Lora's Birthday 2019: Claudius & Eibhlin
roguedemon asked for Claudius & Eibhlin.
This is more stuff I had on my hard drive but never posted. Which is BAFFLING because it cracks me the heck up.
1. Claudius the bun daddy
When Claudius at eight years old pictured himself in twenty-some years - well, first of all he couldn’t think that far ahead, but never mind - he’d imagined himself with the Village, the house, and Lyme, all in a confusing mess of sparring and sword fighting and possibly decapitating all the people who were ever mean to him. That part had been fuzzy, since Claudius hadn’t gone much further than winning the Games, but the basic parts were there. Him, Lyme, swords, winning, being awesome, there we go.
He hadn’t thought much about making salads for him and a finicky Victor from Three, that’s for sure, but Claudius doesn’t mind that too much. He’d be making himself food anyway, and Eibhlin eats so little compared to him that he doesn’t need to add too much more to compensate for her portion. That is, not until she catches him sitting on the couch feeding one of the rabbits from his fork, and then demands to know whether her precious babies like his salad and if he could make more to include the whole family.
Yeah. That’s the part he couldn’t have predicted if someone put a knife to his throat. Eight year old Claudius hadn’t cared about the possibility of having a girlfriend later but he hadn’t ruled it out, exactly, never say never or anything like that. He had not, for sure, imagined owning a pet, definitely not multiple ones, and most certainly not a pile of fuzzy sniffing things whose feelings overrode every priority in the universe.
“If they enjoy the salad, I fail to see why we should not make an effort to accommodate their preferences,” Eibhlin said, holding one of them up to her face and twitching its little ears with her fingers.
Claudius sighed. “Sure,” he’d said, giving up, because nobody could argue with Eibhlin when she made her eyes go all big and tragic like that. Yeah, she’d won her Games with a handful of deliberate murders and stuck a taser in his side to remind him of that fact, but forget trying to bring that up when she wanted to play on his sympathies.
Making more salad is not that big a deal, really, though the little bastards could be a bit more grateful for it. Even when sharing bites of his own, the rabbits usually tore the lettuce out of his fingers and munched on it while turning their backs on him, ungrateful fluff-balls. It’s like they knew he’d killed small animals like them enough not to like him, but not enough to realize he could do it again and thus show him a modicum of rabbity respect.
They could at least not hop into his lap just to take a shit after eating the salad he made, though. Would that be too much to ask?
“Oh, Daddy is grumpy because the babies aren’t giving him enough thanks for their tasty tasty salad,” Eibhlin says once, cooing and nuzzling the offending thing’s soft fur.
“I’m just saying, I put a lot of work into those salads - hey now!” Claudius stops, rearing back. “Since when am I ‘Daddy’? Shouldn’t that be Beetee?”
“Of course not,” Eibhlin says, frowning at Claudius like he’d just tried to tell her that the most abundant gas on the planet was methane. “Beetee doesn’t take care of them, you do. Therefore, you are the bun daddy.”
“Bun daddy,” Claudius repeats in horror. It doesn’t sound any better when he says it.
“Yes,” Eibhlin says, brightening, and she kisses the rabbit between the ears. “Claudius the Bun Daddy. I think it has quite the ring to it.”
“Bun Daddy,” Claudius complains. “I mean, what is that even? I had so many better nicknames in Residential, never mind after the Arena. I’d take a renewal of ‘Claudius the Baby-Killer’ over this. I’ve killed too many people to have a nickname like that - oh no.”
Misha is not, as Claudius had hoped in a fit of insanity, looking at him with sympathy. Instead she wears a grin fit for a five year old on Parcel Day, growing and growing until he swears her whole head is going to unzip and split in half.
“Bun Daddy,” she says dreamily, resting her chin on her hands and letting out a girlish sigh. “Claudius, do you hear that? That’s the sound of angels coming down from heaven to reward me for being such a good girl. Bun Daddy.”
“No,” Claudius snaps. “No, this is not a thing. I came to you for support, okay, I thought you would help me feel better.”
“Oh, Bun Daddy,” Misha says, and suddenly her smile snaps back, sharp and wicked and predatory. He would prefer the sighing and staring into space over this. Claudius knows what this means. “Your mistakes are not my fault.”
The pillow shows up the next week despite Claudius’ best efforts at vigilance. He’s known his Victor-sister long enough to recognize the danger of retaliatory embroidery, but he can’t exactly hole up inside and refuse to come out forever. Finally he has to leave, and sure enough it’s there on his front porch when he comes back from his trip out to the lake with Eibhlin.
Claudius makes a lunge for it but too late, Eibhlin has seen it, and she demands to have a look. For a second Claudius wonders if he could successfully eat the pillow and claim it was some kind of giant confectionary, but Eibhlin has her hands on her hips and her taser face on and he doesn’t actually want to be there when all that cotton and fabric comes out the other side, so he gives up and hands it over.
It’s lavender. Of course it is. It’s lavender and covered with rabbits who, for reasons Claudius cannot understand and is not going to waste the brain cells trying, are wearing sun glasses and top hats. The fateful phrase is stitched across the bottom in loopy pink cursive.
