deercountry | o5 . bone house mingle!

[ Kinda stupid, says the boy, which would be taken as grave insult by anyone within earshot. Good news they're alone, then: God just quirks an eyebrow at Oscar over his shoulder. ]

Well, consider me impressed anyone can take Trench as a quieter life. It's been an adjustment. Two years must be a long time, under these conditions.

[ Two years is the span of a breath. But he can respect two weird years. ]

You stopped a god?

[Paul straightens up under his blanket, and the quiet intensity that floods his oscillating voices isn't disbelief that the slight, gentle-seeming woman in front of him had that capacity.

It's respect. It's interest. It is, for some reason, like he's just had a question answered.]

That must have taken some doing.

There were a range of favors Paul half-expected Midoriya to ask for, and this one falls well outside of it. He isn't quite surprised enough to blink, but the wide stillness of his eyes is nearly as bad. At least it's reassurance that he hasn't been looking, he thinks, somewhat absurdly, and then the rest of what Midoriya has said truly sinks in.

This favor is as much for him as it is for Midoriya, or more so - or perhaps he should better think of it as for both of them, because what else is friendship supposed to be?

The story tells Paul all he needs to understand. Midoriya doesn't want him to break himself apart on some terrible future. He doesn't want their friendship poisoned by Paul trying to keep him safe, rather than letting him do what he's called to do - his life of protecting others that puts him at so much risk. Paul is still and poised as comprehension washes over the memories of Midoriya's urgency, of his desperation in the woods.

"That's not how it works with me," Paul says, and it's like admitting to failure already, reluctant and unhappy, "I don't choose what I see. But -" because he can't leave it at that, he can't say no to this favor, not one like this "- I don't have to tell you. I don't have to do anything. It's better if I don't, isn't it? After the last time."

She's inherited enough of her Sleeper's appreciation for secrets to also know when she's being decoyed off them--and when they aren't really hers to ask, anyway. Much as the protective ~~paternal~~maternal streak in her wants to press, she will let it go; she'll trust this fledgling to know his own flock.

Though she might have a little grumbling editorializing about his request when--if--she passes it on to her Sleeper.

Thinking of flocks, and her Sleeper-- She rips up another bit of meat as Deku asks his own question, then sets it back down as if it has lost its savor. No wonder: Her response is flavored with a quiet lonely grief.

people. He is dead; he does not need food, or shelter, or any sort of things. He might refuse or donate them now if someone tried--just as he might refuse offers of help, she knows, for tangled awful reasons she can sense but not pass on. (The problem's half-articulation, and half secret-guarding.) He isn't well where he is, it's enough to say.

But give him those he cared for, and their problems to solve, and he might be drawn out. flock. Flickering image-impressions follow: Kaworu, Paul. Bigby. Nehan. Ives(, the image pale and faded--he is gone, he is gone). Fern. A dozen other Sleepers who've touched his existence, given him a name, been touched in turn.

(There's a notable exclusion. There's an image that flashes past only to be hashed out, erased, negated. Iskierka doesn't think the master of the house with his eclipse-ringed eyes should be there.)

Yeah, it wasn't easy.

[It had been a costly fight, and a very near miss. Glory had been defeated, but Buffy had sacrificed herself to save the world, leaving the rest of them behind to grieve. Grieve, and find a way to bring her back.]

She would have destroyed the whole world though if we didn't. So it's not like we had a whole lot of choice. We had to stop her.

The last time, Paul clutched him tight with a knot in his chest. The last time, Midoriya offered him his hand in a promise.

The favor is mostly for Paul. The only selfishness Midoriya allows himself is the desire not to lose a friend or see sadness shroud his face--hypothetical or presently existing. He once spoke to a little girl with the same downcast expression and misgivings about her own power. Midoriya realizes with a horrible not-entirely-internal jolt that only a grain of Paul's regret can be seen in his carefully controlled stillness. It takes everything in him to swallow against the tightness in his throat and not smother his friend in a tearful hug.

