taxonomites | [location: Central, Transverto tram line or Speares

The past three weeks, Wyatt hasn't slept much at all. It's a known fact, broadcast loud and clear by the dark circles under his eyes for all to see. It's only now, roughly a week after Glitch's return from the dead, that he's well and truly succumbed to his own limitations. He's okay. He's alive and well, and real, and somewhere between putting on another pot of coffee and sending DG or Glitch another message to double check they don't need anything, Cain crashes on the couch. It'll only be a nap, he tells himself, he'll just close his eyes for a moment and it is terribly cold. He sleeps, the deep sleep so similar to death but for the steady rise and fall of his shoulders. He sleeps through the night and well into the day, and finally, there are no more nightmares. He dreams of distant memories, of his life before Taxon, before things took a turn for the decidedly more bleak. Dreams of the once Great and Terrible, the Powerful, One and Only Mystic Man, illuminated by the warm flickering glow of his fireplace. He can smell the dark liquor swishing in the tumbler cupped in the older man's palm, can almost hear the knowing grin curling his white mustache and feel the glint in his eyes.

Cain. Will you relax, just this once? With you as my head of security, I'm as safe as a babe in a cot. Sit down, for pity's sake.

In his dream, Cain sits down; and even in this dreamlike state, he can feel the tension painting his every feature with hard unforgiving lines.

Drink? No. Of course not - never on the job, never on duty. The Mystic Man shoots him a grin, the flash of white teeth almost blinding in the mellow light of his dressing room. Everything as opulent as ever, as decadent and luring of the senses as ever - only the finest fabrics and décor and all of it arranged to create a world of its own. It draws you in, adds to the image. There Cain sits, watching his boss watching him with open intrigue.

You know what your problem is? says the other man, wrapped up in his robe like the cat who got the cream and the canary and a whole basket full of yarn. He never did hesitate to speak his mind, or to tell things as he saw them. And I'm not talking about your hangups, my dear boy, I'm talking about the big picture. The Before and After, and the possibility for Happy to enter into things somewhere along the line.

Cain frowned, both in the dream and out of it. Sir?

You're halfway to worrying yourself into an early grave, just look at you. More silver than blond, and it's only been an annual, tut-tut.

I have my reasons, Cain replies, and for a heartbeat or two he feels apprehensive, as if his friend is gearing up to something (and friends they were, right to the very end; mentor and student, brothers, cynical observers of human nature).

Yes, you do. After a sip of his drink, he moves on. Your friend, the curly haired one, Doe-eyes, he's fine. In one piece, just let him thaw a bit and he'll be right as rainbows, hm?

His name's Glitch.

And that problem you think you're having isn't all that much of a problem, right?

...right. What else can he possibly say to that?

Brothers-in-arms, fellow Ozites born and bred, two sides of a coin, and you love him to bits, nothing you wouldn't do for him?

In the dream, Cain shrugs, still trying to figure out what kind of point the showman is moving towards. Yes.

And then there's Blondie. Tough as nails, sees right to the core of you, says the most outrageous things, trust him with your life, makes you giggle like a little boy?

In the dream, Cain blushes. In his sleep, one word's mumbled into the silence. "Paul."

Terrified of driving him away, of saying too much or too little, Ozma in a frilly underskirt, it's Adorable all over again. Don't tell me it isn't.

Cain says nothing, but the Mystic Man leans forward in his armchair and taps his temple twice. The thing is, you know what you need to do - you've been scribbling down notes for how long, now? The stakes are high, but it wouldn't be worth the gamble if they weren't. Have a bit of faith. Trust him, he says. You already do.

~*~

When Wyatt wakes up, the one thing ringing in his ears well into his second cup of coffee is 'You already do'. Trust him. It's not such a big stretch when you put it like that, and he hasn't had such a vivid dream in his entire life. He gets out his notebook and sits down by the kitchen table and starts writing with a calm that overshadows everything else.

By the time he steps off the Transverto tram in Speares, the calm starts evaporating. The fact he finds himself two stops further down the line than intended doesn't help matters. Nonetheless he starts walking, gloved hands crammed into his pockets, scarf wrapped over his nose and mouth and an envelope tucked safely next to his heart under the peacoat.

Now all he needs to figure out is how not to have a major freak out on Paul's doorstep.

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Paul takes the coffee and gets in a sip at least before Wyatt gives him a kiss, which he permits. There's another, more deliberate sip, as he looks Wyatt over. It must really be fuck-all cold out there, almost looks like the other man's shivering.

"Really, scout's honor," he says, holding up the fingers of the hand in what he thinks is probably the scout salute, but not having been a Cub or an Eagle or what the fuckever he couldn't swear to it. "I was technically a cop, but I had a lot more in common with the Corpse Corps and I didn't get squeamish. We brought this one lieutenant a cow heart once in a doughnut box. Good days."

Paul gets to his feet, little flickering measure-glances at Wyatt. He's still more than conscious of Wyatt after the 'woodsman' crap, halfway to frostbitten and all, as well as like he had been when Paul had been new to the city.

"You are appropriately layered, yes?" he says with a severe brow arch.

In the privacy of his own mind, Wyatt curses at the damn agent to stop sending him looks. He's jittery enough now he's actually here, he doesn't need further incentive to hover where he stands.

A barely there shake to his head at the end of that little anecdote, and he can't think of anything to say to it. His mind's a completely blank sheet of paper, he's tongue tied, and his throat feels about ready to stick together.

"Yes, I'm appropriately clothed. This is me you're talking to." He sips his coffee, which is nice and warm and just strong enough that it has a bite.

"I ...accidentally got off at the wrong stop. Walked for a few blocks." Or ten, but he sure wasn't counting at the time.

That tiny pause-hesitation makes Paul's gaze sharpen, but he purses his lips and moves to stand by one of the 'windows', such as they are, in the Birdhouse and survey his ugly-concrete domain outside it.

"You too? I was heading out to Speares and ended up in Osten, don't ask me how, you'd think I'd know the trams by now," he grunts.

That's actually a kind of relief, knowing he isn't yet so...head-up-in-the-clouds, over-the-moon that he can't think straight.

For a given value of the word, as used in Paul's world.

"Yeah."

Another sip, before he decides against it; with determination comes a burst of queasiness, and he doesn't want to tempt fate by ignoring his gut.

"Listen, Paul... This isn't, isn't technically what you'd term a social call."

"Wonder if it's the city and not just us," Paul muses, squinting out at said city. Wyatt's next words make him glance over, brows arching slowly.

"Something wrong?" he asks carefully. Since 'not a social call' to him implies it's, well, business, some threat to the citizens or something.

"No. It's, uh."

Cup. Right, can't be walking around with a cup full of hot coffee, can't risk an ill timed gesture or something, who knows what his hands might get up to when he starts trying to explain why he's here.

So: Cup has to go onto the counter, and he needs to calm the high hills down.

"I'm rusty," he says, turning to face Paul - and deciding in a heartbeat to move closer only to wish he hadn't. But now he's walking up to him, and he can't run away now.

"I--" But what in the world could he possibly say that he hasn't written down? He takes out the envelope from his inside coat pocket. "I want you to have this. --and read it."

Paul watches with both brows still slightly arched, expression as carefully neutral as his tone had been as he reaches out and takes the envelope from Wyatt.

"Alright," he says slowly. It is clear the other man is worked up, and Paul bites back on a few choice cracks that spring to mind about your last will and testament, cowboy? or the much nastier A Dear John letter? Don't tell me, you and Glitch are eloping.

Contrary to popular belief, Paul sometimes knows when to keep his damned mouth shut.

He turns the envelope over in his fingers, eyes still on Wyatt.

"Right now?" he asks, figuring he's giving Wyatt a chance to run for the door if he wants to. And if Paul's still any half-decent sort of judge of body language, he'd guess Wyatt wants to.

It's need and tidy, just like Paul's name written there in prim and proper print. No frills, no hoopla, just a plain white envelope for a plain white letter.

Three pages.

Oh gods.

He swallows inaudibly, but plenty visible enough he's sure. "Whenever you have time. There's no rush, I just, hm. I should've called ahead, shouldn't I?"

"Okay," says Paul. He's eyeing Wyatt like he is a bomb with a a lit fuse. He sets the envelope down on the table.

"Called ahead? Why? Officer Cain, I'm about a few steps away from checking your pulse, so take some deep breaths and..." He almost says sit down, but if Wyatt needs to get out of the building he doesn't want to trap him.

As if he knows. Words just keep tumbling out with little to no logic or reason, and it. Is not. Helping.

"Please don't look at me like that. I'm not glitched, I'm not having some kind of episode, I'm just..."

He takes a deep breath and a step back, hands up in a gesture meant to forestall any further insistence that he calm down. Maybe that isn't what Paul said, but it's sure what it sounds like, and that isn't helping either.

"Just read it. Draw your own conclusions, and I'll come back tomorrow. Okay?"

"I didn't say you were glitched," Paul sighs. "You're just clearly worked the hell up over something."

And I can't fix that until I know what that is, which I likely won't until I read this, and you will probably have a coronary if I do that right now.

He nods a bit. "Alright. Okay. Go home... safely, will you? Don't walk in front of a fucking tram."

Yeah, it's something all right. He nods stiffly, and for a moment he looks as though ready to hightail it out of there. Sad truth of the matter is he can't deal with this, and he won't.

As he turns to leave, he tells himself he isn't running; he's giving them both space by removing himself.

"I won't."

[location: Central, Transverto tram line or Speares - choose your own adventure!]

[Location] Birdhouse In Central

[Location] Birdhouse In Central

Re: [Location] Birdhouse In Central

[Location] Birdhouse In Central

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