“Oh!” says Eibhlin, startled and pleased. “Artemisia is so thoughtful sometimes! I will have to give her something in exchange. Do you have any ideas?”
“Oh I have ideas,” Claudius says darkly. “So, so many ideas.”
“Let’s go inside and find a place to put it,” Eibhlin says, tugging him inside. Claudius flings one last glare over his shoulder in case Misha is sitting up in a tree or something, but it’s too late now.
“Okay what,” Selene says in a perfect match of Misha’s ‘is it my birthday’ tone the next time she visits, “is this?”
It’s been months since Misha finally stopped calling him ‘Bun Daddy’ to his face, and he’d all but forgotten. Except that Selene had been away doing her thing in the districts while it all went down, and Claudius was not going to mention that in his regular letters. By the time she made it back to Two for a visit, he’d almost forgotten.
Almost.
She’s holding up the pillow, of course she is. No matter where Claudius tries to stash the stupid thing it always ends up back on his couch, proudly displayed for everyone and their grandmentors to gawk and giggle at. Nobody says a word when Eibhlin is there other than to comment on its tasteful appropriateness, but that’s almost worse.
Claudius groans. “Okay, what do you want,” he sighs. “I will steal one of Lyme’s best bourbons for you if you will just put that back and not ask. I will convince Devon to give you a foot rub, they’re amazing and apparently capable of confusing people’s sexualities.”
“Oh no,” Selene says, grinning toothily. “I want to hear about this.”
“And I want some respect, but you don’t hear me bitching,” Claudius grouses, but Selene only starts giggling.
By the time he finishes the story Claudius flings up his hands, because Selene has collapsed onto the couch in a pile of hysterics. “Yeah, go ahead,” he says. “Laugh it up, that’s right. I don’t have feelings or anything, I’m just here for your amusement.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Selene gasps out, fumbling in her pocket for her phone. “I’m calling Dash. And Marius. And my parents. And -“
Claudius leans back and stares up at the ceiling, resigned, as Selene positions the pillow in his lap and takes a picture. “I dream of the days when people feared me,” Claudius says. “I swear they used to. I looked at people and they burst into tears and held their children away from me. It was a magical time.”
Selene only laughs harder, and Claudius waits for his phone to start buzzing.
It doesn’t take long. He only refrains from throwing it in the lake because it took the new government a lot of effort to get the towers back up and running, and it feels disrespectful to hardworking people to disregard their endeavours like that.
“Okay, okay, I’m done,” Selene says finally, voice hoarse from laughing. “No more making fun of Claudius the Bun Daddy - wait, no, I’m not done, it’s going to be funny forever.”
Claudius growls and drags her up off the couch, hauling her out to the yard by the arm. “We’re sparring until you can look at me without giggling.”
“We’re going to be sparring an awfully long time,” Selene warns him cheekily, impervious to Claudius’ best glare.
He gives up in the end, because it’s either that or fight until their limbs fall off. “It’s okay,” Selene says, flopping half on top of him with her head on his chest. “This doesn’t change how I feel about you. You’re still my mentor.” She snickers, makes a game effort to turn it into a cough, then nearly chokes on it. “I’ll just have to get over sharing you with so many others.”
“I’m going to kill Misha,” Claudius says evenly. “I’m going to kill her so hard I actually go back in time and stop her grandparents from being born. That’s the only way to make this end.”
“You could get rid of the pillow,” Selene says, poking him in the ribs. “But you won’t, because Eibhlin likes it, and you don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
Claudius grunts. “You’ve gotten mouthy during your time away,” he says. “I think we need to do something about that.”
“Whatever you say, Mentor Bun Daddy,” Selene says in a faux-innocent voice fit for a girl from One, and Claudius lets out a gusty sigh.
I thought you were better than this, Claudius texts Marius in response to the older man’s reaction. Marius’ answer to that is an audio message that’s pretty much an entire minute of laughter, though it’s the automatic voice-to-text transcription of ‘HA HA HA HA HA HA HA’ filling the entire phone screen that makes it. Well, at least it got him to stop doing paperwork for an hour.
Eventually the teasing tapers off and the pillow disappears to the corner of the couch along with the cat cushion that Marius sent him as a fake-boyfriend joke. (Claudius’ life is … very weird, really.) Eibhlin clues in that the others using the nickname for Claudius had been less about their admiration and more about the colour his face turned, and she launches into an excoriating tirade about not mocking a good man for his sensitive side. Claudius isn’t sure whether to be grateful or start digging himself a hole to the centre of the earth, but either way, after that even Misha stops giggling.
“Really,” Eibhlin huffs that night, brushing her teeth with a vengeance. “Thinking there’s anything funny about a man who’s kind to animals. What is wrong with your district, anyway?”
“We’re assholes,” Claudius says, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “You’re too good for the likes of us.”
“Hmph.” Eibhlin sniffs before bending to spit delicately in the sink. “Well, regardless of their egregious attitude, I think it’s sweet.”
Claudius laughs. His eight-year-old self wouldn’t have predicted any of this, either, but that’s all right. “I’m glad,” he says. “As long as I have you to defend my honour, I guess it’s fine.”
