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wiped ([info]ex_alluringl235) wrote in [info]anon_rpg,
@ 2012-06-20 15:59:00

Previous Entry  Add to memories!  Tell a Friend!  Next Entry
Entry tags:!06/1981, !complete, !thread, c: hestia jones, c: regulus black, p: axie, p: jackie

Who: Hestia Jones and Regulus Black
What: Reunion.
Where: Knockturn, then her home.
When: 20/6
Rating: Ridiculous (PG-13)
Status: Closed and complete.




He wasn't coming back.

It wasn't possible. No, it wasn't, not at all and she knew that waiting was just going to make that feeling worse - her stomach was in knots and for a moment, Hestia felt like she was going to throw up, everywhere, possibly with a few hearts and rainbows stuffed in because her world was just wonderful; funny how days can be absolutely perfect before you saw a ghost (that disappeared). Funny, funny, how you could also find yourself sitting on the stoop in Knockturn Alley, being stared at by two men who you most certainly thought that you were available for a price. She sneers but doesn't speak; instead, Hestia pulls herself off of the stoop, brushes off her backside and slips them a friendly gesture before taking off, her hands tangled up in her hair.

But he had those eyes-
That frown was so familiar-
NO. No, no, no; but her eyes were red.

She started to run through the alley, her arms now crossed against her chest like a child who forgot their coat at home. She was just tired, exhausted, ate something funny; there was no reason good enough for what just happened! It took her twenty minutes to get home. Ten seconds to round the corner. A split-moment for Regulus to become aware of her presence across the street and fix her with an unwavering gaze, unblinking, face a Viennese mask; wiped blank.

He raises from her doorsteps quite dignified, back straight and posture postcard-perfect… and waits for her. Calmly. Without a word. Waits for her to cross the street with his hands inside his pockets, leaning his hip against the railing in such a casual posture that one may believe it was perfectly natural for him to be there, doing evening visits to her door every Wednesday, as if it was their thing.

But, you see, Hestia Jones and Regulus Black never had a thing of any sort.

"Jones." He acknowledges, and the word breaks apart the illusion that somehow, she might just be a touch mental. That somehow, she might have been driven just a touch around the bent over the past--

"May I come in?" His tone is extremely proper. His voice is smooth, and calm; unhurried. As it has always been. He is very polite, and he refrains from mentioning I knocked and no one was home. There are many, many things Regulus refrains from doing, really. Like asking her not to burst into hysterics. Like explaining why he had disapparated, and yet chose fit to return. Like his thoughts.

Hestia stares at him, not because he's there (or is it?) but because she was watching as she crossed the street to her stoop, recognizing instantly that hair, the posture, the way that his clothing fit - there was no doubt. She could not run, she could not sprint - she contains herself in a strangled and tortured gate. Move too fast, he'll not be there, as he's still an illusion.

She cannot answer him, so there she stands - ten feet away from him with her hands loose at her side, an awestruck gaze meeting his cool demeanor; her mind was not sending the proper signals. She was not computing, this was not computing, and if he thought that she could even gather the proper resources to properly freak out on him, he was surprisingly incorrect. Hestia Jones often has mini-meltdowns but this, this moment, it is not even begging for a minor dent - this is far, far beyond that.

Vaguely, past the blue of Hestia`s eyes and the expressions running wild across her face, Regulus realizes that he is doing a shitload of catching up with acquaintances, nowadays, and perhaps more than he likes. It seems that one is trapped in a maze of relationships even when one is supposed to be dead. It's hilarious, because he had always thought that Death should be stronger than social niceties, than in Death you could shove your middle finger into the face of those terribly boring dinners and soirees, that Death would cast some sort of veil over you -- now you see them, now you don't. But apparently, life is stronger than Death.

Or it is simply his own choices.

(Regulus tells himself that he really had no choice in this, and that bothers him.
He also half-expects her to go into hysterics.

Why not?)

After what seems like forever, Hestia turns to her door and unlocks it, not a word uttered to him. She sighs and then turns to him, blue eyes flooded with a mix of anger, relief and something else that she'd not try to put a finger on.

"Of course you may, Regulus," she whispered, holding the door open for him.
Hestia still does not believe.

