Yeeah, well... [ He drawls, not in a tone that suggests sarcasm so much as mild annoyance and resignation. ] I tried to stick around home sweet cot, but with all the fucking concrete on top of it...
[ Hard to get a good night's rest.
Which is to say, yes. He's living here, as much as you can call sleeping on someone's couch living with them. He shuts the door behind Nathan and strolls right on through toward the kitchen.
Granted, the ease with which he moves around the space might suggest he's been here for a decade and he's on the lease, but that's more of a personality trait.
He opens up a cabinet door for a shelf he's amazed Kyna can actually reach. ]
At the risk of this sounding indicative of a total lack of personal growth on my part, you want a drink?
[ Which is something good hosts offer, even though this isn't his place and literally nobody wants him to do that probably. ]
[ Blue eyes track Ian like a moving target. Even knowing— what he knows, Ian's hard to get a read on.
Nathan shrugs. Which is exactly the kind of answer you'd want, for an innocuous question like do you want a drink. No pressure, Ian, trying to decipher that out. Could be I'm good. Could be Whatever you're having is fine. Could be I don't give a single fuck, but I'll take battery acid if you've got it.
Rather than clarify any of that, Nathan instead takes a couple steps into the kitchen, if only to dump his backpack on the countertop. He rests a forearm along the edge of the counter, weight settled there for a moment, and sort of just stares, a little bit, at the back of Ian's head.
Doesn't really hide it, either. ]
Looks like you're doing alright.
[ Could be reference to a lot of things. Living here, for one, or sleeping on a couch, for another. The pain of being tall and only having xyz amount of sofa space is still a problem.
[ What, you mean it's almost like he's obscured by so much bullshit anything of substance is impossible to see? What a wholly unintentional terribly tragic personality flaw that he'll have to rectify pronto.
Two glasses get plunked down onto the counter one after another, and he gets that-- compliment? Observation? -- right as he's closing the cabinet again.
He elects to take it in the least meaningful way possible. ]
My eyes are up here, man.
[ Mmm, yes, the nonstop whole lot of fucking nothing. He's got an endless repository of it when he's not drunk-hugging it out with intense blue eyed strangers in bathrooms or alleys.
It may or may not be a display of aforementioned personal growth that all he pulls out is beer, migrated to a glass from the bottle for reasons that have to do with how hipster this microbrew is or something, probably.
He slides a glass across the counter in Nathan's direction, then settles with his back against the lip of it few feet away. ]
Heard you got stabbed. How's that goin'?
[ Casually, over the rim of his glass as he takes a Punctuation Sip. ]
[ Things happen, are happening, but even with that comment, Nathan sort of... stares harder. His brow furrows more, too. There's something more quizzical in his expression that comes and goes in starts, like the math here doesn't add up.
Because it fucking doesn't. My eyes are up here. Who the fuck talks like that?
The glass slides across the counter. Nathan meets it mid-trajectory with the palm of his hand. He blinks down at it, almost like he's a little surprised that it is, actually and recognizably, beer. He doesn't quite manage to lift the glass to lips, but he does manage to shoot Ian another Look. ]
I got stabbed. [ All deadpan. ] How do you think it's going.
[ No Punctuation Sip here. Just another stare, and one that holds. Nathan lifts his brows as if that'll do all the talking for him, which only manages to convey a level of irritation and expectation that maybe he doesn't accurately feel.
[ Ian the fuck talks like that, nice to meet you outside of moments of extreme duress.
He doesn't seem even slightly perturbed by the deadpan answer, nor by any of the less than personable pieces Nathan's been chucking at him like little pebbles from the start. It rolls off his back, smooth as silk. If anything, the crinkling crows feet at the corners of his eyes suggest he might be amused by it.
In terms of that how're you doing, though...
He gets to make a choice here. There are two ways this could go, a fork before two paths. He could take it seriously, acknowledge that Nathan's asking because of that extremely prominent memory of a bathroom stall and a panic attack. He could answer honestly and, god forbid, maybe actually develop a few tiny little ties to a new person in a way that has the potential to grow. The planting of seeds, where two people actually somewhat kind of give a shit about things like the answer to 'how're you doing'.
Alternatively, he could shut it out entirely and stick with this nearly impenetrable wall of bullshit that makes it more effort than it's even worth to Nathan, probably. ]
Pretty good, man.
[ Answered lightly, chipper even.
As though they didn't hold fucking hands for twenty minutes after Ian told him all about the end of the fucking world. As though Nathan isn't literally the only person on the face of the earth right now that knows exactly how absolutely fucked up he got, because he got to feel it himself firsthand. Pretty good, man. ]
And that's a different expression on your face, so you're up to two. I'm keeping a catalogue. Hoping to get to four.
[ Nathan looks down. Scoffs. Loud, unmistakable, a punch of noise that isn't exactly light or breezy or anywhere close to matching levels of chipper. He doesn't shake his head, but he's also not looking at Ian right now. Might have even been an eyeroll in there, if he were being direct about eye-contact, and the only reason he isn't is because it's too late for it. The glass is lifted halfway to his mouth already.
Pretty good.
Like the terror hadn't been a live-wire. Like it hadn't been twenty minutes of holding onto that sheer fucking panic and folding it into himself. Like he hadn't seen Ian and known.
Sure, the worst of it's over. People are starting to clean up. Broadcasts are less live and more about dissecting the aftermath. But the world, this world, hasn't changed that much.
Nathan takes a sip. He sets the glass down, and the heavy bottom makes a solid noise against countertop. Nathan's palm settles against the counter there, flat, fingers spread. Thumb taps twice -- like a little physical release, accompanying another frown and restraining back a sigh. ]
You always this full of shit?
