deercountry | o5 . bone house mingle!

[ This he considers very seriously. He weighs his options. The likelihood of getting saltwater all down his front; the likelihood of something vast and angry rearing up to the surface.

But that's the opposite of their problem just now, isn't it? Kaworu's got his soul in crooked. He is like a shuddering newborn revenant in a body that doesn't quite fit. It should fit: it's his body.

... except it isn't, is it. And maybe it wouldn't hurt to pin everything together a little more firmly, til Kaworu's soul figures out for itself what and where it's meant to be. ]

Come and sit with me a while, then. Til it passes.

[ Without invitation or question, he scoops the boy up.

This is not difficult to do. The process is a little awkward, all the same. He fits a steady hand against the boy's shoulder, crouches, tucks his other arm behind skinny knees. When he stands, the movement tucks Kaworu to his chest. This will probably invite more saltwater spew down his shirtfront, but they'll get there when they get there.

With his touch comes the first gentle press of power to soul. The thing which forced Kaworu down was dark and crushing as the sea; God is vast and blinding-bright as the sky. He nudges Kaworu's soul back towards the position he figures it should hold, just so.

It may hurt. It may help. There's rarely one without the other. ]

Right. Well. [Should she tell her about Tara? Or should she give Tara some warning first and tell her to go over to the Clockhouse whenever she's ready? Faith isn't really that deceptive as a person, despite some... semi-successful attempts against Angel and Giles and the other Scoobies, she's mostly upfront.

But fuck if she doesn't want to deal with the whole 'hey, your girlfriend's here and moved in with me after you died' conversation. Because for entirely understandable reasons given her track record of intentionally seducing people's boyfriends, Willow probably wouldn't trust that.] I was coming to see Dr. Bones, but I guess it can wait. Uhh... probably better off asking Ange or Ruby what's been going on? I only just got here in January.

You need to pack your stuff or something? I dunno how long you've been here.

Edited 2022-03-06 15:20 (UTC)

[Kaworu accepts the physical touch without a fight, allowing Jod to easily pick him up and slump against his chest like an exhausted child. Which he is, really.

However, at the gentle nudge to his soul, Kaworu's entire body goes rigid and then arches as the gentle touch caused him pain. His soul doesn't know what to do with its position. It doesn't know how bring life to this body anymore. It's like it's forgotten and now it has so much weight to carry and God's brightness is like staring into the sun.

There's a gag and some saltwater spews on both of their shirts before he manages to turn his head and eject the rest of it onto the floor. There's too much to actually have been inside his body and it certainly would have killed him anyway. Something, or a remnant of something, is trying to use this body as a vessel.]

[ Ah. Well. Yeah, there's the saltwater.

It would be funny if he were squeamish, right? He isn't. But the fact that it's saltwater still feels a little personal, and it makes his skin fucking crawl. ]

That's alright. Let it out.

[ He thinks he accepts it with good humor, getting puked on. He thinks he doesn't telegraph just how unnerved he is by the thing, the shadow of something vast, that still obscures this boy like a partial eclipse.

Anyway, he stops touching the kid's soul. Better to put him somewhere with a bucket, first. ]

Let's go downstairs.

[ It's not very elegant, trying to carry a whole scrawny teenager down a flight of stairs, but it's less of a mess than rattling his soul around til he might be able to follow on foot. John will count his blessings, and leave the skeleton to keep mopping. ]

[He should say something. There's something that P̴̨͑a̴̗͐u̷̬͐ľ̴ͅ ̷̌ͅ or the Ò̵̧̧͛̈́̀͗l̵̠̆̔͆̃̚͘͝d̶̛̯̠͙͋̌ ̵͓̦͖̘͌M̶̢͙͉̳̳̹̼̓̽͗͋̅̏̑a̵̼̿̈́̈́̿̄͒̊̉n̷͕̗̬͕̬̓̓̋͘would have explained that you say to someone after you pseudo-vomit on them but he can't seem to remember the words. Or make his mouth form words.

All he can do is groan softly in relief when uncomfortable sensation of his soul being adjusted is removed. He curls inwards, closer to the person holding him, even though this person is little more than a stranger to him. It's nice to be held when you're suffering and it's nice to have a little hope that someone might help you.]

