had fronted the money for gladly. Sharing the tiny pills on his tongue as a thank you on River’s part. Though she would have thanked him anyway, if she were being truthful.

And her pupils were already twice their normal size before she’d needed them that big to spot Nigel, across the crowd, puppy-dog looks asking why she’s so far away. And for the life of her she can’t think of a good reason. Can’t remember having done anything but decide to be near him – and then she is. Swaying foggily in front of him, her hand tangled in his. She’d be seven different people before the night was over. But right now, she’s this one. And this one she likes best.] Are you up on cloud nine too? I can get you there. Verne gave me extra.

[nigel-marvalli]

[It says something about Nigel that Justin is the name his mind first jumps to. But he knows River won’t let him him name the little thing after JT, so he stops himself before his mouth can form the words.

But looking down at the kitten, cradling her in her hands, he knows he have to give her a name that will somehow do her justice. Because he knows — just knows, that for everything wrong with her now, she’ll be the greatest pet they’ve ever had between them.

Like they’ve had any. Nigel is pretty sure that his pet rock, and the flour-bag baby they’d carried around for a week in ninth grade — that they had actually named Justin Timberlake — don’t count.

He knows though, the moment he thinks it, that he has the right name. And the conviction he says it with is quite frankly astounding.]

Madonna. It’s perfect.

[rivahhhh]

 [She’s almost made of the way her lips part and curve upward. Something so new to her skin that she’s surprised it doesn’t shatter beneath the pressure of the stretch. Madonna. Like a name given to virtue, even though they both know that that is absolutely not how they mean it. Even if it’s something so micro that neither definition really fits. And somehow --] Perfect.

[And she knows that she’s an echo here, mimicking his words like some pet bird in a cage atop a bookshelf might do on lonely nights with no one to really talk to. But she means them, means the way they linger on the tip of her tongue and ask to be taken by someone who’ll listen. Means the way the sleeping thing on the blanket already feels like something good to come home to when Nigel isn’t there.] 

Now I actually have someone to cuddle with at night who isn't always showing up in the middle of the night with drunk Verne.

[nigel-marvalli]

[Nigel only knows how to nod at that. Because he knows she doesn’t mean that harshly, and it’s true. If it weren’t true, it might not fit the as well. They’re broken people collecting broken things. But unlike artifacts mended with gold, they aren’t valuing their cracks and wounds. They aren’t stitching themselves back together, and looking better for it.

It’s not an art, how they live, how they cling, how they stumble into one another. 

Nigel has never felt more together having taken Verne upstairs at a party, or having spent a night curled beneath a blanket with his head tucked against Liara’s shoulder. River’s the only one making him feel like he’s able to put the pieces of himself back together.

But it’s not a bad thing, really. Somehow that’s all okay.

They wouldn’t be themselves with out it. They wouldn’t all be so tangled up in one another.

The cat, it fits right in — with all of its rough patches and likely sickness. She speaks, and in the same instant, Nigel loves the little thing so much more for it.]

Can we keep her?

[He feels like a child all over again.]

[rivahhhh]

[Oh River, the light, arid being she is, can’t help but to smile something that might stand in the place of chiming bells if the holiday ones locked upon the church rooftop should break. Because that’s all that she knows how to be. Fitting quietly into spaces between this world and some reality where things were different – better – worse. Words upon words in her head that tell her exactly what she’s supposed to feel, even if it’s rampant like slow-growing vines pulling on the end of her tongue.

She fits, breaths here one and two, and his across from her that she can feel rattling her bones almost as much as the quiet speak that comes from the little one between them does pound in her ears. She’s almost as enamored with it already as she is him. There is no hiding it – either of them, really.] You have to give her a really good name.

Something that sounds as good as Nigel does.

[nigel-marvalli]

[Nigel hasn’t felt the need to bring home strays since he was a teenager. Even then, it had been one puppy that he’d found wandering by the waterside, and it had only stayed with them long enough for his family to buy them a better home. But he’s liked the idea of it for a long while. He likes to be able to make things better when he can, given how much in his life he’s ruined.