[ Kind of hard not to take that as a personal attack, considering tone. But when Nathan looks up, the frown's not as at the forefront as it's been before. Some of it's frustration and annoyance, sure. Present, too, is— something that looks a lot more plain. A genuine ask of interest or carefully held back disbelief. It's not a rhetorical question.
Seriously: is it? This how Ian functions?
All that shit, all that running, and this is it? ]
[ For a minute there, he gets to revel in the incorrect belief that he's cut it all off at the pass. Or, rather, like, the pass that comes after the pass. The second pass. It's a little too late for that hand holding session, there's no taking that back, but it could dry up there.
You give a drunk asshole some serious solid effort at helping him out, he digs in his heels, sure, you keep going anyway because he's drunk and you're a good person. You run across that same guy later and he's still an asshole digging his heels in, you can wipe your hands. Civic duty attended to, effort made, dually noted. Good talk.
Except that he gets about twenty seconds of awkward silence and relief before Nathan calls him entirely the fuck out.
Ian cuts his eyes over, mouth pressing into a line, no smart-ass retort immediately flaring up. He has a harder time parrying back direct and assertive. Probably why Kyna managed to deal with him for longer than ten fucking minutes.
He takes a second to pick apart Nathan's expression, to consider his answer based on what he sees in it. ]
Yeah. [ He admits with a nod, peeling his eyes away and back toward the cabinets. ] Usually.
[ Might be the first honest thing he's said so far. In the interests of reciprocity, he feels like he's owed one in exchange. His eyes flicker back Nathan's direction. ]
[ His eyes flicker back. Nathan meets them, and it's not that he's amused, really. Or smiling, or happy, or anything about this feels funny rather than frustrating and fucking impossible to parse. But there's a sort of pull to his mouth before he looks away and exhales.
Intense. That one's new. ]
Yeah, [ Nathan echoes, toneless. ] Usually.
[ And then the quiet settles. It's difficult, to figure out whether Nathan should just bail. He'd like to. He thinks about the way his sister had sat by his bedside, once, slowly knitting a spell together to keep his fever at bay, and told him a story about the man in the hole. Found out, later, that it'd come right out of the addict's bible: some story about how nobody can help you except someone who's already been there. Someone who truly knows the way out.
It's a bullshit story, though. One Nathan doesn't subscribe to.
A little harder to ignore that memory of real, pressing terror. True, dogged fear that it's the end. And if this is how Ian functions, opening his mouth and talking shit and not facing it, and if that's what he wants to do, how he wants to hide, then that's fine. Who the hell is he to judge?
But Nathan isn't buying it. ]
You gonna keep going like that?
[ More than a question, some anger-fueled provoking, it seems like a request. Clarify it, for him. Maybe then they can talk about some inane shit. The weather, maybe. You watch any baseball? ]
[ On the flipside, Ian thinks it's almost some distant cousin to funny. Then again, he's generally some shade of amused by almost everything, even if it's shit that ought to feel like way too much gritty friction to tolerate. Parts of this probably would be, to some people. Nathan doesn't exactly have a sunny disposition.
But.
At least it seems real. Ironic as fuck coming from mister 90% bullshit over here, but he likes seeing real in other people. Nobody likes looking in a mirror too long.
Can't believe this conversation's even happening right now, actually.
This is the weirdest fucking approach anyone's ever taken, he thinks. He's totally unprepared for it, there's no conversational padding or loops to slip through. Just direct, blunt questions that don't come out softened, that imply that there's no room for anything flowery in return.
Shit, not even Kyna hits that hard.
He's insanely fucking curious what this guy's deal is. What his story is. Too bad redirection has been approximately 0% effective. ]
Probably. It's been working for me so far.
[ A beat. Wait, shit, don't correct him yet, he's gonna calmly amend that real quick. ]
Okay, that was one time. My shit is usually way more together, and when it's not strangers usually aren't trying to share my toilet.
[ One time. Nathan's jaw sets again, but it's flat more than irritated or annoyed. That same undercurrent of unimpressed, or maybe more impatient, threads itself through. ]
Must've been some hangover.
[ Or, hell. Maybe it wasn't. Other people might've stuck around, to find out, but Nathan had thought— about what it was like, on the other side, and he'd hated it. Wanted a moment to put himself back together, rather than be fussed or nursed over. Seen or known in his misery. Probably a dick move, really, to act in the way he'd wanted to be treated, but. Coward's way out kind of thing. Nobody likes looking at a mirror too long.
Nathan stares down at his beer in the glass, the slow thinning out of white foam over-top.
Alright, then. Guess that's that.
So Nathan resettles, a bit. Couch seems kind of personal to sit on, with all the pillows on it, so something altogether more casual shapes the way Nathan leans against the countertop as he drinks his beer. Brows lift. ]
How about you put a sign on it next time.
[ Evidently, by tone or demeanor, Nathan considers the air cleared. If there was air to clear, anyway. ]
Wanted to leave my options open. Statistically speaking, it was a coin flip between you and somebody way more naked. I'm not saying you got in the way of true love, but I'm not not saying it either.
[ That's not how statistics work, and there's no way in hell Ian will ever fall in love with somebody from a public bathroom stall with or without clothes.
But yeah, sure, the air is cleared. The barely-existent air. The breeze was cleared.
He could walk out now. Well, it was nice talking to you, see you later. Head on over to his... couch, where he'll pretend like it isn't exactly as easy to carry on a conversation from ten feet away.
But he's curious as hell, and it's really difficult not to pull at that thread. ]
Kyna said you're her new magic bff. That what your world was like? You any good at it?
[ Considering Ian's position as couchmaster, he and Kyna probably aren't seeing each other. Feels a little like he's answering for something, though, or put up to task. Questions come at a clip, and Nathan defaults to staring back. If they're meant to be confrontational, he'll meet them. If they're curious, well. Helps that he could always just leave.
