Yeah, okay, Aaron’s scuppered. For the third time in approximately as many minutes, his body language changes entirely, shifting to resigned like putting on an old sweater. “Yeah, I know. Heather says it helps with the whole not being shitscared of me thing, but.” He winces in sympathy when Chas lets on about the screaming, looks like he wants to apologize before he’s distracted by trying not to look like he’s hovering in case Chas doesn’t make it to his feet okay, or in case he starts to fall.
Then he’s distracted by shooting a glance towards Juniper, and then the question, so it turns out he never quite apologizes.
At least, not for the headache.
He smiles, and it’s sickly, awful, makes him look like he’s half underground already. It’s also mercifully short-lived, warping into a more humorous expression like he hasn’t just admitted to hauling around one of the seven deadly sins in the back of his head.
"Not a fun ride, fucked up my church life something awful, fucked up my outside life something worse—you already knowing is probably the first time something related to it’s gone right.” A pause, painstaking. “Or at least, not gone wrong. Been a bit of a war zone, tryina keep him under control, tryina keep everything safe. But—I can explain better when your friend gets here, won’t have to repeat myself that way.”
┉┉ ◣♥◥ bramble branches crack underneath clipped footfalls and damp, dead leaves damask her sneakers in dirt. autumn ambiance shrouds algid fury in her frigid stride, amaranth eyes affixed to the sin in human skin. suspended susurration freezes midair, melting in her lungs, trailing past her as she stalks the sidewalk with single-minded purpose. florid, flushed lips gnaw and gnash at the revelation rendered anticlimactic by nonchalant nature--not from anger at him, no, but the startling scenario overall. arms folded across her hollow chest, she exudes clandestine curiosity in guarded posture. her eyes are gelid and glimmering as diamonds dusted by snowdrifts. flinty, fearful, furious.
❝ --Except that's not even the half of it, and apparently we all have dead gods, or extraterrestrials, or whatever you'd like to argue semantics over about in our heads. For apparently being one of the most bellicose beings on the planet, you're a pretty rad guy. But you'll have to do better than that before we get on the official patented "I'm With Jesus" train--who is Patience Jones, why us, and what are we supposed to do now that we've been enlightened to this epiphany? I mean, I'm not...mad with you or at you or--anything, it's just a hell of a thing to drop on someone's birthday. ❞
a singular sardonic snicker escapes her lips involuntarily, a sob guised by sarcasm.
❝ --How would one even know what virtue or sin we're supposed to...harbor unless they come right out and tell you? I've had...throaty, thrashing vocables of something subhuman where I can make out a string of sentences above the white noise, if I'm lucky. They shapeshift from tentacled three horned cryptid with black blood and overlapping teeth to an overgrown parasite with four eyes and too many legs. Hardly the type of angel or demon you read about in vacation bible school. But I don't think they're...harmful. Not entirely. They emerge when I'm not so sure of myself and the ghosts leave my body in fumes. ❞
florid fingernails claw at cotton sleeves, frayed threads caught 'pon thick talons. syllables somber as the dying days deceives fear festering in her heart.
❝ --So tell us what we need to know. ❞
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