And the kitten he holds in his hands is no bigger than an appetizer plate; it’s fur ruffled in patches and it’s skin rubbed bare and sensitive in the others. Little raised welts have formed visibly in the bald areas, and so really, how was Nigel supposed to leave it by the side of the road?

He couldn’t. Which is why River will get home to the sight of him curled around a blanket, and a small balding cat in the very best scenario. Nigel doesn’t think she’ll actually mind that much, but it’s less than ordinary, even for their ragtag crew of morons. Like he’s pretty sure Liara doesn’t just bring home stray animals. He’s pretty sure she only gratifies ‘Quinoa’ in strange places. 

(Not like, from a legal standpoint, that’s actually better.)

But it’s not the addition of a whole life to the daily grind. And Nigel is really just waiting for the right words to come to him.

Because ‘River I brought you a possibly dying cat’ doesn’t sound right.

And sure enough, when he hears the door open, the wrong words come out.]

So like, you like cats, right?

[rivahhhh]

[In general, if you were to pick anyone in the group to bring home stray animals and call them friends, River knows that she'd be voted best bet. Like, if there had been a 'Most Likely to Befriend Roadkill' nomination in the high school yearbook, she would have won by a landslide and gotten a pretty trophy and everything. It would have been better than 'Most Unique" or whatever it was that she had actually gotten chosen for. They'd laughed for about two weeks over that one - Verne in particular.

And when she opens the door, she doesn't even let her mind slip back to the way that so many of those tiny things hadn't lasted ver long when she was little. So many moments too close to the roads and River, too distracted to watch them. 

She just sees Nigel. And her blue fuzzy baby blanket encompassing something small, jolted, frayed. It's tatters at its ends and she feels that in her bones, in her own sort of way. It's almost too easy for her to feel kindred to it.

Her voice is small when she comes up next to them.] It looks broken. [That isn't a judgement.]

[sylensio]

Visit Original Link

[rivahhhh]

if I could be

who you wanted

all the time

[nigel-marvalli]

[‘I want you to be happy’ she says, and it seems odd to him that someone who glows the way that River does, should have to be concerned with him. Or his happiness. She’s got better things to want, he’s sure. But he doesn’t fight her on it. He opens his mouth and lets the words come out, because it’s the most honest he’s been with anyone in days. Maybe even including himself. And she deserved the truth. He loves her, and she deserves the truth.]

I think I make him happy too. [There’s wonder in the words, like he can’t believe how they taste coming out — no matter how small and choked they sound.] I mean, he’s said it. I don’t know how well he meant it, but. He said I— He said it.

[And it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing to be telling her, here, with his arms around her waist, but there is no one better to tell. Cass wouldn’t want to hear it, or understand the significance of what that means to him. The ability to make someone else happy. Himself.

It feels better than the high, if he’s being honest. Even if he’d had to bite his tongue curling against Parker’s chest in the wake of the words. It makes him feel at place. Makes him feel free.]

But, I want you to be happy too.

[Because even though Parker is becoming something defining, River always was. Nothing stops her from being important.

And there are some photos he refuses to take down. Like the one of them, faces pressed close, laughing at a party from years ago.

She doesn’t stop being a part of his life.]

[rivahhhh]

You do. [It's strange, knowing the man in the apartment next to theirs has made such a claim on her best friend that pictures of River are disappearing throughout her own home. That if he were to walk into the door right now, with her skirt hiked up and his lips on her skin and hands on her waist, he would, most likely, be upset.

And it doesn't bother her, only feels like a small bit of something she'd found is being given to another. That living a life where the world doesn't make sense, and finding a person so wade through the haze with, and then dividing him up for someone else to keep feels a little bit less real than she does, most days. 

It's not like she didn't know she would. Nigel aches a different ache and yearns a different yearn. He wants love, whereas River has been more than content with what she had. He's waited. And so long as Parker is kind, she is content.] 

You make him happy. He doesn't like me. Or, doesn't like you and me. [And she shakes her head, knowing the truth behind it even if Nigel still thinks himself to little to believe it.] He wouldn't care so much if you didn't make him happy.