Magic bff. An almost totally physical wince crosses Nathan's face briefly, but it's easy enough to chalk that up to the potential pain in hearing the fucking words "magic" and "bff" strung together in the same damn sentence. You're a goddamn disaster, Ian Fowler. ]
Worked for a place called the Falconry. [ Clipped, ] Law enforcement. I was good at it.
[ For depreciating values of 'good', at the end.
Got anything else loaded in the chamber, Fowler? ]
[ It's really, really difficult to describe anything Ian does as confrontational. It all has this subdued air, this calm vibe he puts off when he's not... crying in a bathroom or talking about his deep personal issues. Even his voice comes out as a steady, slow kind of draw. Rusty-rasped on the edges of some syllables like he's tired.
He meets the stare, doesn't dodge it, isn't afraid to stare back when the topic isn't on him anymore.
Off the defensive, he really is wildly curious and not easily intimidated.
(Then again, give Nathan like three more sentences before that's confirmed.) ]
So you're a wizard bird cop. Nice.
[ There is so much in his chamber Nathan's cousin is probably standing in a girl's lavatory sink speaking snake at it. ]
Did you arrest your ability to smile or was that a prerequisite?
[ Still not confrontational. Conversational, and if you wanna be bold about it, teasing. Default state number 3. How does he do it? Probably just something to do with his face.
Or he's a douche, it really depends on your perspective. ]
[ That, at least, gets Nathan to huff out another dry sound. It's not a laugh, but maybe it hedges close, and it doesn't last too long by virtue of Nathan deciding to raise his glass again. Beer's a handy prop. It's not a punctuation sip TM, but he takes his time with it. He is, maybe, considering that this is going to turn into a round of 50 Questions. The cost/benefit analysis of sticking around for that.
Lowers the glass. Says dryly, ]
Congenital condition. Been this way ever since.
[ Born without the ability to smile. It's a sad life, huh. ]
Doesn't have anything to do with birds.
[ Which comes out the same pitch of annoyed that he says most things, if a little more solidly so. Kyna said something really similar, so, you know, what the fuck is it with you two? ]
[ Aha, yes, sweet sweet victory. He decides to consider it a laugh because it may be the closest to one he will ever earn from Snape-but-make-him-a-werewolf.
He'll also take the dry retort and count it as smacking the tennis ball back, whether or not Nathan sees it that way. It makes him grin, wide and amused. ]
Hey man, don't take it out on me, it's right there in the name.
[ Falconry.
He is not, however, a fucking moron. He didn't miss the shortness in his tone, nor his general body language around the subject -- although, to be fair, that's... kind of hard to distinguish from his other body language. Either way, he'll hedge his bets and start tactfully steering away a little without making it too obvious. ]
You gonna do that here? Sign up for a gun and aviators? You could pull 'em off.
[ Observation/flirt/bullshit, again, so Nathan meets it with a flatter toned stare. Things were a little more palatable when Ian wasn't trying to sell bullshit like he owned it, but the circumstances of only talking to somebody when they're drunk in a toilet stall just aren't sustainable.
So.
There's probably something a little contrary to how Nathan offers up information, but seems annoyed about having to do it, too. Like he'd rather clock Ian in the teeth than talk about fucking aviators. Still doing it, though. Still here. ]
Already got a job.
[ Which is looking like he's gonna be a little late to, if Kyna doesn't come back soon. Being able to access the internet with your fucking brain, evidently, means everyone's on the clock. Back to a world of measured KPIs. ]
[ Ian's a social chameleon, usually. One on one, in groups, varying levels of professionalism and power dynamics, he can typically navigate all of it with ease. Find the nuances to make a pivot, and it's usually pretty intuitive.
Whether it's because of their bizarre start, the fact that it went immediately to the quick and now they're back out of it again being people or something else entirely? No fucking clue.
There's a sharp kind of scrutiny in his eyes as he paces them over Nathan's face again, looking for a tell. Not even bothering to hide it.
Quick rewind analysis of accomplished conversation vs. non-accomplished conversation. The former seems only to happen when it's raw, bringing it back up to superficial shuts it down again. The issue here is that he'd rather saw off his own legs than give up any more of himself to anyone, let alone this guy who is just...
The fucking least... Something.
The least something Ian can't put his finger on. The kind of guy you should be the least confident about trying to connect to, maybe.
Which means the other option is flipping it around and dragging raw reality out of him, and he seems about as receptive to that as he would if Ian asked him to blow a horse.
Maybe split the middle man and be real about just what's going on here. ]
You're really fucking hard to read. I guess you know that, it's probably intentional, but...
[ He shakes his head. ]
You are definitely not making this easy, and it wasn't really that easy to begin with.
He deserves it, probably. Turning it around, laying it out flat, bare. Nathan looks surprised -- clearly so, not muted by a frown or some sort of distantly irritated restraint. He quietens, but it's thoughtfulness that traces the round of his eyes rather than being faced with a stark truth.
Ian Fowler, from California and the end of the world. There's someone behind his layer of bullshit after all.
Nathan nods, then. A tip of his chin that's accepting, in the face of that observing look. ]
Sorry.
[ It comes out the same way everything else comes. Clipped, and sort of abrupt, but maybe quieter all the same. If Ian's water, filling up the cracks and crevices of any conversation, Nathan's hard-edged stone. A life with limits. Self-contained, self-imposed.
And just as abruptly, ]
Ask me something.
[ No jokes, no bullshit, no cutting off at the pass. Score's 2:0 so far. Might as well even that up. ]
[ He can't pretend like there isn't a little mote of satisfaction at pulling surprise out of Nathan. Almost more than that huff of not-laugh, because he seems so exceptionally unphased at all times. If they were passing out awards...
Anyway, it's the most interesting expression he's seen on this guy's face yet (sober).
