(no subject)
A scene: Kit confronts Ciaran.
Now off to nap and then work on FS stuff for a bit. Scenes were eating my brain during class, might as well try and actually write them.
There remained practical concerns, even when one was out all night with one thing and another that one would prefer not to dwell on. You might not want to interact with the people you cared about, but people you didn't care about that you had to deal with for the purposes of pragmatism were another matter whatsoever.
The lecture was not as animated or as interesting as he'd like, and the students were quieter than usual in response. He paid them no need. If there were matters of confusion, he could be emailed or visited during his office hours, which were also this afternoon. The lack of sleep was beginning to wear as it never used to, and he headed to closet himself in his office immediately after his second morning class to grade some papers and try not to think about anything.
The afternoon progressed slowly because he wasn't absorbed in anything and his brain was not cooperating with the tasks to which he set it. He turned on his computer and prowled the internet for awhile, checking his usual haunts, save one, which he studiously avoided. Nothing held him. Eventually he played FreeCell.
Then he played FreeCell again.
He was halfway through his third consecutive game of FreeCell when the door swung open. No knock. Huh. Students usually knocked. He glanced up and found his supposition to be correct. Leaning insouciant in his doorway was the all too familiar figure of Peregrine's bitchy little sister. Her eyes glittered fierce and grey-green beneath her studded brows, and there was something knifelike to the curve of the painted lips as she glared at him.
"By all means, come in," Ciaran said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers in his lap.
Kit oozed the rest of the way into the room and kicked the door shut behind her with a spiked heel. "Bastard," she said. "I followed your trail round and about the middle of nowhere for fucking hours and you turn out to be, like, where you belong."
Ciaran looked up at her. "If you need me to float you a loan for something or other, I thought Peregrine was solvent enough to provide you with money, but I'm not averse to the idea. I'm sure you're good for it."
Kit stared at him, folding her arms over her chest such that the black tee-shirt she wore was mostly obscured by her denim jacket. "I'm not here looking for money. I'm here 'cause of Peregrine," she said.
"What does he want?" Ciaran asked.
"Well," drawled Kit, something vaguely Louisianan and somewhat unsettling creeping into her voice as she crossed the room and leaned with both palms on Ciaran's desk, "he wants to know what the fuck, *Jack*." The eyes flashed with sharp humor as they flicked deliberately to the nameplate on his desk and back up to his face again. "You did somethin' of a disappearin' act last night."
"Mmm. Did I?" said Ciaran, wholly unintimidated.
"Yeah," said Kit. "He worries, y'know."
"He's an idiot," Ciaran said blandly, turning his attention to his computer to close the FreeCell game.
Kit didn't speak again until Ciaran's glance flicked back her way. She was watching him with a peculiar intensity. "I think he's got reason," said Kit.
"Mmm," Ciaran responded, subtly indicated with a quirk of his eyebrow that he was not disallowing the possibility that Kit herself was an idiot as well.
"Marguerite fed off me, you know. Not all the time. Every once in awhile," she remarked in a conversational tone. "Pretty powerful stuff, werewolf blood. Changes ya, so I understand. Draws in some of the essence."
Ciaran said stiffly, "So I've been told," and looked away.
Kit snorted. "What d'you think the long-lasting ramifications of draining Peregrine were?"
Ciaran shook his head, focusing on his manicured hands. He wished that Rose had not seen fit to share his indiscretion, but it was an idle thought, really; she had every right to seek out whatever aid she needed. She had after all been more or less raped. That she would seek support from her friends was more or less a given thing. That her friends also happened to be his friends ... well, that couldn't be helped. "Nonexistent. That was a long time ago."
"Yeah?" Kit said.
Ciaran scowled, the beginnings of irritation seeping through the layers of guilt and shame and loathing that he'd been wallowing in all day. "This one's all mine, Kit."
Kit shook her head. "Fuck you," she said. "You think you're yourself lately? How often have you been feeding? More or less than usual?"
Ciaran shook his head. "Nothing out of the ordinary."
Kit smiled faintly and drew a scarlet thumbnail over her lower lip. "Wanted to, though, didn'tcha?"
Ciaran looked up at her. "You can't take the blame off my shoulders for this," he said coolly. "I was the one who lost control."
Kit looked at the ceiling. "Soul-searchin' guilt-ridden vampire," she said. "Jesus fuckin' Christ. Talk to Rose, Ciaran."
"I'm not --"
"Stop being a cunt," Kit directed. "Talk to the woman. You're not answering your cell phone and you're not on the internet. She wants to talk to you."
Ciaran felt blank and strange. "I don't want to talk to her."
"Then let me appeal to yer overdeveloped sense of guilt and say you owe her that much," Kit said.
Ciaran hesitated, but finally nodded. "Crude, but effective."
"Thought it was rather elegant m'self," Kit chirped, sliding her ass onto the edge of his desk and crossing her long legs. "I wantcher solemn oath that you'll come home as soon as you're done here. 'Kay?"
"Fine."
"'Cause you know Pip and I'll just hunt you down if you don't."
"Yes, yes." Ciaran waved an irritable hand at her. "Please remove your posterior from my desk."
Kit glanced over her shoulder and down her back as though trying to catch a glimpse of said posterior. "Yer loss," she said, sliding off the desk again, and sauntering to the door. "I'll be back to kick yer ass if you don't come home tonight."
"Understood," said Ciaran, with a shadow of a smile on his lips.
Kit vanished through the door, closing it behind her.
Ciaran stared at the door for a moment, sighed, and then opened the internet browser on his computer and started to type. He'd do real work later. For now he had some explaining to do, and he needed the distance and lack of immediacy that came with the computer to do it. What a delicious new invention, the keyboard.
