14. marmoreal

[exnihilo]

[Private to Iris and Simon, text]

thank you for trying


[Private to Mal, text]

What happened to you?

[After you saw me.]


[Private to Luna, voice]

Do you like pancakes?


[Spam for Mickey, Helena, Cassel, and Stephen]

[Sometime in the night, she breaks into their cabins, quietly. She just wants to watch for a while. Just wants to see that they're okay. If they wake, they might find her perched nearby, scribbling in a notebook. Or maybe just staring, small and still, chin on her knees.]

Comments

[americasdirtiest]

[Mickey is a different person when he sleeps these days. Awake, he's a tightly-wound coil on the verge of springing; when Mira caught him sleeping back in Amsterdam, he was no more nor less than your average sprawling, snoring teenage boy. It's probably not a surprise that at Ian's he's softer, sweeter, happier. If she's ever come here before she knows that this is the way he sleeps every night: shirtless, his arms wrapped around a pillow and his back pressed against Ian, comforted by the warmth of his skin and the safety of this particular routine.

He's not sure why he wakes up at all, except that some sixth or eighth or tenth sense twigs him to another presence in the room. He stirs silently, starts to open his eyes slowly, and then opens them suddenly wide when he realizes they're not alone. He goes rigid.]

What the--

[Mira, he realizes, which offsets the panic but not the tension. All at once he's a live wire again. He disentangles himself from Ian hastily and crosses the tiny room to her, whispering.]

What the fuck are you doing here?

[exnihilo]

I wanted to see you.

[Not visit. Not talk to, particularly, although she is not averse. Just. See.]

[americasdirtiest]

[He realizes, belatedly, that asking a question means getting an answer out loud. He pulls a face when she speaks, glancing back towards Ian, then makes for the bedroom door. There's a narrow hallway on the other side and a set of aging stairs going down to the living room; he leads her as far as the stairs, then turns to her.]

What's up?

[Now that they're out of the room he's more intent on her, concern wrinkling his brow.]

[exnihilo]

[She follows, spare and silent, keeps approximately the same distance.]

Do you know how long we were there?

[It sounds - distant, not quite wistful. She had no way to measure the time at all.]

[text]

[irishrotter]

Of course, Mira.

Are you okay? Can you talk?

[text]

[exnihilo]

im not hurt

[She doesn't know what she is. Disturbed, maybe.]

[text]

[irishrotter]

Were you awake that whole time?

[text]

[exnihilo]

i think so

[But how would she know? She doesn't. Not for sure.]

[text/private]

[routemistress]

while i live and breathe you will never be left behind or forgotten. how you feeling now darling?

[text/private]

[exnihilo]

i dont know

shaken

scared

[text/private]

[routemistress]

want me to come up?

[text/private]

[exnihilo]

i dont know

the CES maybe?

[She wants, she thinks, to move. To see sunlight. Which does not at all explain why she is curled on her couch, tight and still, except for her fingers typing.]

[Private]

[whatthewrackspurt]

Very much so, yes. Are you making some?

[Private]

[exnihilo]

I saw you fighting the snakes.

Pancakes help.

[Things You Learn From Kitchen Wardens]

[Private]

[whatthewrackspurt]

Do they have magical properties, your pancakes?

[Private]

[exnihilo]

No more than other pancakes.

spam;

[adelphoktonos]

[Helena's lying curled up small in the bed that had been Elizabeth Childs' and then belonged to her sestra and now belongs to her. She wakes almost as soon as Mira opens the door but she goes on breathing slowly until the other woman comes into view. Seeing who it is, she rolls over a little, brushing her hair back from her face.]

Mira.

spam;

[exnihilo]

[She lets out a soft breath of her own, at being recognized; seen, named, known. She almost smiles.]

Hello, Helena.

spam;

[adelphoktonos]

[There's a beat before the smile breaks over Helena's own face, but it's wide and open and pleased.]

Hello.

[She doesn't wonder what Mira is doing there. It's enough that she is there. The bed is big enough for two and she pats the empty side with a slow hand: an invitation.]

Come.

private

[deshabille]

I stayed out of the way, mostly. Nothing terrible. Got back to the Barge.

What happened to you?

private

[exnihilo]

you saw me

private

[deshabille]

Yes. But I didn't understand.

[patheticvillain]

[He wakes, sees the notebook. Smiles despite himself, his white teeth flashing in the dark. She's so unlike his mother in every way now. He can't believe he couldn't tell the difference at first.]

Whatcha writing?

[exnihilo]

[She turns the book, holds up the page for him. It's not words. It's a series of sketches of him the largest maybe two inches across, not separated neatly by panel but sliding into each other, curling and spiraling around the page, odd spare patches of space filled with a close-up of his face, or his fingers, or his ankle. Some of the sketches are just a lump and the swish-drape of blankets and a scrawl of black hair. But they're all neatly rendered, moment-to-moment as he tossed around, a deeper message to some potentially amnesiac future self, something beyond what he looked like in the dark, that says: this is worth looking at, paying attention to. Even doing nothing, even obscured from view. Notice.]

[patheticvillain]

[Sitting up a little straighter in the bed, he squints at the pictures.]

That's really cool. And deeply creepy. You know that, right?

[It's said in a very approving voice, though. He likes it, for all that it's super weird.]