he should’ve expected that things wouldn’t get any easier from that point and onwards. the kiss already felt forced enough, but it wouldn’t do for someone like scarlet, who thought of their affair as a romance novel with a tragic ending in which the main character said their goodbye proclaiming their love for another—a delusion that she had created to escape this reality.
dio stood there, silently watch her try to gather herself. her composure crumbling underneath all the despair that she felt and was reflected in that expression of hers, like a kicked mutt staring at the person that abandoned them. he could relate to an extent, and in both of these scenarios, the person walking away didn’t hold any feelings to those abandoned. the only difference there was, is that he was not his father. this wasn’t an act out of cowardly.
his lips are pursued. scarlet was asking him to lie to her, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it regardless if they held a meaning or not. he hadn’t uttered those words ever since… his head shook, sigh leaving past his lips as he lowered his gaze. anything to avoid looking at her. “—i’m sorry, scarlet. i can’t do that.”
For Diego, likely only a few seconds had passed, but for Scarlet, they were a breathless eternity. Her inane hopefulness was reflected in her face and bearing, subtle movements following every one of his, like the sea molding itself to the shore, reflecting him and his actions, small as they were. Fear clashed with empty optimism; fear that he'd deny her this last boon, an overly generous belief that he'd let her go gracefully. All she needed was this one little thing, one last lie to crown all the others. He knew that, didn't he? He knew how much this meant to her.
So, she must've heard him incorrectly. This couldn't… Her face drained of everything when the apology reached her ears; color and life, even the grief as she stared up at him slack as a doll, her hooked leg sliding away from his to land haphazardly on the mattress. Sorry? He was sorry? She lay there, a lazy vein starting to throb in her forehead as she looked up at him and his averted gaze, uncomprehending. Sorry?
“Coward.” Stunned, she'd mumbled it before she'd even realized she'd spoken, the pain and betrayal catching up to her, the fires of anger waking up from their banked glow. In disgust, she pulled away from him, curling in on herself with her back to him so he wouldn't see her face.
“Fine. Run.” Her voice shook with the effort of speaking rather than devolving into wordless shrieking. He didn't deserve that, he didn't get to see how much he affected her — though it may be too late for that. “I don't even know who you are. Not the man i thought you were, in any case. You're just like the rest of them. Ordinary.”
The feeling of Mike’s body brushing against his own, however faint and coincidental it was, made him suppress a small shiver of delight. It was inappropriate to feel such a way towards a colleague, not to mention a newly declared friend, but Blackmore couldn’t help himself. There was simply something about the way the other man carried himself, the deep baritone of his voice, and that smile. That smile was breathtaking, no matter if it was a beaming grin or a tentative quirk of his full lips.
He was pulled from his reverie by Mike’s voice and the feeling of hands placed on his shoulders. Ah, he hadn’t even noticed. After a small moment of thought, he realized Mike must have approached slowly and gently placed them there. It was… nice. Nice to not flinch at the touch of someone he liked, forgetting himself and almost leaning into the touch before he responded. “Ah, it’s… it’s quite alright, Mike. You’re already providing dinner, the least I could do is put my own coat away.”
Glancing at Mike, he gave him a warm smile before raising his own hand up to his shoulder and gently brushing the taller man’s hand away. It wasn’t at all unkind or meant to offend, it was more like he was softly pushing Mike’s hand aside to take off his coat rather than simply brushing him off or ignoring the hand was even there.
Once his shoulders were free, he shrugged off his coat and took it into his hands, giving it a firm shake out of habit before placing it on the peg next to Mike’s winter coat, fingers brushing against it as he pulled his hands back. His coat looked… well, it looked nice, hanging there next to Mike’s. The sight filled him with a warm feeling, his gaze softening slightly. If he was lucky, it would hang there many more times during his future visits.
He hadn’t missed what Mike had said earlier, that there would be a ‘next time’. He was glad, not only because of the flower, but because he truly did enjoy spending time with the other man, feeling surprisingly at ease and comfortable at his side. Even if 'next time’ only meant until he could identify the flower, he would be thankful for the extra time he got to spend at his side.
“However… Don’t think this means I don’t owe you. Hanging my own coat is hardly enough to repay you for dinner, I’ll have to think of something to bring next time I’m over… That is, of course, if you’ll have me?” Blackmore spoke with a joking tone, poking a small bit of fun at the exchange of dishes that had been going on between them for a while. It did taper off a bit at the end of his sentence, turning shy and a bit hopeful as his smile gained a nervous edge to it. “I, um… forgive me for saying this, but I do like spending time with you, even if all we’ve really done is exchange food with each other– Which I still enjoy! But I’d… well, I’d like the chance to talk to you more.”
Upon receiving the gentle rejection, Mike took a smart step back, giving Blackmore the space he needed to divest himself of his voluminous outerwear. Not, however, without a little regret. None of it was directed at his colleague, it was simply a free-floating emotion of mild ruefulness, a mild bit of unguided dejection. Disappointment at having the remove his hands from that tentative touch.
Still, he returned the smile from his polite distance, watching the assassin with poorly hidden interest. His eyes trailed his revealed form, one shoulder revealed and then the next, heartrendingly slender under the many dark layers. In only his shirt, little remained of Blackmore's illusory bulk, the dark fabric far from being what one would call form-fitting and more endearing because of it.
Though Mike knew he was far from it, it made him look fragile, inspiring a similar burst of warmth within the dark-skinned guard that Blackmore experienced at the sight of their coats hanging together. His colleague was skinny enough to inspire outrage in a veritable battalion of Southern grandmothers, and Mike was no different apart from the flash of deep affection. Where the assassin didn't care for himself, it was his job — nay, his duty — to look after him in his stead. If he hadn't brought it up himself, he would have had to find a way to politely insist he return.
“Ah? No, no, you don't owe me anything for this, you're doing me a favor,” he protested gently, snapping out of his reverie. Slightly dumbfounded, his shoulders shocked up in an abashed shrug, a light sound of happy astonishment emanating from his lips. “Our worlds are similar, I think? Work leaves us with little time to socialize, and the nature of it can make it hard to connect to other people at times. Not to mention — and this is pure conjecture, mind you — people like us tend to live lives that may be considered… out of the ordinary to a degree?”
Another shrug, this one coupled with a rather hopeless sigh, though the smile kept tugging at the corners of Mike's mouth. He was rambling on like a callow youth faced with the object of his affection, very unlike him. Quite besides, he'd forgotten to mention the most important part. “And I always enjoy our conversations too perhaps more than the food. That's… something I'd like to have more of as well, if you think you'd like to come over more often. My evenings tend to be a bit on the lonely side.”
That, he genuinely laughed at, beckoning Blackmore to follow him. Callow, yes, he was certainly sounding it, far from the suave front he might have put up if he'd had some certainty. Then again, under different circumstances he wouldn't have been so quick to invite a prospective swain into his home, much less his rather cramped kitchen. It wasn't a space that impressed, the counters showing the path of many knives past, the elderly pot-bellied stove tarnished with many hours of being heated. In the foreknowledge of having to prepare dinner tonight, he'd stocked its innards this morning, the balled up scraps of newspapers catching when touched with a lit match, a diffuse heat spreading sluggishly.
“Have a seat, it'll get warmer soon.” The sight of his pantry pleased Mike significantly less, his from hidden from his colleague by his turned back. When was the last time he'd actually shopped for groceries? There was enough for a meal in here, but no ingredients stood out. Mostly they were the collection of dried goods he'd have on hand at all times, beans and corn, a few fresh vegetables wrapped in paper bags. Mike chose onions first of all, a good, hearty base for any meal. Onto the cutting board they went, topped and bottomed and peeled as he thought over what the rest of the dish would look like.
Layne idly stood there at the bar, fingers tapping rhythmically against it as he waited for Funny to make a decision. He was sure he would pick something good… he was, after all, the one who had offered to buy him a drink, right? It just felt right to let the other man choose what it was, however strange it may end up being.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise as he heard the word ‘tequila’ fall from Funny’s mouth, giving him a shocked yet mildly impressed look. “Tequila?” He said, his voice almost betraying him and it took a moment before he was able to speak again. “Well, that’s, uh… quite the surprise. I didn’t take you for the shots type.” A small laugh bubbled up inside of him, equal parts nervous and excited. “It’s been, um… a long time since I’ve done shots. I hope you’ll forgive me for being out of practice.”