It also brings a little nervousness to Ian, a small quickening in the thump of his heart. They're treading somewhere close to that invisible line that he keeps well on his side of. Not at it yet, but orbiting. Swaying like a pendulum. The ball's in his fucking court now, too.
Nathan's definitely a rock, Ian's definitely water, and the thing is, in the long run...
Ask me something.
The first thought in his head is shit, this matters. Like it's a test, like what he asks speaks to who he is. Beyond that, it feels like a rare opportunity, considering the great wall of fucking China this guy wears around.
He tensed up about his job, but that doesn't feel like enough. How was your childhood? What was your relationship like with your mother? Slow it down, Angie, come back to bed.
Alright, there's one thing he's been curious about. His glass hits the counter, and he crosses his arms over his chest. ]
I asked you why you helped me the other night. You gave me a bullshit answer.
[ Because he's not the only one capable of it, clearly. It's a question in a statement. Surprise, bitch, he remembers. Pony up. ]
[ He remembers. Nathan's eyes dip, but not wholly away. They hone to sharp focus on Ian's glass on counter, the half-dull sound of it in comparison to the noise of elbows readjusting in a tiny stall, wrists knocking clumsily against porcelain. A miserable half-stutter of noise around shaky breath. A calmer, quieter, Thank you.
What would be the point in lying about it now? ]
I did.
[ It sounds, uncharacteristically, far away. Nathan's frown reappears in the next instant, like a physical output for interior seas. Drawing himself back to land. Line of sight jumps back up to Ian's face, meeting him right in the eyes-- jaw set, expression quiet. It's the kind of blank look someone wears when they're gearing up to say nothing at all.
Silence passes. Eventually, Nathan puts his beer down, too. ]
Helped you out, [ he says, ] 'cause I've been there.
[ Not the most direct way of saying it. There seems amorphous in scope, anyway -- there not as in drunk, necessarily, or even there like Nathan might understand what it's like, to know that everything you love is already gone, that nothing is permanent. Just-- ]
When you can't stop fucking thinking about it.
[ It. The thing that Nathan had started with, in that bathroom stall.
It, as in, What's wrong with you?
Everyone's got something. Everyone's got one demon on their back. ]
Know it's better with company, some days. [ Nathan shrugs, gesturing vaguely, palm up and fingers spread like an afterthought. ] Figured I owed you one, too. [ For the alleyway, he means. Don't think he forgot that, either. ]
[ It's honestly, genuinely surprising the way this whole thing is playing out. Strained, hard looks and awkward choppy conversation slips out almost as soon as he starts being real, replaced by something that almost feels tangible, and isn't that an amazing fucking thing. Something shifts, moves out of the way maybe, and it's like he's looking at a different person. Getting a glance at who's there beneath it all.
Same wall of bullshit but Nathan's is rebranded into scowling so it looks more serious. Same horse, different color.
Understanding slides in slow, settles heavy in his bones, weighing him down more firmly onto the skin of the earth. He thinks at first Nathan means the drinking, but the notion clicks into place quickly enough.
Much as he protested at the start, much as he's been throwing out how Nathan invited himself into that stall where he was successfully handling his own shit thankyouverymuch, he's right. It was better with company. ]
Didn't owe me anything.
[ He murmurs dismissively, and he means it.
And maybe this is pushing his luck, but while they're in this weird place he figures now's the time to ask. Since Nathan knows his and all. ]
[ Whatever sureness he's feeling, it ebbs and flows. An instinct that fights against knowledge. It's a conversation that Nathan doesn't fucking want to have, even if it's the right one to have. So much of this is like living as a photo-negative -- there's something dramatic and shameful about having said things are better with company, words real and tangible now that they've been spoken out-loud. It knocks against the memory of his sister, that sharp twist of missing family he's put-off since being here. Here, in a new city. Here, in this new place, with freedom he didn't fucking earn.
God, who gives a shit. Frustration and distant, vicious anger roils. The urge to leave heightens. All of it settles, tempered by the rock-solid awareness that he'd be being a piece of shit if he just decided to go. A muscle in his jaw tenses and untenses. Arms fold, then refold over chest.
Didn't owe me anything. Nathan looks up -- flat, unimpressed. Too-strong, probably, than that remark needs, but it's a convenient escape valve. He fucking owed you, California. Don't argue about this shit.
For the most part, Nathan looks down at his feet. Frowning, thinking it over. There are a few false starts -- a few short inhales, like he's gearing up to speak. None really land. ]
Ask me something else.
[ Looks up, then, through short lashes. Makes eye contact.
Yeah, maybe it's unfair. Yeah, maybe Ian won't. He'll press -- he'd be in his rights to. But it's not a demand, or a choppy cut-off, even if on the surface it reads as one. It's a request. One shitty fucking human being to another. ]
[ A story tells itself over Nathan's features. There are complex plotlines in a language he doesn't understand, aches and pains, beginnings and ends. He feels guilty, almost, for asking — the journey's peaks that hit anger and tense his shoulders probably help explain the frown he wears the other 90% of the times Ian's seen him.
Must be still fucking with him.
Ian wonders if that's what he looks like to people outside of his own head when they ask him questions he doesn't want to answer. Whether he hides it better or worse.
They make eye contact. He gets it. There's a woman's ashes mixed into the water in a lake in Weaverville. ]
Alright.
[ An acknowledgement, just to preface his thoughtful pause. You give him an inch and he'll take a mile; maybe Nathan's already balanced the scales by answering that first question. If he's offering another, though, Ian's loathe to give up the opportunity. Hard as it was to crawl into this weird headspace, he's equally reluctant to end it for some reason.
You get on someone else's wavelength, and it's just... He doesn't do that very often. Tuning in. Broadcasting back. ]
You actually keeping it together as good as you wanna make it seem?
