ataraxionlogs | Her Majesty's tears and the pauper's blood

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Her Majesty's tears and the pauper's blood

CHARACTERS: Heather Mason (plus demon) and OTA
LOCATION: the oxygen garden, the kitchen, or just strolling the corridors looking for... stuff
WARNINGS: bad manners, bad language, and possible violence (prearranged she is not going to attack anyone)
SUMMARY: Heather hasn't been out and about much this jump, and when she has she's been with Tillman and probably engaged in what looked like pretty intense conversation ~~or trying to hold his hand under the table at breakfast without anyone noticing~~. Now it's what passes for the wee small hours and she's out unattended for the first time since the jump.
NOTES: Please feel free to grab any of the locations I mentioned or throw in your own! I promised a few people demon interaction, so this is for anyone who wants some :D I'm also cool with prose or action so pick your favourite and I'll follow.

It's been a rough couple of months. That's probably why Heather's been acting a little out of sorts. She's made and lost a dear friend in the space of a jump. Perhaps it's missing Kitten's fashion advice that means she's ditched her own clothes for the Tranquility jumpsuit again, although why she's accessorizing with dogtags instead of her usual ever-present locket is anyone's guess.

But now it's late – or early, depending on your perspective – and she's out and messing with things. Wandering the corridors looking for something to do. In the kitchens with a slight curl to her lip, poking packets of alleged food. In the garden, staring at a patch of dark red flowers she'd been tending near obsessively and looking like she's contemplating ripping them up.

She's obviously bored. Why not say hi?

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She presses a hand to her mouth and watches him. Watches him breathe and fidget and smiles against her fingers. He's volunteering a lot of information, and part of her wonders if it's not a stall, trying to avoid starting the clock again while the lift keeps moving.

"Thank you," she drawls, drawing on Heather. It's the way the girl was raised; to tell someone when they're important to you, to thank them when they do something for you. It's something he'll have heard before, and it'll drive her crazy.

"That's going to be a hard act to follow."

That was part of the deal. Elaborating. So as much as he hates to and as much as he sucks at it, he is. Besides, the more he talks, the less chance she has to do things like that - say "thank you" and make it sound normal.

"Shut up," he snaps, throwing his head down to finally look her way again, just so he can glare. Anger and irritation are so much easier to express than hurt, more readily associated with fighting back, immediate action, even if they've hurt him more in the long run.

At this point he could give less of a shit that she probably already knows what the next one is, he can guess that she'll want to hear plenty about it.

"Take a guess. What's it gonna be."

Oh, no. Skipping straight to the medbay conclusion is one thing; she's not about to ease his way by being the first to mention it and let him just agree. He was right the first time, these little steps are important. She taps a finger against her lips in thought.

"Now how would I know a thing like that? Forgive me, but I didn't think we really had that sort of relationship."

"Been pretty damn good at guessin' so far."

He huffs and plays around with his lighter as he crosses his arms, scrutinizing her, no longer so stunned that he's completely unable to think about this logically. She was actually really damn good. Freakishly good. Either she was one of those people who simply dug around and connected the dots, he was just that obvious, or something weird was up.

"Daddy was a storyteller."

She and the meatsuit could claim that in common, at least if it wouldn't be an outrage to compare a bumbling novelist to the Father of Lies. Personally she prefers the little truths that give the lies their sharp edges, make them cut and sting.

"Means I can follow a narrative. It doesn't necessarily follow that I know the ending."

"A storyteller, huh," he mutters, sounding a bit skeptical before musing over the idea of storytelling itself. On the one hand, it might be easier to treat it like a story - on the other, that might become more revealing than he wants it to be.

"Guess y'get spoilers this time." Hey, he never was a great storyteller, and rambling while high doesn't count unless the other person is just as fucked up. Though being high might be better in this case, because he's pushed it back so hard and so often that the words barely form into something coherent in his mind, let alone make their way out.

It takes a few starts before his he gets it out - not choked, but merely quiet, almost resigned. "Losing people."

The breath she draws is long and slow. She curls the finger at her mouth and slips the knuckle between her teeth. Bites a little indent either side of the bone, a way of keeping the mouth too busy to leer or laugh, or maybe moan. This is it, this is what she's been digging after. The prize at the bottom of the box that turns out to be a diamond.

