13 ◈ spam & private

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13 ◈ spam & private

[He seethes, like he's boiling under his skin. The last time he was this angry - well, the last time he was this angry there was a kidnapping, and a death. He remembers it clear as day even though it was more than a year ago now, blackness welling up behind his eyes with the pop-pop-pop like fireworks if he didn't know any better. After all his schemes, all his work, all his little impulses, nothing made a difference.]

[Which he should have known. The truth of the matter is that his family betrayed him in the end. Not just Joe, but everyone, the people who had depended on him and who'd professed to love him. The people he had loved, they left him alone, sealed him away in isolation and put him out of their misery. He knows.]

[He just doesn't get why he's surprised anymore.]

[Another thing that he knows better than to do but starts doing anyway is spending an exponentially larger amount of time in the pub. He's not actually drinking that much; mostly he sits at the bar with a book on his lap, one thumb stuck in a page about midway through. Occasionally he props it open against the sticky counter and reads about casks and jesters and black cats, and gets an odd, glazed look on his face, remembering the sense of old faiths and old loves. When he's done in the bar, he goes to the chapel and sits in the same way. Maybe it's odd to read in there, but it's what he tends towards.]

[He's homesick. So sue him.]

private } iris, later

I need a favor from you.

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[Iris is in the lab, working with a sort of miniature welder on a bronze horse's hoof. Her communicator is propped on a shelf at eye level, where she can reach to flick its buttons and talk while she works. She eyes Roderick through her safety goggles and smiles softly.]

Name it, love.

Edited 2015-01-19 03:00 (UTC)

I need to kill you.

[She places the hoof on a bent-wire stand and the welder back in its holder before she removes her goggles and just watches Roderick for a long moment, head tilted, gauging.

Then she nods, and although her expression softens, it could still not be called a smile, especially not by Iris standards.]

Let me park the dogs over at Tiggy's. I don't like death tolling anywhere but me own room. Or wait, do you need to make a mess? 'Cause I'd sooner you didn't.

[But if he does, she's just going to plan differently. It's not a no.]

It doesn't need to be a big mess, but it's gonna be a knife or a gun, and either one of those is gonna get on the furnishings. Get me a tarp and the weapon of your choice and this won't be an issue. I never had to make a mess if I didn't want to.

[In truth he prefers a mess, but - not with Iris. With other people, people he didn't know, maybe, but with her, it should be enough to just do it. To experience the closeness of a death.]

[He has to believe this. Otherwise, how will the anger end?]

[That makes her smile, somewhat absently; it's because she's reminded suddenly of Harvey and his face when he shot her and Sylvanas.]

Enclosure, then. I'll bring both, shall I?

[Will you stay with me, after, she almost asks, and then doesn't. It interests her more to learn whether he'll choose to unprompted.]

That'd be great, Iris.

[He doesn't call her darlin' because she said she didn't like it, once upon a time.]

I'll see you in a few.

[This is a terrible idea. Iris is too intelligent, too capable of seeing all the angles not to know it's a terrible idea. She tries not to count the people she knows she's going to hurt or infuriate, because she isn't allowing them to change her mind. Roderick needs this, she believes she's the best person to give it to him, and she refuses to believe that's not the only reason.

She's pacing by the Enclosure door when he arrives, and she doesn't smile or greet him. She only tosses him the canvas wrapped bundle and turns, not watching him catch it, to kick open the door in one smooth movement.]

I'll fight, if you let me. I'll fight dirty.

[No apologies. No explanation.]

[He catches it. His pupils are dilated, his breath shallower than usual, as if he's been on a short run. He's ready, in fact, for a fight, but he doesn't expect her to give him one. Not until she brings it up like that, and then, well. Then he hesitates, pulling back and giving her a careful look.]

Is that what you want?

[Because if it is, he's happy to give it. A little leeway here or there, as long as he gets what he wants in the end. Which he will. He's excellent at this. Has been for a long time.]

[He doesn't lose at killing.]

[Yes. No. I don't know. She turns and stares at him, her eyes wide and dark and her mouth grim, and stares for a long moment.]

No. But there's a price.

[She doesn't wait for him to come to her: she takes two steps towards him, holding his gaze all the time, and she raises one hand to cup his cheek.

She stops just short of making contact, but the fringes of her own emotions are perceptible without touch at this range: something unidentifiable between rage and despair, love of the muscularly grim kind that nurses the dying, sorrow howling, high and thin in the night and guilt squelching underfoot, all ratcheted up to eleven.

She waits, still and cool, for a signal. For consent.]

Edited 2015-01-20 03:41 (UTC)

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[Christmas had left him with plenty of alcohol to consume in the privacy of his own home, so he doesn't need to go over to the pub all that often. Still, he likes being in bars: the low, anonymous murmurs, the knowledge that you can always still drink something, keep your hands busy.

He keeps Gene busy enough, letting him into the bar every now and then. The Marine didn't join him this time, so it's just him. He's reading too, but finds that the book isn't holding his interest. He glances over occassionally from his own place at the bar, trying to assess the man. He can't quite pin that look, wonders if he should. Eventually he decides there's no harm in trying.]

What're you reading, there?

