the pilgrim road (hospitaller) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-12-11 20:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | hospitaller, legolas |
Who: Malcom & Gemma (& Miles & Legolas)
What: Gemma arrives in Vegas & learns about doors & keys.
Where: The airport/the car/Malcolm’s apartment
When: Early evening before Legolas & Aragorn talk.
Warnings/Rating: Some profanity.
It was about a forty-five minute drive from Centennial Hills to the airport (at best), so Malcolm dutifully put Sonata in her crate with some water and plenty of reassurances that he was coming home, piled himself into the beat-up blue hatchback that he so seldom drove, stopped only once for gas, and made his way around the beltway down to the southern end of the city. He hated driving with a burning passion, and like all Londoners, he was miserable at parking. And any excursion over an hour in the driver’s seat left him in crippling agony once it was done. But he wasn’t about to send a cab for his sister. He wanted to be the one to set eyes on her first. It had been nearly two years since last he saw her, at graduation from UCLA, but it felt like ages. And as the traffic crawled around Las Vegas, he began to feel like he might never see her again. He was going to be late, he realised, staring at the clock on the dash, squinting as the headlights on the highway made his head throb. She’d have to wait in the cold and dark. Wasn’t that a marvellous way to start a visit?
In the waiting area, Gemma sat on her suitcase and counted cars. Or that’s what she said she was doing. Really, she was arguing Miles. Pretty normal, really. “I don’t need to go inside,” she insisted irritably under her breath. “It is perfectly safe to sit out here and wait for Mal.”
You aren’t very aware, Miles protested, seeming agitated. The flight had not been to his taste, and he had spent the entire thing muttering himself. Upon hitting turbulence, Gemma had been treated to the anxious sound of his most fervent praying. That man in the blue thing is staring at you.
“It’s a car, they’re all cars, just say it, it’s a car,” Gemma started, but then she shot to her feet, her voice rising out of a mutter as she raised one hand over her head, waving frantically. “Malcolm!” she shouted, “here I am!”
Carefully, so very carefully, the blue hatchback pulled to a stop near where she was waiting -- and the front tires went right over the curb. But the motor stopped, and the four-way lights went on before the driver’s side door came open and Malcolm slid out. “Gemma!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up with delight as he came around to grab her in a fierce hug. Granted, he was a little hunched, and his face was tight -- an hour fifteen in the car, well past his limit -- but it didn’t matter. His sister was here. “Look at you, are you okay? Was the flight okay? Here, let me get your things.”
“You’ve been driving? Oh my God, you great big git!” Gemma retorted, frustration flaring. What was wrong with him? Driving with that back? She let go of him and picked up her suitcase rather protectively. “I cannot believe you, Mal. How long have you been in that car? What would your therapist say!”
“Hi, it’s good to see you, too, flight was fine, no worries,” Malcolm said, a bit crestfallen, and he sighed. “What was I suppose to do, send a car to pick you up? It would’ve been alright but for the traffic, but it’ll be fine going back. Really.” He popped the hatch anyway.
That was uncalled for, Miles suggested. Be gentle with him, he’s obviously in pain.
“Hi Mal,” Gemma said, her voice softening. “Why don’t you let me have the keys? I can drive. Why don’t you stretch a little before we get in the death trap? I can wait. My flight was delayed, I’ve only been here a little bit.” It was blatantly untrue, even with the delay she had been sitting on her luggage at least forty minutes, but she smiled anyway, expression straining for reassuring. “I’m glad to see you, though.”
Malcolm brightened a bit at that, taking reassuring as it came. “I’m glad to see you, too,” he said, boyish in his eagerness for her approval. Still, he took a moment on the sidewalk to bend forward, his hair nearly brushing the pavement as he tried to get his back to release some of the tension. “I can drive, if you need me to. Vegas traffic is terrible.” He straightened, and something in his back popped loudly.
“Nah, I’ll drive,” Gemma insisted. “I taught you how, remember?” She had no idea what traffic would be like, and she was only nebulously aware of what it would take to drive reverse of London, but it couldn’t be too bad, could it?
You are hardly awake enough to pilot that monster, Miles replied, sounding concerned. He sounded concerned a lot.
“I’m fine,” Gemma muttered, barely audible.