---

"You have to help me understand," she mumbled softly, brushing hair out of her eyes. It was a sign of tension, definitely not that she wanted to see him more clearly. "It may not be pleasing, but I need to understand, Regulus."

"I missed you so much," whispers, all whispers but they are desperate to understand. He is alive, he is not dead and he is in her home.

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[info]writtenblack
2012-06-20 09:39 pm UTC (link)
Regulus doesn't say what is on his mind, doesn't say that he simply does not believe it could work that way, that it is impossible for it to work that way, that he believes that if there is a God, he is playing dice -- and that the dice are loaded. He doesn't enumerate his mistakes for her eyes to see, and he certainly doesn't mention sodding bits of souls and all that rot that he carries around on him every now and again. He doesn't say that he does not believe that rest will fix him. That they were probably not talking about the same person anymore. He pretends he doesn't hear her, as if her words had been part of the great onslaught of silence that he was currently unwilling to break. And for once, he holds his tongue not because he would have something to gain from it (except perhaps a moment of silence where he does not have to hear her righteous indignation) -- but to spare her feelings about it.

He had always figured Jones to be a bit of a sparrow.
It used to be extremely annoying.

Children throw rocks at sparrows, because children are cruel.
The only redeeming quality to sparrows is that they are usually quick enough to avoid the blows.

Instead of speaking, Regulus reaches for his silver case of smokes, takes one, and offers her one out of common decency. He expects her to refuse. They're flavoured. Cherry.

"And you, Jones? Do you need rest, or is your life... /beautiful/?"

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[info]ex_alluringl235
2012-06-20 09:41 pm UTC (link)
Much to her own surprise, Hestia takes one and holds her hand out for his lighter, her eyes following every. single. movement. that they make. It's almost like he's an endangered animal, except he's one that didn't want to be found. It's fine, she says, it's fine. Who cares what they all say about them, about this. Shit, she didn't even know what she was saying about this other than her friend was losing his fucking mind, (as if he ever had it) and she wanted to console him (which was not realistic) so instead she could sit there with a cigarette in her hand and wonder exactly when he was going to lose it.

Everyone loses it, she says to herself.
Even he will, one day she will. They can sit in separate rooms in a house.
It won't be their house, it'll be countries apart.
Granted he doesn't get his stupid arse killed.

Regulus Black is only good at avoiding. She could get it printed on a shirt and give it to him for his birthday. Maybe he would enjoy it? The thought made Hestia laugh a little and she shook her head at him, a tiny shrug given in response.

"I'm fine. Life is beautiful, it's not perfect but.." Fuck you! Life IS beautiful. Because he's not dead, even if he appreciates nothing, even if he doesn't appreciate her there, he's alive, well and not entirely mad.

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[info]writtenblack
2012-06-20 09:48 pm UTC (link)
Their hands almost touch. Just an inch to the side, and it would be enough. Regulus carefully avoids it, and pretends it is because he is inspecting the case for damage, as if her touch may have contaminated it.

But he is a gentleman; he lights the fag for her.

He is surprised. But on the outside, he raises a single brow, a tad sardonically, as if he expects her to take a single drag and choke on it, chokechokechoke until she throws up a lung right there on the floor, and maybe somehow her organs are tangled and it rips out her beating heart too -- splat; how...unsanitary-- and maybe then, maybe then she will be able to understand something, anything about him.

His grey eyes fix on the tip of that fag, as if it held answers. And for a moment, his mind erases the here and now, and shifts to another moment that-is-yet-to-pass, to words he had mentally spoken to Sirius but never really uttered.


'What is it that you don't understand? You know exactly why I did it. Because he had chosen me. Because I was one of His Chosen. You don't know what it is like to be chosen. You don't understand. You were chosen. And yet you chose to let go!' YouFUCKERyoubloodyGITyoustuckmeinhereandIloveyouandIhateyouanditisYOURFAULT.


He's sure he would speak those words, one day, throw them into his face and rub them in, just as he threw that One Letter into the Dark Lord's face. Why he is thinking of a bloke, when he's with a pretty girl, Regulus does not know.

Hestia is not a girl; Hestia is a sparrow, named Jones.