Paul mustn't think of his power as a curse, or worse, as an inevitability that carves future events in stone. Midoriya knows, far too well, that a--complicated--power can still be a blessing.

"It wouldn't be better. Whether or not you told me... Whether or not we even met, whether or not you came to Trench, I would still have been there fighting, until I couldn't anymore."

An assurance of his continued perseverance should be spoken with the gusto of the battle-ready. Here, it is instead a quiet truth that very gently brushes aside prophecy and visions like the veil of a weeping willow. His voice only barely trembles, because he wants to give Paul something stronger to hold onto.

"I don't want you to feel bad about your power. You saved me with it. Twice, I think. If you can't control it..." he extends his hand, opens it and the scars there, "then you shouldn't carry the knowledge alone."

I mean - yeah? Like in real life, yeah, that's why. But if I just told you a real-life fact, it wouldn't be a funny joke. [ Gideon pauses, thinking. ] Unless you're from the Sixth, maybe.

It's because nothing gets under their skin.

[ Gideon waits for Kaworu to chuckle, at the very least, hoping that she won't have to explain this joke. It's pretty straightforward, she thinks. ]

Of course. I wouldn't question your motivations.

[Paul raises his hand palm out, a gesture of reassurance whose meaning he hopes will hold in her culture as well. He drops it shortly after, in case it doesn't, and goes on.]

It must have taken courage and skill. [His voices are softly admiring.] And, it sounds like, a collection of heroes.

He has committed to staying in Trench to protect it. It is, for better or worse, the home of Iskierka, her Sleeper, and their flock. (Midoriya identifies the first two image-impressions he's given easily. The last one misses him with its brevity, except in the realm of subconscious knowledge, but it's not the first time he's seen someone disapprove of another's friendship.)

But a sad missive like that is enough to tug Midoriya in his chest. Someone needs saving. Midoriya is full of his own protective instinct that extends to those beyond what he could call his flock. A Hero saves everyone. Perhaps, if things in Trench seem calm...

"Pretty sure half those people will already be there rescuing him, and the other half waiting for messages so they can talk to him. That's how it was with me when I was lost."

His voice trails off quietly. The rest of his chopping suddenly demands his full attention. Then he decides it's worth speaking again--as ever, not for himself, but for someone else.

"After the Leviathan--no--after I couldn't save Paul-kun, my Corruption got really bad. I ran away after the battle. I was afraid of turning into a Beast and hurting others. They had to find me and wear me down--Paul-kun, Nagisa-kun, and everyone. It doesn't matter if Anon-san refuses help. 'Giving help that's not asked for is part of what makes a true Hero.'"

He's quoting his mentor. It would sound cheesy, except for how gently he says it, without loftiness, as he begins scooping ingredients into a large simmering pot of broth and remembers his own tears.

"It's also part of what makes a friend."

"I haven't seen you since, anyway." Paul shrugs, an unbalanced rise and drop as he unfolds his bent leg and lets both feet touch the floor. "For all I know, I won't see you out that far again."

"But if I do, I will." He lifts his eyes to meet Midoriya's, half-smiling, as his hands find the edge of his stool to hold onto. "I don't feel bad about it. I just wish it was more reliable."

Paul isn't sure he's ever lied that directly to Midoriya before. There was the failed prank at the ball, there have been certain omissions, but an outright lie the way he defines one - not like this, without a trace or a tell. It's modulated just so to convey faint embarrassment, the suggestion that his issue is that his ability isn't much compared to most people's, in terms of control or potency.

He doesn't want this to be about him. He doesn't want Midoriya to worry, something he already knows is impossibly out of reach. He doesn't want to talk about his power, or how he feels about it, or what he sees. That's what being in this kitchen is about.

"That was one favor," Paul prompts, softly, "What's the second?"

[Even if they were insulted, somehow Oscar probably wouldn't care. Unfortunately, being shot and left for dead by someone whose opinions you were trying to ~~manipulate~~ change for the better tended to make it harder to care about the opinions of complete and utter strangers.