Pushing himself up off the bar, he began heading for the seats that Funny had chosen, which he had no objections to. In a corner, away from people, a spot that he would’ve chosen if he were on his own so people wouldn’t bother him. He silently thanked Funny for choosing it because, despite the significant lack of patrons in the bar, he’d still rather avoid socializing with anyone but the person he had come here with.
He sat down, letting out a small sigh as he did so and propped his elbow up on the table, mimicking his position from when he was at the bar, fingers resuming their idle tapping. “So, uh. Funny… When did you learn to play the violin? I’ve always really liked it and I did want to learn to play at one point, but between hockey and… other things, I never had the time.” A soft grin spread across as he reminisced on his first time hearing the instrument. He couldn’t remember much about it, only that it sounded even more stunning than it looked.
“It’s such a pretty instrument, isn’t it? The deep color, the elegant shape, and not to mention the sound! Four strings but capable of so many gorgeous sounds it’s….. I, uh, so-rry. I just really like the violin.” His cheeks flushed red the moment he realized he was rambling about such a boring topic, a look of embarrassment taking place of the passionate smile he once had.
Hiding his own surprise, Funny replied to Layne's shock with what he hoped was a passable knowing smile, as if this had been his plan all along. Oh no, he was sure he didn't look like the shots type, but then who was, when you got right down to it? No one but college boys looking for as rowdy an evening as possible, consequences be damned. He'd lived through that time of his life and had little desire to revisit it, though it seemed that he would be forced to through his own unthinking rashness.
“I must admit to being rather out of practice myself,” he admitted in low tones as they headed for their table, holding on to the illusion of having made a conscious choice of beverage. Regardless, his eyes made a sharp and sweeping pass of the establishment, taking in the few midweek patrons. A lack of familiar faces put him somewhat at ease. It was unlikely he'd run into anyone he knew to begin with, yet the confirmation put him at ease. The last thing he needed after combining shamelessly chasing a younger man — he really should ask Layne exactly how old he was at some point — with an evening of shots was to be caught in the act.
Satisfied, he slid into the seat opposite his partner for the night, the brief tightness of his balled fingers relaxing on the faux--worn wood to draw idle patterns following the grain. His back was towards the bar's floor, Layne having taken the most defensible position, but he let himself relax into it, showing nothing but calm openness to his companion, considering the question like it was of great import, not simply small talk. “I think I was perhaps… five years old? Honestly, it's so long ago that it's hard to remember, but five sounds about right. My mother got it into her head that I may have a talent for it, though I can't tell you why.”
With a light laugh and a graceful gesture to compound the false humility, he leaned his chin in the slack cup of one hand, secretly delighted by Layne's paeans on the instrument. His own first encounter with the instrument was less positive, the road to producing those sweet, lilting sounds a long one littered with many an unsightly shriek and wail. “Whether she was right or wrong… I think it would be better if you were the judge of that. I like to think my perseverance has paid off in the long run, though I never achieved my dream of playing professionally in any capacity. To be honest, the closest I ever came to it as a part in the school band, not what one would call prestigious.”
His amusement at the jest leaked out of him when two small glasses were placed in front of them, replaced by a wary eyeing of is chosen libation. How familiar. What the crust of salt around the glasses' rim was supposed to achieve he'd never divined and the slice of lime seemed more pithy than ever to him. Surely there ere many ways to use tequila to fashion a drink that might be considered tasty, but neat had never been the way for him.
Not wasting any time, he knocked it back after no more than a small inclination of a toast.Good Lord Almighty, it as exactly how he remembered it; quite akin to what he imagined rubbing alcohol to taste like, going down with all the grace of a winged partridge and all the spiked heat of a hastily gobbled soup right off the stove. Truly dreadful, though he masked his distaste with a quick suck of the lime, hiding his discomfort under its sour bite.
“Hockey, you said?” he queried blindly when he had some confidence that his tongue had not melted away under the onslaught. He blinked in the bar's dim light, the tequila churning in his stomach with a volatility that told him he wouldn't be rid of it until he'd imbibed enough to stop caring. Still, the interest was genuine in this case, the young man opposite him didn't exactly have the kind of build he'd associate with such a hard-fought sport. “Not the most common of pastimes, at least not around here. How did you get involved in that?”
It was true as they say, the way to man’s heart is through his stomach, which she did not mind. As much as she claimed herself to be an independent and aspiring young woman, cooking was still a hobby and joy that brought her mind to ease. Also, praises she would get for her meals were music to her ears in all honesty.
Peering at him, ever the curious eyes, as he mentioned his mother, she found herself oddly flattered he would mention her. She sounded like a gentle natured woman from what she could gather from him whenever he would share bits of information. “Nostalgia is a powerful emotion…” she mused quietly while taking a small spoon of the custard herself. “My father and I also enjoyed to treat ourselves with this treat whenever he had a day off from the office “ she added with an almost melahconic smile.
Seeing how he was in no rush, she could assume there was still plenty of time. Which meant…maybe she could ask a few more inquiries. Henry was still staring in hope since his darling mistress did give him a whiff of cream, just a tiny bit wouldn’t be dangerous for a dog like him.
“I have a feeling your mother was also a woman of skilled hands in the kitchen. What was she like? By your stories, she sounds like a devoted woman!”
Hearing her tell of her own memories related to the humble treat, Funny breathed a small laugh between spoonfuls. The impression he'd gotten of Nessa's father was by far a positive one, though he found it had to construct a full mental picture when her mother seemed to demand center stage even in memory.Regardless, the image of him and his little daughter seated together to indulge fit, almost like a secret shared between them.
Though the memories were sweet, he couldn't recall any such moments of his own, illicit treats enjoyed mostly by himself while his mother was a distant, bustling presence. “I am not sure how to judge her cooking, in all honesty. Though she did not prepare meals herself every day, I recall enjoying the days she did very much… but perhaps that was only the chance in atmosphere. She always managed to make those days feel special.”
Throwing his mind back in time, he stirred the custard, spoon tinkling gently against the sides of the plate. “What she must have been like as a wife, I cannot judge, it is the prerogative of little boys to think nothing but good of their mothers, after all. As a mother, she was very caring, to the point of driving me to despair as i got older. I suppose she was trying to protect me from an unkind world for as long as she could, in her way, even after I had outgrown such coddling.”
But that was a conversation they had had before, and he threw Nessa a somewhat apologetic look. Likely he had worried her half to death doing some of the things he'd done with youthful bravado. “I think you would have liked her, though what she would think of my getting involved in another entanglement with a woman so many years my junior is anyone's guess. Then again, she'd likely keep it to herself as long as I was happy.”
Everything had been going so well. In that moment, the first meeting, the breakfast and chair had all flown away. Spread their wings and left for other places. Gone and onto better things. Left only with a clean slate to forge new memories. Ones far more pleasant than the previous. All of it would not matter and they could be two people having a conversation. Not two Shadow possessors playing a tasking game to determine a win. A win that’d fuel their egos and their sense of being correct over the other–being superior. It merely a casual interaction among most people. Something to pass the time without thinking about what time it truly was.
Not staring down the clock and watching the hands tick away and the pendulum swing, hoping in some strange way it’d go faster. Living in that moment, saying goodbye and welcoming something new. Oh how fleeting it had become. Like the birds of the season, it all returned. Left but for a time. Returned with the summer’s wind and here to stay. It had been a trick and Jorah played the perfect role of the fool. Believing in forgetting, believing that it’d all start over. The past never dies. It comes back just the migrating birds. For a time she can forget but it never lasted. However long or short, it came back to hang over her just as that Shadow of hers did.
Seen or not, she always came back. Rather, she does not leave only lets Jorah pretend she does. Things, actions, and memories like her stayed. A brick in pocket. There it would be and one got used to it for time. However, that weight always made itself known again. No matter the time, no matter the place, it pulled down. Sometimes it irritating, other it saddening and even hopeless. This time it had been rage. Enraged by his reminder of what they were. Enraged from his inability to see that of course people where not birds and a babbler could not grow a curved beak. That the entire point. People, animals, whoever, cannot be what they are not. They can be what they are and what they are can be an entirely different thing.
Brows firmly knit together like a needle pulling thread thin and eyes say nothing but red. Lurched forward, her hands placed firmly on the ground, her face came right to his. She’d grab it if she could but, currently, her hands laid painfully flat into that itchy carpet she hated so much. -“Of course people are not birds you bloody idiot! We cannot grow wings and fly! If we could then I certain would have left by now! It is not about becoming what already exists but something new!”- Jorah insisted vehemently; not backing down in her heated and emotionally driven crusade.
