fridgetothefire: (what in hell)
Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400 ([personal profile] fridgetothefire) wrote2013-12-28 07:28 pm

037 ☣ Good news, bad news

[Spam for Morgana]

[She aches everywhere. The particular, awful lassitude of the deathtoll is unmistakable, like the deformed child of a hangover and a fever. She's cramped and nauseous and alone in the dark. It is, she notes distinctly, less comfortable than the coffin.

Her communicator isn't in her pocket and she can feel - a door, the dryer door, motherfucker, but she can't get it open. She gulps down shallow breaths, and tries very hard not to think about the fact that she's inside a box of metal. She needs to get over this, she needs to be calm, she needs to control herself. She counts her breaths, shallow and thin though they are, her diaphragm crushed where she's nearly bent in half. She gathers what flimsy strength she has, what leverage she can manage, her elbow wedged into her side, and slams the whole side of her forearm against the door.

She feels the thin metal flex, but the door doesn't budge. Breathe in, breath out. Fingertips along the edge, searching for the latch. She can't trip the mechanism from inside. Breathe in, breathe out. Do not focus on the parts of your body in order, do not focus on your body all all. A dissociative meditation: imagine a single object in entire, perfect detail, and think of nothing else. A ball of yarn, simple and detailed, around and around and around. She waits until she hears footsteps, then bangs the door again, weaker this time. She doesn't know how long it's been.]

Let me out. Please let me out.

[Her voice sounds - well, like death warmed over. But the words are distinct.]


[Voice, Filtered to Erik, Charles, Alex, Ben, Cassel, Lua, Jesse, Jean, Riddick, Arthas, Peter, Harvey, Zane, and Dean.]

Someone attacked me. I'm death-tolling, so I'll probably be scarce for a few days.

I accept offerings of soup, cookies, and people willing to hold my yarn while I catch up on last-minute knitting.


[Private to the Admiral, Text]

Erik – some really expensive Columbian dark coffee, and the cheesiest #1 Dad mug you can find. Some obnoxiously large tesla coils so he can watch the effects of his field manipulation. A copy of Country of My Skull.

Ben – a comprehensive anthology of Russian folk tales, illustrated in that particular Russian style. A Byzantine icon of Mary, in pristine condition. The kind with real lapis in the paint for her cloak.

Cassel – a book of knitting patterns, Crush by Richard Siken, a good translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. One with awesome creepy illustrations. There’s got to be one.

Zane – a magnetic orrery of any solar system he'd like best. Wind chimes. Does he ever miss mist? Dry ice, a way to store it, and instructions for use.

Iris – some sort of intergalactic compendium of dirty jokes. Must exist. Perhaps an edition her future self contributes to. Some strange and lovely creatures.

Riddick – some décor to remind him of his favorite planet. A history of his people, if he wants to know. Some chew-toys for Partner that resemble his most annoying enemies from back home.

Arthas – awesome horse-themed gargoyles to augment all those skulls. A spine lamp, battery powered, since I don't think his room has outlets. A small personal shrine, if he has any desire for one now that he's dead again, unconsecrated so that he may use it as he sees fit.

Charleshelix bookshelves, a framed original copy of the radio crystallography picture that helped determine the structure of DNA. A copy of Country of My Skull for him too. Some Cambrian creature figurines.

Abigaila pomegranate ring, The Devil's Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce.

Jean – something she misses from her childhood, that she wouldn’t think to ask for, a stuffed toy or a blanket or a coin collection, whatever. A locket made out of whatever synthetic material can withstand the highest temperatures, with pictures of her and scott inside. Not fire themed, or wings. Just a heart and curlicues, classic, delicate. A beginner’s manual for Vulcan meditation.

Mal – some punk clothes. The kind I saw in London with lots of spikes? Definitely some vests. A badass jacket. Artfully asymmetrical to match her hair. Extravagant boots.

Alex – amateur geology kit. Small pick, hand shovel, rock tumbler/polisher, jeweler’s glass, photographic reference guide, all of that. Maybe a few neat specimens to start wih. And one of those geode lamps with the bulb inside all the crystals.

Lua – the wedding dress of her dreams. Just so she has it, when they’re ready. And season DVDs of whatever shows she’d like best from the time period she’s planning to go to.

Jesse – worry beads for when he needs something in his hands. A stuffed penguin that tells corny jokes. A coffee table book of Natural Geographic’s best nature photos contest. A quote-of-the-day calendar, with a bent toward reminding him that he’s stronger than he thinks and he’s touched some people’s lives for the better. Actually, give that one to me first, I want to write a note in it. Prints of his favorite things he’s seen in his tenure supervising the art room.

Touko – an easily-hidden pinhole camera and basic surveillance system for her room, that only she has access to.

Harvey – an encyclopedia of comparative law. Interdimensional. A smoothie machine for when he doesn’t feel like chewing.

Hannibal – Original recordings of Dialogues of the Carmelites and Lucrezia Borgia. A first edition of The Brothers Karamazov. The body cavity cutting board.

Bush – a series of sounds of the sea – calm, stormy, with gulls near shore, and so on. Be sure to include the creak of the ship and so on. In whatever format he’d find comfortable to play, with instructions and looping capabilities. Long loops, though. Half an hour at least.

Beatrixcoiling snake earrings that don’t dangle and can’t be grabbed easily, some actual black mamba venom, stored in a clear nail polish bottle so that she can carry it around and brush it easily on anything she likes.

Peter – a good book on the pictorialists.