Gideon always tells herself, when she journeys down to the kitchen at late hours like these, that she's not here because she can't sleep. She's just taking advantage of the ability to have a midnight snack, something that was never possible on the Ninth, due to its lack of snacks and also its lack of midnight.

(She waited for all of them, for as long as Harrow let her. She told the sea that she thought libraries were stupid, in the hopes that it might have brought back both Paul and Palamedes, and then apologized when it occurred to her that it might make them stay away.)

Paul doesn't need to face the door for Gideon to recognize him, nor does he need to say anything. She's from the Ninth House; she sees well in the dark. That's Paul's tall-ish, slender frame, his long hair. Even if the voice is wrong, it's still him.

(She does not think about how he got here, or who brought him.)

"I know." Gideon makes a sound, something like a wet, choked half-laugh. "I'm not afraid of shiny lights, genius." She is not afraid of the voice that is a hundred voices. Harrowhark is two hundred souls, and Paul has always reminded Gideon of Harrowhark.

Then, to prove just how not-afraid she is, Gideon crosses the distance and gives Paul's hair a good ruffle, as embarrassing as she can make it. It's horrible. One for the ages.

She's missed him so much.

Dr. Bones? Oh, our friend who doesn't like to tell people his name?

[Willow still can't help but think that's more than a little strange. He's told her they were friends, and he's been nothing but perfectly hospitable and helpful since he found her. She's starting to wonder if perhaps he just wants to see how many nicknames he can gather in Trench, and maybe that's why he doesn't want to give out his real name.

Maybe they should start keeping a list. At least Faith's is very fitting.]

I don't really have anything to pack - I've only been here a couple days, and kinda wasn't up for going too far for a bit, and I didn't come back with anything either.

Goes by nicknames and titles, I get to pick the nickname.

[She smirks. She's right that it's weird. The Mayor preferred titles over his name, but his name wasn't like, a secret. It just didn't really describe him anymore.]

Well, then, uh... let's go, yeah? [She hugs her jacket closer around her torso, still somewhat guarded and... a bit hurt, despite herself. It's not Willow's fault. It's Maul's. But it doesn't change the fact that Faith hates feeling like she's just starting over. She starts heading back towards the door. She can go and vent some rage at the monsters at the Gate.] I can catch you up on the stuff I was there for so it doesn't become a nasty surprise?

That sounds like a fair compromise.

[She smiles faintly. Faith seems... different from what she remembers from Sunnydale. Not entirely comfortable or familiar, but perhaps a little friendlier. Granted, Willow is unsure how much time has passed for her since the last time they had seen each other. Has it been the same nearly three years? Even if it hasn't, how much has changed in the couple months since her arrival in Trench?

Hopefully this short term memory loss problem resolves itself quickly. It's frustrating, and she's already tired of the confusion that comes with every interaction.

She takes a look around after Faith makes both offers - to show her the way home, and fill her in on the last little while, and nods. She can catch up with everyone here later, and let them know she's found her way safely home, and thank them for the hospitality.]

Yeah. That sounds like a good idea. Thanks, Faith. Lead the way.

[Willow runs a hand through her damp hair, pushing it back away from her face. She is tired, and it's tempting to put the recap off, but she suspects she will rest easier with at least some answers about this place.]

I'm okay. Let's do the recap.

Gideon steps through the lights, and they vanish, leaving behind the lingering scent of burning metal that fills the voids between stars and planets, that clings to the hulls of void-faring vessels only briefly when they plunge back into atmosphere. Paul's eyes flare with brilliance and momentary, unnameable terror as Gideon reaches for him, stilled and rigid.

There's still salt in his hair, even after he (somehow) found himself in water, before he changed into these soft clothes and fell into burning dreams. It catches at Gideon's fingers, messy and shapeless, and Paul's mouth twists horribly, tight and bloodless and crooked. There is a moment where he looks like he might scream. There is a worse moment where he looks like he might cry.

He does neither. The stool he was sitting on falls with a hollow clatter as he throws himself off of it and against Gideon like a sanctuary door, his arms coming up under hers as he clutches frantically at her back, his hands in locked fists. He's shivering, and he doesn't know why, except that it must be some other new aberration of his blood.

