Earth holidays, she says, casually dropping that into the conversation, just the cherry on top of her shirt, and the same game fucking John fucking Gaius is always so prone to playing, that he's automatically fallen into, too — and after ten thousand years, does he remember how not to keep it going?
(He's so tired of John's endless bullshit.)
His voice is as hollow as his sleeve and mask as he says, smoke forming the shape of his words, "The sort of shit that piles up into a tragic backstory will never leave anyone easily."
(— well, it isn't forming the shape of his words literally, to be fair, even if that would be pretty sweet, wouldn't it?)
He adds, deadpan: "Of course, that's probably why you're finding yourself rubbing your ass on things — to relieve the discomfort." Because of course bathroom humor is a great way of defusing the situation, right? Implications of butt-scooching? A careful, practiced flick of invisible fingers leaves all the loose ash floating away from his still-floating cigarette; between the earlier intonation, the smoke-effects, and the ash-scattering, it's all just terribly oracular — which, he supposes, might be a decent side hustle, if this clear-skin situation doesn't clear up soon, itself.
Butt also — idly questioning, because of course it doesn't matter what her answer might be — "Was that him, then? Your old man? The brought-you-into-this-world/taking-you-out-of-it part? Seems like a predictable threat, for someone pissed off that his kids are stealing his toy soldiers, even if that's his kids themselves — yourself — one of those if-he-can't-have-you,-no-one-can situations, maybe?"
Gus eyes her, speculatively; she looks... shaken, more than stirred up; close enough. He reaches into his vest, pulling out a small leather-bound flask of mostly-vodka, and tosses it at her — perfect aim, less because of Alfred's skills and more because of being able to direct the leather's path through the air. (And, well, everything attached to it, as a result.)
"It doesn't matter, you know," which actually is a little softer, not just quieter. He looks down at his hands — one black glove, one empty cuff and floating cigarette; the entire situation is just so fucking absurd, and he hates it, and he hates how much he hates it — how he can't just laugh it off. "Whoever they are, whatever they've done, it's the past, and it can't be changed — doesn't mean it's good, doesn't mean it doesn't still have an effect," he interrupts himself, before she can. "But you don't really need me to sit here in an alleyway sharpening my claws on all your old pain, any more than I particularly want you to on mine. Have a drink, if you'd like," which is also sort of a peace offering, if it's necessary.
"Some nights..." One last drag, on that second cigarette, before he flicks it off toward the dead-end wall (and it flies so fast, without him even really noticing, that it's already extinguished by the time it leaves a divot in one of the bricks thirty-forty feet away). "I wish that this all would end," as he flicks his (gloved, visible) fingers toward himself. Unclear antecedent alert: invisibility? presence in Trench? absence from Hell? relative state of life? tendency to define himself through the lens of John's attention?
"But." He shakes his head, and pulls his mask back down, and pulls his other glove on, fidgeting it into place with all the finickiness necessary to give her plenty of time to drink, or decide not to drink, and put the cap back on and offer him back his flask. "I suppose, in the meantime, I could use some friends, for a change. Who the fuck wants to die alone, in a place as madcap as this? Even if you are just as likely to make a squidward return to the Farthest Shores." And Gus holds out his hand to her — maybe for the flask; maybe for her own hand, and an actual offer of friendship. He's not always the clearest person to read, even if his current motives are entirely transparent.
no subject
fuckingJohnfucking Gaiusis always so prone to playing, that he's automatically fallen into, too — and after ten thousand years, does he remember how not to keep it going?(He's so tired of John's endless bullshit.)
His voice is as hollow as his sleeve and mask as he says, smoke forming the shape of his words, "The sort of shit that piles up into a tragic backstory will never leave anyone easily."
(— well, it isn't forming the shape of his words literally, to be fair, even if that would be pretty sweet, wouldn't it?)
He adds, deadpan: "Of course, that's probably why you're finding yourself rubbing your ass on things — to relieve the discomfort." Because of course bathroom humor is a great way of defusing the situation, right? Implications of butt-scooching? A careful, practiced flick of invisible fingers leaves all the loose ash floating away from his still-floating cigarette; between the earlier intonation, the smoke-effects, and the ash-scattering, it's all just terribly oracular — which, he supposes, might be a decent side hustle, if this clear-skin situation doesn't clear up soon, itself.
Butt also — idly questioning, because of course it doesn't matter what her answer might be — "Was that him, then? Your old man? The brought-you-into-this-world/taking-you-out-of-it part? Seems like a predictable threat, for someone pissed off that his kids are stealing his toy soldiers, even if that's his kids themselves — yourself — one of those if-he-can't-have-you,-no-one-can situations, maybe?"
Gus eyes her, speculatively; she looks... shaken, more than stirred up; close enough. He reaches into his vest, pulling out a small leather-bound flask of mostly-vodka, and tosses it at her — perfect aim, less because of Alfred's skills and more because of being able to direct the leather's path through the air. (And, well, everything attached to it, as a result.)
"It doesn't matter, you know," which actually is a little softer, not just quieter. He looks down at his hands — one black glove, one empty cuff and floating cigarette; the entire situation is just so fucking absurd, and he hates it, and he hates how much he hates it — how he can't just laugh it off. "Whoever they are, whatever they've done, it's the past, and it can't be changed — doesn't mean it's good, doesn't mean it doesn't still have an effect," he interrupts himself, before she can. "But you don't really need me to sit here in an alleyway sharpening my claws on all your old pain, any more than I particularly want you to on mine. Have a drink, if you'd like," which is also sort of a peace offering, if it's necessary.
"Some nights..." One last drag, on that second cigarette, before he flicks it off toward the dead-end wall (and it flies so fast, without him even really noticing, that it's already extinguished by the time it leaves a divot in one of the bricks thirty-forty feet away). "I wish that this all would end," as he flicks his (gloved, visible) fingers toward himself. Unclear antecedent alert: invisibility? presence in Trench? absence from Hell? relative state of life? tendency to define himself through the lens of John's attention?
"But." He shakes his head, and pulls his mask back down, and pulls his other glove on, fidgeting it into place with all the finickiness necessary to give her plenty of time to drink, or decide not to drink, and put the cap back on and offer him back his flask. "I suppose, in the meantime, I could use some friends, for a change. Who the fuck wants to die alone, in a place as madcap as this? Even if you are just as likely to make a squidward return to the Farthest Shores." And Gus holds out his hand to her — maybe for the flask; maybe for her own hand, and an actual offer of friendship. He's not always the clearest person to read, even if his current motives are entirely transparent.