Dean – an archangel sword. A book on Enochian sigils. A few bottles of holy oil. A fuzzy wind-up mouse that looks like me when I was transformed. Angels in America. The complete works of Wilfred Owen. Psychoshop by Bester and Zelazny. The complete Chronicles of Amber. A original recording of Britten’s War Requiem, the version with the Russian soprano. A postcard from Felix. If you can make Arthas write Christmas lists, you can do that.

Nathan – really good maple syrup. Canadian, unless he'd prefer Maine. Warm wicking socks in amusing colors.

And, if you could please give everyone a few photographs of happy memories, for which they have no pictures. But no sex pictures. Unless they'd get a kick out of that.
warisart: (Displeased)

Audio only

[personal profile] warisart 2013-12-29 05:51 am (UTC)(link)
That is exceptionally senseless.

[Someone's voice is sharp and cold enough to cut.]
warisart: (Processing)

Audio only

[personal profile] warisart 2013-12-29 10:34 pm (UTC)(link)
[There's a long, tense pause.]

I am very angry, Anya. I will come if you like but I may not be very restful company.
warisart: (Determined)

Audio only ~~> Spam

[personal profile] warisart 2013-12-31 07:25 am (UTC)(link)





I will come now.

[And he does. And he is still angry. And he is not restful company. For all the anger he'd come here with, all of it that had built up over his lifetime - rightfully earned, if not always rightfully aimed - he generally is not one to harbor the more negative emotions, but it all manifests the same: the military in him is too strong to deny in any aspect of his carriage, his expression, his voice. How far, how relaxed he's become is more obvious at times like this.

He doesn't fidget or pace or release any kind of excess energy but it's all wound around his bones, beneath his skin and muscles; he's tense and poised, his gaze sharp and precise, and the danger he can be, was created and trained to be, is there just below the surface. Ben knocks and lets himself in when bidden, and when he sees her he scans what he can see of her to confirm that the damage has healed, to ascertain if he can what is lingering still, how she died, how bad it might still be.

But one thing is for sure, and even though she's the one that told him first, it bears repeating.
] You are safe while I'm here. [It's a statement, a fact, and a promise.] What do I need to know?
warisart: (Default)

Spam

[personal profile] warisart 2013-12-31 08:07 am (UTC)(link)

[That almost delicate, piano wire tension in him draws subtly tighter, but a long moment later he nods. This is more dangerous than he wonders if she realizes, him being here; it's hard for him to see her like this. He is not a creature of vengeance, not a hero, but he is fiercely protective - and while his self discipline is flawless, his self control is decidedly not.

He comes closer to where she is, choosing to crouch lightly on the balls of his feet before her, eyes on her face, than to sit beside her just yet. His hands clasp neatly between his knees.]

I will not ask about what happened, yet. It is not because I do not want to know. I expect others with intentions beyond staying here with you for the foreseeable future will and have asked for information repeatedly.

But I am not, at this time, among them.

warisart: (Resolve)

Spam

[personal profile] warisart 2014-01-04 06:35 am (UTC)(link)
[Normally he would be more anxious about her reach towards him for reasons that have nothing to do with her and aren't her fault; he knows he can trust her. He does. But there's programming, conditioning, to overcome too and he isn't even consciously aware of it all.

But he once scooped her up in a hallway without even hesitating, because it was necessary. This, too, is necessary in its way and so he is still while her fingers card through his hair and, when she's finished, he reaches up with one hand to touch his warm, dry fingertips to her wrist.

He's committed to staying here. Now he must stay.
]

Would a hug make you feel better, Anya?
warisart: (Listening)

Spam

[personal profile] warisart 2014-01-09 07:24 am (UTC)(link)
[He does, and he also knows that he is habitually extremely careful. His hand he leaves where it is while he, in turn, considers.

He remembers, too, the infirmary on that other Barge, the infirmary on this Barge, his cabin and makeshift bandages in bloody tatters and bargaining with her to take his medication; this very windowseat, he trying desperately to find the solid foundation of trust he'd built his side of their relationship on, she trying desperately to show him what it looked like from the other side.

It's still not something he, exactly, takes comfort in; but this, like the hallway, like those other times, is about Anya. At last he nods and, straightening, seats himself directly beside where she is and replies in heat-lined earnest.
]

I can manage a careful one.
warisart: (Lost in Thought)

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[personal profile] warisart 2014-01-10 09:04 am (UTC)(link)
[He doesn't feel brave. He feels angry and inadequate, confused and at a loss. He feels small.

But Anya is trusting against the stiffness of his frame, and he can hear the love in her voice. He knows, without doubt, that the arm he rests around her shoulders and back is strong enough, anyway, to keep away any threats that might appear now. And he knows that she knows he does not feel brave - and that maybe that is the very thing that makes her think he is.
]

I'm sorry I wasn't there. [He doesn't bother carrying guilt for the things he knows he could not have changed; he could not, of course, have known and doesn't blame himself for that. But she doesn't have to tell him that whatever happened, it was bad. She is not afraid of dying. It's whatever comes before that - it's whatever it was slow means. And he can be sorry for that.]
warisart: (Just a Boy)

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[personal profile] warisart 2014-01-17 03:26 am (UTC)(link)
Yes.

[And it does. His anger, his frustration will remain until it has tapered off at some unknowable point, unless it is incited again; but the unsteady part of him that fears what will happen when he is no longer adequate, the part that always will because he lived with it for far too long as a defining fear, is in fact satisfied by her faith in him.

He breathes in, slow and trembling ever so faintly, and steadies with the exhale. His grip on her tightens subtly, not enough to be painful, but more confident, more protective. It's enough. He's here, and he will stay.
]