"Gideon," he whispers, like the hush of lapping waves, and it's not enough, it's not, but he says it again, and again, muffled against her steady shoulder.

[ He tips his head in acknowledgment, and starts with: ]

So. You remember Deerington? In comparing Trench to the dream, you'll find good news and bad news. The good news is that this place physically exists, which makes it a bit less [ he gestures, vaguely ] whimsically insubstantial. More stable, more reliable. But that's a low bar, because we have a whole pantheon of Pthumerians pulling our strings, and each one of them wants to see a different dance.

[ It's truly amazing that a kid can be so pathetic and so unsettling at the same time. You'd think he's collecting them.

Kaworu curls in close to his chest, and God shifts to keep this ungaingly tangle of teenager in his arms all the way down the stairs. He talks gentle nonsense as they go. God says things like, My own fault for stepping into the splash zone, and I didn't think the place needed redecorating that badly, and, Better out than in, eh.

The house is quiet, this time of night. They don't even pass Paul drifting around like a creepy wayward jellyfish, all blue light and that weird not-there prickle on skin. God simply shoulder-checks the door to his study open, and goes to set Kaworu down on the threadbare sofa. ]

There. Bit of company for us both.

[The words wash over him, not really processed, but grounding all the same. Usually, he relies on Paul to ground him, leading him around the house and gently giving direction. It helps. He can remember where he is when someone is there with him, speaking to him.

When God deposits him on the couch, he looks around the unfamiliar space, blinking curiously. He still doesn't understand why this man is looking after him. Did Paul ask him to? Where is Paul?

He tries to sit up to ask these questions but all he can mumble out is:]

Why...?

[Willow nods as he speaks, listening carefully. It makes sense, she supposes, and it was nothing less than she had hoped for, that at least Trench would be more stable than Deerington was.]

So, no worrying about waking up to find out the whole town has gone all Wild, Wild West on us. That's something at least.

[The news about the Pthumerians still being a presence, and what sounds like a particularly problematic one is a little less welcome, but equally unsurprising. From the Moon Presence to Mother Superior, it was pretty clear in the dream that how they felt about Sleepers varied wildly.]

How bad are they? I'm guessing they kind of all have their different opinions on us...

[ Gideon has joined Kaworu on the floor, because she is a drama queen and also it looks pretty comfortable! This primarily has the effect of draining Gideon's sinuses back into her throat, which she will occasionally attempt to snort back up into a tissue. Lovely. ]

Yeah, it really is. My death was cool and epic but this shit? This is the grossest way of not being able to breathe.

As Paul's mouth twists, Gideon suppresses the urge to remark that his hair is 'crunchy.' Even she can realize that now might not be the time, which means that things are pretty fucking bad.

Instead, she wraps broad arms around him and pulls him in close, with all the effortlessness of someone who was just waiting for permission. Gideon is warm and steady, and she uses that to Paul's advantage. She tucks his head underneath hers, and makes little circles, like he's shown her how to do.

She could stay like this for hours. She'll stay like this for as long as Paul needs, murmuring what she hopes are comforting responses to Paul's repetition of her name. Things like I'm here, I've got you. It's going to be okay. Gideon says all this because she will make it okay, because she will not leave Paul to shiver and stare and fall to pieces by himself. She doesn't exactly know how to make it better, but she knows this.

(Gideon remembers returning to her cell, alone, and how that was almost worse than finding Harrow and her parents. Paul will never know what that feels like. Not ever. Not while she's around.)

And after a while, Gideon realizes that she probably needed this, too. Tension falls from her shoulders, a weight that she never acknowledged she was carrying. Paul came back. He died, but he came back. A piece of Gideon's heart slots back into place.

[The last two days in February, Willow spends recovering from her deep sea adventure. The newness of being human again wears off slowly, but steadily, and finally the last of her wobbliness seems to disappear entirely. It ends up being replaced with a new problem, although at first she doesn't realize it's actually a problem and not just something weird happening in the house itself.

There's mushrooms of all different shapes, sizes, and colours imaginable and they seem spring up everywhere. It's not until she tries to brush one off a skeleton's shoulder, and it explodes into a shower of smaller, rainbow coloured mushrooms that seem to float through the air like dandelion fluff that it occurs to her that something just doesn't seem right. These don't behave like normal mushrooms.