He would never admit to being attached to that sparrow, in a way. You see, you become attached even to dogs, if they stick around long enough. Regulus repeats that in his mind, and it lingers over the mantra of it'snotmyfaultif--- He could adapt the above explanation and serve it to her, as well. But he doesn't. Instead, he...

"I didn't know you smoked." He offers. What he means is how much did you change? and how can I not know? I thought I could read everything you, you used to be simple to read.

He lights his own, and he takes a long hit from it. Slowly, very slowly. Keeps it in for a moment. Then exhales. Because Regulus is good at avoiding, and he doesn't want to talk about it much. But it's better than talking about himself. "Why is life good, Jones?"

Why is /your/ life good?

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[info]ex_alluringl235
2012-06-20 09:51 pm UTC (link)
"It's not a big deal."

For the record, Hestia Jones is not a smoker; she doesn't care for the taste of it or how it makes her feel like she's going to die on the floor, or how it makes her clothes smell when she gets home. But see, when she gets around people that she wants to impress, she'll do anything just to fit in, even for just a moment. When he lights her cigarette, she inhales and then tries her best to not choke as she took in the cancerous substance, his fix. Her eyes had smoke in them but she didn't even wince. See, Hestia Jones is not a smoker but she can be an actress.

Muggles have awards for the music that they make and they had them for the movies they played in; would he award her for her hard work?

Was she working hard? Auror training was another acting project. She should be getting paid for this.

If he ever said she was pretty to her face, Hestia would laugh at him, it could almost hurt her feelings because she had heard him say it in her head so many times over the years, but see, when you tell yourself that someone says something to you, it doesn't make it true: it makes it a delusion and delusions are dangerous because they seem real.

Hestia thinks to reach out to him and touch him, because that's real.
It would bother him and she knows it.

It's so tempting that she almost tries, almost reaches out to him but holds her hands close.
Everything about her life is so complicated today.

"It's not great, it's fine."

Inhale, hold in. Exhale, acting.

"I've met someone,"

Inhale, hold in. Exhale, check for reaction.

"He might like me. Pretty aces." Except the words are drawn out and she's not so convinced about any of them. She told him for his reaction, one she wasn't waiting to see. She knows how she would react. She would deny her reactions to him and then wish him the best. You'll be so happy, you deserve to be with someone, you guys are great together. Hestia Jones would want to rip out that bitch's throat and throw it across the room because she would never know what it was like to wait for someone like this.

Especially when you, well, it didn't matter now, right?
And she didn't like him, it was just acting.

Acting until it was true.

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brb, need to make fooood! c/p'ing later. ♥
[info]writtenblack
2012-06-20 09:57 pm UTC (link)
Regulus's eyes are a constant steel grey.

Unlike his brother's, they do not shift in nuances; they are not poetic; they do not predict the bloody weather. Grey is a very neutral colour. Or perhaps it is all colours at once, because all colours upon fading turn to grey and that is why his eyes can reflect emotions, after all. But Regulus's eyes are closed, so they do not, he listens to her explanation of why the world is ~wonderful~ (supposedly, he does it for the imagery. bad choice.)

He is midway with torturing his lungs with another hit when his brain makes sense of the words spoken. At the back of his mind, neurons fire to provide him with an acceptable reaction to them. Possibly 'oh', since oh is a very neutral, unassuming little sound. It says absolutely bloody nothing, and isn't that fitting, because there is absolutely bloody nothing he can say-- That is the plan. Instead, Regulus chokes.

Severely.

And very inelegantly.
(which makes him look more like a boy that he has in over two years.)

But when he recovers (and recover he does; pity, that might have been a very ironic way to die) he pretends none of that happened, and regards her for a moment. His mouth gathers acid.

"You mean you shag him."

The words are a bullet through the silence. Quick. Precise. Possibly deadly, if aimed right, but Regulus did not shoot to kill in this one instance (in any instance; he's not a murderer. He can murder, but the capacity of it does not define him. That, he tells himself, is the difference between him and--)

Do you hate me now, Bella? Would you hunt me? Would you kill me? Would Evan? Would--

Regulus Black is cruel because he knows that words are a double-edged knife, and a knife was only created for one task, and that is the only thing it knows how to do: to cut. So he swings it in the opposite direction because Merlin forbid he would hand it to her to cut an artery and start spilling his blood and sentiments all over the walls. Regulus should be given a medal for his compulsive avoidance. Unfortunately, he cannot be applauded for a performance no one has yet noticed -- because it being unnoticed is the whole bloody point.