[It's never been much of a secret to her that he might go away. So the thought of letting him doesn't seem worth causing guilt. Still, he'll be committed to someone soon and she's too far gone to pretend she doesn't miss the taste of his lips. So she presses against them to feed the high. To maybe contradict what she's saying, even if that's not how she means it.

And mutters with the taste of the drugs on both of their tongues.] You're not hurting me by loving him.

[nigel-marvalli]

Sober me loves you. [He insists, wrapping his arms around her waist. Pinning her there to him seems wrong in a way. Because there’s nothing to truly hold her there. But he is; fighting off the force of the high, keeping her on earth with him. Nigel has to wonder if she actually wants to be there. She asks, but he thinks she might not entirely mind going either.

And Nigel kisses circles in what skin he can reach with her arms around his neck. He kisses her and wants to press his lips to hers. But in the same thought, he remembers the claim Parker has laid upon him. How absurd it is, all things considered. How important it is to him, anyways, that he be his.

So Nigel doesn’t really mind how Parker’s lips are the only ones he’s tasted in a while. Is slightly proud of how he almost thinks he can say the same. But maybe that’s just the drug talking; raising his belief in himself far past where it ought to be.]

I’m sorry. [He thinks to mutter after a few moments.] I’m sorry I moved the pictures around. I’m sorry I haven’t been around.

[But he does not make himself feel sorry about Parker, and he doesn’t think he ever will. Parker is everything that makes him feel right.

Parker would be mad if he saw them now.

And fuck, he doesn’t deserve him.]

[rivahhhh]

Don't be. [It's easier to feel light now, to wander into the way his lips move across her skin and his hands feel at her waist. She isn't touching the ground anymore. But she's stationary. Caught by his weight from levitating up and floating away to the ceiling. She feels solid. Safer, now that he's here. And it's better.] 

I want you to be happy. [But it's mumbled words against his neck like she doesn't know how to say them without feeling the tinges of neglect that she doesn't want to feel. She'd do the same, if it were something she thought could ever happen. Be distant. Put Nigel up as almost just a friend, even if he isn't just that. But she'd be careful about showing just how far across that line he goes. She'd be careful, if she had that person to be careful about.

Her face buries itself into his neck, and maybe it's just a little so that she doesn't get upset. Which she does, sometimes lately. The pictures aren't up, and that's unusual.] You're happy if he's happy.

[And she lets her arms go from around his neck, like maybe she might fall down or maybe she might float up, but either way it doesn't matter. She's high, and he's here. And she missed him.] All versions of me love you.

[nigel-marvalli]

[Nigel knows she’s right. He’d loved the little thing for months and months, even after he’d initially sobered. He’d only become conscious of it again in knowing Parker. And it wasn’t as if the man had said anything particularly negative about it. Or about it at all. But Nigel still loves it, really. He’s only teasing the woman.

And he skips spaces when he kisses her again. Hops from spot to spot with his lips; trailing up her body in constellations he won’t be able to trace back. The man laughs as he places certain ones; just below the line of her underwear, — fabric only just pulled away on careful fingers, to reveal the flesh — and above the hem of her skirt as he pats it back down, to move on.

It’s only up the valley of her chest, and into the creases of her collar that he stops, presses his face against her, and laughs in full.

And Nigel briefly misses older times. Misses how months ago, he could have stripped her clothing away and brought her higher with him. Misses how close they haven’t been since he started bringing Parker around. Because Nigel prefers men for sure, but River is special. Probably the only woman he could find himself truly happy with, and he misses knowing how to show her so.

Now he takes down some of the photos that are spread around their apartment, so that Parker won’t think of them. He presses his skin to the other man’s and finds home there, in his lips, and fingers, and words.

Nigel is happy with Parker. So, unbelievably, truly happy.

He just doesn’t want it to mean that River walks out of his life in the process.]

Sober me still loves it, just don’t tell him I told you so. High me and sober me love you alike.

[rivahhhh]

[She's liquid, floating in and out of herself even more than she does usually. And it's such a simple thing, the way the drug makes her feel. But even better that their apartment is empty in the way that it used to be. Filled with bad habits and the comfort of one another in a way that she hadn't found with anyone different. 