Now off to nap and then work on FS stuff for a bit. Scenes were eating my brain during class, might as well try and actually write them.
There remained practical concerns, even when one was out all night with one thing and another that one would prefer not to dwell on. You might not want to interact with the people you cared about, but people you didn't care about that you had to deal with for the purposes of pragmatism were another matter whatsoever.
The lecture was not as animated or as interesting as he'd like, and the students were quieter than usual in response. He paid them no need. If there were matters of confusion, he could be emailed or visited during his office hours, which were also this afternoon. The lack of sleep was beginning to wear as it never used to, and he headed to closet himself in his office immediately after his second morning class to grade some papers and try not to think about anything.
The afternoon progressed slowly because he wasn't absorbed in anything and his brain was not cooperating with the tasks to which he set it. He turned on his computer and prowled the internet for awhile, checking his usual haunts, save one, which he studiously avoided. Nothing held him. Eventually he played FreeCell.
Then he played FreeCell again.
He was halfway through his third consecutive game of FreeCell when the door swung open. No knock. Huh. Students usually knocked. He glanced up and found his supposition to be correct. Leaning insouciant in his doorway was the all too familiar figure of Peregrine's bitchy little sister. Her eyes glittered fierce and grey-green beneath her studded brows, and there was something knifelike to the curve of the painted lips as she glared at him.
"By all means, come in," Ciaran said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers in his lap.
Kit oozed the rest of the way into the room and kicked the door shut behind her with a spiked heel. "Bastard," she said. "I followed your trail round and about the middle of nowhere for fucking hours and you turn out to be, like, where you belong."
Ciaran looked up at her. "If you need me to float you a loan for something or other, I thought Peregrine was solvent enough to provide you with money, but I'm not averse to the idea. I'm sure you're good for it."
Kit stared at him, folding her arms over her chest such that the black tee-shirt she wore was mostly obscured by her denim jacket. "I'm not here looking for money. I'm here 'cause of Peregrine," she said.
"What does he want?" Ciaran asked.
"Well," drawled Kit, something vaguely Louisianan and somewhat unsettling creeping into her voice as she crossed the room and leaned with both palms on Ciaran's desk, "he wants to know what the fuck, *Jack*." The eyes flashed with sharp humor as they flicked deliberately to the nameplate on his desk and back up to his face again. "You did somethin' of a disappearin' act last night."
"Mmm. Did I?" said Ciaran, wholly unintimidated.
"Yeah," said Kit. "He worries, y'know."
"He's an idiot," Ciaran said blandly, turning his attention to his computer to close the FreeCell game.
Kit didn't speak again until Ciaran's glance flicked back her way. She was watching him with a peculiar intensity. "I think he's got reason," said Kit.
"Mmm," Ciaran responded, subtly indicated with a quirk of his eyebrow that he was not disallowing the possibility that Kit herself was an idiot as well.
"Marguerite fed off me, you know. Not all the time. Every once in awhile," she remarked in a conversational tone. "Pretty powerful stuff, werewolf blood. Changes ya, so I understand. Draws in some of the essence."
Ciaran said stiffly, "So I've been told," and looked away.
Kit snorted. "What d'you think the long-lasting ramifications of draining Peregrine were?"
Ciaran shook his head, focusing on his manicured hands. He wished that Rose had not seen fit to share his indiscretion, but it was an idle thought, really; she had every right to seek out whatever aid she needed. She had after all been more or less raped. That she would seek support from her friends was more or less a given thing. That her friends also happened to be his friends ... well, that couldn't be helped. "Nonexistent. That was a long time ago."
"Yeah?" Kit said.
Ciaran scowled, the beginnings of irritation seeping through the layers of guilt and shame and loathing that he'd been wallowing in all day. "This one's all mine, Kit."
Kit shook her head. "Fuck you," she said. "You think you're yourself lately? How often have you been feeding? More or less than usual?"
Ciaran shook his head. "Nothing out of the ordinary."
Kit smiled faintly and drew a scarlet thumbnail over her lower lip. "Wanted to, though, didn'tcha?"
Ciaran looked up at her. "You can't take the blame off my shoulders for this," he said coolly. "I was the one who lost control."
Kit looked at the ceiling. "Soul-searchin' guilt-ridden vampire," she said. "Jesus fuckin' Christ. Talk to Rose, Ciaran."
"I'm not --"
"Stop being a cunt," Kit directed. "Talk to the woman. You're not answering your cell phone and you're not on the internet. She wants to talk to you."
Ciaran felt blank and strange. "I don't want to talk to her."
"Then let me appeal to yer overdeveloped sense of guilt and say you owe her that much," Kit said.
Ciaran hesitated, but finally nodded. "Crude, but effective."
"Thought it was rather elegant m'self," Kit chirped, sliding her ass onto the edge of his desk and crossing her long legs. "I wantcher solemn oath that you'll come home as soon as you're done here. 'Kay?"
"Fine."
"'Cause you know Pip and I'll just hunt you down if you don't."
"Yes, yes." Ciaran waved an irritable hand at her. "Please remove your posterior from my desk."
Kit glanced over her shoulder and down her back as though trying to catch a glimpse of said posterior. "Yer loss," she said, sliding off the desk again, and sauntering to the door. "I'll be back to kick yer ass if you don't come home tonight."
"Understood," said Ciaran, with a shadow of a smile on his lips.
Kit vanished through the door, closing it behind her.
Ciaran stared at the door for a moment, sighed, and then opened the internet browser on his computer and started to type. He'd do real work later. For now he had some explaining to do, and he needed the distance and lack of immediacy that came with the computer to do it. What a delicious new invention, the keyboard.