[ prp ] Don't go around tonight (America & Taym)

[lizbot]

It was still a ******** circus when she'd finally gotten outside, blood on her face dried and forgotten, fresh bandages around one shoulder and peeking through the rips of a bloodied tanktop that should be thrown out the next day but wont. America knew that any number of the others would give her a ride out to her trailer if asked, 'specially as the painkillers started to kick in and everything seemed a little less dire, though still tiring as ********. The walk home seemed an unimaginable distance, even as her blue boy flew above the crowd of emergency workers and then the outer ring of curious rubberneckers, the bird cheerful enough after all the violence and bloodshed.

She hadn't checked her phone yet, and didn't bother now. Hopefully Taym wouldn't mind being woken up late.

xrejam

 

[Rejam]

lizbot

It was just as well she hadn't bothered, because he'd been frantically checking but he hadn't sent any. Not all the rubberneckers were cheery.

The shock of seeing her gave way to the shock of seeing her, a bell curve of panic-relief-panic, and for a delirious moment he wished he'd brought the dog because somehow the dog would make it easier, but he--worried for her safety--had left her at the motel.

He'd picked up the susurrating crowd rumor; the noisy messy confused tangle of events: this had happened, no it was that; did you hear what they just said over the radio? It felt very much like having less information than none, and the idea was solidifed seeing her like that.

He flicked through the possibilities: mass shooting; terrorist; wild animal; berserk rage; building collapse.

Something else.

He tried to insert himself into her peripheral vision, suddenly shy of startling her.

"America."  

[lizbot]

It takes her a moment to really hear her name, to recognize the voice before she finds him standing there, but when she does, the relief she turns toward him is palpable. Her face brightens at someone both familiar and untouched by the occurances of the night and she surges toward him...

Only to stop and drop her arms awkwardly, remembering how he is, that magic is real but so are people. His personal bubble is as real as anything else and ********> and portals to other worlds don't make the rest just disappear.

Instead she kinda just waves, and asks once she's close enough, "Hey...can I stay at your place tonight?"

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[Rejam]

lizbot

"Absolutely," he said without even a pause to consider it. And despite his personal bubble he kept lifting his fingers towards the bandage on her shoulder, towards her face, toward the little loose strand of hair made dark and rigid with blood, only to pull back just before he made contact. "We'll stop at a drug store. I'll sleep on the chair," he added, lest she get the wrong idea about opportunism. And then, blurted: "And whatever you're gonna tell me--if you want to; you don't have to--I'll--listen. Really."

He'd been wanting to say believe it. The word had sat heavy in his mouth, but he hadn't been able to.

But there are other things he's not able to do. He did, finally, as he said it, touch his fingertips to her chin as if to gently push it to the side so that he could seek out the source of the blood. "Jesus," he said softly, a little shaken; the only reason he didn't ask are you OK is because he was afraid the answer might be more complicated and less final than the bandages and freedom implied.  

[lizbot]

She pushes against the touch as long as he allows for it, craving some sort of positive contact and comfort. "It's not all mine." And it's meant to be a reassuring, but it isn't, so she she tries harder on the follow-up.

"They gave me a 'scrip for some pain killers. But nothing bad enough for a ride to the hospital with..." she gestures toward the chaos they begin walking away from. And maybe this is more comforting, the could be worse is a lot worse. It nearly had been.

A moment later, there's a sudden brush of feathers at Taym's cheek as a bluejay uses his shoulder as a perch. It gives them both a look that possibly amounts to, Are we done here?

It's possible he's noticed bluejays around town more than once recently, often while in her company. It's now very possible that they had all been the same bird.

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[Rejam]

lizbot

He startled, as anyone might have--going stiff and antsing back and executing a little "get it off" flail that was startlingly graceless given his usual physical composure, although the fact that it didn't immediately dart off was enough to still him, tense and motionless.

A long second passed while he processed.

The word familiar was dangerously close to the top of his thoughts.

He tried and failed to come up with something to say, instead closing his eyes and still not moving, before, finally, he said--fleeing into the refuge of practicality: "The dog might be a problem."  