[ Because Ian's never seen him drunk in a bathroom. Never actually seen him do anything that speaks of a man a few bad days away from spiralling out into the next fucking galaxy. ]
[ He considers that. A heavy silence. Nathan still stares down at his shoes. ]
Here?
[ Nathan exhales. It sounds more than a little wry. ]
Dunno. [ A signpost, more than it is a true answer or even dismissive, in that way Nathan's gotten used to wielding perceived ambivalence like a close-guarded weapon. ] Different life, different rules. [ No magic. ] Think a lot about my dog, sometimes. [ But that doesn't mean anything. You can miss things and still be haunted by that pull, the acute knowledge that being here might be an extension of life in a new direction. By the skin of his fucking teeth, he's here. Who else can say they avoided the next 97 years of fucking isolation and misery?
He's already tried casting. First day here, holed up in the fucking bathroom. But nothing serious, nothing that would've cost anything; everyone tells him it doesn't work.
Wants to try it anyway. Every day. Staring at the ceiling and putting the math together in his head and spending hours before sleep takes him, scouring the network, reading about celestial bodies and how things work here, how magic might if he could just...
Like it'd be any different for him. He exhales, long and low, thumbing at the corner of his own mouth. ]
Hanging by a fucking thread, man.
[ But it's holding. He's holding, and it's not going to waver. Even if it does -- the shame of it will be his own, something else to add to the pile of words he'll never voice.
Nathan's chin finally tips upwards. Straight-on, back in-line. Equilibrium. ]
[ You know what, he seems like a dog guy. Like one of those dudes who's only company is a golden retriever or something, and he makes conversations with it while building boats in his woodworking shop and listening to Johnny Cash. Just a first impression, not even a fair one, probably not an accurate one. It's the feeling he puts out.
There's a soft breath, an exhale, puffed — a laugh, but with no conviction. No real humor, either, just... jaded amusement, maybe. ]
You wanna know something fucked up?
[ A low and lilting murmur, and it's accompanied by a little arch to one eyebrow and a conceding bob to one shoulder. He doesn't wait longer than a beat before just plowing on ahead a little apologetically. ]
That actually kinda makes me feel a little better.
[ No offense, and it's not that misery loves company thing. He's not taking any joy in Nathan's suffering. It's just... good to know that it's not him being deficient somehow. That he's not just a pathetic piece of shit while everyone else with similar baggage is out there pulling themselves up by their bootstraps.
Maybe not even everyone. Maybe just Nathan, but he's been like the human incarnate of stoicism and squared shoulders. Even so. The only falter Ian's ever seen is after a fucking arm fell out of the sky, and he doesn't really think that one should count.
And since he's already venturing toward wry admissions, he'll slowly drawl out another one. ]
I'm not sure we're ever gonna have a normal fucking conversation.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ Hard to get a good night's rest.
Which is to say, yes. He's living here, as much as you can call sleeping on someone's couch living with them. He shuts the door behind Nathan and strolls right on through toward the kitchen.
Granted, the ease with which he moves around the space might suggest he's been here for a decade and he's on the lease, but that's more of a personality trait.
He opens up a cabinet door for a shelf he's amazed Kyna can actually reach. ]
At the risk of this sounding indicative of a total lack of personal growth on my part, you want a drink?
[ Which is something good hosts offer, even though this isn't his place and literally nobody wants him to do that probably. ]
no subject
Nathan shrugs. Which is exactly the kind of answer you'd want, for an innocuous question like do you want a drink. No pressure, Ian, trying to decipher that out. Could be I'm good. Could be Whatever you're having is fine. Could be I don't give a single fuck, but I'll take battery acid if you've got it.
Rather than clarify any of that, Nathan instead takes a couple steps into the kitchen, if only to dump his backpack on the countertop. He rests a forearm along the edge of the counter, weight settled there for a moment, and sort of just stares, a little bit, at the back of Ian's head.
Doesn't really hide it, either. ]
Looks like you're doing alright.
[ Could be reference to a lot of things. Living here, for one, or sleeping on a couch, for another. The pain of being tall and only having xyz amount of sofa space is still a problem.
Or, you know. It's about that other thing. ]
no subject
Two glasses get plunked down onto the counter one after another, and he gets that-- compliment? Observation? -- right as he's closing the cabinet again.
He elects to take it in the least meaningful way possible. ]
My eyes are up here, man.
[ Mmm, yes, the nonstop whole lot of fucking nothing. He's got an endless repository of it when he's not drunk-hugging it out with intense blue eyed strangers in bathrooms or alleys.
It may or may not be a display of aforementioned personal growth that all he pulls out is beer, migrated to a glass from the bottle for reasons that have to do with how hipster this microbrew is or something, probably.
He slides a glass across the counter in Nathan's direction, then settles with his back against the lip of it few feet away. ]
Heard you got stabbed. How's that goin'?
[ Casually, over the rim of his glass as he takes a Punctuation Sip. ]
no subject
Because it fucking doesn't. My eyes are up here. Who the fuck talks like that?
The glass slides across the counter. Nathan meets it mid-trajectory with the palm of his hand. He blinks down at it, almost like he's a little surprised that it is, actually and recognizably, beer. He doesn't quite manage to lift the glass to lips, but he does manage to shoot Ian another Look. ]
I got stabbed. [ All deadpan. ] How do you think it's going.
[ No Punctuation Sip here. Just another stare, and one that holds. Nathan lifts his brows as if that'll do all the talking for him, which only manages to convey a level of irritation and expectation that maybe he doesn't accurately feel.
A beat passes. Maybe two, maybe three. Nathan buckles first, says, ]
How're you doing?
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He doesn't seem even slightly perturbed by the deadpan answer, nor by any of the less than personable pieces Nathan's been chucking at him like little pebbles from the start. It rolls off his back, smooth as silk. If anything, the crinkling crows feet at the corners of his eyes suggest he might be amused by it.
