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

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

CHARACTERS: Cathaway & [Ilde/Prince/insert option C]
WHERE: Station 72
WHEN: Day :036+
SUMMARY: Catchall for Cathaway on the Station mid-Waypoint Shril and beyond; Cathaway and Ilde prepare a meal; Prince and Cathaway have a serious conversation over tea.
WARNINGS: N/A, will update as necessary.

[It’s on a chain and my father said
to me Don’t get too close I saw it was
staring down at each of our faces
one after the other as though it might
catch sight of something in one of them
that it remembered I stood watching its eyes
as they turned away from each of us]

((ooc: In or around the Station Day :036 or beyond? Drop me a starter or PM me for something. All threads will be set prior to the end of Mission Waypoint Shril.))

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[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.

[There's a twitch at the corners of his mouth in response, the faintest smile for her gentle mockery.]

I have been accused of somber thoughts.

[By many people, certainly by her. Too serious and too pessimistic, but to fail to prepare for the worst was to walk into a fool's trap. His fingers shift idly against her palm as he picks up his own glass. He answers her toast a moment behind her, slow to catch on. It wasn't quite- right, but she remembered far more than he had expected her to. Not because he thought her forgetful, but because he recognized the formality- the structure- was excessive. That she remembered- there was honor in that. The melancholy wash of her thoughts across his fail to strip that feeling away, even as he takes in the honeyed scent, takes a sip and allows it to settle high and sweet on his tongue.]

I am afraid even you cannot see the future so sure as that, my love.

[There's a suggestion there- of a joke, if a frail one. As if he wasn't equally confident in his own beliefs- as if her words weren't what he would rather believe. He is not reluctant to remove his hand from hers as he again reaches for the kettle- both hands needed for the proper pour.]

Perhaps you would prefer to tell a more cheerful story?

[She lets her hand remain there even after he draws his away. No matter. He'll finish his work, then come back to it. She's as certain of that as she knows herself to be breathing.]

Of course. [Propping her elbow on the edge of the table, Cathaway sets her cheek in the hand that isn't waiting for his touch. She takes a moment, eyelids heavy - draws a deep, thoughtful breath and allows herself to wander by a few tenuous degrees. It's like opening a window overlooking a different place rather than walking through a door leading there. She raises the window in its frame and lets the shapes beyond it filter through her to him.

The place she looks over is a gleaming alabaster city: a thousand slim spires growing out of a black ocean. There are ships lighting in from across the water, tossing up brilliant sparkling waves in their wake. They watch from one of the city's many quays, her tough masculine hand resting across a spun stone railing. The weather is turning. Storm clouds are racing away across the horizon and an orange sun is crawling out from behind them. The sea air is crisp, salt flecked. It's pleasant and for a moment the shape of it doesn't seem at all remote.]

[It is pleasant, how agreeable she is, or perhaps how agreeable they were. Not that every disagreement they had ever had was unpleasant but verbal sparring did not suit the occasion so well. He knows the danger that the open invitation of her mind represents. How easy it would be to let it slip over him, how tempting it would be to chase that, to find himself wandering along the same paths that she did.

It was a calculated risk, then, one that he takes without hesitation. The breeze across his face, the warmth of the sun not yet eaten by the clouds are not so sharp for him as they are for her, but there is an ambiance to them, washing over him even as he steadies the kettle, just warm enough to still be acceptable. The gentle splash of the tea melds with the distant sound of waves and he can taste the salt high on the pallet of his mouth as he pours his own cup, in turn. It is more cheerful, but not entirely safe. The feeling of distant electricity picked up easily by his senses, attuned to them, the hair on his arms standing on end. He is not surprised to see that the boats push their luck on the water, dancing on the waves to pull the last catch before they would be forced to retreat, as he would, behind the shuttered walls.

He sets the kettle down, eyes focused again on the old wood of the table, hand settling again over hers on the table.]

It is no wonder you are so often away. This place holds far less interest.

[It is not an indictment. She bears no blame in this.]

[She makes a small mild noise - present here in this room, even if she's made no effort to close the proverbial curtain on that other world. Let the salt tang linger in the air here. Let the chop of some distant dark water underpin the clink of this fine ceramic dishware. What's the harm in it?]

Often, yes. [What's the use in lying to him? It would be pointlessly transparent.] But usually we're away because keeping this place secure requires it. We love this place.

[It's better when the Station isn't moored between worlds, hanging in that dense void space. But if there's anything she wholly cares about, it's protecting the Station and what's inside it. That he's part and parcel to that? Well maybe it's simply an accident, but it's certainly a happy one.]