Her eyes rake over his face. The set of his mouth, the shape of his brow. But always back to the eyes, eyes so deep in this that he could - yes - drown in it.

She holds her tongue, her breath. Holds herself forward, not quite on tiptoe but rocked onto the balls of her feet, and waits.

He doesn't dare look away, and while half of it is admittedly due to stubborn, stupid pride - all nations seem to have the flaw of stubborn, stupid pride - the other half is because he's wary. The way she's looking at him simultaneously raises his hackles and lights the spark of intrigue.

What he says next comes out cautiously, carefully - measured. Why he's afraid, huh. From the rest of their conversation, the logical part of the conclusion is easy enough to draw.

"Helplessness. If ya don't have allies, you're fucked," he mutters, expression suddenly dark as he recalls takeover after takeover - Rome, Gaul, HRE, France, and finally Germany. Allies, or allies who don't give half a damn about you, it's all the same result.

And while he's drawing up the words for the rest, the lift finally stops.

As soon as the lift stops she's in the door, arms planted on either side, blocking it.

"That's it, huh? Allies? Your deepest darkest is a loss of tactical advantage?" She speaks with teeth bared, almost a snarl. She'd expected this kind of bullshit initially, but after he'd been so forthcoming - and now that they're so close to medbay, so short on time - she's irrationally angry. One good push away from letting her eyes slide to black and giving him something a little more immediate to fear.

"I don't much care what else you think of me, but do not think of me as an idiot."

Well, whatever he was thinking, it's gone, his open inner musing derailed just as easily as if she'd thrown herself straight into the path of his train of thought, rather than into the exit of a lift.

And for a second, hey, he's pretty damn calm. Levels a flat stare at her, shoves his lighter back into its proper place in his pocket, and lets out a rather long, suffering breath as he straightens up. It's the only thing that betrays the fact that he wants to kick her goddamn chest in so hard it cracks her sternum straight away from every rib she has and sends her flying.

He didn't think she was an idiot before, but this? Well, he does now. They still have from here to Medbay, from here to a doctor.

"Out."

"No."

She's well past pretending, now. The voice she uses is one that would curdle milk and sour wine. It's a voice for commanding hellhounds, and if she had any she'd have them growling, sniffing for his blood. But she doesn't, more's the pity.

"Finish."

That voice also sends a spike of pure alarm down the back of his spine, just as foreboding as the sickening color the sky turns before the North Sea decides to turn her wrath against him.

Too bad he's more scared of the North Sea than he is of her. Whatever happens, she isn't going to be able to kill off a quarter of his people in one awful swoop.

"After we're in Medbay. Promise," he says, just like it's another trade deal, and tilts his head in a nod, a mockery of the sentiment behind 'after you, my lady'. "I don't break promises."

"That wasn't the deal."

She might not be crossroads stock, but you do not fuck around with demons and deals. He may be older and he may be may be more experienced at this sort of thing, but she has nothing to lose. Provided he doesn't know how to do an exorcism, that is - and if he was that clued-in, he'd have been Christo-ing right in her face about twenty minutes ago.

"I'm not setting foot in Medbay until you've given me what you promised."

"I didn't make a promise," he snarls, because first off he needs to draw that line. Promises and deals are entirely different things. Deals are loose trades and loopholes are par for the course. A loophole worked into a promise is a fucking betrayal.

"I said - " and with that, he takes a step closer - "that ya got a fear, every five minutes. You said - I hafta say what. I hafta say why."

And then he stops.

"Did that. If you wanna hear anything else, go to Medbay." The now speaks for itself, right.

Oh. Oh. Craft and trickery, and if she wasn't so mad she'd admire it. If he does die for good one day, he'll make an excellent demon. Of course, he's not family yet. Right now he's an arrogant creature much closer to human than he seems to think he is, and he's holding out on her. So she drops her arms and mirrors his movement, steps closer. If she'd picked a vessel that was a foot taller, she'd be right in his face.

"Make me."

Sadly, some part of him would love honing his negotiation skills as a demon. If he were dead he would take an immediate shine to it.

But hey, she's in his face and providing an entirely different challenge. He could shove her out, sure. He wants to. But at this point? He is not beyond pretending that what he sees is Heather. It's a gross combination of selfishness, denial, and logic, one that he has no idea what to do with.

