Ilad, Jean-Paul
Patience is a lesson I learned long ago and a lesson I must teach myself anew, it seems, with fair continuity. It is a good time of year for the reminder, in the autumn, with the new year rearing up around the corner. The leaves are still green in Washington, and yet.
It is time for the harvest, for the wheat and grain to come out of the earth. Time to reap what you have sown, whatever it may be. Thinking on what I have planted in this past year, it is the first time in a long time that I do not fear to contemplate what may grow.
It is not only action, in pursuit of a worthy goal and powered by forward momentum. It is not only friendship, given as earned. It is not only love, fragrant and sweet in its new blossom.
Perhaps it is faith. I begin to feel its shadow again, from time to time. That perhaps I do not strive in vain. That perhaps whatever plan my maker has for me, I might ... trust to it, and walk a field in flower and not barren and sown with only ashes and dust.
I do not know. I do know that now, I can turn my eyes ahead.
The grapevines will yield their fruit come Sukkot. I hope to toast with a sweeter wine this year.
I might have a letter to write.
Jean-Paul sits alone at the hotel bar with a beer in hand and a distant expression. His nourishment is entirely liquid; leaves the bar menu to other people who might wander into the scene. His table is to the side and to the back, with his chair chosen so that he has a glimpse of the room and its exits. He is not particularly wary or watchful, but this is the position he has defaulted to regardless. He is wearing his government uniform, although it is wrinkled post-flight and his tie has been loosened. His laptop, closed, sits nearby.
As he enters the bar, Ilad is similarly attired, except that his tie has apparently absconded altogether. He surveys the hotel bar with a faintly abstracted look that resolves to more focus as the drag of his gaze pauses on Jean-Paul's table. He pauses at the bar and exchanges a murmured conversation with the bartender, involving mostly gestures and few words; then, a beer obtained in his own hand and the promise of a later sandwich, he heads toward Jean-Paul's table to greet him.
Distraction not so great that he fails to notice Ilad, Jean-Paul tracks him with a glance and greets him with a word: "Ilad." A bruise -- training, tree -- shows on his jaw. It is relatively fresh. It could be worse. He's talking to people like that. What must /they/ think?
"Jean-Paul," Ilad says. He takes a chair at his table and folds himself down into it, framing his beer bottle between his hands, rather than await a more specific invitation. "Evening." He tips two fingers across towards Jean-Paul's face and says, "Someone swinging too high in training, hm?"
"Tree branch," Jean-Paul says with a pre-rehearsed ease and a slide of his hand across the table. Whoosh. "You got back from--." He trails off, not quite sure.
"Ah." Ilad cocks an eyebrow at him, but does not comment on the evidence of the branch thwack otherwise. "Chicago. Brandt and I." He picks up his bottle to take his first sip from its mouth, glancing across the bar and then back to his table companion. "You?"
"Miami with Alden," Jean-Paul says with a slightly ironic arch of his eyebrows at Ilad like what, you didn't know that?
"Oh, yes," Ilad says, wiggling his fingers in a vague acknowledging gesture away from the bottle. His other eyebrow goes up in answer. "Florida. Were you two, ah--?" He doesn't quite ask if they tried to kill each other; instead, he says: "How did that go?"
Eyebrows falling back into a mild reserve, Jean-Paul says, "It went fine. Hard to know what is important of what we learned right now. I imagine it will make more sense when we have more of the picture."
Ilad inclines his head in acknowledgment, and sips from his beer bottle again. "Indeed," he agrees, accented voice exhaled low and quiet. "Patience, now. Mr. Brandt and I had occasion to discuss its value earlier."
"Oh?" Jean-Paul asks. He is minimal in his prompt to continue.
Ilad waves his fingers in a vague gesture before settling them back against the glass to cool. "There are times when I have wished for action of any type," he says, "any kind." Rue tucked into the twitch of his mouth as he glances back at Jean-Paul, dark eyes thoughtful, he says, "Perhaps you know the times. I feel as though I ought to eat those wishes now."
Jean-Paul's lips twitch without reaching a full smile. "I grew out of that," he says. He is not quite condescending. That would take too much effort. "I found outlets for my restlessness. No wishes to eat here. It's not so bad yet, anyway. No one has shot at any of us and the only dead body seems like a bad guy."