-“You think I ask for you to take the black off your skin and replace it with the pale skin color of your father?”- An assumption. A bold one. One not thought of entirely, merely inferred in a fury of thoughts. -“That is foolish! No one can ask that of you and expect it to happen. A babbler cannot become a shikra as you said, it is its own. People are not birds and there can be much that defines someone so much so there no written place for it! Ah, but you believe that to be a negative thing? Who told you that? Who said there nothing positive to be had in a unique setting, hm? It is not positive to create a place for yourself when there nowhere else to go? Who said that? Given two options of who you are when you feel you are neither?”-
Voice driven by passion and a wildfire set free in her eyes. Wrath spewing from her teeth as word fired at him firmly. Yet, it was the desperation that lingered. -“If others do not fancy who you are that is there issue to deal with. Are you happy with yourself? Great, excellent! The opinions of others are nothing if you firm in who you are! If they hate you then that the weight they have on their shoulders! But you…you want to stay assigned to something someone else chose for you?! Something that does not fit you? You are happy with that? That sounds miserable, empty and completely unfulfilling! A chance to create something new and you see that as negative? Negative?!”- Raging at him, pleading with him, it all so world shattering for the idealistic young woman.
She shook her head. Scoffed and looked past him. -“You are lost.”-
How foolish he'd been, letting himself get lured into complacency by his own weaknesses. The puzzle with its pieces strewn about practically anathema to him, a clear picture incomplete, taunting him, drawing him in as something with a clear answer; neat, simple organized. Something without any ambiguity about it, no myriad of solutions muddying the waters of understanding. And the piece she kept passing over too much to resist, begging for him to pick it up and put it in its rightful place. Of course, that revealed where others should go and he could not stop himself.
A shared activity to while away the time, the game an adequate buffer between them. Neither of them seemed to enjoy silence and talk had followed naturally, tentative at first, but how soon he'd forgotten himself and who he had been having this friendly argument with. Somehow, it had outlasted what brought them together, but not by much. Pleasant as the puzzle's depiction had been, it was only a temporary diversion, not a great work of creativity to be enjoyed for a long time. Acting as agents of entropy, his hands had torn apart both the street scene and the pleasant atmosphere.
The lack of distraction had sent them back into how they had started this day; her on one side, him on the other. As it should be. His duties were many, yet entertaining her was not one of them, only to watch, to guard, to observe and report the day's events back to his master. If there was a pang of regret, it was buried quickly underneath a shock of shamed rage. He was not the only one with barbs that hit with venomous accuracy. Though he'd never mentioned his circumstances, he'd come too close to alluding what he should not.
“What do you know of what I am? No matter what the color of my mother's skin or my father's skin, the world of my skin is what it is, you're right! I can't wash it off with a ton of soap or rub it off with miles of sandpaper!” Enraged, he met her challenge head-on using the little space she left to lean forward until their noses almost touched. His shoulders squared long fingers digging into scratchy fiber, tempted to push forward more and bowl her over. “My skin is brown and that is all it'll ever be. The skin of my mother and her mother, all the way back to Ham! It wouldn't be my choice, but I wasn't ever given one! None of my life was my choice until—”
He stopped himself, the sentence ending not in words but in a low little growl in the back of his throat. Any desire to be so close to her, to look at her, evaporated and he clambered stiffly to his feet, intent on retaking his spot by the window-side. He lasted seconds, too filled with wordy rage to stay still, pacing in front of the glass like a wounded panther. “Unique! Your world really is too naive. Maybe for the likes of you, you could reinvent yourself time and time and again, and who would think to question? There would be a place for you!”
Likely she thought of herself as such: unique. Of course she did, she had that air about her of privilege, of someone who had never had to fear of a judgment that might be final, ending dangling from the branch of a tree. “What do you expect me to do? Proclaim I'm not black? Would anyone listen? Would anyone care? I could make that choice, but what is the point when my history is written on my face? How can I not care when doors are closed to me everywhere I go? Whatever my… choice, it isn't mine that decides who I am!”
Bag slung over her shoulder, Jorah stood with her back facing Bernie. A risky move if it turned against someone else. Someone competent. The one word he surely was not. More of a fool than when she first met Pocoloco. He was something Jorah simply desired to forget. Yet, what someone wanted to forget never left. Life was twisted in that way. Begging herself to forget about it only reinforced the memory. Trying not to think of it, well, that brought it to the front of thoughts. A counterproductive endeavor. Each time she’d tell herself not to think about it, it’d appear in her mind as clear as day.
Most of the time in pictures. The image of Bernie’s homely mug there at the center. Big, wide and smiling stupid. If it not that, then it his name written clearly in pretty lettering. The lettering she penned. How poorly it fit him. An explosion of ink suited the rat better. Blotches of black and smudged in all corners. Illegible, clumsy and disorderly. Like one’s pen burst in the middle of writing a name. A child holding a pencil for the very fist time and scribbling its jumbled thoughts away onto some lowly piece of parchment. One parents might coo at and then throw in the bin once their child forgets its existence.
Then there was the sound of him that lingered in her thoughts. The worst sort of grinding and churning. Disgustingly rusty and off tune. Like a sickly choir boy always singing off key while the rest chimed away. A monkey banging on the drums or a clown walking on pots and pans. It truly a horrid sound those like him had. And Jorah thought the muddy sound of the south to be the worst. This Straya place had them beaten quite easily. No matter what type of showman he was, he’d always be a rat at the end of the day. A rat who waved a magic wand and lined up pretty dresses.
It’d have been so simple that way. Jorah turned her shoulder. She knew not why, just happened to turn and look at him with disdain. Disdain that soon become a wide stare. The rat who waved a magic wand had no such thing in his hand. Fingers out tall and palm holding nothing. His hand merely gestured to and from. Not to line up dresses and boots but to shoot a concoction of colors. A swirl of a rainbow, one fresh right after the rain, lit itself into being. A comet on the tips of his fingers. Shot out and danced about with a flashy and vibrant tail. Twirled and curved through the still and dry air like there nothing there until the flickering faded. Faded just as the flames she stomped on.
Jorah stood. Eyes open and face frozen to stone. Her immediate gaze went to those hands of his. There not flint to bring what she saw to a spark. There nothing there. Nothing she could see. And yet those lights danced and flew just like they had earlier. The only mirror with them lay shattered on the dirt and the only smoke to be seen came from the fire she had killed. It hovered over him, hanging there like it had always been. Seen when the right time hit but always there. Just like her.
Now Jorah heard no stray thoughts in her head. She heard nothing and saw only the wrist she gripped with a hand whose knuckles turned white. Looked at his palm even more closely, there nothing there. Pulled up his arm and pried apart each finger one by one. There still nothing there. Not a smudge. Not even a speck of powder or dust. More and more her fingers curled around his wrist. Squeezing and coiling like a snake did to a rat that wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time. Her gaze fixed into a glare. One sharp and complete with a hue of loathing. There was nothing there.
There no magic wand. There no powder on his hand to fix a flame. There only his skin that he wore. But Jorah had seen it. Saw it clear as day before and now. Those lights and colors were real. So why was there nothing there?! There must be something. There should not be another explanation. It hovered over him and lingered when the right light hit. Even though it faded, it had always been there. From the moment she first saw it until now. It had been there the entire time. Jorah just hadn’t seen it. She forget it was there. Much like–₴Ⱨ₳ĐØ₩
There were more. There were more! In a room where the sun was bright, it impossible for only one to have a shadow lingering. There’d be another. And another and another and another…! Jorah’s eyes burned with foreseen demise. It was not just Pocoloco? This one too. This rat. Even the smallest and meekest creatures had the potential for it. An separating ocean did not stop how far a Shadow could reach. It could have been something else. It could have been one like her and Jorah ran in. Ran right into the nest.