She wouldn't want Parker to go away -- wouldn't ever ask even if she did. But the part of her that floats off of the ground and closer to him makes it difficult not to think of how glad he isn't here now. And she closes her eyes for a moment. Takes in the vibrations of his laugh across her skin. Remembers the way it had felt the very first time, when they had been much, much higher than this. And much, much less close.

Now it's almost a familiarity. Something they both know so well that she would be hard pressed to think of something she likes that Nigel doesn't know about. And still, the familiarity sinks through in the gestures, even if it feels a little better, a little more like something she'd missed while he'd been busy touching someone else.]

Sober you loves getting high and nothing more. [She teases, laughs into the motion of wrapping her arms around his neck, holding him there in a way that he knows by now means "I'm floating away." 

That's why he doesn't like her to wander off and do drugs alone. It's why she'd almost always rather have him there. To press himself against her and keep her on the ground. She reminds him anyway, just in case he's forgotten.] Hold onto me, okay?

[nigel-marvalli]

[Nigel isn’t sure what he expects to see when she tugs her skirt up. Whether she’ll want to show him fresh scars — like she might have fallen once more, from such great heights —, or old ones, made knew again through recognition. It’s relieving, in a way, to not see scars at all — with any point.

They are there, forever a piece of her. But the little planet that graces her thigh is a much lighter sight, and it’s easy to grow warm looking at it. Easier still to blame the drugs — though they both know it isn’t, and that he doesn’t need to — for lifting his fingers. Pressing them to her stomach just to push her back against the floor.]

You’re a piece of the universe. [He smiles against her skin. And it is a well practiced dance between them; the way his fingers run her skirt up further. And how he kisses down from her hip, — across the dips in her flesh, and the hems of her underwear that only temporarily break their contact — across her thigh to the image.

Still healing, he thinks, and doesn’t kiss it directly. But below it, and above it, and grins up at her in familiar adoration.]

High you does make good choices. High me is still regretting the daisy you convinced me to get on my ankle.

[rivahhhh]

[It's been ages since he's been around like this; she hasn't minded as much as she could. Wants him to be happy. Likes the way his eyes light up when Parker is around, and even can't help but be amused by the way Parker touches him with more possession, more need when she's around. 

She knows that he likes it too. So she tries to wander about the apartment and parties for him, because it's been a long time since anyone but her made him smile like that. And anyone who makes that happen is worth losing a little time with her best friend.

But he's here tonight and she's high and the look of total adoration on his face makes the way his lips feel like ice even stronger tonight. She misses him. That she can admit.] High you thought it was a good idea then. I remember because you said the daisy reminded you of my hair and then you laughed the entire time the guy stuck needles in you.

[And her hand comes down to muss around in his hair. To just touch him, while he's touching her.] High me is happier when high you is around.

[nigel-marvalli]

[Nigel is vaguely worried to hear that. He knows that, like with Parker, his nervousness may be unfounded. That doesn’t really keep it from swelling at the back of his mind every time he finds one of them gone. At least with Parker, it’s different. The drugs are usually Nigel’s fault, or something Cass has handed off to her bandmates. They aren’t as heavy as what River prefers, unless Nigel is there to keep him from doing too much.

But he can’t worry over River like that. Or he can, but it doesn’t do the same good. She’s at parties without him all of the time; forging her own boundaries on the grounds of a loose deal they’d made once not to let themselves overdose. (The deal is also perhaps why Nigel, in all of his aimless low, has never seriously considered OD-ing on purpose. Lord knows it would be easy.)

So he takes a seat on the floor beside her, leaning his weight against hers. His head finds a home on her shoulder, but only for a few moments. Few enough for him to express the closeness he feels. Few enough for him to spot the bag of pills by her feet.

He takes a pill for himself; swallowing it down almost absently. It’s a River night. Parker is somewhere, probably with Maria. Nigel hasn’t really asked yet, because he himself has River-based plans. But he’ll send texts later, when he’s sufficiently intoxicated, with wanting words and dick picks. Months ago he would have been taking River to bed instead. Now he only considers how Parker might mind if he trails his lips along her flesh.]