He was a teenager, and Trench was his last chance to enjoy that time.]

Well. It's not like we've gotta look over our shoulders for monsters everytime someone gets upset. Sure, the squid thing is weird and the mushrooms get a little boring, but we're next to the ocean.

I didn't grow up near the ocean. It's pretty cool for me.

Paul says everything I look at dies, and God's shoulders fall further into his slump, like some great slow erosion. Paul doesn't say— he chokes, he heaves— nothing ever stops me, and God shuts his eyes against the distant churning of the sea.

He knows it before it happens, because he feels the tense and coil of Paul's muscles, the shuddering bellows of his lungs. He knows what violence looks like in the instant before it plays out. It's a long instant. He holds dominion over muscles and lungs; over moments like these; over violence.

He doesn't stop it.

Paul puts the tooth through the wet cavity of his chest, and the blade goes fucking berserk. The blade goes wrong. It cuts him, and cuts him, and cuts him. It is one blow and it is a thousand, each landed a hair's width apart. God's chest is cleaved open in a sudden revelation of indigo; it shines like nebulas; the delicate curves of lung and and diaphragm are beautiful when exposed. He thinks so, anyway. There is something fundamentally satisfying about the dark weight of the liver, the round and naked span of the heart.

John looks at Paul. He looks at this ruin of a kid, of a king, of a deity, and what could he ever say? For ten thousand years he has accepted a law like gravity: there is no turning back.

God— with a blade through his heart, with his chest in tatters— leans forward, onto the knife. He exhales a hah, a little revelatory breath, as though he has thought of a joke. His hand rises to clasp the back of Paul's neck, the vulnerable pale stretch of his nape. God murmurs, into the salt-crusted tangle of his hair:

"You're tearing me apart, Paul."

It comes wet and ragged. His lungs have rewoven themselves, but his ribs grate nakedly against the tooth. It still buzzes-but-doesn't, humming with some sick unreality. It reminds him of chitin.

"We're going to work on it." He says this so softly; his voice is smoothing. In a murmur, you cannot hear the violence in it. His free hand comes up, but does not pry the tooth from those pale fingers. He smooths his palm across Paul's shoulders, instead, like someone soothing a crying child. The tooth judders against his heart; the muscle keeps seizing, spasming at the intrusion; he tells it not to. He doesn't care. "Alright? You and me."

He doesn't draw back enough to look the boy in the eyes, not again. He knows what he'd see. He says, into Paul's hair, "I'll help you."

Edited 2022-04-06 05:17 (UTC)

[Willow smiles and shakes her head. The gesture holds the same meaning for her, but it's not needed.]

We did what we had to. A friend of mine back home is destined to fight evil - demons, vampires, and so on. The rest of us just did what we could to help her. Or, do what we can to help her would be more accurate, I guess. It's not like that world's stopped just because I'm here.

[It feels odd to consider - she knew going into the ocean that her world at home would carry on as though nothing had changed even though she chose to come to this one, but it was also part of her decision not to go back. Moving on felt like the best way to be as helpful as possible.]

Midoriya thinks of the way Paul treats him and others--not when he's just being nice, but when he's scared and sad. He saw that slip--two--with the Unsnakely. Midoriya saw him in the forest blaming himself. He saw his eyes, just today, in the doorway of this house. Midoriya believes there's no way Paul isn't feeling defeated or apprehensive of another vision.

Midoriya's fingers curl on the countertop. All his edges subtly tremble. He is unable to play along with Paul's lie, nor hide that fact. He can't give Paul that comfort as easily as letting him make tea or hugging him. He's not that skilled. He can't even tell if it's a lie in whole or in part. He knows Paul can see him sitting here trapped in lie-truths.

He remembers that time Paul didn't let him get away with lying about being fine. Midoriya always repays that sort of kindness, even if he's floundering out of his depth.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. Just know that you can," he says, giving Paul the soft, low finality in his voice as an out.