Her hand strained, the bones in her fingers and hand indenting her skin. Shaking and trembling with acute pain. Pinched around Bernie’s wrist, they left a burn of purple and red. The blood flow strained and suffocated under her hand. Brought around tighter and tighter while her thought raced again. Full of ideas. Ideas of how this could have gone differently. Ideas of how many more there were of them. This is why. This is why he wanted her here. Stone the crows. That was its name. He knew to name it just like she had. ₳₦Ø₮ⱧɆⱤ
Let go. His wrist slipped from her quivering hand. Sharply turned around and stepped forward and away from Bernie. -“Do whatever you wish and get what you need.”- Jorah addressed Pocoloco without looking at him. ₳₦Ø₮ⱧɆⱤ. -“You are far better suited knowing what we need and do not. What we have and what we have not. I leave that to you and him. I care not about whether we would make it in some bush. I only care about getting to where we need to go. We do what we must to get there. That is the plan.”-
₳₦Ø₮ⱧɆⱤ
Though he felt slightly insulted by the manner in which the message was delivered, Pocoloco would be the first to admit that ‘playing’ wasn't a bad way to describe what they were doing. From that day where Jorah had pulled him down by his collar, they'd meandered on their way without much serious thought. San Diego was on one end, Yuma on the other and what lay inbetween may be desert, but how hard could it be to traverse? Folks did it every day, surely. Mail and things had to move between them and it wasn't like it was magicked from place to place.
And so far, Bernie was the first of any sort of trouble they'd run into. Or any sort of human being, which should have given them pause yet the implications had slipped Pocoloco's mind. Their route must be the best one because look, on the map it was the shortest, a straight line from point A to point B. They were making great time, in fact! A little better every day as the bags got lighter. At this rate, they'd get there a day early without all that heavy stuff to carry around. Heavy stuff like water, which they'd been drinking without any sort of plan or ration.
Somewhat dejectedly, Pocoloco crouched by the trickling stream as Jorah performed her examination, dipping his hand in and letting the water flow around it. Beyond cool, the brook was downright cold, a great deal fresher than the contents of their dwindling skins and bottles. Since he was here, he splashed some onto his face, letting the chilly rivulets drip down his neck and chest. “Y'all mind if we pop down later?” he addressed Bernie, attempting for the first time today to sound… maybe a little bit like an adult, like someone who had their life in order and would be open to something approaching a plan. Contrite. Grateful. “We got over here in a rush so we left most of our stuff back where were campin', but the offer of sharin' is uh, it's 'precciated.”
The thief's answer took some time, his plain brown eyes pointed where Jorah's were, on his hand being turned and prodded and pinched. A grimaced passed over his face, a sharp intake of breath hissing between his teeth, a sharp pull of his arm that didn't move it one inch from Jorah's grip. “Here!” he squealed, a light sheen of sweat on his brow, his free hand digging under her squeezing fingers to no avail. “That bloody hurts! Yew've had your eyeful, let go!”
Snatched away the second she let up, the hand cradled to his chest protectively, a ring of red around his wrist. A deep sigh, the manieth of today, along with that slightly victimized cast of face. “Come or go, what am I going to do to stop yew, lad? By all means, I'm planning to be gone before noon anyway, not exactly a hobby of mine, squatting in caves… Search me why I'm even offering after being manhandled every which way by your young lady. Guess I've got a soft spot for the lost, eh? Much good as it does me, I can't let yew die out there, can I?”
After a few tests of his battered wrist that showed it still operated as it should, Bernie resumed his work of building the fire, a cone of slim twigs arranged just so as he muttered under his breath. Moving from the brook's edge, Pocoloco joined him, silently handing down likely looking branches and enduring the peevish mumblings as best he could. As the wood caught, Bernie shot him a weighing look, teeth sinking into his lower lip. Jorah's back got a similar glance, though that one was followed by a shake of the head. If he'd hoped she'd be his audience, he seemingly decided against it.
“Food everywhere, if yew know where to look. Most of it doesn't want to be eaten but don't let it trick yew. Those cacti out there? They looks scary with their spines, but that's why the good Lord gave us gloves, yeah? Insides are full of water once yew get past that, though it does taste a bit of wee, if yew don't mind me saying. Still, beats dying of thirst. Or drinking your own wee, which is what yew'd call the last ditch option.” Possessing a similar capacity for bouncing back that Pocoloco did, the thief managed a little grin of amusement at the distrustful expression on his face.
“How d'yew feel about that, Miss? Yew are the one talking about doing what yew must, yew must have an opinion.” The grin turned sickly sly, wheels turning behind Bernie's eyes as they turned to Jorah. A man incapable of keeping from pushing his luck it seemed, he just had to do some prodding of his on. “A woman on a mission if ever I saw one. What are yew looking for out there that yew'd go so far, I wonder? Can't be gold, that'd be the other way. More hands, is it? The way yew were looking at mine, a man might start thinking yew know something he doesn't. Only my little guess.”
diego grew up to become a natural liar—someone that pulled an act to fool the entire world and make them see him for what he was worth. it was as easy as breathing, to spill lies after lies without feeling any remorse. there hadn’t been anyone that was worth to see what was underneath his mask. any trace of the boy he was had died along with his dear mother. his compassion, believed to be gone until he found himself in this position.
it would’ve been easier to claim her life and avoid taking such a high risk, but diego was a man that thought of things methodically. tainting his hands with the crimson of her blood would only add to the list of problems that he carried with him like a cross. lying wasn’t any more honourable, but at least it would give her the illusion that none of this was a waste of her time. he’d let her have this moment for her to treasure on her own while she continued to be married to a man that didn’t give a shit about her.
his stare is intense, directed at her to see through the tears that kept spilling from her eyes and falling onto the white sheets that they shared once too many times. the hold of her hands becoming loose until they let go to place them on her arms instead, keeping her in place for when he closed the distance between the two and pressed his lips against her.
the kiss was as disingenuous as his words, lacking of the intensity and passion that they once had—no longer carrying that hunger through his actions. and though such action could’ve been enough to fool her, the request of hearing him say those words was the equivalent of putting him under the spot light.
a sharp escaped him once he pulled away from her lips and his stare was directed downwards. so much for the prideful man that he was. one wrong move and she could start screaming for help. that’s what he gained for playing with fire.
“—you’re just going to make this harder for yourself, scarlet…”
Scarlet's own stare was just as intense under the veil of tears blurring the brown pupils, dancing wildly, searching the jockey's cyan gaze for what she needed now more than ever; something softer than blind passion. It had been there before, in the calm after their fornication, she had seen it. Some sort of affection, some contented tenderness when he nuzzled against her chest, eyes half-lidded and peaceful. Something incredibly precious to her. It had been there — it had, it had. In these last moments, they'd become an unlikely anchor, the means to convince herself beyond the doubt that continually wore at her unbalanced feelings.
Out of keeping with the overly romantic image she'd had of their last kiss, she kept her eyes open throughout it, unwilling to give up her search. Anything to keep absolute despair at bay, she refused to acknowledge the somewhat mechanical nature of the kiss, working her lips diligently against his, molding herself to every movement with trembling fervency. Yet she too couldn't find the spark they'd once had, the fantasy she'd built up around their romance showing a few cracks, her fairy tale castle caving, missing a few bricks.
Only barely suppressing a sob, she lay limply beneath him, hardly needing his hands to keep her from reaching out again. Her brows crinkled, the confused expression of someone waking slowly from a dream, her mouth twisting as she swallowed thickly. Summoning the last of her defiance, she shook her head emphatically, her hair swishing against the sheets. How could she make this harder on herself? How could she possibly when her world was already falling apart around her?
“Say it,” she prompted again, the hoarseness of her voice adding to the lack of tenderness in the request. Begging nor bargaining had worked, now she demanded, one slim leg twisting around his. “Lie if you have to, I don't care. After all I've given you, you can do that much, can’t you? What would you lose? You'll be out there enjoying your freedom and I'll be… I'll still be stuck here with nothing but memories.”
Her voice cracked and she paused to collect herself, finally closing her eyes lest she start sobbing again. The urge to forget about this and beg him again not to go was so strong, almost as strong as the fear that he'd forget her. “I want my last memory of you to be that you told me you love me. Say it.”
diego had learned enough about scarlet to know where she was going once their lips were parted and she spoke with less venom dripping from her words. the hand that was pressed against his face wasn’t forced away this time, allowing her to have this moment of peace after the raging storm she had created. the jockey hated to admit, but he was tempted to lean against said hand and enjoy a moment of silence; his last chance of having some serenity, at least until valentine was taken care of.
the tears streaming down her face reminded him of just how most of everything else was a facade—an attempt to intimidate & appear stronger than she actually was, but this display of weakness was real. scarlet was a woman that wore her heart on her sleeve, so heartache was bound to happen. diego had never sworn her that they’d be together even if manhattan did happen. it was no one’s fault but her own.
