crooked moon: draža and gideon

[onefellswoop]

-The Crooked House. shut the fuck up eustace. WHY ARE INFINITE WEASELS?
-A private word. jack you can't slip away from the bird that easily.
-Where you belong. hello puppy, hello daddy. hello gideon?



supplemental:
-Jack's notes. revelations in the margins.

Comments

[onefellswoop]

He knows it's too easy, but he didn't expect Orev not to be suspicious. Even if he actually didn't know the man, he's a gambler: he knows people don't trust as easily as they claim.

(No one but Cala, anyway.)

Still, it's worth a try.

"I have something in mind. Maybe it'll satisfy your curiosity about the baker," he shrugs. Unfolding his arms, he rests his hands on his knees. "Cala. I won her. Not that I was trying to," he adds, his remark carrying some hints of disdain. "Some piece of shit tossed their contract into a pot he was sure I'd lose."

Of course, he hadn't begun losing that night.

"I didn't realize what it was until after, and now I've got a too-trusting, 'charming' Threadborn at my beck and call. Can't tear up the contract because she didn't make it with me; I just inherited it. So that's what we're out to do: get her autonomy back."

A little wave of one hand. "The baker said she knew I owned Cala's soul. She said our redemption's at the Drowned Crossroads."

[orev, insight check: 20 not-nat]

[jack, deception: 29]

As far as Orev can tell, Jack is telling the truth as though his life depends on it.

<.>

It seems he isn't the only one in the business of owning souls.

That isn't a helpful thought. It also isn't strictly true, and he's not about to say it, for fuck's sake. For several moments, he only lets himself consider the information. Thinking—

Well. The girl is probably better off with this man than whoever came before him.

And. There are always ways to slip out from a contract. (A thought - a knowledge? - that stings sharper than he'd like, with roots he cannot trace.)

Slowly, eventually, he nods, eyes not-quite-settled on the window. "The baker. It might be wise to pay her another visit."

Then, perhaps (??) attempting levity (??), never mind that the words fall a bit flat, "You do still need to eat, in any case."

His arms have settled at his side, and one hand flexes again, again in thought. "Do you know how she came to— Mm. Be parted from her soul in the first place?"

<.>

Jack looks faintly surprised - perhaps that Orev is so amenable to helping - but replies, "I didn't ask. I get the impression her parents sold her. It happens. I don't think it's anything she cares to talk about."

There's another silence from him before he goes on, "You're concerned about me eating. Why? It's not like I'm starving myself."

<.>

"...You mentioned your hunger. I would prefer that you not pass out while we're attempting to get our bearings."

That's definitely the entire reason. Or. It's the entire reason that Orev's given to himself; he's not going to touch the impulses behind it, because it doesn't particularly make sense that he'd give a shit one way or another about this boy's care, certainly not. It's all practicality. Yes, practicality and tactical cohesion.

He shakes his head, huffs a perhaps-forced sound of derision. "I can't begin to imagine what the Old Ways have to say about fainting. The barber might attempt to exorcise you via an over-bloody dental extraction."

He clears his throat. Looks back at the boy. "Are you familiar with the Drowned Crossroads?"

(And. A thought occurs, briefly, dim: Is your soul your own?)

<.>

The joke about the barber passes without reaction.

Jack shakes his head. "I've never heard of it. Them. Whatever they are." The Drowned Crossroads, he means. "But I find out what I need to know over a game of dice, when Cala isn't trying to throttle me for -"

For just a moment there, he had half a fond smile on his face. However, he seems to remember who he's talking to and the smile abruptly vanishes, replaced with his familiar cold impassiveness.

"I have rations. I'll eat when I need to eat. I don't need you mothering me."

<.>

[q: does orev have any scattered memory flashes related to the drowned crossroads, or to crossroads in reference to the owning and exchange of souls?