[Of course she did. After all this time, even he did. The station had been like a prison, once, but after many many cycles away from it, many missions, many losses, eventually it became the closest thing any of them had to a home. In many ways, it was more comfortable to him than any place he had spent his childhood, those haunted halls, the age and austerity, the eyes of everyone who had come before him. This place was older, but it was alive, and it wanted them here, in a way that was not clear initially but which became more clear days following days.

And for her, of course, it was more. The home of her who was everyone, but also some key piece of the Nest, a necessary fragment or a stable core. It was survival personified. Perhaps he was being too cynical. He takes a sip of the tea, already cooling, and it is decidedly sweeter, more mild on the tongue. Some contrast to the remembered taste of sea and sand.]

I'm not sure I could resist the urge to monitor their progress. [To be sure they were safe-] It would consume far too much of my time.

[But it wouldn't, of course. His priorities would change in turn. He would not be so concerned with the safety of each individual host. He would, he thinks, be more content with the overall health of the Nest.]

It's true-- [she lifts her cup and tastes from it to test the temperature--] We are sometimes distracted.

[Not by the need to look at every individual Agent and Host, to carefully index their presence and their minor hurts or slivers of success. But there's lots to see out in the multiverse; she would be lying if she pretended it didn't draw her eye.

But of course, none of this is revelatory to him. He knows this nearly as intimately as she does. And besides, her attention sits here for now. Cathaway drinks from her cup and the mental window to that alabaster city slots itself comfortably closed. Mostly closed. As close to it as she is capable as her focus sharpens to the cup and the table and the softness of his fingers set against her palm.

How many more cups of tea can there possibly be?]

[Her words are answered with a small, quick smile, there and gone. Yes, she was, sometimes, distracted.

He then turns his attention to his cup, and to a moment of silence that is more companionable than it is anything else, porcelain to the curve of his lip as he takes another shallow drink. The cups are small. There is not much left, and the pot is as near to empty- and already too cold- for him to consider pouring another cup for either of them. Perhaps he feels that question, or perhaps it is simply- obvious. He taps his fingers lightly against the underside of her wrist, even as he glances up over the rim of the cup.

Tap tap.

He turns the cup, a quarter of a turn, to a cool spot on the rim before he takes another drink. It is warmer in contrast, and the tea, as all well-crafted blends, changes in flavor as the temperature shifts. Bringing different undertones to the flavor. Less spice, more citrus, fresher on the tongue. Its scent fills his nose where the sea has abandoned, and it brings with it ancient oiled wood, the game scent of leather, dust, aged craquelure finish and the distant sound of leaves through the trees, huge and towering, ancient and twisting.

Tap tap.

He tips the cup, draining the last of the liquid away. He straightens his shoulders slightly, lifting the cup and touching it lightly to the center of his forehead before settling it very particularly on the table, centered exactly in front of him. And then he waits, very patiently.

Tap tap.]

[Surely there must be a way these ceremonies usually end - something more particular than finishing their cups and replacing them at their starting point. She suspects maybe it's something to do with the undressing of the table after all his guests have gone, but in the moment finds she can't recall it.

No matter, she decides as she drinks the last of that spice and wood char tea. The cup is fitted back on its delicate little hand painted dish as her thumb traces the thick underside of his wrist in time with the easy, unhurried brush of his fingers. With her chin in her spare hand, she regards him across the too-wide table and her mind drifts from that seaward window to other, more particular possibilities.]

Would you like to continue this conversation somewhere more comfortable?

[Likely not the one about the other Hosts, the one about what lies beyond the Station and this universe, but the low murmuring and faintly feverish undertone that's been stitched through her thoughts. She grins at him - a cat who's caught its prey.]

[There was some more that could be done. Some words, a drink of minted water to cleanse the pallet, an elaborate series of bows and shaking hands and farewells, but none were entirely necessary and certainly they did not befit a ceremony for two as close as they were.

The water, perhaps, but it seemed like a distraction at this point. Better then to turn his attention to the focus of her eyes and the sharpness of her smile, the way her pinkie lies just outside the corner of her lips where she rests her face on her hand. The words alone are not entirely chaste, but the open buzz of her mind strips away whatever coyness there may have been there.

He does not mind at all.]

I believe I made some statement to that effect.

[And she had wondered what else he could do.

He shifts his hand from where it rests to fit his fingers around hers, turning her palm lightly to the table so that when he stands he gently pulls her to do the same, resisting the urge to step over the table which is- not quite his, or perhaps is very much his. Instead, still holding her hand in his, he steps around the outside of the table, leading the necessary turn of her body. He leaves the smoke to burn in it's brass holder, untroubled. It would turn to cinder before long.]

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

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