"So far." Ilad tips his head but slightly, the barest hint of humor in the gleam of his eyes. "Grew out, did you? Perhaps I might benefit from the wisdom of your experience, my friend," he says, drumming two fingertips along the neck of the bottle. He falls silent for long enough for the bar waiter to drop off his grilled BLT. Since it is already cut in half on the plate with two toothpicks sticking out of it, as the waiter disappears again he slides it toward the middle of the table in case Jean-Paul wants some.
Lifting two fingers from his bottle of beer, Jean-Paul no-thankses the silent offer. "I would have thought you had every reason to reach the same conclusion already."
Ilad pulls the sandwich plate back to his side and pulls out one of the toothpicks, fiddling with it for a moment before he lifts the first half of a sandwich. "You would think," he says. "Oh, and there are times when I have the wisdom to enjoy the calm between. It is just that then there are the other times."
"You find ways to fill the calm," Jean-Paul says, a bit dry. "Even in the calm, there is work. Christ, Ilad. You're not happy unless you're getting shot at? Go find someplace with guns."
"No," Ilad says, lifting his hands away from the sandwich and beer in a gesture of surrender, "no. I am happy enough not to be shot. I swear to you."
"Mm." Jean-Paul sounds a little skeptical, but subsides to drink his beer. He glances at Ilad's sandwich. "You eat a lot of bacon."
"Habit," Ilad answers peaceably, also looking down at his sandwich. He picks it up to take a bite. After he swallows, he expands, "Never got a lot of it at home."
"Uh huh." Jean-Paul twitchy-fingers toward Ilad's sandwich to pinch a bit of bacon off of the half he has not started on yet. "I'll buy you some for Hanukkah."
Ilad's eyebrows quirk together. Not that he is going to object to Jean-Paul taking what he has already offered, but why--...? Oh, well. "Thank you," he says with dignity. After a beat, he adds, "I will ... probably give you more chocolate gelt."
Look. Bacon is delicious. Sometimes you say no and you sit there and someone eats a crunchy bite and you just - you have to steal a little. Because it is bacon. "Thank you," Jean-Paul says with equal dignity.
"You're welcome," Ilad says. He takes another bite of sandwich, and chews contemplatively as he sets it down again, chasing the bite with a swallow from his beer bottle. "Hanukkah is far away, of course. It is the new year first, and soon. Time for renewal, and atonement, and all that." He sets the beer bottle down, sliding his thumb down its neck.
His attention caught, Jean-Paul gives Ilad a longer look. His eyelashes fall, veiling his glance. "Yeah? How so?"
"The new year, may it be sweeter than the old one," Ilad answers. "Our high holy days, you know." He picks up his bacon sandwich half and turns it over in his fingertips. "Time to repent our sins and fast and pray. Not today, happily. I may guiltlessly eat this bacon." He does so.
"What's the tradition of renewal? Anything particular, or just -- new year, new slate to fuck up?" Jean-Paul asks.
"Essentially it comes down to that, I think," Ilad says, "though we are not far from the harvest festival, which is also an embrace of new over old." He rubs his knuckles along his jaw, thoughtful as they dip through the neat scruff at his chin. "It is traditional to reflect on your behavior and to renew yourself as you bring in the new year, in time to cleanse yourself of your sins and -- so on, and so forth." He finishes off his first sandwich half in a couple more bites and then rubs his hands loosely together over his plate, shedding some crumbs. "And to eat apples and honey together, to make your new year sweet."
Jean-Paul smiles, then, faint, as he glances away and across the bar. "Apples and honey," he says, and then finishes off his beer with a slight grimace. It's funny because beer is bitter.
"I admit," Ilad says, picking up his own beer bottle beneath the slight arch of his eyebrows, "I cannot say whether it sweetens the year any."
"It's a nice tradition, anyway," Jean-Paul says as he sets the bottle down on the table.
"Perhaps I will bring you some," Ilad answers lightly, his head canted in a brie inclination as he lifts his bottle to his mouth for a much longer swallow. "Less likely to burn you than latkes."
Jean-Paul gives Ilad a brief smile, but his only response is farewell as he pushes to his feet: "I'm going to get some sleep before someone else gets in and steals a bed. Talk to you later, Ilad. Enjoy your bacon." And don't forget Alden's steak.
"Sleep well, Jean-Paul," Ilad answers, picking up his second half-sandwich and plucking out the toothpick with an answering, if slight, smile. "Chalomot ne'imim." He has to do this on purpose.