Nope.
However, everyone in Druskenvald knows -
the crossroads are where one goes to make a deal with "the devil".
Or whatever entities want to accept the terms.
This is, of course, known to be a superstition, so whatever the baker meant, Orev would know it's probably not that]

"I'm not—" He snaps his mouth shut, jaw tightening. Suddenly, he's glaring very sharply through the window.

Fine.

It's fine.

Let the boy do what he pleases, it isn't (it ought to be) (it *is*) Orev's business. He could point out that Jack's state this very morning suggests some need for care, but no, no, he wouldn't want to *mother* the boy.

Prickly little (brat) *shit*.

"Do as you please. Though I'd venture to say that the information may be gleaned without the company of dice."

And, moving quickly along, "I'd like to see the contract sometime. If— She doesn't mind. It might help."

<.>

Jack lets the silence drag out, offering no response to anything Orev says. He seems to be wrestling with himself, perhaps trying to convince himself 'do as you please' isn't a command.

Finally, he asks quietly, "Was there anything else?"

<.>

"...Am I detaining you."

<.>

Jack raises an eyebrow and counters with rising, perhaps performative, suggestion, "I came up here to sleep. Am I tempting you to stay in my room while I get in bed?"

<.>

His response follows on impulse, too quickly, "And here I thought you'd had your fill."

Fucking. Tolliver.

Orev.

Immediately.

Regrets saying that.

(Well. The boy wasn't entirely wrong; he's already got Orev feeling an uncommon amount of regret. ...Shit.)

He takes a breath. Sighs deeply. (Thinks that. Sees that. Yes, this man is... attractive would be an understatement. Appealing. Something about him is— Uncommon. The boy is uncommon. And if Orev were to let himself consider it, wouldn't it be nice to—) (For SHIT'S sake, he can't think about this!)

Again, he clears his throat.

Again, he finds he's not quite looking at Jack.

He makes himself focus on the man.

Breathes again.

Attempts to compose himself, intends to speak, something wry or something vaguely dismissive or something to excuse himself from the room.

What he says instead: "I'm not certain how you knew me. Or what I was to you. But the— The knowledge is lost to me.

"It might do you well to know this."

And once again, he knows Regret.

<.>

Jack holds his eyes unflinchingly, then replies softly, firmly, "I never knew you."

There's a breath half-drawn. An unsteadiness, and then, "I never knew you. You weren't anything to me. You're not anything to me now."

He shakes his head as though unconcerned, his half-smile showing a glint of teeth. "You're never going to be anything to me. Probably will do you well to know that."

[orev, insight check: 1]

Jack seems to be telling the truth.

<.>

[onefellswoop]

Orev hears these words as truth.

Hears these words as truth.

And yet. Something. *Something* nags at him. Perhaps this boy never knew him. Perhaps they've never met. But there's some manner of connective tissue between them. And that glinting smile— Oh he doesn't (and he does, oh he *does*) like that.

What he says, voice near-hissing, eyes burning, forefinger pointed at Jack: "*Listen* to me."

It might be a command. It certainly has all the force of a command, intended or otherwise.

"Whatever it is you haven't said. Whatever it is you're dancing around. Gambler, rogue; speak in what vague truths you like. I *will* find what you've hidden."

(What he doesn't like, what he doesn't want to think about: How much a wounding it is, to hear that never. To know its resonance like vow, like promise, like ending. To have offered— Something. Showed his hand, bared his throat in admission, and this is what he's met with.

Perhaps he should have known. Perhaps the risk couldn't have been worth it.

He's given something up and this is... What? A sour, a corrosive return. It's his own fault, really. He should have known better.)

He shakes his head, arms crossed again until he throws one hand upward. "This ire of yours, for what?

"This poison.

"And yet you'd take my aid."

He watches the boy a moment longer, bright fury (and something, something other, deeper, velvet-looming anguish) crowding his vision. Then, curtly, "Sleep as you like. Join us for dinner if you'd like.