He straightens, and gives her his best sardonic smile, and all of a sudden he's thrown back into the past, when everything was easy, and he could be both impertinent and polite all he pleased, because there was no consequence.

"Who?"

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[info]ex_alluringl235
2012-06-20 10:29 pm UTC (link)
She could have almost felt bad for him in that moment, in fact, she did. Hestia almost turned to him and scrambled for an apology.

It was a joke
There is no one
I wanted y-

But she couldn't, no, not really. Not after that choke that he let loose and now she was almost scared, worried, as if she opened a can of fucking snakes that were going to come out, coil around her neck and choke her slowly. She's unsure now, is she going to make it, no. Are they going to be fine?

She turns to him with the most unwritten face and scowls, flicking a bit of ash into the palm of her hand.

"It's none of your business," she decides, almost trying to shrug it off but she can't, you see, because now Hestia is the one acting like she doesn't care when she does. She does care, Regulus. She cares so much that she could rip out her heart and show you all of the little pieces she gave to you when she was younger.

This piece was when I was sixteen and you almost smiled because I didn't kill that plant.
This piece was when I saw you walking in the corridors when I was fourteen and you moved just perfectly.
This piece is for the way your mouth moves when you talk.

This piece was the one I forgot to save for myself.

She almost had it down, almost had the reply when her voice cracked, just a little bit, and she turned to him with such sad, pathetic eyes. She didn't even know she was making them but she wanted to reach out to him and tell him that she didn't care, it wasn't important.

Forget it, please. It's not important.

But he wouldn't let her avoid him, and as she started to speak, she straightened her back and played with a strand of her hair, blue eyes fixated on the bridge of his nose and then the so delicate way that it met the rest of his skin.

"No one you know."

"His name is Macnair."

She hated to even admit it, but she did and it made her heart heavy, the knowledge that they weren't really dating, that it was, in fact, just shagging.

"He doesn't love me. It could be over soon enough, if it needed to be." It was a lie. It was all a lie.

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[info]writtenblack
2012-06-20 11:02 pm UTC (link)
Regulus does not speak, not for a long moment. He does not question her affirmation, that set tone. In his mind, there is no question that she is. Simple. Easy. Why? Because--- The reasons do not line up on his tongue, thus he does not speak them. Simple. Easy. No complications. What he does do is uncross his legs and stand right up, his movements brisk and precise and he knows exactly what he is doing when he walks away from her and turns to the side so he doesn't have to be subjected to that pathetic little kicked-puppy expression. Regulus hates anything that could be termed 'pathetic', didn't you know? He claimed it quite openly, quite often. If you refuse to acknowledge certain things, they are subdued by time. They are never erased, but much like a photograph, they fade with time, fading into a blur of sepia and grey.

The name jolts him out of his thoughts. Like ice down his spine. Like an electric current -- and he actually jolts and turns to look at her, as if for the first time really look at her, his gaze intent. The name is not unfamiliar (you see, all else aside, it also happens that Macnair used to be seeker just prior to him; life is filled to the brim with irony and supposed coincidences), and it is for all of the (terribly) wrong reasons. Chances are slim, but of course it could be someone else. It is just a family name. Cousins, distant relatives, what have you. Regulus does not take the chance, because he does not play dice.

He does want to reach for her then --reach and grab her, painfully, nails digging into the pale flesh of her arms as he's violently shaking some note of bloody sense into her-- but the want is absurd, thus he does not. Instead, he returns to stand right in front of her, extremely close (and it is weird) and stares. her. down. with the full-force of his arrogance, at its worst.

"Allow me to be the first to felicitate you on the discontinuity of your relationship, starting this very instant."

His tone is snappy; unkind. Authoritarian, even, as if he had any right to exercise authority over her. (It is laughable because he would never dream of treating Narcissa in the same manner; but, you see, he is actually very fond of Narcissa, whereas--) If words could materialize into a slap across the face, then this would be it.