[He startles slightly, not as aware of his surroundings as he ordinarily would be. When he sees Jimmy, he relaxes. Doesn't know much about the guy, but enough to know he has nothing at all to do with what's currently bothering Roderick. A neutral party, so to speak; someone with whom he can converse about nothing at all, without being reminded of the messes he's trying to clean up right now.]

[He picks the book up and slides it over the bar, tilting it so Jimmy can see it: The Collected Works of Poe.]

You ever read "The Black Cat"?

[He leans over enough to be able to see the book's title, then leans back again. He fishes for a cigarette in his pocket; lights it, routinely.]

Sure. Poe, right? Fella kills his cat, goes nuts, kills his wife.

That's about how it goes.

[His lip quirks; he closes the book completely, then, taking his thumb out of the pages.]

You make it sound like it doesn't mean anything at all. [He kind of likes it; that dismissiveness.]

What d'you think it means? [He puts his lighter back into his pocket and takes a sip of the whiskey in front of him. It's Poe: he knows it means something. But on the Barge the answer's bound to be interesting.]

[He shrugs, takes a sip of his own drink.]

I was taught that it was a beautiful thing. The death of a beautiful woman.

But the whole thing's about madness. The nature of madness. How people perceive madness differently, how it means something completely contrary from one person to the next.

[He thinks about his wife, shot by a man who'd come to shoot him. He wonders if Roderick would find that beautiful, too, and he digs his fingernails into the soft skin of his palm.]

They're always having to come up with new ways to call people crazy, I guess. [Shellshock. Combat fatigue.]

[Horatio has spent the day in a state of blissful ignorance. He enjoyed breakfast with Roderick this morning, as usual, paroled the deck for a few hours, absent mindedly watching the sky. Read a little. Spent a while practicing fine motor skills with his prosthetic, and spent a little while working with Scorpius.

It isn't until dinner that he makes contact with Roderick again, spotting his inmate across the dining hall, and closing the distance to his table quickly.]

Good evening, Roderick. You've had a good day, I hope?

[He places down his tray, and slides into the seat opposite his inmate. There are a few slices of roast beef on his plate, which he was too polite to refuse, but are definitely going to be passed across to Roderick's plate as soon as he's settled.]

[There is a bright purple bruise on Roderick's throat. He's sitting over a cup of coffee and glowering at nothing at all when Horatio comes over. Once his warden is close enough, once the question is asked, he tips his chin up to show the bruise, smirking slightly.]

Good enough.

[It's stupid, he knows, to antagonize Horatio. He knows that, but he can't help himself. He's too excited, too irritable, too - he doesn't even know what he is right now.]

[Perhaps it speaks volumes about Horatio as a person, that as soon as Horatio registers the smirk on Rodericks face, he is controlling his reaction. By the time his eyes find the bruise, his expression is fixed into the look of polite interest that Roderick might already recognise as a mask for his true feelings.]

You've been fighting? [the question is civil, calm, but even as he asks it a weight settles into the pit of his stomach.]

Are they alive?

Edited 2015-01-23 19:33 (UTC)

Not exactly fighting.

[But he doesn't want to go into it. It's not right, not right, what happened, and he doesn't know how to make it fit. Everything's all wrong, and he can't remember a time when this didn't work before.]

[Anyway. The other question is easy to answer.]

Probably by now, yeah.

[Horatio's shaking his head. The question had been glib, almost a joke. This, surely, is grandstanding. Roderick's making fun of him, insinuating and needling and suggesting this solely to make him anxious.

It's working.]

You didn't.

[That's all he can say. All that comes out of him. He needs this not to be true, not to have failed this colossally.]

Edited 2015-02-02 03:09 (UTC)

[He cocks his head to one side.]

I did.

What, are you surprised? You can't be. You know me. I think you know me better than anyone else.

[Now he absolutely is needling, trying to hurt him. Look what you could have prevented, he's saying, if only you had been more attentive.]

[And perhaps this shows how terribly, unwisely close they are, because this is exactly the right angle to take to keep Horatio up at night. He doesn't even fully register Rodericks comments as being designed to hurt him, because they sting him too sharply for Horatio to step back and consider their intent.

He does know Roderick that well. And he should have stopped this. He would have come to the same conclusions without Rodericks nudging, but with it, the journey is made in an instant.]

You're right, of course. You've chosen not to act on your anger, your insecurity, for so long. I've been-- [he stops himself. Careless is too weak a word for what he's been. All the same, he fights to keep his voice bland and even as he speaks.] -- negligent, in my trust of you.

Go up and take what food you want for the night. I'm going to escort you to level zero.

Edited 2015-02-02 19:56 (UTC)

[He actually flinches at insecurity. What insecurity? He doesn't believe he has any. He doesn't believe Horatio, of all people, has the right to speak to any insecurities that he might have. He doesn't believe--]

[But it's a moot point, isn't it? He isn't about to argue with his warden, not here in the middle of the dining hall. So he just tightens his jaw and stands, his chair scraping back behind him.]

[Horatio rises with Roderick, leaving his own food at the table, untouched. He waits, to see if his inmate wants to take anything from the kitchen, but he won't make conversation. His thoughts are disjointed, fleeting, but already he's formulating a response plan. First food, then level zero. Then, they talk. ]

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