So he steps just as close, presses line along line, and kisses her. Rather, kisses whoever this is, knowing it might be a "whoever this is". Puts all of his hopes into it, his fears into it, pretends and gives and gives and gives to whoever this is - and kisses show more than tell. He always did suck at the telling part.

And if that isn't convincing enough to distract her from the lift...

Well that's about the opposite of what she expected. She opens her mouth automatically, intending to bare teeth and bite down - how dare he? - but, well. Why should the crossroads crew have all the fun, anyway? And she's bored out here, having invested so much of her time in someone who turned out to be all talk and no trouser.

Instead, she kisses back. It's equal parts fuck you and fuck me, teeth and tongue and anger and need and a thought spared for that little part of her, buried deep, that still needs something warm. Needs it enough that she's pawing at him, clawing at him, and not paying nearly as much attention as she ought to be.

For the barest second after he knows he has her attention - one second longer than the logical part of him says that he should waste - he honestly puts it out there and kisses her back. There's something cathartic about confessing, and something shameful in doing it all the same. And then there's something that makes him want to get rid of all of it and start over. After all, he was the one to help rip away everything, from the icons to the organs to the goddamn confessional lattice, right out of his own churches.

One second, he indulges; the next has him shoving her straight out into the hallway, with far more force than he would normally show a human. If something happens, well, they're going to Medbay anyway.

She's not expecting it - sloppy, lazy, stupid - and the shove sends her flying, human body weak and timid with out her actively telling it what to do. It's a hell of a shove, too; hard enough to send her into the opposite wall, head smacking metal with a sick thunk.

For a moment, she slips. Snarls outright at him, and for the briefest beat - so fast that it might be a trick of the light - her eyes flash black-in-black.

"Strong," she hisses, drawing herself up and brushing off in every sense, curling her mouth into a smirk. "You've been holding out on me."

And she wants to see how strong, so she rushes forward to test it the best way she can think of - with a fist aimed right for that kiss-happy mouth.

Whoa - something about that snarl makes him take a step back, sends all of his alarms blaring, get out, get out, get the fuck out.

Even through the alarm, he's surprised by how fast as she is, and has no time to block it. Her punch hits home, sends his head straight back and makes him stumble a few steps, but he's quick to get his bearings again, mostly because he has to.

He's clearly shocked, and it delights her. Please her to the point of recklessness, and instead of darting back like she ought to or trying to land another blow as he stumbles, she pauses to sneer.

"Where's all your chivalry now? Your courtly graces? Shall we dance, or would you like to throw me into another wall first?"

He's not about to bother with banter - she's dangerous enough to leave him tasting blood, and he doubts she'll let him turn around and stroll away at this point. But mostly, he's pissed.

She's no lady, and his answer comes in the form of a fist.

She's not fast enough to dodge it - barely has time to turn her head so the blow lands at the side of her head where she can hide it instead of making a big, difficult-to-explain mess of her face. She is, however, a little more prepared. Instead of puddling to the floor unconscious like she certainly should she staggers briefly under the force of it and simply turns her face back to glare at him. Not as effective as she'd wanted it to be, having intended to just stand her ground, but the challenge is still in her face.

"Still trying to help me into Medbay?" They're well past that now, and she does wonder if he's still kidding himself. "That's about to get tricky to explain, don't you think?"

That punch isn't nearly as effective as it should be, damn. This could get ugly. But apparently she underestimates his penchant for idiotic, pigheaded stubbornness if she thinks he won't try to drag her ass to Medbay the second he has an opportunity. Which would happen to be while she's standing there blabbing and glaring.

"Not help," he grunts, and shoots a hand out for her wrist, like he's gonna drag her there like she's an overgrown toddler throwing a tantrum and not an overpowered psycho bitch.

"To what end, precisely?"

When his hand closes on her wrist she jerks it back, trying to pull him in. He wants to get all touchy and up close? Fine. It'll make up for her shorter reach.

"I'm healthy, I'm lucid. In fact, all they'll find wrong with me is that somebody just hit me in the head hard enough to give me a concussion. And if you think for a moment I can't turn on the tears and tell them I don't know why you did it but I'm just so scared you're a bigger fool than you look."

Her Majesty's tears and the pauper's blood

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