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[info]ex_alluringl235
2012-06-21 01:59 am UTC (link)
Everything was difficult, this was easily no exception and as she watched him move away, Hestia only felt her stomach drop to the floor (almost literally, as her stomach made such a terrible clenching feeling she thought that she was sick). Self-containment was one of her strong suits, but only sometimes, like when she was in training and someone hexed her. His callous disposition only made her worry more and Hestia wasn't great at that- worrying caused her to second guess, doubt and inevitably become incredibly uneasy, especially when she tried to outsmart her opponent. He was not having it and that made her even more unsure of what he was thinking (which was for the best- had she access to his mind it wouldn't have been pretty and she would have likely left him there ages ago, the girl who couldn't just stop her mouth).

Had she known what was going to happen in the next few seconds, Hestia would have left him. She would, to be honest, just as happily leave him in that room by himself with his lack of compassion and complete disregard for feelings but she couldn't, see, because his sparrow was trapped. He had her stuck in place like a woodland creature in a trap. For the record, nothing about him is attractive to her right now and for the first time, possibly ever, she doesn't want to be near this person in front of her. Before he even spoke she felt her throat close up and by the end of his sentence she not only felt like she was going to cry, for the first time in her adult life, Hesita Jones cried in front of him.

However, she was hard pressed to find out what kind of tears they were. The initial rush was fear but her feelings of regret quickly turned to confusion and then anger. How dare he! Hestia is livid now and uses her shoe to put out the cigarette he gave her, fingers placing it on the end table to her left. She stood and stared back at him, arms crossed against her chest and eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she hissed, tilting her head back in retaliation. Regardless of the fact that Regulus could make her, Hestia would never let him have that power over her. Absolutely not.

She wants to tell him that he’s just jealous and that he had his chance a long time ago to have that possession of her but the thought of saying so just makes her more angry and she winces, flinching away from him and his eyes. “You could have changed it so long ago, Regulus. It’s not your choice now.” Her voice is grave and eyes narrowed but she waits. Hestia would have welcomed his shaking, because with her, there’s always been a little bit of pain when she thought about him. “I don’t think you really know.”

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[info]writtenblack
2012-06-21 02:04 am UTC (link)
Jealous?

Perhaps, but only in the way a child is jealous of another playing with their toy, afraid they could break it, afraid that somehow that foreign touch would taint it, change it, so much so that it was no longer his toy but another's. But Jones is not a toy; Jones is… a tad of a pet. Not important enough to be a familiar (not important enough to be too familiar with), but entertaining enough to keep around for company. ...That is a terrible, terrible thing to say, and Regulus tries his best to imply it with every single one of his gestures, and tries his very best to believe it, too.

'Not something you'd know about, the friends thing.'
…Perhaps he didn't.

Her words make something click at the back of his mind, like a puzzle piece falling into place, but the meaning of it still eludes him. It is both frustrating and familiar, and he chooses not to linger upon it because it makes no bloody sense, leaving them to linger at the back of his skull, into the one folder that he promises to organize later… but never touches again.

And yet it is her tears that bother him and he is hard-pressed to come into contact with them -- as if they were some sort of viral infection that could make him ill. Most of the time, Regulus is perfectly healthy and perfectly stable in his head, and he would like to keep that stability. Instead, his hands come to rest upon her shoulders, as if it was natural. For them, it wasn't.
He tries, tries, tries so hard to find the right words.

The room does not breathe.
It does not stir.
It does not move.

Regulus takes a breath, and finds that the words he exhales are…

Jones, Hestia, sparrow --

(you have to-)

"..Trust me."

(on this)

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[info]ex_alluringl235
2012-06-21 02:13 am UTC (link)
Hestia isn't sure what happens first, but for some reason she cannot speak, she cannot look, she cannot breathe. The only thing that she knows is that she really enjoy the way his pants fall and that she cannot look up. She feels forced back into her dream where she can't touch him because she knows better, knows that touching him is just off limits but yet, she's almost positive that he's touching her.

