Still I'm spinning like a roundabout in motion
On the front of the Kashtta, there is a small heap of angles, knotted hair, and tattered clothes. It's up against the Kashtta's wall, one hand pressed flat against the building's wall and face totally obscured by tangles. For a good few minutes, it doesn't move, but then with a small gasp, the hand balls into a fist, hits the wall, then uncurls
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"Even better," he says, though now his comments are equally distracted. He might swing by to grab a kitten, though he's not sure what he'd do with it after he got bored, given that it was immortal. Give it to Lily, maybe. Let her nurse something back to health.
He can sense that she wants to talk about something else -- it's pretty obvious, really -- so he doesn't really continue the conversation about outside of Chicago, merely nods. Part of him would like to keep her waiting as long as possible, but a much bigger part of him wants to see the deep need he can sense from her eagerness. He needs that more than he needs to keep her waiting. His jaunt into the coffeeshop will do enough of that.
So he stands again, abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. The itching in his shoulders and the tingling in his hands is getting worse; he's going to have to go straight to work after this, demand they give him something other than paperwork to work on.
But oh, there's her eagerness; he takes in every shift in her facial expression, his own face falling blank for a moment. "Of course," he says, unconsciously starting to stretch his shoulders. He catches himself, but doesn't really stop it; damage has already been done. Stretching never really helps, but his brain keeps thinking it will. "I mean, that was part of the point of meeting you here, so we could talk about it in person."
He tosses her another grin, shoving his hands in his pockets -- his fingers hit the small notebook in said pockets and he curls that hand into a fist -- and sidling toward the coffeeshop. "I'll be right back."
And with that, he's in said shop asking about a bucket and buying another cup of coffee, even if he doesn't really need it.
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Circling her shoulders doesn't help her, either, but she feels like it should just the same.
He's faded out the conversation, making it quick, and she's grateful for that, so grateful. She guesses he senses her urgency, and she's right about that. The only difference in truth is that she thinks that he's being polite.
He's so nice, she thinks, even if I can barely stay civil. I really am going to have to speak with him some other time, about something that isn't just this. Just to make him feel better. Feel like this wasn't all I wanted.
But right now, that's not an option. She leans her elbows on the table and props her forehead in her hands, every second he's gone a string pulled taut beneath her skin. She almost wouldn't care, she'd sit with the thing on her lap the whole conversation long, if it weren't for one simple matter: it's making her filthy, and she doesn't really want to have to touch the papers like that. He might want them back, after all.
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Because of it, he watches her from inside the coffeeshop, even whilst getting the bucket, and the coffee. Notes the distress, the anxiety she has upon being left alone outside, without him. Even after he gets what he needs from the baristas, he stands at the window, sipping the coffee out of habit. Just watching her.
It's nice to see a dependence right now, even if it's so fleeting. He doesn't know what's spurring such an interest, or if it will last, but it's feeding the Calling enough. So far.
And then he's striding back out to the table, a plastic recycle bin (they didn't have a spare bucket) in one hand and his coffee in the other. "Here," he says, putting the bin down near Iris, though making no motion to get rid of the octoplatypus in Iris's lap. Then he slides into the seat across from her, leaning on the table, though he can't quite keep himself still; one leg's jittering, and he raises the coffee to his lips again.
And then puts it down before actually drinking; he's not sure he can actually stomach more caffeine along with everything else. So instead, he pulls another cigarette out of the back on the table, lights it, then says, "Alright. Where do we start -- questions or pamphlets?"
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"Thanks," she says, at the addition of the bin. She picks the creature off herself, watches one of the sticky tentacles peel-- reluctantly; it doesn't want to leave-- off her arm, leaving her skin dotted with reddish suction-marks and covered with a thick trail of... yeah, okay, she's dumping it in the bin double-time, then grabbing a napkin and wiping that stuff off. She's not the most squeamish girl in the world, far from it, but she's already walked back to the Kashtta covered in gunk once this week, and doesn't relish the thought of having to do it again. People are going to start wondering.
As she continues her largely futile attempts at cleanup-- the stuff's easy enough to get off her skin, but it's soaked right through her clothing-- she responds to his words, thankful to have them, again. "I-- yeah. I should probably ask you, first, before--" Before what, she doesn't exactly know. But it feels like it might be bad.
"So this is going to sound strange, but... before, on the journals, you were saying most of this stuff's hereditary, right? I mean, being what you are, and everything. So it's like... there's nothing that can actually change a person who wasn't born that way? Even...." It's a lot to blurt out to someone she's barely met, but from what he's said on the journals he's likely an Angel of Knowledge, and he's said these things are his specialty. He's really the best resource she could hope for. So she swallows her heart, and says it anyway.
