lestercraft | TLV: IC Inbox

He can feel it. He can feel all of it, the way his mood immediately drops, the sway. He gives himself, himself and Arthur, a moment before he speaks.

[Understood.]

Another moment before he decides-

[I won't bring it up again.]

He doesn't move yet, holding himself tense so he doesn't shake, at the-- it almost feels like audacity, because it's the easiest emotion to skim off the top of the rest broiling just beneath his skin.

"Why would she- why the fuck would anyone need to know that?"

A part of him knows, objectively, that there's probably any number of actual reasons, but he's off-balance, defensive and trying not to let his fury overtake him at the-- "What the fuck kind of question is that?!"

John, on the other hand, is entirely calm. He isn't angry or annoyed, the placidness of his tone as clear in the words as the feel of him.

[I can't answer that. But I assure you, it is as relevant as the question I had about substance abuse.]

Quieter-

[I wouldn't ask otherwise.]

Edited 2023-02-01 16:11 (UTC)

"Yes you can, it's not-" And he jerks into action, pacing with sharp motions in their short lounge. "You don't get to just drop that on me with no explanation, John! Those were the most heinous fucking months of my life, it-- n-no. No."

He stops sharply, narrowly avoiding smacking his shin against the couch by sheer luck. "Not unless you tell me which fucking part."

John is very quiet as he considers how to put this, because he doesn't want to violate anyone's privacy, violate any promises that he's made.

[ How we survived. ]

Is there anything else to say beyond that? No. And he isn't trying to make a point about it, that it's not just Arthur's experience but his own. He isn't. Not in the sense of having the right to make this decision without him.

Only in the sense that he knows exactly what he's asking, how horrific it was, that it had cost him as well, would cost him to talk about it. That there is a damn good reason even if he can't say it out loud.

He'd considered asking Natalie first, but he- Natalie is the inmate in this equation. Asking her to be vulnerable first isn't fair.

"How I survived," he snaps back. "It was my fucking body that was starving in that god-forsaken hell- t-that's going to-- fuck!"

His voice isn't raised, it's just emphatic, and he lifts his hand to card through his hair like detangling it - long but clean, no knots or filth, he has to remind himself, he's not there and he hasn't been there, but knowing he's going to makes bile rise hot and nauseous in his throat - that can help smooth his thoughts back into place.

"Have you--" He pauses, gears that were jarring from shock suddenly kicking into top speed in his mind. "W-wait, you-- ...y-you haven't asked her, have you? About whether you can tell me."

John knows Arthur, knows how he would react and how to mitigate it, to try and- and manipulate him into giving John what he wants before he approaches Natalie to broach the topic on her terms, already armed. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

He's not going to rise to this bait. He brought this to the table and he was prepared for how badly it was almost certainly going to go.

It would be easy to point out that they were both in that body. That John hadn't felt starvation, but he'd had to endure his own terrible torment for every bite that Arthur devoured. That the other option had been to leave Arthur and let him die, cold and alone in the pit.

He's not doing that.

Yet.

But there's more than one reason he hasn't. And he'll go into it; he hadn't wanted to, just because he knows the mention of her name would make things exponentially more awkward.

[No, I haven't. Because she will more than likely want to speak to Misty about it. Which, until Pagan wakes up, is a fucking landmine waiting to happen and wasn't much better when he was up.

If there's something wrong with me for trying to do this with the least amount of bullshit, so be it.]

He just sounds tired.

[If the answer is no, it's no. But I had to ask.]

Edited 2023-02-02 00:24 (UTC)

He'll hate himself later for how fast his brain makes the instant connections - Natalie talks to Misty about everything; he knows they have some kind of shared, undoubtedly traumatic history. Something that John apparently sees as relatable to their time in the pit. How they survived means--

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Alright, well, there's something fucking horrific they have in common that he really wishes he didn't have to know about. But his problem is still, now, that Natalie knowing it means, without a doubt in his mind, that Misty will inevitably hear of it. And he can't un-think the way it sends a repulsive chill to settle low in his stomach.

"No."

Fuck, he- he can't do this right now, he doesn't want to even think about this, let alone deal with it.

"...get out."

And he's going to grab John's mask to try and make him if he doesn't.

It takes him a moment to process the request, because the idea of leaving Arthur in the midst of this- he hates it. He genuinely hates it.

But when he feels the arm rising, it's like a stab to a heart he doesn't have. The mask detaches well before it would ever get there.

And John isn't saying anything. Not until he's opening the door.

"I'm going." He can't pull the hurt and frustration from his tone. There are many things he could keep himself calm through. Being rejected on this level is not one of them. His mind flashes to the caves, to the time before the pit. What he'd done, what he'd said.

He isn't making that mistake. Not again. Instead-

"I'll be in my cabin."

And he won't wait to hear Arthur's response before closing the door behind him.

He doesn't feel the mask leave - he only notices the swish of fabric from John's own form coming into existence when he's already got a white-knuckled fist of his own sleeve from trying to find the fucking thing. And when the door opens his head snaps sharply towards it, gritted teeth half-bared in surprise at the sound and feeling distinctly, uncomfortably like some sort of feral fucking animal stuck in headlights.

He hasn't got the forethought to say anything between John backing off and actually leaving - but a small noise escapes him, just a quiet, strangled, surprised "John-"

And then the door is shut. And Arthur is... alone.

Alone, with this anxious buzzing under his skin and the fires of his frustration and- and fear, fine, finally simmering down to leave him cold and almost trembling and feeling sick up the whole length of his torso.

