station72 | [closed-ish] all the way north on the train the sun

[There is work to be done and without the disturbance of the void's effects on the Station, it seems the hours slip between her fingers - there then gone again,
faster than she can account for. There are adjustments to be made, constant monitoring to be aware of (lest something pierce this universe and find them sprawled out and vulnerable here). It feels like days since she was last truly at ease.

That isn't a complaint. The work suits her. The demands on her attention are invigorating. Cathaway can't help but enjoy herself, even if it means sleeplessness and the sensation of a creature crawling under her skin at all times - even if it means she's forced to live here, in this space and universe more often than she'd before.

But maybe that's why when she turns a corner and spies a doorway that shouldn't be there, she notices it as opposed to sweeping past it toward her destination. Or maybe it's because she can feel the pointed note of his thoughts on it like a signature. Either way, Cathaway's attentions have been diverted: she turns into the doorway and makes her way down this secret, quiet cooridor formed into the Station's core.]

[It is foolish to even entertain the idea that she may call on him before he calls on her, but he does anyway. Not until the last possible moment of course, that was not his way, but as near as he was likely to get. Then, with the responsibility solely at his feet, he set about to doing what he would need to do. He did not need to tidy his rooms, for they were already tidy, but he did make some attempt at making the more fit for company, when he wasn't doing the work that truly did take up most of his day. And then, when it seemed opportune, he gathered the necessary supplies, and considered how to issue the invitation.

Directly seemed far too direct and far too- presumptuous. Demanding. So he settles instead on the least direct method this place allowed him and coaxed the station into inviting her. There would always be a door that would lead down toward the deeper recesses of the station, where he found some amount of rest away from the loud minds of the younger hosts.

The hall terminates at a door familiar to her, simple and styled precisely as a door on the station would be- if there were other doors- behind which lies the first of his rooms. The entry, the low couch, the heavy desk. Beyond that there is his bed, tucked behind another entrance way, and to the left of that a space not often used- another open doorway. It's in front of it that Prince stands, wearing a somber colored tunic that's austerity is undone by too many buttons, too much piping, a silken band about his middle. It isn't quite what his people had worn, but it is near enough. The concept is the same. It also feels as though it fits him poorly, but he knows that is only from disuse.]

Cathaway- [a simple greeting accented with a shallow bow and an outheld hand-] I hope I am not interrupting.

[Doors are a rarity in a place that doesn't understand them - a particular luxury crafted by an especially stubborn mind. She'd once told Pidge such things weren't possible. Not in Life Support where the Station was too busy being accommodating. Had she ever asked for the Prince's help, she wonders? Maybe he feels that at the edge of her thoughts and she lets herself through the series of corridors and small, private rooms. She should say something to the girl. Give her a little piece of something to look forward to. It might be encouraging.

If she thinks idly on it, she can feel the hum of his mind beside her - but she does her best not to, so the shape of his thoughts don't solidify into something she can read like the lines on her face in a mirror. Perhaps that's why she finds his clothes surprising, her drifting awareness turning to this place by a perceptible degree as she enters this last chamber.]

Of course not.

[There's plenty she can accomplish from here. But he knows that. With a chime of small metal she crises to take his outstretched hand, leaving the door open behind her. She's left them all open.]

Is something troubling you?

[He felt strongly about doors. Boundaries. But he had lived on the station a very long time without any, alongside the rest of the hosts in the open and pocketed halls of life support. He had earned these doors, in a way, had learned how to ask for them, and while he had never given a young host private places to sleep he had made them their own spaces, when they needed them. If they knew how to ask. Places with some kind of privacy for the time between.

Hypocracy that he could live with.

Doors don't currently concern him however. There was no one here to keep out that would find their way here, so the open entry that Cathaway leaves behind her doesn't leave him anxious or irritated. It was irrelevant. More focused on the slight degree he bends his fingers as her hand settles across his.]

No more than usual. [It's almost a joke. He was so often troubled, at least this was something that he could control in some way.

He barely pauses before turning to lead her back into the room behind him, two low and mismatched fabric benches about an equally low table festooned with dozens of small dishes and inscrutable instruments and a low, spicy scent from some gently smoking vessel. She has seen this before but not in some time (possibly never alone with him). He pauses beside one of the benches and waits very patiently for her to sit.]