In terms of that how're you doing, though...
He gets to make a choice here. There are two ways this could go, a fork before two paths. He could take it seriously, acknowledge that Nathan's asking because of that extremely prominent memory of a bathroom stall and a panic attack. He could answer honestly and, god forbid, maybe actually develop a few tiny little ties to a new person in a way that has the potential to grow. The planting of seeds, where two people actually somewhat kind of give a shit about things like the answer to 'how're you doing'.
Alternatively, he could shut it out entirely and stick with this nearly impenetrable wall of bullshit that makes it more effort than it's even worth to Nathan, probably. ]
Pretty good, man.
[ Answered lightly, chipper even.
As though they didn't hold fucking hands for twenty minutes after Ian told him all about the end of the fucking world. As though Nathan isn't literally the only person on the face of the earth right now that knows exactly how absolutely fucked up he got, because he got to feel it himself firsthand. Pretty good, man. ]
And that's a different expression on your face, so you're up to two. I'm keeping a catalogue. Hoping to get to four.
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Pretty good.
Like the terror hadn't been a live-wire. Like it hadn't been twenty minutes of holding onto that sheer fucking panic and folding it into himself. Like he hadn't seen Ian and known.
Sure, the worst of it's over. People are starting to clean up. Broadcasts are less live and more about dissecting the aftermath. But the world, this world, hasn't changed that much.
Nathan takes a sip. He sets the glass down, and the heavy bottom makes a solid noise against countertop. Nathan's palm settles against the counter there, flat, fingers spread. Thumb taps twice -- like a little physical release, accompanying another frown and restraining back a sigh. ]
You always this full of shit?
[ Kind of hard not to take that as a personal attack, considering tone. But when Nathan looks up, the frown's not as at the forefront as it's been before. Some of it's frustration and annoyance, sure. Present, too, is— something that looks a lot more plain. A genuine ask of interest or carefully held back disbelief. It's not a rhetorical question.
Seriously: is it? This how Ian functions?
All that shit, all that running, and this is it? ]
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You give a drunk asshole some serious solid effort at helping him out, he digs in his heels, sure, you keep going anyway because he's drunk and you're a good person. You run across that same guy later and he's still an asshole digging his heels in, you can wipe your hands. Civic duty attended to, effort made, dually noted. Good talk.
Except that he gets about twenty seconds of awkward silence and relief before Nathan calls him entirely the fuck out.
Ian cuts his eyes over, mouth pressing into a line, no smart-ass retort immediately flaring up. He has a harder time parrying back direct and assertive. Probably why Kyna managed to deal with him for longer than ten fucking minutes.
He takes a second to pick apart Nathan's expression, to consider his answer based on what he sees in it. ]
Yeah. [ He admits with a nod, peeling his eyes away and back toward the cabinets. ] Usually.
[ Might be the first honest thing he's said so far. In the interests of reciprocity, he feels like he's owed one in exchange. His eyes flicker back Nathan's direction. ]
You always this intense?
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Intense. That one's new. ]
Yeah, [ Nathan echoes, toneless. ] Usually.
[ And then the quiet settles. It's difficult, to figure out whether Nathan should just bail. He'd like to. He thinks about the way his sister had sat by his bedside, once, slowly knitting a spell together to keep his fever at bay, and told him a story about the man in the hole. Found out, later, that it'd come right out of the addict's bible: some story about how nobody can help you except someone who's already been there. Someone who truly knows the way out.
It's a bullshit story, though. One Nathan doesn't subscribe to.
A little harder to ignore that memory of real, pressing terror. True, dogged fear that it's the end. And if this is how Ian functions, opening his mouth and talking shit and not facing it, and if that's what he wants to do, how he wants to hide, then that's fine. Who the hell is he to judge?
But Nathan isn't buying it. ]
You gonna keep going like that?
[ More than a question, some anger-fueled provoking, it seems like a request. Clarify it, for him. Maybe then they can talk about some inane shit. The weather, maybe. You watch any baseball? ]
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But.
At least it seems real. Ironic as fuck coming from mister 90% bullshit over here, but he likes seeing real in other people. Nobody likes looking in a mirror too long.
Can't believe this conversation's even happening right now, actually.
This is the weirdest fucking approach anyone's ever taken, he thinks. He's totally unprepared for it, there's no conversational padding or loops to slip through. Just direct, blunt questions that don't come out softened, that imply that there's no room for anything flowery in return.
Shit, not even Kyna hits that hard.
He's insanely fucking curious what this guy's deal is. What his story is. Too bad redirection has been approximately 0% effective. ]
Probably. It's been working for me so far.
[ A beat. Wait, shit, don't correct him yet, he's gonna calmly amend that real quick. ]
Okay, that was one time. My shit is usually way more together, and when it's not strangers usually aren't trying to share my toilet.
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Must've been some hangover.
[ Or, hell. Maybe it wasn't. Other people might've stuck around, to find out, but Nathan had thought— about what it was like, on the other side, and he'd hated it. Wanted a moment to put himself back together, rather than be fussed or nursed over. Seen or known in his misery. Probably a dick move, really, to act in the way he'd wanted to be treated, but. Coward's way out kind of thing. Nobody likes looking at a mirror too long.
Nathan stares down at his beer in the glass, the slow thinning out of white foam over-top.
Alright, then. Guess that's that.
So Nathan resettles, a bit. Couch seems kind of personal to sit on, with all the pillows on it, so something altogether more casual shapes the way Nathan leans against the countertop as he drinks his beer. Brows lift. ]
How about you put a sign on it next time.
[ Evidently, by tone or demeanor, Nathan considers the air cleared. If there was air to clear, anyway. ]
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[ That's not how statistics work, and there's no way in hell Ian will ever fall in love with somebody from a public bathroom stall with or without clothes.