She reaches for whoever's closest to try to get their attention as she watches the tiny fungi float through the air.]

Hey. Hey, you're seeing this too, right?

The first time Paul washed up on these shores, his body came back to him first, then his mind. He knew the precise balance of his physiology before he knew his own name, the mechanisms of survival imprinted on him since before his birth rising to life to do exactly what they were meant to do.

This time, his body has been a stranger, and there has been no respite from his mind. As he clings to Gideon, in the circles within circles of her comfort (and he knows them, he knows her), his abstracted observational self wonders at the extent of his adaptation.

It would have ruined him to know himself the first time. It would have drowned him to feel this in the rotting ruins of the beach: the way he sinks back into himself and finds the wreckage waiting for him.

Grief is an echo in every hollow space. Grief is opening the door of the home the storm drove you from and finding nothing behind it but crumpled debris. Grief is a salt-scour, a dark and crushing wave, a gravitational collapse. Grief is hot and wet around his eyes as he shudders like a thing coming apart, held together only by Gideon's anchoring arms.

"Palamedes is gone," Paul says, in his own voice, and then, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," and, finally, as if surprised, he starts to cry - shaking, near-silent, as pulsing and uncontrolled as blood flowing from a wound.

[Uncomprehending radioluminescent blue stares at Willow from under a lank fringe of still-wet dark curls, the glowing eyes of the latest drifting ghost that their mutual host has collected from the seaside.

Obediently, Paul turns his attention to where the stranger is looking. There's a drift of copper-colored spores in the air, perhaps produced by the cords of mottled black fungi that seem to have colonized the skeletons of the house. He doesn't remember them being there before. He thinks he would remember if they had been.]

I think so.

[His voice is a soft blur of overlapping other voices, too many to distinguish or count. At the sound of it, he grimaces faintly, pulling the dark blanket he's wrapped around himself closer.]

[Paul stares down at Kaworu. It is a long stare. It is significant. It portends.

When this has no effect, Paul turns his eyes towards the ceiling, and heaves a sigh of long-suffering forbearance.]

No, Kaworu.

[And at that, Paul turns on his heel and exits the room. If Kaworu is feeling well enough to ask to be thrown back in the ocean, he's well enough to pour his own de-congesting herbal tea while uttering horrifying reminders of recent events, thank you.]

[ Gideon is, once again, using the concept of a midnight snack as an excuse for not being able to sleep well, lately. She's munching on the Emperor's biscuits (which she will never publicly admit are tasty, not ever), when she hears a loud thump from the other room.

Gideon assumes this is just Kaworu being weird, or Harrow practicing necromancy, or something else insignificant. But when she hears another crash, Gideon figures she better go investigate.

She freezes, shock-still, when she finds a weird animal that she's never seen before. ]

What the fuck? Hey, what's a big dog doing in here?

[Of course it wouldn't have any affect. A stare like that requires shame to work.

So instead, he gets denial and abandonment. Rude! He sneezes in Paul's general direction and uses a little Darkblood telekinesis to flick a used tissue at Paul's retreating back.

A fair response to unfairly refusing to recognize his suffering. He deserves so much more sympathy than he's getting right now.]

[ Make that two big dogs, but the other one is familiar: Harrow is lost in a book, but Harrow's omen is on the job!! Leaving the necromancer to her own insomnia activities, the cute part of their soul comes bounding in, claws a-clack on the floor.

Then Stasya looks at Willow, and then looks up curiously at Gideon, and tilts her head so far over that her ear is against her shoulder. Should she go get Harrow? Should she play? ]

[ Her footfalls are softer, her presence smaller, and yet lots of people do initially confuse Harrow with Paul, so Kaworu wouldn't be alone here! ]

It's Harrowhark. [ Normally harsh, Harrow's tone is surprisingly modulated as she can tell that the boy is suffering. Her voice is gentler, quieter: there is a soft, almost nurturing quality to it.

The Black Anchorite speaking, the Reverend Daughter ministering to the sick and dying. ]

Does your chest hurt?

o5 . bone house mingle!

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cw: light emeto

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later days

cw: vague references to suicide, child neglect

Backdated to March 1st or thereabouts

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later days

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the first few days