[lizbot]

She laughs then, and it's not precisely cheerful but it's enough to give her back a warning ache and keep the corners of her eyes crinkled with a smile. "I don't think he'll mind her. Faced down a lot worse, I-..." she pauses and then nods at this too. "I'll tell you about it. Once I get those meds and clean up a bit."

The bird, maybe sensing his discomfort, chooses to stay where it is as they walk to the all hours pharmacy. There is, unsurprisingly, a small line already, that will grow as they wait for her scrip to be filled. She tells him the bird's name is Mr. Bitterberry. That she couldn't save him a piece of cobbler, and adds thickly, It went to a good cause.

There's a reassurance, that's she's figured out the sight thing. That she doesn't think it'll come any more without her asking. America tells him she met a lot of nice people. She tells him that one of the cops she met with was one she already knew, that he was the fellow she'd drunk texted marriage proposals to and wasn't that a thing?

She repeats, fairly often, that it's okay now. Maybe a little more for herself than for him.

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[Rejam]

lizbot

It's somewhere here, in line, that his fingertips again seek out hers, and they linger this time, the habitual shake and coldness unbroken.

(It's selfish, but despite all the strangeness, despite the blood and the bird and the long night of quiet panic and the waiting and the uncertainty, he latches onto the fear he knows best, and he doesn't want to know what they've prescribed for her, even as some dormant-but-living part of him considers whether she'll need the whole bottle, whether he could squeak by with a couple, whether--)

He puts his hood up, for the bird. He used to have pet rats, he says, by way of explanation. He doesn't add that it stops people from looking at him; that he desperately does not want to be looked at. It feels strange and unreal and he doesn't want to think about it, as he never wants to think about anything, and so for now he doesn't, helplessly caught up in the tide of things bigger than he knows and small enough to fit into his hood against his neck.

He says it's a good name. He offers to make her, one day, grilled peaches with honey-chevre. He asks her if he should buy some gauze and disinfectant while they're waiting because he hasn't got any. And every time that she says that it's OK he says "I know" even though he doesn't, and he tightens his fingers against hers, still shying away from her if her hip ventures up against his.  

[lizbot]

She does, but he's holding her hand and it's a lifeline she doesn't want to let go of just yet, so she says she has some at the trailer. She can hold off changing them 'til tomorrow whenever. There's a huff of laughter when she says she'll need to do the sponge bath thing anyway. She has this sort of, dirty old man leer and drawl, when she tells him he'll need to get her back. There's a glint in her eye and tilt to her smile that suggests he'll be hearing it again later.

It takes a bit longer than it should but not as long as it could, when her name's finally called out. She has to let go of his hand and suddenly being under the bright lights, reflect off pristine floors and neatly lines shelves feels surreal. It has her frozen for a moment as the cashier tells her the total again and then, after a moment, asks if she's okay.

The moment breaks when another new group walks in. One of the women, in bloodied scrubs, is crying and America thinks, Most of it's not hers, isn't it?

She pays, exhaling the breath she hadn't known she was holding, and on the way out reaches for Taym's hand.

Please.

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[Rejam]

lizbot

He takes it, after a pause that goes on a little too long. He'd taken advantage of the couple of minutes she'd freed him and been dazed at the counter to pick up gauze and tape despite her assurances that it wasn't necessary (like hell, he'd thought, thinking of her desire for a bath), and the bag dangles from his fingers between them.

He's decidedly quiet for the rest of the walk besides an explanation of his temporary abandonment--it comes couched in a lecture about taking care of herself that's tinged with real irritation and concern--and a very brief statement that smoke is bad for birds, he's heard, and maybe that's an explanation too.

When they arrive there's a moment of confusion because there's no balcony in a cheap motel and Taym doesn't know if she needs it anyway and Ivy prevents him from leaving the door open, and he finally calms her ecstatic wriggling and says, awkwardly: "Do I need to--to leave the window up a little?" And then: "I think Mr. Bitterberry has shitterberry'd down the back of my neck, by the way." Which had been, in a way, comforting. That was something normal animals did, as he knew from a lifetime of unfortunate and forgiving experience.  