"No," he says, voices still collapsed to singularity under pressure, and he doesn't know what he says it to - the devastated bared heart of God, scoured by Paul's hideous light and pierced at his bloody hand, or the gentle touch that brushes across his back, the soft warmth of the words pressed into his dark, tangled hair.

The tooth clings to the wound like a burrowed tick, Paul's first effort to pull it free sliding through the clean edges of the lacerations already splitting his hand. His shoulders hitch soundlessly, crumple, and he does something irretrievable to the flexor tendons of his outer two fingers when he tightens his grip and tears the hungry thing loose. He tosses it aside with a near-keen lost in the whispering tumble of metal to sand as the shrapnel falls away like the droplet arc of shining Paleblood from his silver-slicked hand.

"No," worse the second time, hollowed and crushed with futile despair at what he's done, the consequences of his actions always so much worse than he intends. His self-maimed fingers writhe with lightning-flash plasma as they hover inches from that stilled wreck of a heart, and for this he should be a pillar of salt, for this he should be struck blind. Shame pours from the crown of his head in chill, fission-drowning sheets, for this violation, for all the ones that came before it.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, as if the hand that rises from the open cavity of God's chest to fumble at his far shoulder isn't gushing guilt, as if the face that hides itself against the crook of God's neck never stared down at him in contempt, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry -"

Brilliance untwists from the air into nothingness as heat rises up the back of his throat and clots there, the unswallowable accretion of everything - of all of it -

"Yes," he breathes, tear-strangled, a sob swollen past wrenching out of his chest, "I'm sorry, yes, please."

Edited 2022-04-07 18:30 (UTC)

[Destined to fight evil draws a troubled veil across Paul's expression, paints a thin crease between his brows. He knows enough of monsters to be able to imagine what that might be like as a burden.]

She's lucky to have people by her side. I wouldn't say that's 'just' anything.

[There's too much feeling in the words. He swallows visibly, throat working around a snag.]

Do you know it hasn't stopped? I know that's what people say, about how it's meant to work.

good. She accepts additional petting with obvious glee, then ladders her way up his arm toward his shoulder as they strike out. Images of meat and berries and meat and seeds and meat and little pastries color the psychic environment as the Omen rhapsodizes on the subject of breakfast.

Then--just as suddenly as they've begun--the impressions stop as something else catches Iskierka's attention through a wall. She drops back off Kaworu's arm, flicking through the intervening obstacle, only to shortly return with a handkerchief for the boy.

here. She knew she'd been missing something.

[ To this he tips a head in agreement, good-natured. ]

It's been a long time since I lived by the sea. [ There is something there beneath his tone, some deeper meaning to a long time. ] I even have the luck to keep a ship in harbor. From what I hear, you may have met her under the good Captain Amarande.

[ Always a good topic, the boat. He's glad to chat about the boat. That can carry them to the kitchen, where he can trade the boy off to Paul. The skeletons make themselves visible, now, as they attend to dinner: the table, the cooking, the arrangement. Insofar as Paul, having issued the invitation, permits assistance in his solemnly-undertaken task of providing social niceties.

God sits down to dinner with them, of course. It's nice to have one without Kaworu heaving up saltwater and Paul still miserably aglow with radiation. Nice to make small talk and hand plates around with comparably little tension as before.

Comparably. ]

Of course Paul doesn't get away with it. If that was the kind of person Midoriya was, they wouldn't be friends in the first place. Paul smiles crookedly, a caught out, half-repentant twist under shaded eyes.

"I know," Paul affirms, as easy as that. "I will. I am. Sometimes I feel like all I do is talk about it. Just not today."

He sips deeply from his tea, which has cooled enough to be tolerable. He remembers the first time they had tea, cradled in the curved arc of an altered memory. Midoriya had kept the door closed, then; Paul hopes he'll let it stay closed again.

"Please," he adds, more quietly, and whether that please is attached to the words that came before it, or the ones that follow after, is unclear, "What's the second favor?"

Ah. So you're the guy who owns the spooky ship we rammed.