"What about a person who feels like they're going through some of the-- the changes, and they're the right age and everything"-- and they want it so much, she doesn't say, but the quaver in her voice is a betrayal that's unmissable-- "but they're not from around here and they know they're human, and no one else notices there's anything strange?"
Her stare is like she's looking into the terrible heart of the sun, and she cannot pull away.
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Maybe he needs to take Molly up on that torture session soon. Or work on Lily. Or something. Maybe he just needs to go to work.
He takes a drag on the cigarette, thinking about what she's said, and about what she hasn't. It's the hasn't that he's more interested in. What she's really getting at. Where she's lying, where she's telling the truth. What her ulterior motive is; it's obvious, now, that there is one. He can see the need in her face.
"Well, angelic status is hereditary, though they're still looking into the source of the Callings -- that's not what you're asking." Another drag, and one hand goes up to absently knead at his shoulder, fingers pressing hard against the muscles. "But I suppose it is possible the Rift could have done something to you. I've not heard of the changes coming on gradually, though."
This is about when he realizes he's pressing on his shoulder and rather pointedly puts his hand down on the table, balled into a fist. It's a simple motion, and he calls no attention to it, but it's there. The entire time, he's just matching her stare. "What changes do you feel are happening?"
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"I-- my wings." Not that they're her wings, not that she has them, but they're so clear in her mind now. And she likes the way it feels, to call them hers. It eases the pain a little.
"It's like there's-- something that wants to come out," and she reaches around to touch her back, at that, less to show him than because she needs to, and gods she needs to, watching him all twitchy-- "but... I can't... there's nothing, you know? Not really, it just... feels like there is."
She knows what they'd look like, if they could emerge. The image has burnt itself behind her eyes. He'd be surprised, perhaps, that they'd look not too different from his own: large and white, like those of a swan, the flight-feathers down to the backs of her knees. Perfect, against a crystalline-blue sky.
"There's nothing else, not... I'm not cold, or anything. Or hot," she adds, just to be clear. "I bleed red." She knows that much, from signing her letter to Phoebe the other day. That cut's still on her thumb, bright even against the sea of burns and scars that mark her trade. She hasn't been working like she should have, recently, and so there's nothing new to cover it up. The distractions of these past few days have made it almost impossible for her to focus.
"I... feel like I should have a Calling, though. I felt one once, it wasn't mine, but."
And now she's awkward, because she said that too quickly and the question of how she experienced an angel's Calling, well, that's a topic that brings up memories. There's a wave of heat rushing to her face, as if she didn't have enough problems.
She drops her gaze to the octoplatypus in the bin. For all it's slimy, it's really sort of cute, the more she looks at it. Which is good, since she's going to be looking at it for a while. It's hard to keep looking at Kaden, even if she feels he's harmless, knowing her emotions are written all over her face.
Not that looking down really does anything to hide her expression. But she can hope.
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At first, he doesn't say anything to reply, just tilts his head at her as though studying an animal. In a way, he is, though he makes sure he gets to know most of his personal projects. Even the subjects at work he spends a little time reading up on, learning their names, figuring out who they are, even if they never know who he is. He'd prefer that to be different, but safety does occasionally have to come before science.
Then he stands, moving around the table a little bit too fast -- he bumps into a corner of it, though it barely registers -- and standing behind Iris. He never really cares about personal space even when he's sane, and right now it doesn't even really occur to him that some people would find it weird if he touched them. Something in the back of his mind points out that it makes people uncomfortable, but that's definitely not going to stop him. Not now.
His hands are a little too rough as he presses along the more common wing spots. "No pain?" he asks, careful to keep inflection in his voice. It's so tempting to drop all of that. "Generally when an angel gets their wings it's a sudden transformation, with little advance warning. Well, I had advance warning -- it happens when you turn sixteen -- but some angels don't know their own heritage, so it comes as a surprise." He prods at her shoulderblades, then just rests a hand on her shoulder. "It's...incredibly painful."
He remembers his own sixteenth. This close to it, it's still pretty hard to forget, though other experiences have paled that pain a little by now. He spent most of it in his room, curled up, adamantly refusing to drug himself through the pain because that was what angels went through. Like hell he was going to be chickenshit enough to ride it through on morphine, even if he'd made sure to get his hands on some prior, just in case.
But that's not important. What's important is her, the thinness of her bones under his hand and the unhappiness, the longing in what she's saying. The words coming out of her mouth are almost secondary to the story she's telling him otherwise.
Though some of them still catch his attention. It feels like his focus zooms in on her moreso than before, if that was possible. "Felt another's Calling?" he asks, struggling for inflection for a second, and then just giving up. It doesn't matter so much now. "How is that possible?"
The only way he can think of is to be a Guardian, and this girl is clearly not angelic, despite what she wants to be.