“Gems, seriously, I can manage,” Malcolm said, still holding the keys in his fist. “You look absolutely dead knackered, no offence.”
“You can barely limp your way around the side of the car,” Gemma retorted. “Just give me the keys and be my wingman, okay? Besides, we have too much to talk about for me to possibly get drowsy. And I’ve consumed my body weight in shabby tea and nasty American coffee to keep awake. I’m practically on vibrate.”
“All right, all right,” Malcolm allowed finally, and tossed her the keys before painfully making his way into the passenger seat. He wasn’t sure if the seat creaked or if he did when he managed to ease his way down and close the door. “It’s a pretty straight shot back on the bypass, anyway. I live up on the northern end of town, it’s nice.”
This isn’t a good idea, Miles said in a low voice, always concerned, but he was always concerned.
“Just shut up and be my spotter,” Gemma muttered under her breath as she climbed into the driver’s seat. It was going to take a moment to orient herself, and she took a deep breath. Centering. Calming. Just drive, go with the flow of traffic, don’t hit anybody. Simple. After another exhale, she said, “so how have you been since you moved? You don’t call as much as you used to.”
“Busy, mostly,” Malcolm said, turning the radio down when the car’s engine turned over. The pop music sounded tinny at a low volume, but neither of them were paying much attention. “I’ve picked up another side job in the mornings, which is helpful. Playing for a dancer. I’ve had some experience there, anyway.”
Gemma laughed a little. “Yeah, you do, don’t you?” Her voice had turned fond. It was easier to think of her own days with Malcolm playing her warm-up music than it was to think of the present. “Where’d you find a dancer to play for, anyway? Were you advertising yourself or what?”
“Oh, you know, networking,” Malcolm said airily. “Sometimes, you just happen upon things. This is a dead strange town, it really is. Things can fall into your lap.”
That is hardly true, the voice in the back of his head insisted, and Malcolm felt the beginning pangs of a headache. He rubbed at his temple and tried to will the voice to be silent.
“You okay, Mal?” Gemma asked uncertainly. So far the drive had been going well enough -- it was moving too slowly to be anything but all right -- but she was nervous about the prospect of trying to keep going without Malcolm to keep her from doing something stupid like driving in the wrong lane. “What’s wrong?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Malcolm said immediately, with a little smile. “Just getting a headache. It’s probably the headlamps. I don’t drive much at all anymore, really I don’t. There’s the exit for the bypass coming up, on the left, don’t miss it.”
Bypass on the left. Gemma merged without incident. Driving in America wasn’t nearly as hard as she had expected. “The headaches are pretty bad, I take it?” she said, trying not to look at him while she drove. That’d just be stupid. “You mentioned them before.”
“They’re ...” Malcolm searched for a word. “Uncomfortable.” That seemed accurate. “I’ve cut out nitrates completely, haven’t had a drop of liquor since they started, and my sodium intake is really low, too. I don’t want to cut out caffeine completely, but it’s all I can think of.”
“But it could be a lot of other things,” Gemma said almost immediately. “I mean, Americans put sugar in everything, and what about wheat? Could be the pollution in the air, too. Or your drinking water. What kind of filter do you have?” She paused, then laughed. “Don’t mind me, I’m having inexplicable health problems of my own. Could also be something boring like a pinched nerve or a tight neck.”
“I’ve put in good filters, and God, Gemma, I can’t give up wheat. I’ve already gone mostly vegan,” Malcolm said. “I still eat honey, that seems ridiculous. But no dairy, no eggs, none of it. I thought it was maybe dairy for a while. If I have to give up wheat and be vegan, I will have nothing left to eat.”
“That’s not true,” Gemma protested, “there’s stuff to eat. It’s just expensive. I don’t eat any wheat anymore, really, almost none of the dancers do. But you don’t want to hear about what the girls in Birmingham are eating. But we’re hardly ever vegan, it’s the protein issue you know, eating vegan on a ballet income is just impossible.”
Malcolm sighed softly. “I don’t really want to go back to meat. I feel awful when I’m eating meat, universally,” he said. “And dairy products here are hellaciously scary, all kinds of hormones and rubbish. No thank you.”
Meat is disgusting, anyway, the voice offered. Who wants to glut themselves on the flesh of animals?