[lizbot]

The bird gives a quiet chortle before flying off his shoulder to inspect teh rest of the room. Much like America weeks earlier, it seemed perfectly happy to makes itself at home in his space. America huffs quietly, smiling at first the bird and then the man before crouching down to greet Ivy.

"I'm sure he's just tired." The bird doesn't seem tired at all. "He helped save someone's life to tonight, so don't hold it too much against him." Straightening, she moves to inspect the offense.

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[Rejam]

lizbot

Ivy watches the bird with a restrained interest, and it's probably as well that Taym snaps a "leave it" at her now while she's distracted, her ears going back even as she leans into America's hands.

He rolls his shoulders, shying away from her inspection, and chooses instead to address what she's just said. "If you want to talk about it," he says, moving toward the little cracked and nicotine-stained and immaculate bathroom sink to gather up soap and shampoo for her--the cheapest; he silently apologizes to her hair in the secrecy of his head, "I want to listen. But if you don't I won't hold that against you, either." He stacks a threadbare, motel-rough washcloth onto a similarly shoddy towel.

And then, full of surprises, he procures a little tub of what looks like expensive cream for cracked heels, an unspoken apology for what this soap is going to do to her skin. "Hopefully Ivy won't mind sharing," he says, gesturing to it as he drops it onto the towel with the rest. He eyes the bird sideways and it's obvious--here, alone with her, he is afraid of it.  

[lizbot]

With one last kissy face for the spaniel, America slips off the remains of her shirt, and maybe he'll be relieved to note her chest is mostly wrapped in gauze, much like her shoulder. Though the rest of her decidedly isn't, as she finished undressing and moves to sit in the tub. She doesn't start talking until the hot water's running.

"Magic is real," she starts. "And I think there's...there's different sorts. Little n'big. Me n'him," she gestured to the bird, perched on top of the vanity mirror, "...pretty sure it's the smaller sort. But what hit library tonight was the bigger sort."

There's a pause and then she repeats, gentle and firm, "Magic is real."

The smile she shoots him holds an apology.

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[Rejam]

lizbot

He's quiet for a long time. Probably he owes her more apologies than she owes him.

He's trying not to look at her, politely averting his eyes, but he looks back now and after a moment he extends his hand as if to touch the edge of her bandage. Instead he diverts, gently tips her head back and cups a handful of water to rinse the blood out of a strand of her hair. The shaking of his hands seems more pronounced than it ought to be, and maybe it's not the usual shake. There's a lot to be afraid of here, mundane and otherwise. He's scared of her, too, for all the reasons he would have been yesterday and for a whole host of new ones.

"Does this mean," he asks finally and quietly, "that it's more the perpetual winter kind than the mice with swords kind?"  

[lizbot]

"I don't know," she sighs, eyes closed as he body starts to relax against the warmth. She hadn't realized that she'd been cold, but the relief of it....

"I met a witch down by the beach," America explains. "She knew Leanne, my mom, she looks young but she knew her. She showed me magic was real and let me touch it, just a bit. She kept me safe during and has been my friend since. If anything bad happens to me," she adds, "...and it's not normal? Go try to find Sunny, down by the beach."

A quiet groan follows, but she eventually reassures him, "She's good. And I guess what happened tonight, there's a good side of that coin too. It was a...almost like a werewolf, but not a wolf. They're called moonwalkers, I guess. And one went...crazy, I suppose. They aren't supposed to be here 'round the full moon. But there were some others...a wolf one and bunny and a girl with a long fluffy tail, they helped to catch the wild ones and..."

The bluejay flies to settle on the curtain rod.

"...there's another world I guess. We put them violent ones there. Hopefully they'll be able to come to their senses eventually." She goes quiet for awhile, because maybe they won't be all too happy, to come to their senses after what had happened.

"I can see through Mr. Bitterberry's eyes. That's all. I don't change shape or open portals to other worlds or anything like that. It's not bad or scary." She wants him to understand this. That she's not under the burden of some awful curse or anything like that.

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