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

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.]

[Her mind is just there, and even with all of the strange frightening aspects it is tempting to follow the flow, to let the river's current drag him under. That wasn't what he wanted though, not- yet. So he anchors himself, in her hair against his cheek and her forehead pressed against his, the herbal mix of breath between them. It's more than enough, blended with the spidery frayed edges of her mind.

He leans into her then, ever so slightly, turns his chin up- but then her hand is at his face, and she pinches the flesh of his cheek in a way that is- disarming. He finds himself blinking at her as she again pulls away, slow to the uptake, to her words.

He is less slow to the insinuation in her thoughts, and while he was just very smug, very confident, he is somewhat- not scandalized, but slightly embarrassed, flushing slightly. Her boldness put his own to shame, in most things.]

Yes, of course, please continue.

[He gestures- somewhat awkwardly, with his hand before he stands again, fingers at the table. He resists, very narrowly, the urge, to touch her shoulder before moving back to his side of the table, sitting somewhat heavily on the low bench, folding himself back into place and reaching for his own cup, eyes sliding up to catch hers and remain anchored there.]

I am not certain anymore what blend you prefer. Before, I do not think you had a preference.

We're not sure we do now either. But we'll try whatever you'd like to.

[She smiles across the delicate lip of the ceramic cup. And while it isn't suitable for the ceremony of the matter, she doesn't hesitate when it comes to reaching across the width of the table and setting her hand where he might touch it. Wouldn't that be pleasant?]

[It was not suitable for the ceremony, and not expected, but it takes him only a slightly embarrassing amount of time to register the offer for what it was, and when he does he shifts his hands on his cup to leave one free, only slightly uncertain in the way he rests his fingers against the back of her knuckles, over old scars, shifting slightly over the rise and dip of them, the callused pads of his fingers like a ship across the sea. He can barely feel it, truthfully, through skin that has gone thick, but that doesn't discourage him.]

I shall change the mix next time, then.

[He takes a careful sip from his cup, aware of the fact it would be tepid soon, even with the narrow width of the cup. If this was done enough times, they should discover her preference, he's certain. He thinks she must have one, even if it is fluid. There would be no harm to it. He glances into his cup, measures the remaining distance. He would need to pour the small glass of honeyed liquor soon, the pallet cleanser between the cups of tea. Some of them had found that part more exciting than the tea- as if the entire ceremony were worth the smallest sip of something they had the right to have at any time. Perhaps because it seemed like they shouldn't.]

How go your dinner preperations?

Fine enough. Idle has been very helpful.

[She turns her hand just so under the set of his fingers so that she might rest it palm up, the blunt edge of her nails stroking soft isle patterns at the soft center of his palm. It's nice. Simple. As straight forward as the tang of the tea at the bottom of her cup is complex - not quite bitter and not quite sweet.]

She's a very stubborn girl. But she's doing well-- [Well.] Now that she's had time to recuperate and gather her nerve again.

[There, the quiet press of her nail at the heel of his hand as she finishes her cup. Does he really want to talk about work?]

[Not particularly. He isn't sure what he would like to talk about. Perhaps something like poetry or one of the stories he had never had the nerve to read to her before (and would still likely not- as saccharine as they were). But she wished to finish her tea and what had they had, besides work, in many cycles?

There is a wavering there- some infirmity of conviction- what did they share now, besides the very thing that had brought them together in the first place?

But that was foolish, foolish. A senseless insecurity, quickly smothered by the soft-hard shift and press of her fingers at the underside of his palm, at the space just above his wrist. He folds his fingers down to curl around her hand, little finger against her first, thumb settled over her wrist as he sets his cup down. It comes to settle in the precise right space with practiced ease, and he reaches across the table- and their joined hands- with his freed hand, pulling over the chilled liquor.]

It is more than I would expect.

[The words could be cruel, but they are not. It has very little to do with his impressions of the girl and far more to do with the impressions of loss. But it is a sour conversation for the moment, better cast aside.]

She is fortunate to have your guidance.

[Counterpoint: what have they ever had in common? They are no more different than they were when this first started. They are a collection of shared experiences, of similar relationships, of the same work and the same hosts and the same, thrumming desire - to stop what is coming and to do something different after. They are a shared fear (that it won't ever happen) and a mingled optimism (that it must).

She sets her empty cup down and waits for him to pour the next, the memory of the honeyed liquor filtered through the link. Half of it is his, maybe: a very different hand tipping the cup. Half of it is hers: drinking from the bottle in the equipment locker with an old friend who isn't him and who isn't gone but isn't here in this room.]

She's something anyway. And how is Misato?

[The point of the ceremony is memories. Made and remembered. The regularity of it unifies the experience and highlights the differences. Each time is different regardless of the formality of it. So it is no surprise that his mind strays, even less that hers does. The muddle of thoughts does not confuse, and that in and of itself has been a cause of discomfort for him in the past. Now, with her, he is content enough at the remembered taste- not quite the same- on her tongue.

He fishes out for the tiny tinted pink glasses and slides them neatly between them, shifting them by the slightest degree into the correct positions before he again reaches for the bottle.]

Mm- [The noise is small and noncommittal. He has not spoken to her recently, to know how her mind has changed, but-] I believe she is doing well. I believe she will do well for quite some time. But I also believe that time will end. She is very young, and I do not know how long she will be able to sustain the pace she has accustomed herself to before she no longer knows how to continue living.

[It is a dim and pessimistic view, perhaps, but everything about her seems intent on either succeeding or dying- young, if he is reading the situation right. But she was not the first brash and bold young woman to join the Nest, and perhaps she would lean on the strength of it, and perhaps that would find her balance- even at a cost.]

What a somber story you tell us, our Prince. [There's a lightness to her tone, an easiness there that suggests she's joking. No, Misato is not the first firebrand young woman to find herself on Station 72. Plenty have come and gone but some of them have stayed. Some of them have been here a very, very long time.

She waits until he poured that sweet, honeyed liquor, then takes up the small pale glass. She lifts it - a minor toast, a small break from ceremony -, then touches it to her lip. Breathes in the scent, as is expected of her. For a moment it reminds her of what it ought to - the four of them or sometimes the five or six of them around a table very similar to this one. The memory is laced with something equal parts sweet and bitter (some edge of his own recollection, perhaps) and she can't help but be reminded of what a serious young man he once had been. Even now, he seems so very young.

Misato-- Nothing he or she did could change what becomes of her. Rest easy, dear, she might say. The girl is the master of her own fate.

But she doesn't. Instead she swallows down the sweet liquor and sets the emptied glass aside.]

She'll do well. We feel it.

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

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take a sip

TURNS ON FAUCET

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take a sip

*TURNS ON FAUCET*

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TURNS ON FAUCET