John left. Of course he fucking left, Arthur asked him to, but there's something that still makes him feel like he's just been slapped with the fact that he did. That he can. That he doesn't need Arthur here, that he can choose to do whatever he wants and Arthur has no say in what he does with that. He only chose Arthur because he was an easily manipulated idiot, after all - what is there to stay for?

Fuck.

He lifts his hand to scrub his face but the rings catch on his skin and suddenly they feel too tight, like they're going to cut his finger off, and he has to use his teeth to take the stupid fucking things off and he fucking hates that but he slams them down on his desk before he turns tail, yanking his coat off the rack hard enough that the entire thing wobbles dangerously, but he can't see it so it doesn't fucking matter. He just slams the door behind him as he storms out, aiming for the stairs rather than deal with the elevator blind. He needs a fucking drink.

Jon had been about to go out for a bit, stretch his legs, when he hears the doors slamming. Twice. It has him poking his head out, and when he notices both 1. Arthur tearing off towards the elevator and 2. doing so looking like he can't see anything, he immediately locks his door and comes running off after him-

"Arthur? Arthur! Wait- wait up, if you-"

The sound of another voice is like a slap of cold water, and he jerks to a halt to tip his head back towards it, mostly an ear rather than his eyes. He's got his jacket gripped tight in his hand, so he takes the moment to sling it awkwardly onto his dead arm so he can wear the stupid thing instead as he tries to rein his temper in.

"What is it, Sims? This isn't the best time."

"Clearly," and despite the sarcasm, Jon's voice is soft. There's a breath in and Jon can only be glad that he's had a few years on the Barge to shave off his tendency to mutter anything that his overly-sharp tongue comes up with, because the misery he can smell in that breath is, well, breathtaking. Even for him, who's been wallowing in his own.

"But that's... usually when one could use a friend. Would you care for company on... well, wherever the hell you're going?"

When he hears that inhale he can't help but bristle, ready for some cutting remark that- doesn't come.

He doesn't settle, just tugs his jacket as straight as he can manage to try and brush that prickling energy out.

"The Lounge," he answers curtly. "Preferably to the bottom of a bottle."

"Lucky for you," he says as he sidles up next to Arthur, "I was planning on finding the bottom of a bottle tonight myself. So all you've changed is the venue. Shall we?"

He shies back a little, automatically, when he feels the space near him fill up, but he doesn't outright reject it. He just looks a bit... uncertain. Torn.

"I'm not pleasant company when I'm drunk," he warns him.

That gets a snort from him.

"And you think the depressed werewolf who's just gone through a breakup is going to be all fucking roses?" He huffs again. "Get walking, Lester. We'll rip each other to shreds and walk it off later. No one's in a mood to be lovely."

"And a hearty fuck you to you too," he mutters, and he still rankles at being told to keep walking because fuck you he was gonna do that anyway, but sure, let's go. He'd been heading for the stairs rather than the elevator, to work some of that energy off, but Jon stopping him short has cost him his bearings. "Which is closer, stairs or elevator?"

"Very original. Elevator, actually," and he'll reach over and hit the button; Arthur will hear the doors and the 'ding'.

"About four feet further, then left. I'll handle the buttons."

That way they don't have to deal with any stairs and the deck.

His right hand still comes up when he makes the shift left, hunting down the wall to orient himself, but he hears the ding of the elevator soon enough and can lead himself inside once he's grounded.

"So," he says dryly, leaning his left shoulder on the wall when he's in and facing the front. "What does a werewolf want a drink for? I'd have thought you'd be all for tearing throats out instead."

"Ah yes, Lester, you know me: murderous intent aplenty, practically dripping from the fangs at every turn."

He snorts.

"Besides, that sounds like an amazing way to get demoted. Just what I need after getting my freedom."

He leans against the opposite wall.

"Also I thought you were better than being a flaming speciest, Lester. For fuck's sake. As if tearing out Dorian's throat wouldn't just get him hard for more. Bloody vampire fetishist, that one."

He shakes his head.

"I want a drink for the same reason you want a drink: because sometimes things are shit and you don't want to think about anything for a while." Beat. "And meditation is nonsense."

"Apart from your dog show in the Enclosure back when we arrived, literally anything supernatural has made concentrated attempts to kill me. John himself not fucking excluded, as it happens," he adds snidely.

And pauses briefly, his eyes flicking down, unseeing. "And meditation is absolute bullshit. Fucking tedious."

"This Jon entirely excluded, so fuck him," he says with a snort.

Then he moves right along.

"Weirdest thing that's ever tried to kill you: go."

He scoffs. "You know what, I'm still torn between fucking Kellin and his sister's severed, bloated fucking head, or..." He takes a breath, and half-snorts it out his nose. "Fuck, I don't know. There was this- demonic dog, John couldn't even describe it properly, that tried chasing us halfway through the fucking hospital after I just got out of my coma. It appeared to have been summoned, o-or perhaps just attracted by our use of this- supernatural ability we'd just discovered we had."

A beat, and he hums with a tilt of his head. "The buopath fucking sucked as well, mind you."

Edited 2023-02-02 05:06 (UTC)

"I'd bet money it was a Hound of Tindalos," he says with a snort and a shake of his head. "The bastards live in the angles of reality, where we live in the curves..."

A huff before-

"I remembered that because it's so nonsense. They're attracted to..." QUIRK. "Time travel. Did you time travel, Lester? Am I going to have to start calling the two of you Sapphire and Steel now? Don't worry, I'd let you be Steel."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject