taxonomites | 057 ± [visual / location: around town] i like the autumn but this place is getting old

At roughly quarter to nine in the morning, Taxon is greeted with a video broadcast of a holo broadcast.

"Hello?"

One can tell it's not a proper arrival because instead of the usual stark arrival room, there's a tiny Glitch hovering over a nightstand. Beyond, there is a patchwork quilt covering a shifting, grumbling lump.

"DG...Cain?" From under the covers, Glitch's head emerges and he peers blearily at his tiny duplicate. "Raw?"

"Cute," he mumbles, the props his chin up to watch the show.

"Cain's going to be mad," the hologram remarks fussily. Glitch snorts. "But...no, it's not my fault this time. I was following him! I was following him! I was follow-"

"All right, enough of that." Glitch pokes his tablet so the holo replay of his arrival vanishes, then scowls when he notices that it's still broadcasting. "Guess that's the aliens' way of wishing me a happy anniversary. Morning, all."

Then he turns the tablet off and flops back with a sigh.

Three annuals. Thirty-six months. One hundred fifty-six weeks. Something like a thousand ninety-five days and he's still not sure how he survived the first dozen of them. Illyria'd basically pointed him at the door and he'd been on his own until DG's arrival. Adaptation. Coping. Moving on. Waiting and surviving, that was 90% of this place.

Today, though, he'll keep busy and distribute a few gifts. The first pumpkin from the garden for Cain with a short length of distinctive gold braiding tied around the stem. One of DG's sketchbooks for Azkadellia, a more intimate glimpse of the younger princess' life here. He's ready to let go, and he hopes it will give Az some comfort. The first volume of his organized notes on Taxon for Mayland, a drink or two with Paul after lunch, dropping a scarf off for Madelyne (the days are getting chillier and he frets), and then...then he'll take Bagoas out for dinner. Because why not.

He sends a voice message to his friend to make arrangements (Italian, Glitch decides, will be nice), gets ready for the day, loads a basket with goodies, and sets off on his bicycle to make the rounds.

ooc: THREE YEARS what even. He'll be stopping by to see everyone mentioned above (and all of that's hadnwavey if you like), but anyone not mentioned is totally welcome to bump into him too. OPEN POST IS OPEN.

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"Nah, that's all right. I think I can only juggle one of those at a time."

Ha. Ha ha. What is his life. Still with the listening though because this is important, possibly the most significant conversation they've ever had. Glitch sips his refilled drink since he feels he's said his most important piece, something he's been formulating for an annual or so and...yeah. All squared away.

Except for the part where he has to give Paul a rather confused look again and scrunch his brow up a lot for good measure.

"And you," he points out, gesturing with his glass. "Cuz you are, which I guess makes us...I dunno. In-laws."

Which come to think of it sort of explains rather a lot, after a fashion.

Paul stares blankly a moment at Glitch after he says that. Then laughs. A little helplessly, a little bit of a hiccup to it; he puts his forehead down on his forearms and giggles (no other word for it really) for ten seconds or so until he manages to take a breath and lift his head again.

"Jesus Christ. You're right. Oh, we're so fucked."

~~Paul has such a high opinion of families.~~

He offers Glitch this helpless, reckless sort of grin. "We have to swear blood oaths not to talk about politics, now."

"I'm a socialist monarchist."

Glitch says it anyway, because it needs to be established and because that's what family does. And really he is totally reluctant and yes they are, to put it Smeckerly, utterly and intensely fucked, but that's how it is. You never, ever, ever choose your family.

He sips his drink demurely, feels his face going a little numb and flags the bartender for a glass of water. He'll need to keep it together, he'll go home after this and get ready and have a proper date with Bagoas ad Things and Stuff. Such is life.

"So...I think we've got all that covered. Anymore details or whatever, you need to talk to Cain."

"No. Yes. I mean, that's fair," Paul says with a wave of his hand, acknowledging all that. He wonders if maybe he shouldn't have been drinking vodka while waiting for Glitch. Hindsight.

"...Glitch..." Paul gives his glass another rotation on the bar. "You didn't have to come with Cain after my ass during Nightmare Theatre 3000."

Yeah well Glitch has been putting the spirits away too and well--

Okay invoking That Particular Thing even though Glitch has already done so after a fashion unsettles him. He reels a bit, doing the whole pausing and blinking thing he did before he got his brain back. Trauma.

"No. I didn't." Driiiink. "O-or I did, I did have to, I couldn't leave him and--"

Eyes close, focus inward, deep breath and move on. "I had to even the odds. I I mean. What if I hadn't?" Pause. "No, I mean, you know."

Paul watches Glitch sidelong, and nods. He uses his fingertips to push his glass a little further away from him on the bar. Unbidden, maybe unnoticed, his other hand drifts to one of the bullet scars hidden under clothing.

"I know."

Paul cracks his knuckles once, studies his glass.

"Thank you. I never said it. Was busy blood-loss-ing and all and then I was busy trying to drive Wyatt insane. But... thank you. I owe you one."

Glitch notices, vaguely, and his eyes dart to the faint scar on the back of his own left hand and away again. There are worse - the burns from before and he always has to fight acknowledging them in Azkadellia's presence - but that little white mark...

"I was too busy running away to accept," he replies with a little shrug. "And you're welcome, I--" He chuckles, shakes his head. "I'll try and not collect on that. You know--"

"I owe you one" is exactly and to the word what Cain told me after I saved him from hypothermia and the hilarious irony of hearing it from you, now, when the whole saving-you-from-crazy-Irish-guys was 90% for him to begin with, is a little too funny for me to deal with.

"...knowing this place it'll happen sooner or later. Pre-emptive thank you for that."

"Yeah." Paul nods. He picks up on some of what's not being said, not all of that, but yeah. Some of it.

Paul studies the bottle. They've made serious inroads. Maybe a little too serious, he's not too sure he trusts his balance.

"....yeah. Uh. I wonder if Taxon taxis will actually come if you call." He's never tried before.

And that'll be that. A clear sing to end, a good place to start, or start over, or continue or...

Yeah, he'll probably be walking his bike home.

"It's pretty much fifty-fifty," Glitch offers and glances at the ceiling. "An' then if they do come there's a fifty-fifty chance of a language barrier, for some reason."

Because the aliens are trolls. "I could walk you, 'least part of the way."

Paul laughs, a little raucous. The language barrier thing makes perfect sense to him, at least.

He collects the bottle; he paid for it dammit, and wobbles to his feet. Oh-kay. Balance. Yeah. Counter is good. Great.

"Sounds like a plan," he says with a sloppy reckless smile at Glitch. "If we both faceplant on the sidewalk, I'll use your hair as a cushion."

"It's just about bouncy enough," Glitch says and gets to his own feet. Wobble wobble, preternatural poise will only go so far.

"All th' same, I'd rather avoid all faceplanting. Gotta be pretty for my date."

Stop talking. Stop talking now.

Like Paul could miss that. Vodka or not, he shoots Glitch a sharp sidelong glance, and then a tiny speculative smile starts playing at the corners of Paul's mouth.

"Oh really," Paul says as they make it to the door. He holds it for Glitch, like the gentleman he sometimes is. ~~almost never is~~

"Anybody I know?" ....in the pool of like... twenty-something people in Taxon.

And Glitch twirls out the door, inhibitions migrated but balance still frustratingly in place. He tosses the end of his scarf over his shoulder and grins.

"Probably," he replies with a little snake-armed shrug. Then, because subterfuge is pointless and the entire upshot of this conversation is building trust and what family means and such so: "Bagoas, of Susa, wherever that is. Not hat I can judge since I'm apparently Lord Rigmarole but...right. It's a thing."

Paul tilts his head. "What, Prince-of-Persia kid?" He considers this, arches his brows. Kid's pretty, sure.

"I guess you two have the whole curly-headed-brunette thing locked up."

Easy on the pop culture, Paul.

"He's hardly a kid," Glitch correct delicately. Seriously, someday there will be someone his own age but for now... "But yeah, guess we do. That and really skilled dancing."

No way he can slow it down.

"He's kid enough," Paul says, but he's not judging. He smiles a little, lopsided and vodka-dripped, at the idea of the dancing.

"East meets West. No, East meets OZ. Oh, whatever. Well, more power to you. To you both. Happiness rare enough to come by and all that crap."

057 ± [visual / location: around town] i like the autumn but this place is getting old

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