No, not almost, he is and his eyes are on hers- she can feel them burning into her skin and they are--

watching her
taking it in
what is he thinking

She looks up at him, for the first time she really seeing how tired and different he really is. She can see it, it's there and Hestia raises her head to be equal to him but bows almost immediately, searching so deeply for something to say. Oddly enough, her eyes are dry and she's standing there like a tree rooted in place- There was no jarring her and the way that her eyes closed when he spoke would have been a lovely picture, if anyone else was there in the room,

If anyone wanted to witness this.
She wasn't even sure if she was experiencing this.

His breath was warm and sweet with smoke as he spoke and Hestia couldn't help but lean forward cautiously, curiously, into his words and then is so torn.

Trust him.

That's what he wanted from her? To trust him? That was such an unfair request! He had lied to her for weeks, actually - to everyone, and there he was making demands while telling her to trust him? Her heart was sinking in her chest and she wanted to cry, she wants to throw herself into his arms and absolutely cry but holds herself steady, taking a ragged breath before she speaks.

"Then trust me," she says before raising her hands to his elbows, taking a very shallow step in. Her eyes flew open and she stared at him so steadily, so sure of this that she wanted to move in closer but stops herself because anything more could detonate them. She does not speak, she does not breathe. Hestia Jones exists.

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[info]writtenblack
2012-06-21 02:27 am UTC (link)
The touch nearly makes him flinch (he doesn't, and it is only his eyes that become unreadable, as if he is bracing himself for-- 'as if' is a superfluous term, at this juncture). He doesn't blink. And yet abruptly out of the blue wholly unexpectedly, something twists in his gut and gives rise to a nearly irrepressible urge to stumble back, to split, to move away from her as quickly as humanly possible -- and really, it is unjustified because Jones is certainly not poking a wand into his throat (his throat still constricts, and he tastes ash at the back of his mouth. What do you call this kind of --?)

But Regulus remains perfectly immobile.
And perfectly rigid.

He could have been a statue made of granite.
A boulder. A wall. A blank slate.

He is not sure if the touch was meant to bring him closer, or to somehow signal that she means to push him away; he just knows it is supposed to do something, mean something, so just to be contradictory, Regulus does nothing. He is unsure where he had dropped the fag, or when; for all he knows, it may be burning holes into some unprotected surface. He doesn't care. Of course, Regulus does not care about a lot of things, and he certainly does not care about Jones, or how to spare her feelings.

Don't look at me like that -- my heart, I only use it for myself. (How could you--). I probably love myself more than anything, anyone else, now (is that true? no, it's the truthTruththeONEBIGtruth, because otherwise, it would be admitting to...)

He remains like that for a long moment, until everything stills and becomes cold again. And then, he moves (for a split-second, he considers taking her hands and pushing them back into her chest, wordlessly admonishing her for her misbehaviour, as if she was a child.

He doesn't.)

Instead, he takes a step back, enough to separate himself from her completely (and it is funny, because Regulus does not like retreating, and this speaks louder than any gesture he had made until then -- except, perhaps, when he...), to regain that balance, that distance, and it is only proper, really, so fucking proper that his mother would be proud.

I pray and hope that you will not hate me.

"Trust you? About Macnair? No. "

Regulus also happens to play dumb, most of the time.
It is extremely convenient, you know.

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[info]ex_alluringl235
2012-06-21 02:40 am UTC (link)
For the record, there is no smile, no march of victory or feeling of relief on her face when he lets her touch him. No, when he stands there and stares at with eyes that speak absolutely nothing, Hestia just simply looks at him and frowns, her breath pinching a bit as she really realizes what it is that she's, no, he's done and then her stomach starts to flip over and over and over again, desperately trying to concrete herself while she still has a loose touch (because that's what it is, a touch, one touch, it's.. No,) on him, mindlessly playing with the fabric on his shirt with her index finger.

It is not a sign of affection, it is merely that she has to ground herself. Down, down, down. Steady, come down, Hestia.

Just as she is starting to consider breathing, his movement causes a catch in her throat and she looks down as he moves away. Her hands move to her hair and so carefully avoid where he touched her; she was not trying to contain the feeling of his hands on her body, she was just trying to make them work in ways that existed outside of, well, them. This does not work, for the record, and she tries to just push it aside, handle it later, away from him and where she can be alone in her bed without complication or expectations.