“—look, scarlet. this is no longer i choice i have.” diego admitted, hating the fact he had to even explain himself to anyone, but he couldn’t just leave like that. not when there was risk that she would run her mouth. if he wanted to save himself, he had to play along and give her what she wanted—a goodbye fitting for a romance novel. “i can’t take you with me, but i can save you. the president won’t kill you unless he knows about what’s been going on between us. i don’t expect you to do anything to him, either.”
the jockey cursed himself for getting tangled in all this; a hand reaching out for hers to take. he simply hoped that she’d leave her irrationality behind and come to understand their circumstances. the two of them could never happen. “i’m now working with someone that wants what the president is after. he doesn’t know yet, but he will and i will become his enemy. there’s no need for you to be involved into all this.”
Scarlet's fingers entangled the offered hand with desperate strength, clinging to it like it was a lifebuoy, the difference between being pulled under into the cold, oppressive dark and ever feeling sunlight again. Nearly no warmth escaped the jockey's leather gloves regardless of how hard she pulled and squeezed, her digits searching it out frenetically. Like it contained nothing but a mannequin's hand. Like he was already gone. She couldn't bear it, she couldn't! It was so much worse than his actual absence, this lifeless facsimile of what they once shared.
Still, she listened raptly, as attentively as she ever had, for anything to salve this pain. Pathetic. His words were sweeter than before but no less crushing. In her compromised state, she accepted his assurance that he wished to save her with the gullibility of a child, nodding blindly through the tears, an attempt to be brave. She wasn't and it was plain to see. She was small and weak and all those things she detested in other women, despite every parting she'd known ending either like this or in shrieks and violence. She ought to know better, but here she was, comforted by scraps.
Yet they weren't enough, her sobs containing half-formed entreaties and denials swallowed by grief. He wouldn't tell her what she wanted to hear — what she needed. What she craved beyond anything else. Trying to calm herself, she simply held on, mapping out his jawline and the shape of his lips one last time, her eyes and lashes wet, her cheeks a virulent red with rage followed by sorrow. Her crimson lips trembled, her voice was hoarse with weeping, stuttering out an indistinct "Don't…”
Quivering, they found his again and again and again in the futile hope it would change anything. It wouldn't, she knew that somewhere deep down. All of this was lies upon lies. Everyone betrayed her in the end and love was never enough, her fairy tale ending eternally out of reach.
“Kiss me?” she begged, drinking in his breath, her voice faint and timid. There was always a kiss at the end, a kiss to wake the princess and a happily ever after soon to be. Not a forceful one, one gentle and true, a magic she didn't seem to be able to work herself. “Tell me you love me. I know you do… I know, I know… Even if we can't be together—” Her breath hitched at having to say it. “—tell me just this once. Just once and I'll be… I'll be happy.”
She was more than aware of how prideful he was, so gestures like this being rash were also the sincerest form of apology he could offer. Sometimes words were not so necessary to express true emotions. So she will cherish this offer, among many similar gestures he did before. “It’s more than enough to atone for what has happened my dear shepherd…I do appreciate it more than you can imagine “
In time who knows, maybe she would continue to affect him. It is not as the saying goes ‘you can’t teach old hound new tricks’, it was possible, just simply took more time that is all.”Well then, in that case, let me take care of this and pack our things..:
Seeing how she was done with her meal one thing did cross her mind. “Ah, but before we go I must bring dessert as well!” it almost slipped her mind! Rushing to the kitchen with hands full of empty dishes she makes her way back to the kitchen. In the meantime, Henry was quick to respond to gentle praises from his master by the loud thump of his tail and gentle nuzzle of its large nose. Who would have thought that that was still just a mere pup?
The clanking of plates was heard, a quick patter of footsteps, and soon the young hostess was back. Nessa was carrying two plates of custard pudding! One she placed in front of Valentine, along with a spoon and other she kept for herself. “Hope you like it after a hearty meal a dessert is a must no? After all, we can’t bring this on our short trip correct?”
Out of habit, Funny's lips parted to remind her that his coach would arrive at the agreed-upon time and no sooner, no need for her to hurry so. He let off, lips pressing together in a fond smile he hid by directing it at Henry, his hand ruffling the short and shaggy hair on top of the dog's head. Truth be told, Nessa's eagerness was endearing, her bustle lovable, the clattering of plates unnecessary yet a sign of enthusiasm. If she couldn't wait to leave, who was he to tell her otherwise?
After dessert, of course, the item chosen for the course a surprise that bought back memories. Rich, thick and eggy, the look and smell of it unmistakable and nostalgic. “I have not had custard for years…” he admitted, taking up the spoon and scooping up a generous dollop, watching the pudding as it clung to the cutlery. “Someone on my staff must have decided it is unsuitable. When I was a child, my mother made it every Sunday, a little treat to cap off lunch.”
The taste was nostalgic as well, though it was unavoidable that there were some differences. Nessa's custard was thicker, a little less heavy on the sweetness — though that may be another attempt to improve his diet — yet he was happy to disregard that. It was similar enough a second spoonful following the first without a thought.
“After this feast, I may hardly touch my dinner,” he praised mildly, a small bit of flattery combined with the intimation that he might be following the restrictions she had set for him. He honestly could not say whether he was, the days too long not to eat whatever was in front of him, be it at a table or at his desk. “Though by the time I normally get around to it, I suppose that may change.”
his description of an onigiri was almost adorable as yasuho gave a nod after a few taps of her index finger against the desk in absentminded thought, ‘ sure, i’ll even try to make it myself, they’re quite simple to do actually. ‘ she explains as her free hand has a finger lazily twirling a few loose locks of strawberry-colored hair. though clear dismay was painted atop his expression when she brought up the reason why they were here together in the first place, yasuho let out a sigh of relief when he relents his objections.
eyelids widened considerably at the sight of the thick book ( an encyclopedia probably?? ) in proportion to charles’ size, borderline comical if she could be honest, but the topic of maps had her immediate attention instead. geography had never been her strong suit, she knew how to navigate around morioh like the back of her hand but not being technical about it.
yasuho instinctively froze before jumping a bit from momentary surprise when the other casually dumps the book on the table with a loud thud when they collide, she would have thought he would bother to try to be.. gentler with his handling of it but guess not. the fact that he was so nonchalant about it while she remained like a statue for a few more moments, yasuho was glad he was too preoccupied with flipping through the book to notice her.
‘ uh, right. ‘ she manages to awkwardly mutter out, gaze placed onto the view of the book as he goes through the pages beside her, she’d recognise a few familiar shapes but he went by too fast before halting at the map of japan. ‘ we’re in the north-east side of japan, below hokkaido, and we’re facing the… ‘ her voice trails off as she attempts to recall, ‘ pacific ocean. ‘ yasuho finally spoke.
‘ morioh’s a port town so there’s.. too much ocean honestly, you’ll have used to see fishing boats and sailors. that’s why fish is abundant here. ‘ she explains as her index’s fingertip was placed just below where morioh generally was located. their town’s other specialty being farming due to the unique locations only found in a port town giving the crops a different flavor. ‘ speaking of fishing, have you tried it? ‘
Limber as a monkey, Charles clambered up onto a chair, sitting up on his knees for a better look. Yasuho's pointing finger was his sole focus, overlarge eyes squinting as he always did when someone directed his attention to an area on a map. Leaning both twig arm on the desk, he leaned forward, his shadow falling over the paper Morioh like a giant blocking out the sun. His head tilted for a better view rather pointlessly, trying to see detail that wasn't there, the printed landscape just that: ink. No matter how much he peered, his expectation that he'd be able to see the houses and people if he looked close enough always defied.
That led to a little bit of grumbling under his breath, but his expression remained amicable and possibly the most interested he'd been in anything out of a book all day. Following his tutor example, he pressed a fingertip over the small dot bordering the ocean and murmured its name before letting his digit slide over to the expanse of blue. The Pacific Ocean. A small frown formed, the name passing familiar. He thought it might be the one he'd crossed, but that would be impossible. Even the small sliver shown on the map looked to big for an airplane to make it all the way.
“I've been on a boat,” he announced proudly, settling to sit cross-legged on the chair, looking almost like a normal child. It hadn't been much of one a ferry really. Just a buoyant platform, like a small naval parking lot to let cars pass from one shore to one not all that distant. But it did go on the water, so it was a boat. QED.
That out of the way, he made a cradle out of his arms on the desk and rested his head on it, wearing an expression of intense concentration as he made an attempt to answer the more difficult question. Unable to come up with an explanation, his lips parted, Wired's crank unspooling and expelling his stand. Calmly, not with the explosive velocity with which he hunted; the hooks first, then the cables, falling into lazy loops. Unperturbed, he fiddled with them when they fell over his fingers, rolling the not-quite-metal between his fingers.