[If she appreciates the rare flash of humor, it's obscure enough to not disturb the otherwise still surface of her. --Not that she isn't paying attention. No, he leads her to the low table and her mind is taut like a thread fixed between two points. She takes a seat and the rich scent from the pot and the fine little details on the handmade dishes do absolutely nothing to ease the tension. The last time she'd sat at such a table, Nulheer Vulbhan had been just there at her left elbow telling a story they had all already known as Cameron Moral wrote a new line with one hand and ate a flaking pastry with the other, head bowed.

The effect is something like three version of deja vu and for a split second she's aware enough to be unsettled by it. What has the reason been for stopping these little meetings? Someone had died, but now she can't remember which.

--Surely he must sense her discomfort, riding high like oil on water. If he'd decided to kill himself, she would have realized it as he thought it. If not before.

Wouldn't she?

Replacing him would be problematic, thinks the smallest part of her, but it's remote enough a thought to be just an echo - low enough even to her mind that it's probably easy to miss.]

[He waits until she is seated fully before he drops her hand and steps back to circle around to his own side of the table, setting his fingertips on the table and lowering himself to sitting, knees bent to the side for the low cant of it. Yes, he is aware, but he's not- looking. Not digging. He valued his own privacy and he valued hers, more than she did most likely, and the temptation to take the simple road- to tailor his own actions and his own words based on her reactions would be too great if he did not draw another line for himself.
, he can sense her discomfort, and he is not so foolish to be unaware of the possible reasons. They had not done this for some time. It had been- some small controlled thing that he had clung to, when they had been more than two, and when the station was only a temporary respite from the storm. With just them, always here, what had been the point? She had not been the broodmate most fond of the ceremony. Still, he did not think she missed them as he did- not quite the same. She hadn't lost them the way that he had.
Still

Dwelling- distracting. This was not his purpose here. He clears his throat lightly, looking up from the collection of ceramic and brass, carefully expectant that she meet his eyes, pretending that the swirling of her mind less real than the swirling of scented smoke.]

Thank you for coming. With your permission- [It is formal, structured, but he does not wait before he reaches out to pick up the first of the necessary dishes, setting the low wide saucer in front of him and reaching for the small jars of tea, their little tongs.]

You have been busy?

[She makes a small noise of assent - yes of course, he may do whatever ritual thing he cares to -, but hardly pays any attention to the motions of his hands or the small sounds of the small plates or the kiss of the brass lip against the fine edge of a cup. The smell is powerful, the tang of spice sitting high in her nose and deep in her throat and for a moment she is sorry for poor--

Someone. The Prince, maybe. Or herself.

She thinks it, then sets the thought aside like a souvenir on a side table.]

No more than usual.

[It's humorless out of her mouth.]

[He makes a small sound in return, doing his level best to remain unfazed even as he carefully distributes the correct assortment of different herbs and teas onto the saucer, lifting the small pestle to combine them.]

It seems different. I almost forgot how heavy the station could seem.

[He fills in the conversation over the dull scraping sound, because this was the time for talking- (unless it was a high ceremony, but he would never attempt one of those on his own-) and because it is true. They were in space, but everything around then had sone small portion of gravity- entirely unlike the empty silence or in between.

Satisfies that the correct texture has been achieved he sets aside the pestle again, reaching across the table with both hands to grab the little funnel and the intricate tea basket.]

Yes, it's been some time since it last breached.

[The grind of the pestle seems loud in the small space and she tries to-- not to ignore it, but to share some measure of the comfort the repetitive action gives him. Every scrape and crunch releases a new scent - a delicate floral tinge, some spiced citrus or low earth herb. She folds her hands in her lap and feels every callous on her fingertips.]

We find ourselves sleeping for longer than we should.

[He is focused. This is delicate work, and it serves to calm his mind- to ease some of his anxiety as he carefully transfers the fine tea over, not spilling a single crushed leaf. He reaches then for the pot it will stew in, surrounded by spouts to pour from any angle.]

It is harder to ignore the time. The station's own rhythm seems to have taken on the pattern of this place.

[The tea basket fits neatly unto place, and the heat from the kettle's handle is still only pleasant as be pours it over the basket, the smallest splashing noises before it is set aside as well and the lid returned to the pot. Now they needed only time, which this place had.]

Would you like something to eat?

[The small trays suggest he expects the answer to be yes- or that the ceremony demands it be yes, although he would not take offense anymore if it were not.]

Edited 2017-04-25 15:03 (UTC)

Of course.

[Said as an afterthought, a rote response. She knows how this works - or he knows how this works, and that's all it takes. She fishes up her right sleeve in her left hand, but doesn't move to serve herself with the right. That's his domain as host.

--Surely he must sense her uneasiness sloshing around like water in a cup.]

Are you leaving?

[No, he'd be too ashamed to. She thinks it so strongly that he must sense it. Killing himself would be more honorable, but only just. Better if she just did it for him if he's so intent on the idea of preserving himself and his reputation. Somewhere a goat is having it's throat cut.]

[She is correct, he is the host, so with her approval he reaches out for the first of the covered dishes, lifting the woven lid to reveal pastries which were- not quite right, but within his capability- or the station's capability. Suitable enough, using the delicately latticed tongs to pick up one, halfway to setting it on her plate before he is interrupted by her words- And the things beyond her words.

He stops, eyes going wide, blinking once heavily, hands frozen where they were, cupped around pastry and tong. What an- impossible question. What a dark trail her mind treads down- although that could hardly be surprising. Death had been a part of their lives for many cycles. He would not be the first to chose to end what remained of his life. Still, he thought he had been- Well. Not clear, obviously. He isn't sure what to label the expression on her face, but he's not sure that the expression on her face matters as much as the one in her mind.]

No. [A pause, thick and heavy before he casts his eyes down again at his own hands, setting the pastry down delicately on one corner of her small plate] But I do appreciate the offer.

[It is somewhat wry- there was enough bitterness in her thought, something like a sour medicine. He supposes he can't blame her for that, either. It was easy to be angry at the ones who were no longer here. He moves a pastry to his own plate with equal care, before turning to a small pot with a built in spoon, opening the lid to distribute small pats of a thick creamy substance just beside the pastries.]

Please, put it from your mind. I don't intend for that.

[To leave her. And he does not imagine he would die before her. He's almost certain that he won't, with what little danger dogged at their heels in their current occupation.]

[Put it from your mind, he says but no - now that she's thought the possibility up, it's impossible to dismiss. There's a concrete stone sensation in her belly, an absolute certainty. Something is wrong. Someone will die.

But maybe it isn't him. And to be fair, someone is always dying.

She doesn't put the thought away. She simply let's it linger there as she fetches up the pastry with her right hand and dips it into the sweet citrus cream. It flakes between her fingers. Everything always does.]

Fine. Then what would you like to talk about?

[It must be something. Something more than the Station or the weight of reality in it.]

[His fingers go still on the little lid of the cream pot, turning it slightly. It is a question that requires an answer- but he pulls his lower lip under his teeth, some slight show of tension of his own before he answers-]

I want to talk to you. About how you are faring and- [It's a poor start, but he is saved, in part, by an internal timer that is very precise. The tea was done. If left it would oversteep, the taste would be ruined, the balance upset, the flow disturbed. He sets the lid back down on it's pot, slightly crooked, a clear indicator of his own imbalance, and reaches for the tea pot with it's many spouts, hand carefully steady as he brings it between them. He tips it first in her direction to fill her delicate cup, not a single drop spilled, and then, once the last drip has fallen from that spout, towards his own cup, repeating the process with inordinate- but entirely predictable- care.

A serious expression remains even as he finally settles the pot back onto it's base, carefully removing the basket before it could taint the remaining tea and setting it neatly aside.]

You asked me to make a decision, if you recall.

[He picks up his cup, carefully holding it, with two fingers at the bottom, and two fingers on the side, his thumb keeping balance. And then he waits.]

[The pause is interminable, torturous. She stares at his hand on the tea pot's handle, the spiced aroma of the blend filling the air as he does her cup and then his. She takes a generous bite of the delicate little pastry, her teeth crunching on the crisp wafer paper. It's bitter and sweet; she can feel his mind's thoughts right there beside her own - a familiar shape which she refuses to touch.

