"Doesn't that depends on your relationship with —" God "— the gods?" Gus counters, fast and playful, the hesitation so subtle that someone would have to be able to record what he said, when he said it, and play it back with a bunch of audio-processing software in order to be certain — and in order to do that during the middle of a conversation, you'd have to be a robot or something, wouldn't you...? Shit.
"Not," he as with a little more care, "that I've heard of anyone entering into kinky relationships with any of the Pthumerians, as such. No idea at all if anyone humanoid," which, once upon a time — a few months ago, before spending a few centuries as an elf over the course of forty-eight hours — would have just been human, "would properly even recognize if they were kinky — nev— let's just forget that," with an abrupt second cover, as saying nevermind might, in fact, not be what he's wanting to do, here. His still-gloved hand makes a gesture of ball-it-up-and-throw-it-away, for emphasis.
"Just — have you ever wanted to disappear?" he asks, pressing back on the bruise of the subject. "Not just take off, missing-persons style, run away —" and maybe join a monastery, why not, "but vanish, get swallowed up by the floor right then and there, turn invisible so no one will ever find you again if you don't want them to?" Another invisible drag on a visible cigarette; as he begins talking again, the smoke curls back into existence, clearly far enough away from his nose and mouth that they can't press their shape into it and be defined that way. Weird. "In my experience, that's not a permanent desire, see — it's a dream of escaping, still. Getting away from the problem, in a way where it can't catch you and forced to to deal with its consequences. But you'll still end up wanting control — to be able to decide when you're playing with your new superpower, and when you're going to be as bland and boring as any old Midwestern newspaper reporter."
As a completely random example.
"It's what it all boils down to, anyway, isn't it? Control? For yourself, for the people you know — whether it's you wanting to control what they go through, or them getting furious when it's you..." The cigarette floats away from his head, sleeve following, as he taps ash out onto the pavement. "This fellow I know, my..." Shit, how can he even describe that relationship? "We've known each other forever, anyway. Longer and more thoroughly than anyone else ever has, ever could — and he's been here, what, half a year? It's like nothing ever happened in between us — even though the last time we saw each other, out there," vague gloved-hand wave in the direction of Mariana's ocean, not Trench, "things had gotten to the point of very earnestly trying to kill each other." He pulls out another cigarette as he talks, and chain-lights it. "He succeeded a bit better than I did," dryly, as if discussing nothing of greater weight than, say, signing a record deal, "then fished me up on the shore and brought me home with him, and acts like anything that happens to me is a personal affront to him," and seriously why is he just opening up and spilling all these beans to her?
(Presumably because it's been an incredibly stressful year-slash-myriad, and if Trench has any psychiatrists of sufficiently high skill levels to cope with him, well, they're probably fully booked and not taking new patients at this time.)
no subject
Shit."Not," he as with a little more care, "that I've heard of anyone entering into kinky relationships with any of the Pthumerians, as such. No idea at all if anyone humanoid," which, once upon a time — a few months ago, before spending a few centuries as an elf over the course of forty-eight hours — would have just been human, "would properly even recognize if they were kinky — nev— let's just forget that," with an abrupt second cover, as saying nevermind might, in fact, not be what he's wanting to do, here. His still-gloved hand makes a gesture of ball-it-up-and-throw-it-away, for emphasis.
"Just — have you ever wanted to disappear?" he asks, pressing back on the bruise of the subject. "Not just take off, missing-persons style, run away —" and maybe join a monastery, why not, "but vanish, get swallowed up by the floor right then and there, turn invisible so no one will ever find you again if you don't want them to?" Another invisible drag on a visible cigarette; as he begins talking again, the smoke curls back into existence, clearly far enough away from his nose and mouth that they can't press their shape into it and be defined that way. Weird. "In my experience, that's not a permanent desire, see — it's a dream of escaping, still. Getting away from the problem, in a way where it can't catch you and forced to to deal with its consequences. But you'll still end up wanting control — to be able to decide when you're playing with your new superpower, and when you're going to be as bland and boring as any old Midwestern newspaper reporter."
As a completely random example.
"It's what it all boils down to, anyway, isn't it? Control? For yourself, for the people you know — whether it's you wanting to control what they go through, or them getting furious when it's you..." The cigarette floats away from his head, sleeve following, as he taps ash out onto the pavement. "This fellow I know, my..." Shit, how can he even describe that relationship? "We've known each other forever, anyway. Longer and more thoroughly than anyone else ever has, ever could — and he's been here, what, half a year? It's like nothing ever happened in between us — even though the last time we saw each other, out there," vague gloved-hand wave in the direction of Mariana's ocean, not Trench, "things had gotten to the point of very earnestly trying to kill each other." He pulls out another cigarette as he talks, and chain-lights it. "He succeeded a bit better than I did," dryly, as if discussing nothing of greater weight than, say, signing a record deal, "then fished me up on the shore and brought me home with him, and acts like anything that happens to me is a personal affront to him," and seriously why is he just opening up and spilling all these beans to her?
(Presumably because it's been an incredibly stressful year-slash-myriad, and if Trench has any psychiatrists of sufficiently high skill levels to cope with him, well, they're probably fully booked and not taking new patients at this time.)