“Frogsh ish eashier,” he lisped, the uncoiled stand obstructing his tongue, the look he gave Yasuho hopeful. Hopeful that she understood what he meant.
words were futile, it seemed. scarlet would not listen to anything he had to say even if it was a warning in disguise. her trust on him was completely broken, just like her heart. irrationality was the drive for her actions, biting on the hand that was used to keep her from screaming. he’d have to resort to something else.
“—if you say something, scarlet, you will be killed. you think valentine would allow you to live after this?” she was blinded by love, or rage. nothing he said could put out the fire burning in those eyes of her as she glared at him. actions spoke louder, and it was for that reason that diego did something he swore he’d never do again. he kissed her.
it was far from something romantic, mainly an attempt at keeping her quiet. with his lips forcefully pressed against hers and half-lidded eyes studying her expression, diego wished to see some of that rage disappear.
he wasn’t her enemy, but he could very well become it if she continue to act like this. valentine was already after his skin, he didn’t need to get his men involved into this after finding out what he had done to the first lady. as if all the fault was placed on him.
the ‘kiss’ is short-lived, but hopefully enough to make his point come across. this was no romance novel with a happy ending, as she wished it to be. that life of running away from a marriage that didn’t fulfil him only worked in paper, not in the real world. it was too risky, not to mention, counterproductive. dealing with someone like her would only slow him down.
small puffs of air came from between parted lips as he stared at her, his vision still trying to focus with no avail. though the claws and scales were beginning to disappear, diego was still in high alert. he couldn’t trust her not to do something stupid as part of her revenge.
“you can’t go with me. this isn’t about manhattan any more. this is about going back to london in search for my father.”
The kiss took her breath away, both figuratively and literally. In the brief moment before his lips were crushed against hers, Scarlet had been poised to tell him exactly what he thought of him; how much he disgusted her, how much she loathed him, how much she didn't need his mixture of threats an misplace sympathy. The force with which he took her lips took her by surprise, letting the air she'd reserved for er tired out through her nose with a muted sound of protest that lasted even shorter than the kiss did. Too quickly it melted into something more docile, quiet by the time they parted.
How could he do this to her? Do what, she wasn't sure. She wanted him to go never to return and she wanted him to stay forever. She never wanted to see his face again. She wanted to stay like this for as long as they could, her eyes focused in mellowed rage on his cyan pools, taking him in as the scales melded into smooth flesh. She love him. She hated him. She wanted to embrace him. She wanted to — No, she did slap him, the mattress having just enough give for her to worm her wrist out from under his fingers. The hit was neither precise nor forceful, glancing off his jaw without much of an impact. She could be satisfied with that, she hadn't meant to hurt him genuinely and she couldn't help covering the skin she struck with a salving palm.
“Aren't you kind?” she spat in defiance with the gentleness of her touch, a contradictory study in contrasts. “If I hadn't spent so much time around politicians, I may have believed you're trying to do me a favor. A pity about Manhattan, you would have fit right in with that crowd. All you care about is saving your own skin. So you think Funny will have me killed, hm? What do you propose I do after you've run off? Kill him myself so you won't have to worry about him? God, you're ridiculous.”
Despite saying so, she closed the distance between their lips doggedly, brief and light. Her final goodbye that she couldn't quite believe nor admit, the pitifully romantic part of her still holding onto vain hope. Dried by the shock, fresh tears sprang up in her eyes, a great deal more sedate than the aggrieved downpour from before.
“You're… never coming back… so what does it matter?” Now this was truly pathetic, what was supposed to have been further castigation a soft whine interrupted by hiccuping sniffs. But then, that was why she'd grown so attached to him, he did that thing to her, stripped away the fiery and stubborn woman to reveal the vulnerable, needy girl beneath.
Even with an unloaded gun in his dirty hands he had shaken and trembled like a naked man in the cold. Positively ridiculous. The gun had minimal chance of doing harm and he still could not bring himself together. Bought it for protection. How can he hope to defend himself when he kept the damn thing empty and worthless. What he to do? Ask the adversary company to wait until he found the ammunition and load the gun? Oh this man, oh this rat, he most insufferable. Entirely intolerable. If he wanted to give off the impression of a shaky and spineless man, he already did that. Did that by trembling with that gun in his hands. It could be a clever trick, have one believe they not as confident as they are.
However, the entire purpose of that would be to shoot them when their guard down. This buffoon did not even load the damn gun! Lived in a wasteland for majority of his life and he had his weapon unloaded? No means to defend himself and now he offering breakfast? Oh yes. A nice serving of bacon and two eggs sunny side up and how about those lovely pancakes? Some nice sugar to top if off and sing a lovely tune around his crevasse campfire. Not shoot them over a few frocks…now what if others where. Say Pocoloco hadn’t gotten that knife away from Jorah and ran in here. Or a different party ran in guns blazing? What then? Throw pancakes at them?
Jorah’s eyes did flips in her skull. The complete and utter absurdity of Bernie’s antics driving the young woman into a new sense of insanity. There not a thing left for him to do but offer a meal for their troubles. Troubles was putting it mildly. All of this and for what? All of his glittering lights and for what? The wannabe showman better at entertaining dust than anyone else. Threw his fireworks about which resulted in a few moments of stupor. By the sight of it, he had no more. Another loss on his part. Another hole in his pocket.
Frustrated, irked and perturbed Jorah threw her arms up only to forcefully bring them down. Stepped forward, no–stomped over, trudged over, she swiped up the now broken mirror. Its glass remains on the ground. Where the mirror once laid now an empty and flat plate of silver. -“No we do not want ‘brekkie!’ So please, feel free, to stuff your rat mouth full and choke on it!”- Waved the mirror in front of his face, the crowned point pressed against the tip of his nose. Dug it in before flicking it up, dragging on one a of those nostrils before finally pulling it away from his face. -“Do make sure to check your supplies and make sure you do, indeed, have a bag worth of brekkie and you did not conveniently load that too!”-
Pushed the birthing kindle with the mirror. Scattered dust flowing about and consumed whatever life the kindle had. Triumphant for crossed her arms, mirror tucked in the nook of them. -“I know not what they teach you in Straya but they clearly are lacking in common sense and all sensibility. No wonder you want to go into show business. What you seek is all cheap smoke and mirrors! Not real performances but tricks. What will you do? Throwing fireworks at them too? Oh but you have no more that I see. Waste them all on us too? Truly, what intriguing ways your mind works.”-
Spun around and, just as Pocoloco said, done with the rat named Bernie. Bernie with an awful sounding tongue and tactics that really were fit for a circus. Her items are soon taken one by one and put back into her bag. A speedy process of haphazardly folding clothing before stuffing them in nice and snug. The brush went back into the pouch followed by the now ruined mirror. Every boot the rat had touched and every blouse and trouser his greedy hands shifted through. Then, finally, and with the utmost wariness. The remembrance of her Mother and Father were put securely back into their box. Their little and ill suited makeshift home. Dust and grime littered around it. Jorah trying her very best to scrape it away with the now tattered nightgown she wore. Only then did she delicately hug it close, an apology, and return it to the bag with a smile like she had not seen it in years. -“Now, you best learn from this, Mr. Artist. If I ever, oh do I mean ever, see you around once more, a bruised hand will seem a blessing.”-
For the first time in his life, Pocoloco got an inkling of what spending extended amounts of time around him must be like. God, Bernie never stopped, did he? Apart from the beating — which, in hindsight, could have gone on a little longer — he bounced back like nothing had happened, like all of this was some misunderstanding that had been cleared u an now they could all go back to being friends. Except they weren't friends and they had never been friends. The continued offer of food made Pocoloco' stomach rumble audibly, but he still didn't want any. Huh, their breakfast when they got back was probably better anyway.
Still… it was hard to stay mad, really mad, when the burning scraps brought to mind sizzling bacon and fried eggs, maybe some hash browns and — oh, thick slices of bread fried up in the bacon grease left in the pan. It was a good thing he'd crossed his arms in indignation, all the better to press down against his gut when it grumbled again at the thought of it. When Jorah showed the thief her disdain, he didn't take a step. Served him right, if they ate this breakfast, delicious though it was in his imagination, who was to say they wouldn't end up poisoned? Uncharacteristically petty, he gave a satisfied nod at the scattered kindling, though he couldn't suppress a little disappointment either.