She swallows, sets the remaining pastry aside and takes up her cup.]

We remember.

Good.

[It is not quite what he means to say, but it is near enough. His eyes lower slightly, eyelashes dipping as he raises the cups to his lips, taking a shallow drink off the cooling surface, the flavor more along his palate than his tongue. When he lowers the cup from his mouth he stays holding it in the air above the table until she takes a drink, until she lowers her own cup.

A short beat after she does he sets his own down, feeling, suddenly and overwhelmingly, very embarrassed. It flashes through him hot, flushing his cheeks, the carefully staged and planned nature of this, he realizes, is entirely ridiculous. He looks foolish- he is very foolish.

It does not matter. It needs to be done. The moment passes- not in his mind, but in time- quite quickly. Then he rises to his feet, not hurried- he can at least control that much- and takes a few short steps around the table, to her side. He lowers himself to his knee beside her, very little distance between them, offering his hand, palm up, a very careful motion. He is very careful. It is a difficult maneuver.]

[That image rises up again, unbidden and instinctive: a creature submitting itself to slaughter. One hand holding the beast by it's blunted horn and the other with a knife in hand. The tang of the tea in her mouth tastes like copper. She is killing him, she thinks; whatever this is, whatever he chooses to be after this moment, he won't be the same creature she knew before she opened the series of doors leading to this chamber.

She sets her cup down. She sets her hand in his when he offers it. Her touch is warm, fingers thin and knuckles stiff.]

[He is very, very carefully turned inward in this moment. Which is- a good thing. He may not have the courage were he more aware of her thoughts than in the barest way. He may have tasted judgement in it, the suggestion of weakness.

But he is as separated as he can be while still focused on her entirely. On the thinness of her wrists, the almost translucence paleness of her skin, blood very close to the surface. He rests his thumb across her knuckles, not quite pinning her in, but steadying. He is, despite the lingering flush across his face and his rabbiting pulse, quite steady.]

So I have made a decision. I am not certain it is the one you would prefer, if that is so then you must only say so.

[It starts stronger than it finishes, trailing somewhat at the 'so', but he takes a breath, shoulders shifting back, stable as he lifts her hand, pressing her scarred knuckles to his lips, the softest brush- waxed seal upon a parchment.]

I wish to be with you, and if in being with you, it is more difficult for me to remain- such as I am, then it is still more than worth the cost. I am very- tired. Of distance.

[It is not smooth. Too many words, an unbroken rhythm. But they are the words that are true to him. They were chosen recently, but pulled from something that had been steeping in the back of his mind for ages. A thing he could almost wrap his fingers around, except that it would be permanent. That it would cross a line he had made for himself, intent on keeping himself safe. What a selfish thing- but was this any less?

Perhaps not. It did not matter. It was done.]

[His mouth is very soft on the back of her hand. In the vacuum of his barricaded mind, the tactile feedback of it is as immediate as is possible. It mingles with the metallic and citrus taste on her tongue, sharp and sweet and complimentary.

Her hand is very still in his. She says nothing.

But the imperfect mirror of her mind chips to shards, the sheet of it slipping from its frame to splinter in a thousand different directions. A glitter of glass, of stars, points of lights racing away from this chamber.

This only matters to a very small selection of herself. Why bother with the rest?, she thinks.

Something flexes up into the space left behind - the spice scent of the tea or rasp of book pages being turned or the hiss of Vulbhan's shears through a netting of roots. It's tea poured from a brass spout to a ceramic cup until it flows over the edge and spreads into the skin of him. She presses into him like the heat of flesh in summer or shoulders set against one another and her other hand, resting on the table, releases the three pronged fork she'd found herself gripping.]

Edited 2017-04-26 15:04 (UTC)

[For a second he is stock still, almost frozen, the feeling of her just there is just as terrifying and thrilling as it ever was, making his pulse jump. She was very bold, and she had always been- quite a lot. As a younger man he had not known how to handle her, and it had taken him many cycles to figure out that he wasn't supposed to. That she was not meant to be handled. That to attempt to pin any part of her down was a fools errand.