It’s okay. I’ve got time to catch up, don’t I?

[rivahhhh]

Good. [And it's better that he notices.  Not that she thought that he wouldn't -- making no effort to hide it from him. But it's better that he sees it because when Nigel joins in, everything is more fun. She'd spent more than a few nights these last weeks stumbling home from bars without him. Getting high at parties and clubs and watching the world spin with the eyes of strangers and acquaintances all around her. She might have gotten fucked in a bathroom by a boy with dark eyes, or brought home someone sweet, blue hair and soft voice and all. Maybe she let that one sleep over; she thinks she might have because she usually lets the girls sleep over. But who can recall when things have been this hazy?] 

I wanna show you something. [And it's easy, rolling up her skirt so that her inner thigh is exposed. Easy when it's Nigel, who's seen every scar and every old coping mechanism. Every little thing that the only other person she might have explained it to ran off to early to see. It's a small nod at that, and even as her fingers cross over the skin, she can feel the drugs kicking in, making the ink look even more vibrant.

It's healing, the small Saturn inked into her leg.] I covered them up. I was high when I did it. But I like it. High me makes good choices.

[rivahhhh]

[River is, admittedly, not as drunk as she's making herself out to be. She isn't actually drunk at all, if she's being completely honest. But she and Nigel had made a half-baked rule about how she wasn't supposed to do anything much harder without people around. Because River, with her head in the clouds and her feet never really realizing that they're fully on the ground, gets carried away when she's high and there's no one there to talk her down.

So if Nigel believes that she's been drinking, she'll let him think that. But she won't lie. Won't outright say that she's not on ecstasy if he asks her what's got her floating. She wouldn't keep secrets.

But while she's sitting on the floor with her legs crossed like children do on the ABC rug during story time, she knows he won't be mad. They had plans. She simply got a headstart.] I started without you.

[nigel-marvalli]

[Nigel almost laughs. Almost. Instead what comes out of his mouth is this strangled noise he instantly wants to swallow back, that brings the bile of overwhelming guilt and airport alcohol with it. He shakes his head. Shakes it off, and holds his hand out like he wants to hold hers.

And he does, sort of, but more to pull her closer than for support. Nigel wants to make it so that when he speaks, and his eyes to not meet hers, it’s because they can’t and not because he’s avoiding it. As if he still wouldn’t be avoiding it. As if she wouldn’t know.

She would, he’s sure. She’s River.

Nigel reaches out all the same, because the bile is what pushes the words out — not conscious thought,or decision.

His mom is six feet under and he put her there.]

I’m in the worst place I know, dear.

[Though he means it, his tone is light; almost joking. It’s heavy on him, crushing even. It makes him want to forget the medical line drinking has to draw.

But it’s an excuse to drink all the same. An excuse to get her to spend time with him. An excuse to not have to think for a little while, or more accurately to not be able to.

He’s not going to weigh it down any further than he has to.]

Doesn’t mean we can’t make it fun.

[rivahhhh]

[There's one hand, with the bottle coming up to her lips for another sip as if it were water -- something sweet to douse her tongue and wash away the taste of a bad day. And she'd heard -- she'd remembered -- that tequila was supposed to taste like fire. But it doesn't. Hasn't. Not since she was sixteen and sitting on the bank of the river with feet so cold in November water that the people she'd chosen to spend the night with thought that they might freeze off. Urged her to take them out.

The liquor had traveled fire down to her toes to warm them up and then never tasted like fire again.

And there's the other hand, slipping into his and walking towards him with steps that might have been careful on another day. But today, they're slipping and leaning and one, two, three, there. 

She may have been drinking earlier. She must have been drinking earlier. But the lights in the corners of her eyes haven't gone away, so she knows she needs more. She knows Nigel needs more, even though his breath already smells of gin.] 

I know. [She says it with an air of confidence. Not cocky -- just knowing. Like she's been gifted the information.] I like you best when you're in a bad mood.

[nigel-marvalli]

[Nigel merely shrugged, not entirely certain that his legs would hold him if he chose to stand up right now. Besides, he didn’t need to. The liquor cabinet had been the second stop on his way in the door, and whatever had been left in there was now on the table before them; plain as day to see.]