Nor could Bernie, standing over the dampened remains of his hopeful fire, probing his nose with an index finger to check for blood. As might be expected in this environment, when it came up clean apart from a little bit of mucus, he wiped it off on a pant leg. Hissing disapprovingly between his teeth, crouching own and dirtying the hand again by shoveling the dying embers together in a heap to no avail. “Excuse yew, Miss. A little harsh when you haven't seen me perform, that. Smoke and mirrors? Fair go, I don’t mind saying it takes more than a little effort to turn this—” He used a sooty hand to gesture at himself. “—into a lady, but the sparks are dinky-di. A real crowd-pleaser too, I don't mind saying, people haven't seen the like.”
Slowly, gently, flowers of fire unfolded over the thief's head out of nothing, blooming into a shower of lights that changed color as they fell. Pocoloco still had little idea of what the show actually entailed, not what you might call a patron of the arts, but he had to say that if it involved that, he would have stuck around to watch. In fact, he would have goggled as he did now, staring until the sparkles faded and died, miniature shooting stars in rainbow hues. Only then did he start to wonder where they came from, Bernie hadn't moved at all, hadn't lit anything and unless there was machinery hidden under the cavern floor, the sparks had just… happened.
“Liked that, did yew? I've got the knack, me. Bush magic.” Smug as could be, Bernie waved a hand, fingers twinkling like fairy footsteps through the air, a gesture much too grandiose for the setting. Unable to keep a straight face, he chuckled and put his hands up apologetically, palms still empty. “Nah, I'm only coming the raw prawn, got no idea why I can do that, just came to me one day when I was on my way to Oakland, like… something was tickling my brain, yew know what I mean? Decided to call it Finally, search me why. Finally what, am I right? Stone the bleeding crows, I really thought she'd be enough to scare yew off… works for most people who want to hassle me.”
Sadly, it didn't seem like the flickering lights would light the fire despite their similarities to the sparks flying from a flint. That, Bernie would have to do by hand sighing as he piled more punk and struck it alight, the smoke acrid under his watch. “Trust me, Missy, I've learned. Won't do it again, on my honor. Bad enough to get the odd bottle thrown at me for my troubles, raging women with knives are far above what I should be tousling with, delicate lad like me. Speaking of, if yew're now staying for brekkie, at least come back for a fill-up, eh?”
A fill-up of what? They had plenty of water, which Pocoloco was about to proudly announce. Except… Hey! Ya!'s bags were starting to feel awful light, not weighed down much by a pile of empty skins. They had left in kind of a hurry. “Stone the crows,” came the odd, exasperated idiom again, Bernie must have spotted the look on his face. “Yew mean to tell me yew came out here without…? Strewth, yew wouldn't last a day in the bush. What are yew two playing at?”
That smile of his. One uplifting, surprised and genuine. The only genuine sign from him that was not adverse. The overplayed smirking, mischievous eyes, the undying determination to find the suspected truth and the shock of something unexplained happening. It all lead to things Jorah found to be troublesome. More back and forth and teasing that got them nowhere. What had been genuine before were unpleasant things and irksome provoking from either side. However, seeing the smile upon Michael’s, it time for Jorah to feel shocked. The unexplained and impossible seemingly here in reality. A smile. His smile. A real smile from him.
Jorah did not believe, previously, he capable of such a feat. It silly really. Everyone capable of smiling and everyone, at least once in their life, had smiled. No doubt he smiled before this moment. When he a child or maybe when Scarlet happened to look his way. This hadn’t been the first, surely, but it stunned the expecting mother all the same. Neither of them had given a smile of something that positive for both of them. Smiles had been reserved for causing a blow to the other’s mindset or pride or simply out of custom. It hardly seemed real for a moment and Jorah awaited this quip that typically followed soon after.
None came. It only his benign smile out of true intrigue and surprise. Perhaps it even better than a quip. Showing a piece of himself, forgot what air resided in the room. Neglected to remember who he talking to. A genuine showing of oneself can easily be manipulated into a useful tool. Once the wall down for even a single second one can infiltrate it. Worm their way in and make a pretty home out of a single wound. A smirk would do well as a signal for her victory. A little smirk just to acknowledge she could get him to shed that hard shell of his. That’s all it’d take. Just one. She could do it. She should do it.
But she did not. Did not notice her own smile etched onto her face naturally, reflexively. Her own genuine intrigue at his on her lips before Jorah realized it. Too late to smirk now. Not even a small one. The large smile on her face had sneaked right into its place. -“Radicalists? Were the first of your Revolution not the same? Or how about my country’s? Were they not radical in their ideas? Yours took seven, mine took ten. Somethings take less years, others more. I suppose it all depends on how radical the ideas are and how stubborn people can be. However, it not entirely impossible, now is it?”-
All it’d take, much like an invasion, was a single idea. An idea, as soon as it’s shared, will spread. Spread around from agreement, resentment or even plain neutrality. It there and it’d lay there in waiting for someone to pick up on it as well. -“Someone told me that an idea can be most infectious and it only takes one and the enough ears to hear it. Ideas can take time. Swift or sluggish, but they do move. It not the right man but the…most infectious idea is what I would say triumphs majority of the time. The idea may not be proper now but who knows who will think of it in the future. I am sure the idea of the monarchy ending quite silly or the freedom of men something in stories.”-
Jorah no longer smiling but that, truly, mattered little. The shikra and the babbler. The babbler could never hope to be a shikra. It impossible. Completely different structure, ways of life and place on the hierarchy. -“The shikra may live among babblers but it can never be one. Now, if it a shikra and babbler then neither side is the perfect fit. Say the babbler you speak of decided to live with the shikra, there will be some who will forever see just the babbler in it. Yet, it is the same on the other side. The babbler chooses to live with babblers but some will see it as part of the shikra. A bird that has great potential for harm against the rest of the babblers. A lose lose situation so why not be what it is. It is both, it is its own. Trying to fit in world that is impossible to move? Make one’s own. The babbler does not need to be a shikra nor does it need to be a babbler. There is another option and that option, I say, is making a world of its own with others who do not fit into that strict mold. Can the babbler still walk among the shikra and other babblers? If it so chooses but why compare itself constantly when it is an entirely unique and new creation? There is beauty in becoming one’s own self and being proud of that. If others do not fancy it, that is their loss.”-
In general, smiles didn't make up a large part of Mike's current life, most of the day spent wearing his professional expression of aloof neutrality. The rest of it at home, a quick meal, perhaps an hour sketching out possible new shapes for Tubular Bells to take on or a chapter or two of a book. Then sleep, tomorrow always followed today at an alarming pace and fatigue would not do. All spent in solitude, only one chair at the table occupied, his narrow bed filled only by his own form, folded up so his feet didn't hang over the edge. Not much reason to smile when there was no one to return one.
This morning, he'd walked in with a tray of breakfast and an intent to hate. Breakfast was… in quite a state and the hatred… Holding it towards Jorah was too tiring. He'd expected a Jezebel, a Lilith, a Delilah; a creature hardly human at all, a succubus that took advantage of men, devoid of morals. Here she was, smiling back at him, causing his own to wax reflexively, not in cold satisfaction at the knowledge of his stand having found his victim but because… He was human, and so was she. Of course. He was no gamboling Jim Crow and she was no beguiling devil. How easily worlds shifted when the collided.
“Hmm, impossible… I'm sure there were many who said just that when the War of Independence was suggested, the numbers said it all. Even waiting for the Redcoats to come to them, the first free Americans would be crushed, especially when not every colonist was with them. You've seen Benjamin Franklin's cartoon, right? ‘Join or die’. It wasn't— No, it was a threat, but not a direct one from the Patriot to the Loyalists, rather a warning. When the Redcoats came, they wouldn't waste time asking whose side you were on, and the odds of their victory was much higher with the people divided.”
Yet there was no doubt the Patriots were the radicalists of their time, despite the ideas behind them taking flight as he said; rebels, troublemakers, traitors to some. Unwanted then, celebrated now. Picking up a stray piece he'd missed, Mike looked at its painted side for a moment. His upset of the picture had been unkind to the baker: here was his hand, still holding out a proffered loaf, severed neatly at the wrist, like he'd heard they used to do to thieves in the olden days. “But there's the problem, isn't it? Who will listen to these ideas? The blacks may not all want suffrage for women. Women may think that Negroes are beastly savages who shouldn't have the power of the vote. Most who might support them in a more than theoretical have no reason to want change. Why would a white man want to diminish his own power by spreading it among more people?”