But this is what he has decided on. He is a foolish man, but perhaps it is an improvement from being a foolish boy.

He turns her hand carefully and presses a kiss, far less hesitatant, into the cup of her palm, leaves behind the scent of lingering herbs.

It would ease his mind some if she would speak. He is yet uncertain, despite the way she moves into whatever space he has to fill.]

[She lets him kiss the palm of her hand. --But when was the last time she stopped him from doing anything, really? At what point has Cathaway spent much times grieving over or berating or supporting his decisions? He may do what he likes and she will do what she wills. That's the long and short of it, and has been for...-- some time.

She shouldn't have to give him her tacit approval.]

If that's what you'd like. [Her mind is a dark, jittering creature - all its edges scrambled as it flexes against him. Tastes like something visceral. Feels like a flush on the skin. Sets swollen behind the ribs like a heartbeat thrumming or a broad, expanding kind of pride.] Then we're amenable.

[What a silly collection of unnecessary words.]

[Perhaps, but perhaps she should simply view it as a quirk. The nest appreciated those, those things that broadened it in some way or another, even the silly things. He is too- pleased, almost smug with the warm glow of something like a victory- some sort of satisfaction. Abuzz enough to show on his face, or more particularly, in the curve of his lips when he presses them again, higher, on the bend of her wrist, over her pulse, the steady balance of flow within her that still pulsed- anchoring her.]

Then it is settled.

[He is not so foolish to imagine this was the beginning for him of a path of nothing but satisfaction and contentment. He is certain that is not the case. He thinks that if there was a a life where they did not come to disagreements like others came to water, he would not recognize it.]

Should I return to my tea?

[He still has his fingers set very steady at hers, and there are times, rare and unexpected, that he could be charming. Or infuriating. But there was some currency in the darkness of his eyes, the tightened corners and the length of his lashes that he is not unaware of.]

[The heat of his satisfaction flushes her more effectively that the press of his mouth or the length of his eyelashes. She can feel it pressed close to her temple, mingling with her own like some heady perfume or the heavy taste of sweet liquor on the tongue.

But she does grow hot in the face, some low thrumming sensation thud, thud, thudding in the undercurrent of where her mind overlaps with his. She curls her finger tips against the underside of his jaw, the rough scrape of his short beard.]

If you prefer.

[He is surprisingly easy at the touch- surprisingly malleable for someone usually so inflexible and rigid. His chin tips lightly to rest more firmly in the palm of her hand, like some tame creature (but he has always been tame- even when aloof), and while he had been very careful not to go digging around in her mind, he makes no extra attempt to prevent the feedback loop from her short nails through the course hair, the slight, pleasant shiver it leaves behind.]

It is my preference to serve at your pleasure.

[His free hand remains where it is, curled loosely against his thigh, but his other, the one that had held her fingers so carefully slides up to touch lightly over the back of her wrist, the trailing up her lower arm, carefully stopping before the edge of her suit.]

[His roaming hand disturbs the small charms at her wrist and forearm - a golden triangular shape ringing gently against some brassy cephalopod and a silver circle bisected by a black line. She can feel the low scrape of her own fingernails and the prickle of his skin against the back of her teeth. He is undeniably... appealing like this, aware of and leaning into his gentleness.

What was that thing she'd said days ago? Pretend something long enough and eventually it becomes true. She's glad to discover she'd been wrong. It would be a shame if he'd convinced himself of his own seriousness, of being untouchable.

Cathaway leans down to him, the pin straight sheet of her grey hair curtained across her shoulder as she sets her forehead to his. In her mind is the sensation of some great hungry beast, persistent and present and peering from the void beyond the void. But the ravenous dread specter (of fear) peels backward or opens like an envelope and what's left isn't frightened or sad or serious. She touches his face. Pinches his cheek.]

We wouldn't want to waste all your hard work.

[She straightens and, smiling, takes the delicate ceramic cup from the table.]

But once we've had everything here, then maybe we'll see what else you can do.

[It doesn't require him to dig into the shape of her mind to be aware of what's she thinking as she takes a sip from the cup.]

FOR PRINCE

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take a sip