[He grinned-- a youthful, wholesome, even cheesy expression that didn't wholly hide his unease. The ship had indeed been spooky, in mild terms. A simple farm lad, he had always believed that the dead should stay dead...

They got to the table and started with the meal, the unspoken tension distracting enough for Oscar that it felt strange to try to crack jokes. Even with Paul and Gideon there... Something just didn't feel right.]

So. Uh. Why skeletons, anyway?

[He asked, hoping to start conversation. Anything to get people talking-- and distract him from the buzzing he had to actively block from overwhelming his Paleblood senses. ]

[ He returns the grin with his own little smile. It doesn't quite reach his black eyes; those remain somehow faintly tired, faintly distant. ]

It's the magic of home. I take it some folks here are accustomed to power of all kinds... where we come from is a little simpler. Everything boils down to life, death, and soul. Necromancy isn't a school of magic, it's the umbrella category for schools of magic.

A little spooky if you're not used to it, maybe. But it grows on you.

[Cold, black eyes that were the same sheen as the ichor that flowed through the veins of all of the Grimm of Remnant; Darkness incarnate.

Oscar swallowed and looked away, playing with the food on his plate.]

I... see. That's interesting.

[A shrug.]

Magic isn't a thing where I'm from-- [That was a bold-faced lie, but it was also the common belief throughout Remnant.] So, I'm still learning about it. We've got powers connected to our souls, though? With training, anyone can shield or support healing themselves. Some people even unlock their own special powers.

Gideon privately thinks that Paul's father has eaten snacks in bed at least once, but she's also pretty sure that telling Paul that would not be helpful right now. Instead, she leans a little closer towards Paul, wordlessly giving him permission to do the same. That's what all this is about, after all.

The joke isn't half-bad, if a little dry, and Gideon smiles, mostly at the fact that Paul is even trying for humor. That's a good sign. "Aw, man, a gift shop and everything? Damn. Well, tell you what. You can make me a shirt, instead."

Or: don't go back there. Stay here. But Gideon doesn't need to embarrass the both of them like that.

Once she's confident that Paul is settled (as settled as he's going to be, at any rate) she plucks a pair of now well-worn tinted glasses off the nightstand. One side of the frame is slightly bent, as if it was kept in a small space for a long time, but otherwise, they're in good condition and very, very cool.

Gideon had said that Paul's eyes are too bright, and she means it -- how is anyone supposed to get any sleep, with lights like that? But she also thinks he's stressed out, and uncomfortable, and perhaps a little out of his depth. She'd felt that way on the First, sometimes, and these helped.

"Here," says Gideon, opening them up and passing them to Paul. "Try these on."

The past can't be erased, but the future can be better--yes, even for those who can see it. Midoriya will do his best to protect Paul's. He gathers the pieces of himself that had shaken loose.

"The second..." he repeats, to ground himself. This one was meant, today, to be delivered as casually as Paul's lie wanted to be. Midoriya can see this won't be the case now. He's without certain pieces of his armor. He dearly hopes Paul won't connect the first favor with what lies beneath the second. He cradles his tea but doesn't drink.

"I've been thinking I want to be more careful about my work. I don't have the support I do back in my world. I have to protect my friends from anyone who might come after them. So, if you can, please don't tell people about our friendship. Those who already know are fine, and those you trust. Just be careful who else you talk to."

He can't see the future, but he can guess. He can gently hold the severed strings of connection he would have had through Paul and everyone else he is asking this favor of. People he will never meet, except maybe as simply a Hero one knows of. And in return, Midoriya will have to speak only casually about those he cares deeply for. This may not even be a permanent measure, but for someone who grew up with no friends and who treasures the ones he has now, it's a kind of torture.

Shielding and healing. [ He echoes this softly to himself, and it's hard to say whether he sounds wistful in the sense of a man amazed, or in the sense of a man wryly amused. ] I'll guess the special powers don't usually wind up bone-themed.

[ So many worlds with magic, and so few worlds with necromancy. ]

o5 . bone house mingle!

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cw: gore

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cw: gore, blood in icon

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