With a sigh, he tossed hand and loaf into the box with the other pieces, his open and mild expression gradually disappearing, dark clouds drawing over the sun. What nonsense. Fair enough, a babbler may walk among both shikra and his own kind, yet that did not change what he'd said: no matter how much time it spent among the predators, a babbler would not grow their hooked beak, nor would their plumage change to match theirs. Their nature, their origin, would be clear to see to all, bird and human alike. Of course the babblers would allow it back, they were stupid creatures, seeing only their own.
“Birds aren't humans, Jorah. No matter how much you want to grow wings and fly off, that doesn't change.” She wasn't the only one who had been looking at the inconsequential and gathered from it what she could. Irritated with her ignorance he automatically picked what he thought to be the sharpest dagger among those he'd gleaned and thrust it home. How ridiculous she was, how ignorant. No doubt she thought her plight to be so much worse, to be a Frenchwoman in America. In America! In a country of mutts that boasted endlessly about their ancestors origins. “A new and unique world… as if those are positive traits to have… I thought you were smarter than that.”
diego was no fool, so he did not expect things to be easy—as if anything ever was when she was involved. he watched the stream of tears run down her rosy cheeks, her quivering voice a sign of desperation as if it wasn’t obvious already with her pleas. he looked away from her, not due to shame, but because of that expression she made was one he had seen over fifteen or so years ago and couldn’t bring himself to forget.
it was inevitable, he told himself. from the beginning, he should’ve seen this coming. heartache could drive someone to take revenge in the same way that it did with him, so when she began to raise her voice and accuse him of being her traitor, the jockey knew he couldn’t just leave like scarlet demanded him to do.
the clock that was thrown his way was dodged on instinct; crawling into bed with the signs of scary monsters creeping through the cracks on his face and neck. a low growl was emitted from the back of his throat once he pinned her under his frame, a hand pressed against his mouth to muffle her screams.
“—i won’t hesitate to kill you if you open your big mouth again.” not even diego recognized his own voice in that instance—it was too deep, too monstrous to be the same man she hopelessly feel in love with.
he was starting to lose his vision between blinks, irises changing into slits each time. diego couldn’t even see her expression. it was all just a blur. “you don’t get it. you think your husband gives a crap about you?! he won’t even need you once he obtains what he wants.” with the power of the holy corpse by his side, the jockey was certain that valentine wouldn’t waste his time humouring the country by pretending that his marriage was anything but broken. in fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if he took the opportunity to erase scarlet from the equation to draw some sympathy. anything to appear as this country’s saviour.
“he’s been lying through his teeth to all of us. the bastard would’ve never allowed me to have any sort of power. don’t you see it? he will try to kill us either way.”
Damn, she missed. At least it wasn't completely in vain, the polished wooden frame holding the timepiece's innards left a disfiguring mark on the wallpaper, revealing a shred of the plain brickwork hiding under the shiny facade of intricate flower patterns. Better yet, when it landed, the delicate little chimes that rang the hour breathed their solitary last in a discordant ‘bong’. The irritating ticking stopped a well, the cogwheels misaligned by the impact. Good riddance. Though it granted her a little satisfaction, it did little to override the wrath, that wouldn't be sated unless enough time passed — or Scarlet had torn down everything in the room, whichever came first.
With Diego on top of her, she wouldn't have much of a chance to. Normally she would have struggled just enough to make things interesting, the inevitable outcome known to both of them. Now, she fought back a hard as he could, kicking her legs and trying to pull her arms away from his grip. Damn it, damn it, damn it! He was too fast, too strong and too…
It was his voice, it entered her nervous system without checking with her brain, beguiling a part of her that hadn't developed along with the rest of humanity since their ape days. Like her distant ancestors before her, she heard and knew the growl of a predator. Frozen in primal terror, her struggle stopped for long enough to let him restrain her completely. That didn't mean she stopped when the effect wore off. No matter how pointless, how small the chance of freeing herself, none of that mattered. It was a matter of principle now, of showing him how much he loathed him.
A pity he had her mouth covered, she would have loved to spit in his disgusting, scaly face.
Or, for that matter, thrown his words back at him. The romantic part of her that wanted to believe Funny would never do such a thing was far submersed under the thick layers of rage, giving way to something scalding hot yet much more logical. When she said he knew her husband, it was only bluster in part. But so what? What did it change? What Diego was saying — to her turbulent and anger-clouded mind — was that he should die alone, protecting him until her last breath. There was absolutely, definitely, most assuredly no chance of that, not when he was walking out on her. If that was how it would be, he was coming with her.
And yes, she would have jumped at the chance to tell him that as well. Tried to, but her voice was an indistinguishable mumble against his palm. Perhaps her intent showed in her eyes, teary, balefully fixed on his, unafraid. She was beyond fear, too incensed to care whether she lived or died as long as she could make the time leading up to it as unpleasant as she could for him. So she couldn't speak. Fine! A sliver of his skin between her parted lips, instead she bit down.
the jockey arrived there with the idea in mind that things wouldn’t be easy—nothing ever was with scarlet in the picture. she had complicated things without her knowledge, tangling the beast into the sheets far too many times that he predicted. the animal underneath the porcelain skin was more likely to come out in her presence, and the jockey had allowed it for far too long. it never meant to be routinely, but of course, he couldn’t expect her to think of it the same way. not when she was so obsessed with the idea of being rescued from her tower by a charming prince on a white equine.
“—what?” unlike her, diego’s words were devoid of that sentimentalism that she carried. his upper lip lifting, baring his teeth when the words were processed. that wasn’t what he meant when he said things had become personal—the knowledge that dario brando, his father, was a man that could be tracked down was the reason why he was cutting his alliance to the president. no amount of power could amount to that of vengeance, and with hot pants by his side, the jockey could no longer spare to waste more time like this.
his stare is fixated on scarlet, pathetic being the first word to come to mind upon seeing her. like a kicked mutt, she stared at him with those sad wide eyes, pleading for something that could possibly change the jockey’s mind. there was nothing.
“i’m not your husband’s lackey any more. i’m working with someone else now, and i won’t complicate things by keeping up with…this.” whatever that was, diego knew that the two of them would describe it differently. not that it made a damn difference. she should’ve known better than to get involved with him. his head tilted back, glancing at her over his shoulder with a poker face. no tears staining his cheeks. “this is what i need to do.”
This? This is what he'd come here for? He'd scaled the wall, climbed through her window, asked her if she'd missed him, all for this meeting to end up with him telling her he couldn't see her anymore? The coldness of his words and manner went far beyond the reptilian chill of his skin, shutting her out, her desperate pleas and betrayed affection doing nothing to thaw him. Going on along the same lines was the height of foolishness, but Scarlet did so anyway.
“Why? I've done everything I could to help you, I've put myself at risk for you, I care for you.” A tear dripped off her narrow chin and left the first wet mark on the linen. The first of many, more were sure to follow now and later, when she'd curse him and herself for letting him see her like this. Currently, she was powerless an felt it. She'd lost him. He was leaving. For good. Without her. “Can't you take me with you? I won't be any trouble, I'll do whatever it is you want me to. I— I don't care if you don't work for Funny anymore, that was never—”
Out of the clanging echoes in her head, one phrase magnified an repeated. ‘With… someone else.’ So that was it. Oh, he may bury it under this and that, talk of traitors and it being personal. Her hitched sob was the prelude to more laughter, embittered and empty, her held, desperate gaze dropping so she could look down at herself. Stupid, silly Scarlet. Naive and old. The ticking of the bedside clock only reminded her of that, every second passing another microscopic slice of her youth gone.
“I see,” she murmured, sniffing so her nose wouldn't run and wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. The flow of tears didn't subside one bit and likely wouldn't for a while, her heart still ached, torn and broken. Like her physical pain, it was overtaken by betrayal and anger that rose along with the volume of her voice. “You never cared at all, did you? All that talk, all the posturing, what was it about? To get back at my husband? I can't believe I fell for it. I can't believe! I thought for a second you were different. Go on! Leave, if you're in such a hurry!”
Letting it all out should have made her feel better, yet it only served to whip her into more of a frenzy. Sick of its eternal, baleful racket, she grabbed the clock and heaved it blindly in Diego's direction. “Get! Out! And if you think I'm keeping your secrets, you're wrong! I'm done with you!”