“Well, what was wrong with vegetarian?” Gemma pressed. “I bet I could cook you up something nice in the vegetarian family, no wheat, no dairy, you’ll like it. You’ll see. You do have a kitchen, don’t you, Mal? Who have you talked to about your headaches, anyway?”
“Nobody yet,” Malcolm said with a shake of his head. “I was trying to find a naturopath maybe. I don’t really want to go to a conventional GP right now.” That was very adamant. He didn’t want to go to a GP. He didn’t want to talk about the voice in his head. Even if it was somewhat normal amongst a certain subset of people (who all had books that could communicate, apparently). He didn’t want to talk about it with someone who had the power to refer him for psychiatric evaluation against his will.
“I’m not saying go throw your money at some stupid American hospital,” Gemma said. Were they going to fight? When had they turned into their parents? She bit her lip in concentration, staring at the road. “I just worry. You still haven’t explained why you mailed me that book, and every time I’ve brought it up you talk about your headaches, it makes me worried, I guess.”
“I didn’t send you the book!” Malcolm insisted, something panicky sliding into his voice. “I don’t really know that much about any of this. Just ... let’s get home, okay? Let’s get back to mine, and we’ll have something to eat, and I’ll try to explain as much as I know, which is ... really, really not much.”
“I don’t know where I’m going!” Gemma protested. “Where am I going, Mal? Where is your flat?” She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. Why was he being so fucking dodgy about the damn book?
He didn’t send it, Miles said gently, but there was something adamant about the words. Like he knew where the book had come from. As if. Miles didn’t even know what a telephone was, and had called the entire airport some kind of devilry.
“I didn’t ask you,” Gemma muttered under her breath.
Malcolm hesitated. “Er, you just sort of did, actually,” he said. He rubbed his face. “You’ll want the second exit here, just keep to the right all the way and go through the light, okay? We’ll be there soon.”
“...what?” Gemma asked, actually looking away from the road for a second, her face confused. Miles’ voice was loud in her ear, look at the road! and Gemma’s eyes jerked back to the front of the car, slamming her foot against the break just before a car merged in front of them without a turn signal. “Fuck!” Gemma shouted, slamming her hand against the horn angrily. She tried not to show how rattled she was, her hands gripping the wheel again. They were almost there, after all.
“Holy fuck,” Malcolm whispered, his eyes wide as saucers in his face.
And this is preferable to walking? his voice asked him. Malcolm grit his teeth. His head throbbed in return.
“Why can’t Americans drive!” Gemma hissed, taking the exit Malcolm had told her. She took a deep breath. “I thought turn signals came standard!” Deep breaths. Calming breaths. Centered breathing. “Are you okay?” she said, at last.
“I’m fine,” Malcolm said. His back ached. All he wanted to do was lay on the floor on his mat, put his feet in a chair, and try to get some relief for his poor spine. Maybe take some sleeping pills, sleep there, and find out if things would be better in the morning. “It just was a sudden stop, that’s all.”
“I’m so sorry,” Gemma said, her face a tight line. She felt beyond contrite. Poor Mal. At least they’d be out of the car soon. She hoped. “Tell me where we are going, we’ll be out of the car soon. I’ll make you a cup of tea and find something to eat.”
“Up at the next light, make a left, and you’ll get into my complex, and on my keys is the fob to open the garage, it’s under my building. Number 3019, apartment 3,” Malcolm instructed her, keeping his voice steady. “We’ll have to let out my dog. Sonata’s good, she won’t give anyone any trouble, you’ll like her.”
“Okay,” Gemma said uncertainly. Fob, garage parking, how fancy WAS her brother’s place? But after using the fob to get in, she started to relax. Parking would be easy, at least, and a moment later she had pulled the car into the garage bay and killed the engine, heaving an enormous sigh of relief. She had officially driven in America. And she had no desire to ever do so again. “So here we are,” she said, finally relaxing. Her hands hurt. “Safe and sound.”
“Yeah. It’s a bit posh. I mean, I’m not completely loaded or anything, but I make a decent wage with the orchestra, it’s a good-paying show, steadiest work I could hope for. So ... don’t be surprised, okay?” Malcolm told her. He popped open the passenger side door and carefully, gingerly slid out. Everything was creaking and aching. This was not good.