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It's cold. Cold like angel, but moreover like lancing, stabbing shock, her nerves sensitised from hyperfocus and whatever part of this isn't purely wanting, isn't just her thinking herself into a delirious state of need.
"Yes, it--" She winces through the words, a clear break in her voice. "It hurts. It hurts where you touch." She takes a deep breath, tries to gather herself, because that's not quite what she means, and she wants to be accurate. "Not... not quite pain. But...." She fumbles for the word, in all her spinning. Too much, breaking down, it's-- "Overload. I feel overloaded. My shoulder blades, there's-- too much pressure."
She's so close to crying let them out, so close to just... crying. He can take a knife to her if he has to. Just hearing about how it feels for an angel, what it's like to have wings come in, and the touching. It's pressure from both sides. Her skin's going to start tearing, any moment now.
Stand back, she almost says, she's so convinced.
But it passes, dulls to a throb, unpleasant but not unbearable. He's taken his hands away, and part of her wishes he hadn't, in case one more moment would have pushed her all the way.
"I, yes," she says, when he finally asks her about the Calling. Her embarrassment's all but receded; she can only feel so much at once. If she's stammering, now, the adrenaline's got a different origin, her mind choked with almost from the buzzing-bright nerves. "I can... it's part of being an alchemist. I feel the energy of things, and people too, and I can kind of connect sometimes... I was, I was teaching an angel to do alchemy. AndIguessIsortofwantedtoknowwhatitwasliketobeher," okay, maybe she's got room for a little more embarrassment in there, "and, well. It was like I was her, for a little while, 'cause that's what it does, and... I felt."
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The way her words break down makes him move, pull his chair around so he's sitting in front of her, leaning in close. This sort of breakdown, her laying everything about herself open like this...it's almost hard to think. The air around them feels heady, though the Chicago wind that he's still not used to still makes it hard to breathe. Possibly that's also the cigarette, though that's left burning in the ashtray, forgotten, at this point.
He reaches out again, this time gently tucking a finger under her chin, forcing her face upward. It's a familiar, almost instinctual gesture for him; it's what he always does to Lily. But he needs to see Iris's face now, to read it.
"You're not one of us," he says, almost apologetically. "If you were, it wouldn't be gradual. You wouldn't be able to function, right now, with the pain. If you truly were to get your wings today. I would offer to show you, but it's nothing I care to relive."
But he's not going to leave her hanging, as much as he'll feast on any reaction that statement gets out of her. No, he's pretty sure he knows how to hook her, and oh god does he want to keep it make sure she stays around. After all this, how couldn't he? Even if he didn't know he needed to reset, even if he wasn't seeing how far he could push himself, he would want to pursue this.
"But if we were to figure out a way for you to feel it..." he trails off, letting go of her face, an odd little smile on his lips. "If you could form that attachment, to draw on when you needed -- do you think it would be possible?" He knows he's being blatant, but then, so is she. He's sure she's not going to notice.
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So she swallows her tears when he says you're not one of us, though she can't still her shaking. It's too much to face right now. But I, she almost begins to stammer, but I felt it, so real, but she holds herself back. If she speaks, the tears will come. She just nods, like it's okay, even though it's anything but.
But then he's throwing her another lifeline, a golden shining thread of hope, and she'll be cursed if she doesn't clutch it, with everything she's got. The small still shock of it, not everything, but something, is enough to bolster her, to give her the strength to force words out of her closed-up throat.
"Yes," she says, quick as she can manage. "I'll try. I-- if you could find any way, I'm sure I could work, on my end, to make it work for me, I... you're so kind."
She shakes her head, as if disbelieving that kindness. She doesn't, not a jot. It's just one more thing to overwhelm, after how this day has gone.
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So instead of pulling her to him, he gives her a wider version of the smile already on his face. "I'm sure we could figure something out, though I do think you need to be as informed as possible before you follow through," he says. "Decisions like that -- what you'd essentially be doing is linking yourself to someone else, like a Guardian is linked to their ward. And some Guardians don't appreciate that link, nor do some of their wards."
He fixes her with his stare, making sure she's looking at him. "You need to be ready to make that decision."
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She wants to look like she's agreeing, like she's heeding his caution, like that's what she's nodding along with. In reality, she's just saying, yes. Give me that. If she could be anything, she'd be a Guardian, and even without the wings, well, one step at a time. Not that she doesn't want it all, doesn't need to slake the burn, but if one step at a time's how it goes, then that's what she'll take.
But now that that's settled, she supposes she'll honour the formalities. "It's-- I'd want it, I know I would," she says. "I've thought about it, ever since. Ever since that time. Actually, before. When I heard she was a Guardian, the-- the person I mentioned," she doesn't know why she's eliding her name, save it's one less thing to catch in her throat, "it seemed so right to me. So I think I'm ready, I really am. I'd protect my ward, with everything I've got. But if there's something you want to do, or tell me, to make sure, I don't know." She's looking at him, yes. "I'll read anything you want. I'll accept any test. Just say the word."