You may have leveled some stuff. I don’t know. Whatever you didn’t is still here. [And Nigel gestures lazily at the bottles; not ready for deeper thinking. He can’t count how many are there, or recognize which ones aren’t anymore. He just knows that he has a general sense of things being less, and so they probably are. It’s logic he’s willing to accept at the moment. He’s too exhausted to fight for better structure.

And it’s with his hands on a bottle of tequila that he turns to properly look at her; fingers unscrewing the cap with a sound that shouldn’t resonate in him like it does.

Or maybe it should. Should it? What?]

That doesn’t really answer the question, though.

[Words which he follows by holding the now open bottle out to her. In his logic, you can never be drunk enough. By medical logic, that is absolutely not true. Whatever. Details.]

[rivahhhh]

[She takes the bottle from him, not bothering to consent to the wreckage that pummels her to the ground when it got too far and she takes too much. That would come later. That winding, spinning resentment for the way she allows herself to wire them all so incorrectly that they feel the need to fight away this passion in the same way that she does.

Only it isn't the same way -- and hers had started out as more of a curiosity than an escape. Though the whispering thoughts in the back of her mind reminding her that some use it to run away might be used to her advantage. 

She'd let it slip so calmly from then on. Through her fingers and through the cornfield and winding up trees like she might still be nine years old. But she isn't now. She's older and much less wise -- much less knowing. 

And it all feels so hectic that the tequila has actually begun to taste like home. She quite likes the way the warmth of the mouth has come from his lips. Their familiarity is something comforting.] 

You're in a terrible mood. [It's said in the tone of a compliment.]

[nigel-marvalli]

[The flight home had been a longer one than Nigel had wanted to deal with today. The couple in front of them had leant their chairs all the way back; effectively cramming both him and the women next to him in on themselves.

They’d tried to make light of the situation. It hadn’t made it any less exhausting.

Nigel had wanted to stay a second night in Chicago. He hadn’t wanted to be back in the airport three hours after he’d left the cemetery. But that was of course, the way things had to be. He couldn’t afford a second night, and he didn’t want to push himself any further than he already had.

Which made the plan pretty easy to accomplish upon arrival home. There was no second guessing whether or not it was the right thing to do, or whether he even should. It was what he wanted, and so it was what was going to happen. And that was it. Today wasn’t the day to grow a conscience.

At least it wasn’t, until he’d actually been faced with the amount of alcohol in question.

He’d gone to the store and bought pretty much anything alcoholic that they didn’t already own, setting it down atop the counter when he got home and leaving it there — sitting and staring at it for nearly a half an hour while he tried to talk himself into making a better decision.

It’s where he still is, when he notices movement in the corner of his eye. Turning his had to greet the blonde, he manages to almost smile.]

I’m going to get very, very drunk. Join me?

[rivahhhh]

[Nearly the entire day of Nigel's trip had been lost upon River. And she might have noticed the quiet that surrounded the apartment above the floor below them, and she might have walked with her feet up on the tips of her toes just to see if the quiet might echo -- if it could deepen with the entrance of her ineffectual steps. But his absence hadn't caught her attention as he was absent much of the time. As she was too. Only there was no work and no play either because the air was heavy and the sun was too bright. 

She's glad that days like these wait to creep their heads up when she doesn't have to go in and talk to strangers. She used to be a watcher. But growing up into an age where alcohol is introduced to your system in the context of New Orleans never really did spell out a future of quiet watching without participation. Maybe there could have been, in another life. But this one held Bourbon street on the tip of her tongue, sometimes literally if she were dared to taste the salt of the earth.

And she's almost willing to answer his question before her mouth opens and feels heavy. And then it occurs to her what she'd been doing all day.] 

I may have put myself a step ahead of you. I'm not sure. It feels like it, though. Check the liquor cabinet for me, just to be sure.

[rivahhhh]

WHAT IS YOUR EARLIEST HUMAN MEMORY?

I'm gonna go ahead and pass on that one, thanks.

[blackfknwidow-blog]