"As you say: You don't need 'mothering.'"

<.>

[orev, insight check: 15]

Orev sees an immediate remorse flickering in Jack's eyes on the heels of what he said; the rogue does his best to hide it, even through the faint anger at being commanded to listen. By the time Orev finishes speaking, Jack isn't looking at him. His shoulders are stiff as though he's fighting slumping, curling in on himself. His hands flex, curling into loose fists and uncurling again.

He remains silent after, only eventually looking up, clearly guilty, clearly hurting, and clearly trying to hide it from Orev.

His jaw works against whatever else he's trying not to say before he replies quietly, "I'll take your aid for her. Not for myself."

<.>

He was on the verge of leaving. He'd felt, nearly followed the impulse to free himself from this room, this mass of stranded... feelings, the thoughts that lead only to confusion, to a sense of, well, it can't be betrayal, but of wounding, of a dagger inflicted with a sardonic, a sneering grin.

This, though.

He doesn't know what to make of what he sees.

What he thinks (what he knows): There's more to this - more to Jack - than he comprehends.

And. There's no need to make this more difficult. (For himself?) (For Jack?) (He doesn't know.)

He moves a hand to his neck. Rubs. Feels the drag of his claws.

And dares to speaks again, "For her, I give it freely."

(Thinking, 'I might, I think I would, for you as well.')

Then. "I don't know your name.

"I don't know my own.

"I would prefer not to be at odds with you."

<.>

Jack needs a minute to think, because he comprehends some sincerity in Orev's words. In, maybe, the way he's rubbing at his neck. (Jack's eyes linger too long and perhaps longingly on Orev's throat.) He considers the offer, and then the admission.

Finally, he clears his own throat. "My name is Jack. Yours is Orev. Jack and Orev don't have any reason to be at odds that I can think of, except that you keep coming uninvited in my fucking room."

It's a wry sort of peace offering; even with that last bit, he doesn't seem particularly hostile. Rather, it's almost an offer to return to square one with each other.

<.>

It's relief. (It feels more sweeping than it should be. He only just met this man. It shouldn't really matter.) (He doesn't believe that, at all.) It's an inhale taken when he'd forgotten, he finds, to breathe. It's a loosening at the center of his chest, slight, slight, but not without (meaning) effect.

(It feels like mercy.)

He very nearly, nearly smiles.

What he does manage, what he offers is a nod to himself, a meeting - if he can - with Jack's eyes. (Eyes someone might fall into. Eyes that might be a pleasure to lose oneself within.) Orev and Jack; yes, they might as well start there. (But what existed before? What might they have—) (It doesn't matter. Not just now.) (Maybe.)

"You present a fair point. About— The needlessness of hostility."

And. Possibly. About the room. But— "Perhaps next time you'll invite me in, and save us both the headache."

<.>

Thinking the conversation is winding down and feeling wearier than he did half an hour ago (and yet somehow lighter?), Jack will wait until Orev seems to take the hint and start heading for the door. Until he has his hand on the doorknob.

He breaks his own silence with a cryptic and almost playful, "If you did know me, you'd know why I'd never invite you in."

[orev, insight check: 7; DC 5]

Jack's not being THAT cryptic.

He seems to be suggesting something about how one would go about gaining entrance to his room, not about whether Orev will always be unwelcome.

But and also, he's suggesting that Orev not knowing how to go about getting into Jack's bed is evidence that they were never involved before.

<.>

Orev will—

Let that remark land.

Decide he isn't entirely clear about its meaning but. But, he thinks he sees it near enough.

And as he begisn to turn the doorknob, he'll offer over his shoulder, eyes seeking Jack, "Something to consider for the future, perhaps.

"Food for thought."

And, as he moves to leave, "Sleep well, Jack."

(Oddly. Oddly, he feels like there was almost another... Name? Term? Something, in place of 'Jack.' It's gone without a trace.)

<.>