“I should hope so,” Eibhlin says icily, and he grins.
2. Claudius, Eibhlin & the northern lights
Claudius’ phone buzzes in the middle of the night, rattling against the wooden bedside table. Claudius reaches out an arm and slaps at it, cursing under his breath; it’s been a long time since he’s had to snap awake in an instant, and they say Careers never lose their instincts but apparently some of them can get rusty. If Eibhlin twitches or mutters in her sleep then Claudius is up and soothing her before his brain even kicks in, but the stupid phone keeps buzzing and his hands can’t find the stupid screen and now Eibhlin is making protesting noises and poking him in the ribs.
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” Claudius says, heaving himself up into a seated position. He’s too tired to look at the caller display, but if anything was on fire then people would be pounding on his door, not calling. “What?” he says in a flat voice, biting back a yawn. If it’s Lyme she’ll forgive him; if it’s Selene she’ll laugh. If it’s anyone else they can fucking deal.
“You kiss your mentor with that mouth?” Brutus says, and oh okay, apparently three in the morning is time for the Village’s most serious resident to turn into a comedian. “Listen, bundle the bug up and take her outside right now.”
“What?” Claudius says again, baffled this time. He lifts the phone away and stares blearily at the time, then peers out the window. Frost rims the corner of the glass. “It’s freezing out there! It’s also super dark!”
“Yeah, kid, it is, that’s the whole damn point,” Brutus says. “Now go outside, you’ll see when you get there.”
The phone clicks, and Claudius stares at the screen in incomprehension as Eibhlin pulls herself up onto her elbows. “Is something wrong?” she asks.
“I don’t think so.” Claudius sighs and peels back the covers, ignoring Eibhlin’s squawk of betrayal. “Brutus says I’m supposed to take you outside. He said we’d know why but he won’t tell me, guess it’s a surprise.”
Like a switch, Eibhlin sits up, reaches for her glasses and situates them precisely on her face. “You should have said so,” she says, scooting past him and rifling on the floor for her slippers before standing. “Brutus is not one to engage in frivolous conversation, and he does not lower himself to something so immature as prank calls.”
“Not unless you’re Lyme,” Claudius says. “Dress warm, it’s going to be cold as hell out there.” He grabs himself a change of clothes and one of Lyme’s sweaters, then leaves and closes the door behind him for Eibhlin to change, clomping down the stairs loudly so she’ll know he’s gone. It’s chilly downstairs, and Claudius hesitates for a minute before deciding he probably shouldn’t turn the fireplace on and burn the whole house down just to be dramatic.
He’s changed and ready by the time Eibhlin slips downstairs, and he helps her into the giant marshmallow parka and helps her tie the scarf firmly around her face before slipping into Lyme’s discarded jacket. Eibhlin tucks her hands around his arm, and Claudius stifles another yawn and steps outside. This had better be good, and not a whole fleet of anatomically correct snowmen made by Misha because she got bored.
It’s not.
“Holy shit,” Claudius says, craning his head back. The sky is a swirling, twisting mass of colours all the way from one horizon to the other, broken by the stark black peaks of the trees in silhouette. The colours stretch up, up, up like a curtain shifting in the breeze, reds and greens fading into one another in ways that don’t make sense because colours don’t blend like that with paint but they do here. It’s been a few years since Claudius has seen the lights, and a long time since they were this strong.
Eibhlin’s breath comes in short puffs, white clouds floating in the air before fading away. “It’s a coronal mass ejection,” she says, gripping his arm so tight he can feel it through the jacket.
“It’s a say what now? Isn’t that a heart attack?”
“Not coronary, coronal, like the sun,” Eibhlin says, because words are stupid and one little change in sound like that means something completely different. “A coronal mass ejection causes geomagnetic storms, which send charged particles into the atmosphere causing light emissions -“
Claudius turns to look at her, amused; the light plays off her cheekbones and the escaping wisps of her hair, reflecting off the lenses of her glasses. He lets the words wash over him, no way is he going to try to understand scientific speech at an hour when only owls and Careers in the Arena should be awake, and instead he watches, the animated hand gestures and rapt expression on her face.
Finally Eibhlin notices and stops mid-sentence. “What is it?” she asks. “Do you need me to repeat something?”
Claudius huffs a laugh and tips his head back to look at the sky. “No, I’m okay,” he says. “Here we just call them the northern lights. People used to say they were the spirits of the kids who’d died in the Games, given glory in the skies thanks to their sacrifice.”
He says it without thinking, and when Eibhlin goes still beside him Claudius swallows a curse. But the silence is meditative, not oppressive, and finally Eibhlin lets out a quiet, thoughtful sound. “There could be worse superstitions,” she says, and her voice is a little off but she’s still here, not wherever she goes when something scares him away, and he’ll take it.
“All I know is it’s pretty,” Claudius says, trying for light but not dismissive. “But you can tell me about the protons and stuff if you want.”
Eibhlin lets out a shiver that’s probably only part theatrical, and Claudius puts his arm around her and draws her in against his side. She tucks her head into the space below his shoulder and starts talking again. Claudius rests his cheek against her head, her hair cold against his skin, and this time he listens.