Gemma slid out of the car. Bag, Miles reminded her crisply. She picked it up without really thinking. His commands often felt so strangely easy to listen to almost as if they weren’t commands at all. “Come on, let’s get you inside,” she said, holding her arm out to Malcolm. “From the looks of things you need a good stretch and maybe a bath.”
“I’m up on the first floor, there’s a lift, I usually take the stairs,” Malcolm told her. He took her arm. It was easier to balance. Up they went, through the door, up the stairs, into the lobby, and then up again, and he picked his way carefully up the stairs. The effort would feel better later. Number three, safe and sound. Malcolm took the keys from his sister and opened the door.
The flat was nice, the floor wood, the walls rental white, but it made the place feel spacious and clean rather than sterile. Malcolm’s furniture was second-hand, but clean -- a blue couch sat in one corner of the living room, sharing space with a black upright piano and his cello resting in its hard case. Photographs of the ocean littered the walls, and there was a massive oriental rug in the middle of the living room, dark burgundy and surprisingly lush, if obviously old. The kitchen seemed new, if unremarkable, with plenty of standard oak cabinets and standard appliances, a table nestled in the corner, and a sliding glass door to a balcony beyond. A large dog crate dominated the other part of the eat-in kitchen, and from inside the crate, an inky smudge of a dog blinked up at them, starting to wag its tail hopefully.
“There’s my girl,” Malcolm cooed, making a beeline for the dog, popping open the door for the inky smudge to emerge, a slender, almost slinky looking dog, with all the leanness of a greyhound, but the kind face of a lab. “This is Sonata. Sonata, be nice to Gemma, she out-ranks you.”
Gemma laughed. “Senior dancer in the corps de ballet, and yet I don’t live in a place half as nice,” she agreed, her expression sobering a little. What a track record. What a depressingly bleak track record. “I’ll take her out. Just make me a cup of tea, would you?”
Outside, the air was surprisingly cool, and Gemma watched the dog conduct her canine business. She couldn’t really recall the drive anymore, except the near-miss, which kept playing out over and over whenever she closed her dry eyes. God, she was tired. But she couldn’t possibly even attempt sleep until she and Mal had talked at least a little.
Perhaps you are too scrupulous, Miles suggested, have you thought about moderation, ever? Life is not an ascetic discipline.
“You know basically nothing about ballet,” Gemma muttered with a shake of her head. Tea would clear up the gray fog, surely, and help her focus.
Inside, Malcolm put on the kettle, pulled out two tea bags from a cannister on the counter, and laid it all out with the sugar bowl in arm’s reach, as well as a bottle of agave syrup. He then toed out of his shoes, went into the living room, and eased himself down on his thick yoga mat, swinging his feet up into the armchair nearest the piano. His back popped in three places as he did so, and he grunted, then sighed, letting his eyes go closed. The voice was there, singing about far off shores and grey ships to bear him hence, and Malcolm didn’t fight it for once. He just listened.
Gemma listened with half an ear to the continuing litany of things Miles thought of her scrupulosity, whatever that was. She took the dog up the stairs. You seem to almost like being unhappy. Being unhappy isn’t a virtue in and of itself. Does the whole world hold no pleasure for you?
“You know, it’s really dancing that makes me happy,” Gemma said suddenly, pausing in the hallway. “But that’s more or less over. Just shut up, okay? I’m really tired.” The dog was looking at her, now, as if she had lost her mind. Maybe she had.
The door opened, and Malcolm gingerly twisted his head in the darkened living room to look at Gemma as she came through the door. Sonata bounded over to him, whimpered a little, and flopped down next to him on the floor. “Kettle’s on,” he said, by way of greeting. At least it was useful?
“Thank God,” Gemma said sincerely. She moved to make a cup of tea, bypassing Malcolm almost entirely. “It was one hell of a trip. I am never signing up for four flights again.” She stretched, waiting for the tea to steep. “So, are you going to tell me what’s up or are we going to gossip about your health?”
“Does it qualify as gossip if I’m talking about myself?” Malcolm asked, letting her voice tell him where she was in the flat. “I thought gossip had to be about a third party not present? Or have the standards changed and no-one told me?”