Jean-Paul mutters, "Goddamnit," and tries and fails to repeat that under his breath so he can remember it until he can google it. Good night, Ilad.
I am being defamed.
It is time for the harvest, for the wheat and grain to come out of the earth. Time to reap what you have sown, whatever it may be. Thinking on what I have planted in this past year, it is the first time in a long time that I do not fear to contemplate what may grow.
It is not only action, in pursuit of a worthy goal and powered by forward momentum. It is not only friendship, given as earned. It is not only love, fragrant and sweet in its new blossom.
Perhaps it is faith. I begin to feel its shadow again, from time to time. That perhaps I do not strive in vain. That perhaps whatever plan my maker has for me, I might ... trust to it, and walk a field in flower and not barren and sown with only ashes and dust.
I do not know. I do know that now, I can turn my eyes ahead.
The grapevines will yield their fruit come Sukkot. I hope to toast with a sweeter wine this year.
I might have a letter to write.
Jean-Paul sits alone at the hotel bar with a beer in hand and a distant expression. His nourishment is entirely liquid; leaves the bar menu to other people who might wander into the scene. His table is to the side and to the back, with his chair chosen so that he has a glimpse of the room and its exits. He is not particularly wary or watchful, but this is the position he has defaulted to regardless. He is wearing his government uniform, although it is wrinkled post-flight and his tie has been loosened. His laptop, closed, sits nearby.
As he enters the bar, Ilad is similarly attired, except that his tie has apparently absconded altogether. He surveys the hotel bar with a faintly abstracted look that resolves to more focus as the drag of his gaze pauses on Jean-Paul's table. He pauses at the bar and exchanges a murmured conversation with the bartender, involving mostly gestures and few words; then, a beer obtained in his own hand and the promise of a later sandwich, he heads toward Jean-Paul's table to greet him.
Distraction not so great that he fails to notice Ilad, Jean-Paul tracks him with a glance and greets him with a word: "Ilad." A bruise -- training, tree -- shows on his jaw. It is relatively fresh. It could be worse. He's talking to people like that. What must /they/ think?
"Jean-Paul," Ilad says. He takes a chair at his table and folds himself down into it, framing his beer bottle between his hands, rather than await a more specific invitation. "Evening." He tips two fingers across towards Jean-Paul's face and says, "Someone swinging too high in training, hm?"
"Tree branch," Jean-Paul says with a pre-rehearsed ease and a slide of his hand across the table. Whoosh. "You got back from--." He trails off, not quite sure.
"Ah." Ilad cocks an eyebrow at him, but does not comment on the evidence of the branch thwack otherwise. "Chicago. Brandt and I." He picks up his bottle to take his first sip from its mouth, glancing across the bar and then back to his table companion. "You?"
"Miami with Alden," Jean-Paul says with a slightly ironic arch of his eyebrows at Ilad like what, you didn't know that?
"Oh, yes," Ilad says, wiggling his fingers in a vague acknowledging gesture away from the bottle. His other eyebrow goes up in answer. "Florida. Were you two, ah--?" He doesn't quite ask if they tried to kill each other; instead, he says: "How did that go?"
Eyebrows falling back into a mild reserve, Jean-Paul says, "It went fine. Hard to know what is important of what we learned right now. I imagine it will make more sense when we have more of the picture."
Ilad inclines his head in acknowledgment, and sips from his beer bottle again. "Indeed," he agrees, accented voice exhaled low and quiet. "Patience, now. Mr. Brandt and I had occasion to discuss its value earlier."
"Oh?" Jean-Paul asks. He is minimal in his prompt to continue.
Ilad waves his fingers in a vague gesture before settling them back against the glass to cool. "There are times when I have wished for action of any type," he says, "any kind." Rue tucked into the twitch of his mouth as he glances back at Jean-Paul, dark eyes thoughtful, he says, "Perhaps you know the times. I feel as though I ought to eat those wishes now."
Jean-Paul's lips twitch without reaching a full smile. "I grew out of that," he says. He is not quite condescending. That would take too much effort. "I found outlets for my restlessness. No wishes to eat here. It's not so bad yet, anyway. No one has shot at any of us and the only dead body seems like a bad guy."
"So far." Ilad tips his head but slightly, the barest hint of humor in the gleam of his eyes. "Grew out, did you? Perhaps I might benefit from the wisdom of your experience, my friend," he says, drumming two fingertips along the neck of the bottle. He falls silent for long enough for the bar waiter to drop off his grilled BLT. Since it is already cut in half on the plate with two toothpicks sticking out of it, as the waiter disappears again he slides it toward the middle of the table in case Jean-Paul wants some.