But yeah, sure, the air is cleared. The barely-existent air. The breeze was cleared.
He could walk out now. Well, it was nice talking to you, see you later. Head on over to his... couch, where he'll pretend like it isn't exactly as easy to carry on a conversation from ten feet away.
But he's curious as hell, and it's really difficult not to pull at that thread. ]
Kyna said you're her new magic bff. That what your world was like? You any good at it?
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Magic bff. An almost totally physical wince crosses Nathan's face briefly, but it's easy enough to chalk that up to the potential pain in hearing the fucking words "magic" and "bff" strung together in the same damn sentence. You're a goddamn disaster, Ian Fowler. ]
Worked for a place called the Falconry. [ Clipped, ] Law enforcement. I was good at it.
[ For depreciating values of 'good', at the end.
Got anything else loaded in the chamber, Fowler? ]
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He meets the stare, doesn't dodge it, isn't afraid to stare back when the topic isn't on him anymore.
Off the defensive, he really is wildly curious and not easily intimidated.
(Then again, give Nathan like three more sentences before that's confirmed.) ]
So you're a wizard bird cop. Nice.
[ There is so much in his chamber Nathan's cousin is probably standing in a girl's lavatory sink speaking snake at it. ]
Did you arrest your ability to smile or was that a prerequisite?
[ Still not confrontational. Conversational, and if you wanna be bold about it, teasing. Default state number 3. How does he do it? Probably just something to do with his face.
Or he's a douche, it really depends on your perspective. ]
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Lowers the glass. Says dryly, ]
Congenital condition. Been this way ever since.
[ Born without the ability to smile. It's a sad life, huh. ]
Doesn't have anything to do with birds.
[ Which comes out the same pitch of annoyed that he says most things, if a little more solidly so. Kyna said something really similar, so, you know, what the fuck is it with you two? ]
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He'll also take the dry retort and count it as smacking the tennis ball back, whether or not Nathan sees it that way. It makes him grin, wide and amused. ]
Hey man, don't take it out on me, it's right there in the name.
[ Falconry.
He is not, however, a fucking moron. He didn't miss the shortness in his tone, nor his general body language around the subject -- although, to be fair, that's... kind of hard to distinguish from his other body language. Either way, he'll hedge his bets and start tactfully steering away a little without making it too obvious. ]
You gonna do that here? Sign up for a gun and aviators? You could pull 'em off.
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So.
There's probably something a little contrary to how Nathan offers up information, but seems annoyed about having to do it, too. Like he'd rather clock Ian in the teeth than talk about fucking aviators. Still doing it, though. Still here. ]
Already got a job.
[ Which is looking like he's gonna be a little late to, if Kyna doesn't come back soon. Being able to access the internet with your fucking brain, evidently, means everyone's on the clock. Back to a world of measured KPIs. ]
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Whether it's because of their bizarre start, the fact that it went immediately to the quick and now they're back out of it again being people or something else entirely? No fucking clue.
There's a sharp kind of scrutiny in his eyes as he paces them over Nathan's face again, looking for a tell. Not even bothering to hide it.
Quick rewind analysis of accomplished conversation vs. non-accomplished conversation. The former seems only to happen when it's raw, bringing it back up to superficial shuts it down again. The issue here is that he'd rather saw off his own legs than give up any more of himself to anyone, let alone this guy who is just...
The fucking least...
Something.
The least something Ian can't put his finger on. The kind of guy you should be the least confident about trying to connect to, maybe.
Which means the other option is flipping it around and dragging raw reality out of him, and he seems about as receptive to that as he would if Ian asked him to blow a horse.
Maybe split the middle man and be real about just what's going on here. ]
You're really fucking hard to read. I guess you know that, it's probably intentional, but...
[ He shakes his head. ]
You are definitely not making this easy, and it wasn't really that easy to begin with.
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He deserves it, probably. Turning it around, laying it out flat, bare. Nathan looks surprised -- clearly so, not muted by a frown or some sort of distantly irritated restraint. He quietens, but it's thoughtfulness that traces the round of his eyes rather than being faced with a stark truth.
Ian Fowler, from California and the end of the world. There's someone behind his layer of bullshit after all.
Nathan nods, then. A tip of his chin that's accepting, in the face of that observing look. ]
Sorry.
[ It comes out the same way everything else comes. Clipped, and sort of abrupt, but maybe quieter all the same. If Ian's water, filling up the cracks and crevices of any conversation, Nathan's hard-edged stone. A life with limits. Self-contained, self-imposed.
And just as abruptly, ]
Ask me something.
[ No jokes, no bullshit, no cutting off at the pass. Score's 2:0 so far. Might as well even that up. ]
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Anyway, it's the most interesting expression he's seen on this guy's face yet (sober).
It also brings a little nervousness to Ian, a small quickening in the thump of his heart. They're treading somewhere close to that invisible line that he keeps well on his side of. Not at it yet, but orbiting. Swaying like a pendulum. The ball's in his fucking court now, too.
Nathan's definitely a rock, Ian's definitely water, and the thing is, in the long run...
Ask me something.
The first thought in his head is shit, this matters. Like it's a test, like what he asks speaks to who he is. Beyond that, it feels like a rare opportunity, considering the great wall of fucking China this guy wears around.
He tensed up about his job, but that doesn't feel like enough. How was your childhood? What was your relationship like with your mother? Slow it down, Angie, come back to bed.
Alright, there's one thing he's been curious about. His glass hits the counter, and he crosses his arms over his chest. ]
I asked you why you helped me the other night. You gave me a bullshit answer.
[ Because he's not the only one capable of it, clearly. It's a question in a statement. Surprise, bitch, he remembers. Pony up. ]
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What would be the point in lying about it now? ]
I did.