“...you know, I have no idea,” Gemma said. “But in Birmingham any conversation that starts out about your dietary habits inevitably becomes about that bitch who stole your solo, do you think it’s because she was thinner? What diet is she on, anyway? You know, gossip.” He was asking rhetorical questions to avoid talking about himself, a habit Gemma had always found frustrating. “But talk to me, Mal, I’m not going to be awake too much longer.”
“I don’t want to keep you up,” Malcolm said. The singing was increasingly insistent, and harder to ignore. He wanted to pound his head against the floor. It was a person in there. That was what Justine had said. A person.
What else were you expecting? the voice asked, breaking off in mid-song only to catch it back again a moment later, barely missing a beat.
“It’s bound to be complicated, and I’ve already given you hell just by making you drive in the States,” Malcolm finished aloud, ignoring the indignant huff of a question.
“But I have tea now,” Gemma protested. “So why don’t you give me the rundown? What’s complicated, exactly?” She came out and sat on the floor, near where he had settled. “Does this have to do with that book you keep freaking out about every time I mention?”
“I didn’t send it,” Malcolm insisted again. He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. His toes twitched in the chair. “I think ... I don’t think anyone sends them, exactly. I think it’s rather that they come to you.”
“...okay...?” Gemma asked, no more certain than before. “So you do know what I’m talking about. Do you have one too, or something?”
“Yeah,” he allowed finally. “Yeah, I have one, too. It came to me about a month ago.” His voice was very quiet, and he turned his head again to stare up at the ceiling. “I just ... I’m going to say a few things, and I want you to promise me, on everything that’s holy -- on your best pair of pointe shoes -- that you won’t just write me off as nutters right away, okay? Please?”
“Mal,” Gemma said, looking at him. Gently, he’s nervous, Miles chided her. “Mal,” she said again, her voice softer this time. “Have I ever doubted you? Ever? You told me you were going to walk and play the cello again, and maybe Mum didn’t believe you, maybe Mum said that was insane, but by God, I did. Unless you’re about to tell me you’ve been drowning kittens in your bathtub, nothing you say will ever make me doubt you. I swear on my autograph of Margot Fonteyn.”
“The holy of holies,” Malcolm intoned, a little smile playing at the corner of his lips. He sobered again, staring up at the dark ceiling, and his voice was very soft when he spoke again, as if being too loud would damage something fragile, or make his words have the wrong impact. “Sometimes ... maybe even loads of times ... I hear a voice in my head. It sings and it talks and it’s got a personality. And it’s linked to that book. Because other people have it, too. Not the one in specific I have. But ones like it. And maybe you do, too.”
“...oh, Mal,” Gemma said softly, some odd relief flooding through her, and an odd well of sadness, “hearing voices isn’t that weird. A lot of people have benign voices. I’ve done some reading. It’s not such a bad sign. Apparently it just sometimes happens. Especially to creatives. I don’t know if they all get weird books in the mail but you’re probably okay.”
“Have you looked at the book? Look at the book, Gems. You have to look at the book,” Malcolm insisted. “Things appear there. It’s like a bloody text message with a pen and paper.”
“...I actually have trouble reading it,” Gemma admitted after a long, tense moment. “Random bits are in Latin, is that normal?”
Nothing’s wrong with Latin, Miles seemed to feel the need to say.
“Er, I haven’t had any Latin,” Malcolm said thoughtfully. “But I suppose if people’s voices speak different languages, then maybe that would come up in the books?”
“...yeah, he definitely--” Gemma paused, then laughed. “No! You first! Who is it who sings?”
“I don’t know,” Malcolm admitted after a long pause. “He hasn’t told me his name. He just ... sings. And speaks some weirdo language that wants to be Welsh after a one night stand with something Slavic, I don’t know.”
“You know, that sounds fascinating,” Gemma admitted. “Why don’t you just ask his name? It probably won’t hurt. It might be nice to know.”
“I ask, but he doesn’t tell me anything. He’s a weirdo, I swear to God, Gems,” Malcolm sighed, rubbing his temples. “And it gives me migraines, all of it.”
“So that’s what causes the migraines? Him talking?” Gemma asked. She frowned a little. Miles had definitely never caused a migraine, only the normal pain-in-the-ass sort of headaches she associated with arguing in general.