And do it fast, her eyes plead, but she's not breaking. Not right now. There's enough hope in her now to hold out, just a little bit longer.
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He forces himself to lean back, to let go of her face. Instead, he reaches over, across the table where his coffee is sitting cold and grabs the cigarette out of the ashtray, flicking the long ash off it. It's hard to keep the cigarette between his fingers; he can barely feel it, and he nearly drops it once before sucking in the last bits of nicotine in it. He needs to let his wings out, or he's going to lose feeling in his hands sooner rather than later. He doesn't want to think about that.
The drag lets him finally look away from Iris's face, though he wants to watch it forever. "You're being rash," he says, softly, putting the cigarette down. He reaches for the pack, to get another one, while at the same time putting a finger to her lips to stay any protest. "I know this is what you want; I can see it in everything you're doing. I don't disbelieve that."
A moment to light up another cigarette, watching her from behind the hair in his face. He's looked back at her need and now he's unable to look away again. "But I do believe that you don't know what you're getting yourself into," he says once he's done getting as much tar into his lungs as he possibly can. "I don't want to let you do something you'll regret, no matter how much you deny that now. So we'll take it slow. I'll give you the information I have now, we'll figure out logistics..."
He trails off, brushing the hair out of his face and shrugging, like it's no big deal. It's difficult to look that nonchalant, however, when the shrug turns into another shoulder-stretch. Tthough really, it's more like shoulder-contortions, at this point. He'd like the tingling to go away.
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There are a few tears making their way down her face, now, just from the effort of holding back. She'll be okay, she'll do what he says, but every little blow to her heart now is a jolt against bruised tissue. Everything hurts. She just has to hold tight and go along with it, but she can't help if the rawness shows on the surface, if her lips tremble against the finger pressed to them.
"I know it's for the best," she manages to whisper, eventually, as his words trail away. She can't manage anything more than a whisper without cracking completely, but she can squeeze that out, at least.
She'll take the information. She'll sleep on it, think on it, wait for him to contact her. "...You can contact me any time," she can't help but insist. "The journal is fine, or... whatever." She doesn't really know how else they'd stay in touch. "Or come over."
She pulls out a pen and paper, tries to write down her room number, but her hands are shaking too much to manage it. As she watches herself shake, it's starting to kick in just how much of a mess she's been in front of him, and colour floods her cheeks. "...I'm sorry, I...." She pushes the paper across to him, and tells him verbally instead. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have-- I, just thank you so much for helping me when I'm all like-- just, really sorry."
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he brushes the tears off her face. Too familiar, but he doesn't catch himself in time and she probably won't care anyway. After all, she's the one inviting him to her home, instead of vice versa. "You've nothing to be sorry about," he tells her. "I'll--here." He stands up, abruptly, reaching over to grab the pile of papers he's photocopied and printed from various sources. He hadn't been expecting this meeting to be so...tactile, volatile. So right. His hands are shaking nearly as much as hers, though for different reasons, when he gives her the stack.
"Take these. Read them over. It's the basic info that I could find without talking to anyone back home, on short notice." He fidgets for a moment, standing over her, unsure what to do with this hands; he runs them through his hair, picks up the cigarette again, anything to keep himself from hugging his shoulders or touching her again. "You can keep them. And I'll be in touch, don't worry."
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Besides, he's an angel, and what are angels for if not to make the world a more connected place, to bring comfort where most would turn away, to stand together where most would pursue their own needs? That's what she hopes to do as one, in any case. Is he being too nice for a human? Yes, but he isn't one. Case closed. Matter settled. It's fine, Kaden. It's all just fine.
It's only because the atmosphere, in general, could be cut with a knife that she thinks nothing of his shaking, as she stands and takes the papers from him with a bow of gratitude. It's deep, deeper than she'd normally give, but he's an angel and this is a Moment and she's nowhere else to put her thanks, nothing else into which she can pour all the complex emotions she feels right now. Nowhere else for her breaking, her hoping, her longing to go.
"Thank you," she says, and she'd almost say she's sorry again but he's told her not to, and she was paying attention. Yes, this one listens, Kaden. She'll listen to you, more than she rightfully should. "Thank you. I... if you need anything." She lets that sentence hang unfinished. "You've done so much for me."
And then there's nothing more she can say. She's poured out all her desperation; he's told her he sees it plain as day. There's nothing more to do, nothing to apologise for.
So she bows again and takes a few steps backwards, making sure to respect him by not turning as she leaves.
"I'll see you around."
You most certainly will, Kaden. You most certainly will.
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