Lifting two fingers from his bottle of beer, Jean-Paul no-thankses the silent offer. "I would have thought you had every reason to reach the same conclusion already."
Ilad pulls the sandwich plate back to his side and pulls out one of the toothpicks, fiddling with it for a moment before he lifts the first half of a sandwich. "You would think," he says. "Oh, and there are times when I have the wisdom to enjoy the calm between. It is just that then there are the other times."
"You find ways to fill the calm," Jean-Paul says, a bit dry. "Even in the calm, there is work. Christ, Ilad. You're not happy unless you're getting shot at? Go find someplace with guns."
"No," Ilad says, lifting his hands away from the sandwich and beer in a gesture of surrender, "no. I am happy enough not to be shot. I swear to you."
"Mm." Jean-Paul sounds a little skeptical, but subsides to drink his beer. He glances at Ilad's sandwich. "You eat a lot of bacon."
"Habit," Ilad answers peaceably, also looking down at his sandwich. He picks it up to take a bite. After he swallows, he expands, "Never got a lot of it at home."
"Uh huh." Jean-Paul twitchy-fingers toward Ilad's sandwich to pinch a bit of bacon off of the half he has not started on yet. "I'll buy you some for Hanukkah."
Ilad's eyebrows quirk together. Not that he is going to object to Jean-Paul taking what he has already offered, but why--...? Oh, well. "Thank you," he says with dignity. After a beat, he adds, "I will ... probably give you more chocolate gelt."
Look. Bacon is delicious. Sometimes you say no and you sit there and someone eats a crunchy bite and you just - you have to steal a little. Because it is bacon. "Thank you," Jean-Paul says with equal dignity.
"You're welcome," Ilad says. He takes another bite of sandwich, and chews contemplatively as he sets it down again, chasing the bite with a swallow from his beer bottle. "Hanukkah is far away, of course. It is the new year first, and soon. Time for renewal, and atonement, and all that." He sets the beer bottle down, sliding his thumb down its neck.
His attention caught, Jean-Paul gives Ilad a longer look. His eyelashes fall, veiling his glance. "Yeah? How so?"
"The new year, may it be sweeter than the old one," Ilad answers. "Our high holy days, you know." He picks up his bacon sandwich half and turns it over in his fingertips. "Time to repent our sins and fast and pray. Not today, happily. I may guiltlessly eat this bacon." He does so.
"What's the tradition of renewal? Anything particular, or just -- new year, new slate to fuck up?" Jean-Paul asks.
"Essentially it comes down to that, I think," Ilad says, "though we are not far from the harvest festival, which is also an embrace of new over old." He rubs his knuckles along his jaw, thoughtful as they dip through the neat scruff at his chin. "It is traditional to reflect on your behavior and to renew yourself as you bring in the new year, in time to cleanse yourself of your sins and -- so on, and so forth." He finishes off his first sandwich half in a couple more bites and then rubs his hands loosely together over his plate, shedding some crumbs. "And to eat apples and honey together, to make your new year sweet."
Jean-Paul smiles, then, faint, as he glances away and across the bar. "Apples and honey," he says, and then finishes off his beer with a slight grimace. It's funny because beer is bitter.
"I admit," Ilad says, picking up his own beer bottle beneath the slight arch of his eyebrows, "I cannot say whether it sweetens the year any."
"It's a nice tradition, anyway," Jean-Paul says as he sets the bottle down on the table.
"Perhaps I will bring you some," Ilad answers lightly, his head canted in a brie inclination as he lifts his bottle to his mouth for a much longer swallow. "Less likely to burn you than latkes."
Jean-Paul gives Ilad a brief smile, but his only response is farewell as he pushes to his feet: "I'm going to get some sleep before someone else gets in and steals a bed. Talk to you later, Ilad. Enjoy your bacon." And don't forget Alden's steak.
"Sleep well, Jean-Paul," Ilad answers, picking up his second half-sandwich and plucking out the toothpick with an answering, if slight, smile. "Chalomot ne'imim." He has to do this on purpose.
Jean-Paul mutters, "Goddamnit," and tries and fails to repeat that under his breath so he can remember it until he can google it. Good night, Ilad.
I am being defamed.