“He gets loud and he sings, and sometimes, it all just ... culminates in migraines. I just take the over the counter stuff and get on with things, but he can be really intense,” Malcolm said. He paused. “I don’t think he’s normal human, I really don’t. He talks about me like I’m another bloody species.”
“...well, what is he, then?” Gemma asked, her curiosity starting to increase. “I think Miles is definitely human, just... uh, old.”
I’m not that old, Miles protested, I haven’t even gone gray yet. And I’m younger than Godfrey was, and he was hardly old himself.
“...uh,” Gemma said awkwardly, “I think anyway.”
“Miles, is it?” Malcolm asked, his expression perking up in interest. “Is he ... is he from something or somewhere or ...?”
“...well, you know, I don’t know,” Gemma admitted. “He just kind of... I don’t know, he says he’s from France, I guess. Not that you’d know, when he’s not paying attention he mumbles in Latin. And a few other things.”
“You were always rubbish at Latin,” Malcolm said with a little smile, something of childhood playfulness coming back.
“Hey, I learned French instead, I went into dance, not science," Gemma retorted.
Your French isn't very good, either, Miles replied, sounding amused.
“...is your mystery man also opinionated, too?” Gemma continued. “This guy doesn’t know what a telephone is but has opinions on... oh, everything.”
Malcolm snorted. “He’s ... snarky, really, in a way. It’s like English isn’t his first language, he sounds terribly posh all the time, sometimes bemused, sometimes like I’m the most baffling thing he’s ever seen. Mostly, he misses the ocean, I think. It sounds like he wants to go die at sea or something like that, it’s just so damn sad, really.”
“...that is sad,” Gemma said, her expression sobering. “That’s awful, in fact. Why would somebody want that? It’s probably some kind of cry for help.” She realized suddenly where she had heard those words before. It sounded like Miles. Disturbing like Miles. Was she saying the things he’d say now, instead of just hearing them?
“I don’t know,” Malcolm admitted with a shrug. His back popped and he winced. “There’s a key, it apparently goes to some kind of door at a hotel. That’s what I’ve been told. It might have answers. It makes me nervous, personally. But it might have answers.”
“Oh, the key,” Gemma said, sounding surprised. She was looking at the bottom of her cup of tea. “Yeah, there is that, isn’t there? I didn’t know what it was for. Miles wouldn’t say. I don’t think he knows. He doesn’t know much. Doesn’t stop him from having opinions, though.”
“Never stops anyone, does it?” Malcolm asked wryly, then he sighed, trying to sink into the mat, to get his spine to align just so, shifting his hips hopefully, looking for the right combination. “I think I’m going to lay out here for a while. I’ve got a performance tomorrow night, I need to be in something like fighting condition.”
“...yeah, I should get some sleep, I guess,” Gemma agreed uncertainly. “If you need anything, wake me up, okay? Well, if you want a foot massage, forget it, that can wait until I’m awake.” She smiled at him uncertainly. “Everything is going to be okay, you know,” she said softly. “We’ll figure out the headaches, and the deal with the keys, and... all of it.”
“I know,” Malcolm said simply, and with unwavering faith. “We always figure things out, don’t we? Somehow, we always manage.” He paused, and his expression turned heartfelt, his eyes large in his face and utterly sincere. “I’m really glad you came, Gems.”
“...me too,” Gemma said softly, smiling at him. Damn him and his puppy dog eyes. Damn him knowing the secret doorway into her sympathy, being her spoiled baby brother. But not really. She leaned over, ruffling his hair with spontaneous affection. “Take a hot soak, Mal, those always help you. I’ll see you when I’m awake again.”
“Okay. Take your time. I’m debating the merits of yoga in the morning, but if I leave, I’ll leave you a note if you’re not up, okay?” Malcolm said, smiling at the hair ruffle. “And a spare key, too. I’d offer you a map, but, well. There’s Google?”
“Just leave me your internet password,” Gemma replied, laughing. “I’ll see you in the morning, Mal.” She stood up, stretching a little before she moved away from him, towards the spare bedroom, careful to step over the dog with light feet. It was going to be a weird night, she could tell already. Mal had a voice of his own, the book was some kind of magic, and they were not the only ones. Well, what was the worst that could happen by investigating?