[ It sounds, uncharacteristically, far away. Nathan's frown reappears in the next instant, like a physical output for interior seas. Drawing himself back to land. Line of sight jumps back up to Ian's face, meeting him right in the eyes-- jaw set, expression quiet. It's the kind of blank look someone wears when they're gearing up to say nothing at all.
Silence passes. Eventually, Nathan puts his beer down, too. ]
Helped you out, [ he says, ] 'cause I've been there.
[ Not the most direct way of saying it. There seems amorphous in scope, anyway -- there not as in drunk, necessarily, or even there like Nathan might understand what it's like, to know that everything you love is already gone, that nothing is permanent. Just-- ]
When you can't stop fucking thinking about it.
[ It. The thing that Nathan had started with, in that bathroom stall.
It, as in, What's wrong with you?
Everyone's got something. Everyone's got one demon on their back. ]
Know it's better with company, some days. [ Nathan shrugs, gesturing vaguely, palm up and fingers spread like an afterthought. ] Figured I owed you one, too. [ For the alleyway, he means. Don't think he forgot that, either. ]
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Same wall of bullshit but Nathan's is rebranded into scowling so it looks more serious. Same horse, different color.
Understanding slides in slow, settles heavy in his bones, weighing him down more firmly onto the skin of the earth. He thinks at first Nathan means the drinking, but the notion clicks into place quickly enough.
Much as he protested at the start, much as he's been throwing out how Nathan invited himself into that stall where he was successfully handling his own shit thankyouverymuch, he's right. It was better with company. ]
Didn't owe me anything.
[ He murmurs dismissively, and he means it.
And maybe this is pushing his luck, but while they're in this weird place he figures now's the time to ask. Since Nathan knows his and all. ]
What's your end of the world?
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God, who gives a shit. Frustration and distant, vicious anger roils. The urge to leave heightens. All of it settles, tempered by the rock-solid awareness that he'd be being a piece of shit if he just decided to go. A muscle in his jaw tenses and untenses. Arms fold, then refold over chest.
Didn't owe me anything. Nathan looks up -- flat, unimpressed. Too-strong, probably, than that remark needs, but it's a convenient escape valve. He fucking owed you, California. Don't argue about this shit.
For the most part, Nathan looks down at his feet. Frowning, thinking it over. There are a few false starts -- a few short inhales, like he's gearing up to speak. None really land. ]
Ask me something else.
[ Looks up, then, through short lashes. Makes eye contact.
Yeah, maybe it's unfair. Yeah, maybe Ian won't. He'll press -- he'd be in his rights to. But it's not a demand, or a choppy cut-off, even if on the surface it reads as one. It's a request. One shitty fucking human being to another. ]
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Must be still fucking with him.
Ian wonders if that's what he looks like to people outside of his own head when they ask him questions he doesn't want to answer. Whether he hides it better or worse.
They make eye contact.
He gets it.
There's a woman's ashes mixed into the water in a lake in Weaverville. ]
Alright.
[ An acknowledgement, just to preface his thoughtful pause. You give him an inch and he'll take a mile; maybe Nathan's already balanced the scales by answering that first question. If he's offering another, though, Ian's loathe to give up the opportunity. Hard as it was to crawl into this weird headspace, he's equally reluctant to end it for some reason.
You get on someone else's wavelength, and it's just... He doesn't do that very often. Tuning in. Broadcasting back. ]
You actually keeping it together as good as you wanna make it seem?
[ Because Ian's never seen him drunk in a bathroom. Never actually seen him do anything that speaks of a man a few bad days away from spiralling out into the next fucking galaxy. ]
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Here?
[ Nathan exhales. It sounds more than a little wry. ]
Dunno. [ A signpost, more than it is a true answer or even dismissive, in that way Nathan's gotten used to wielding perceived ambivalence like a close-guarded weapon. ] Different life, different rules. [ No magic. ] Think a lot about my dog, sometimes. [ But that doesn't mean anything. You can miss things and still be haunted by that pull, the acute knowledge that being here might be an extension of life in a new direction. By the skin of his fucking teeth, he's here. Who else can say they avoided the next 97 years of fucking isolation and misery?
He's already tried casting. First day here, holed up in the fucking bathroom. But nothing serious, nothing that would've cost anything; everyone tells him it doesn't work.
Wants to try it anyway. Every day. Staring at the ceiling and putting the math together in his head and spending hours before sleep takes him, scouring the network, reading about celestial bodies and how things work here, how magic might if he could just...
Like it'd be any different for him. He exhales, long and low, thumbing at the corner of his own mouth. ]
Hanging by a fucking thread, man.
[ But it's holding. He's holding, and it's not going to waver. Even if it does -- the shame of it will be his own, something else to add to the pile of words he'll never voice.
Nathan's chin finally tips upwards. Straight-on, back in-line. Equilibrium. ]
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There's a soft breath, an exhale, puffed — a laugh, but with no conviction. No real humor, either, just... jaded amusement, maybe. ]
You wanna know something fucked up?
[ A low and lilting murmur, and it's accompanied by a little arch to one eyebrow and a conceding bob to one shoulder. He doesn't wait longer than a beat before just plowing on ahead a little apologetically. ]
That actually kinda makes me feel a little better.
[ No offense, and it's not that misery loves company thing. He's not taking any joy in Nathan's suffering. It's just... good to know that it's not him being deficient somehow. That he's not just a pathetic piece of shit while everyone else with similar baggage is out there pulling themselves up by their bootstraps.
Maybe not even everyone. Maybe just Nathan, but he's been like the human incarnate of stoicism and squared shoulders. Even so. The only falter Ian's ever seen is after a fucking arm fell out of the sky, and he doesn't really think that one should count.
And since he's already venturing toward wry admissions, he'll slowly drawl out another one. ]
I'm not sure we're ever gonna have a normal fucking conversation.
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