Complications you put on yourself, her mind reminds her and she is not thanking it; her inner monologue is speaking now and it is telling her that she is stupid, foolish, stupid Hestia, making mistakes, never strong, stupid. She's shaking her head now, weaving her fingers in and out of unruly strands. The argument between heart and mind is starting to take over and she tries to stop it, the bantering that she is so capable of doing with herself but it keeps beating her down, pushing her further and further into the floor until she feels two centimeters tall. Her eyes lift to his just then and she shakes her head so sadly (if that is even the right word, because she's still angry but amazed that he.. He allowed---, it's irrelevant, Hestia. IRRELEVANT) because she thinks that he's missed what she was saying to him about the trust, about the..

It's irrelevant.

"I'll leave him," she says after just moments, a hand drifting to her shoulder where his hand was just moments before. Her mouth opens in a soft frown and she jams her eyes shut, wondering why he was demanding her and why it felt like.. Nevermind. Stop, please, stop.

"Why can't someone care about me, Regulus?"

Why can't you.

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[info]writtenblack
2012-06-21 02:50 am UTC (link)
Regulus is all up in arms before she even starts speaking. He's on a crusade on this, you see, because he knows, he knows that his wants --for once?-- are aligned with both the good thing and the right thing. Aligned so perfectly that they overlap, black lines of ink on a piece of white paper. Perfect correlation. A hundred percent. Well, there is the error factor, fine, okay, that is true, there is an error term and it is not a perfect 10-out-of-bloody-10, but it is still pretty damn close, if you round it up. (The error factor is-- ha. not telling. not to you, not to anyone. what do you think this is, an open exhibition? a blatant flaunting of-- what a mind you have. so uncivilized. tsk. voyeur. )

His fingers twitch and he wishes he still had that fag, just so he could toy with it and have something to do. Sirius might have messed up his own bloody hair, and looked like a sod (okay, fine, that is the bitterness speaking! not. jealous.) Regulus does not have a nervous tic, thus he has no outlet for his feelings.

So of course, he begins to defend his righteous perspective right away, opens his mouth to speak right before hers and he is just saying-- "He is not what you--" but the words are cut from his tongue, as if knifed to pieces (note: they do not wither, they do not fade slowly into a confused silence. They stop. Abruptly.)

He stares at her so vividly as if he was attempting both wandless and wordless magic in one heartbeat. In truth, he looks taken aback. Severely. What?

w.h.a.t.?

. . .

Two (hundred) heartbeats later, he realizes that he had not imagined her saying those two words, and thus, he invents a tic for himself (otherwise he would-- gobloodymental). He thrusts his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and paces a few steps. Tap tap tap. The soles of his shoes click against the floor, rhythmically.

"That someone is not going to be Macn--he is incapable of--" Well if God will not pass judgement (and for the record, this is ironic, because Regulus does not believe in any God), then why should he not be the one to do so? It is not his right, not his right at all to judge the extent to which another being is capable of love or affection, given how little he has ever given or received (oh, sod off Evans Potter, that does not imply a lack of capacity, it's just that he leaves them to rust like metal in the rain; it's a choice).

Tap. tap. tap.

But the fact that it is not his right does not faze him.

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[info]ex_alluringl235
2012-06-21 03:09 am UTC (link)
Before she knows what is coming out of her mouth or the tone that it has taken, Hestia is taking a step toward him with her arms crossed stiffly against her chest, her blue eyes wide in frustration. He is insufferable because he cannot just tell her what she wants to know, even if it isn't a logical question, she wants the answer, Regulus.

She gets her answer in the most horriffic look she's ever gotten from him.

In an instant her chest contracts but she ignites, her mouth further opening in a smile, the fakest one that she can give him. Her gaze is dull, almost distracted now because she allows herself to slip back into a dream;

they are lying in the field
his hands are in her hair
she can't move


It makes her feel light and she forces herself out, teeth lowering to her bottom lip. Hestia chews it and looks at him more intensely now, daring him to continue as he considers her complaint, her needless plea to know why it is that he won't allow her to be cared for by someone else. She can't help but wonder why he cares, why it's important. The hair on her arm is raised and she is back in the field back with him now, trying to stay in this world, trying to stay in front of him.

Regulus Black was a vapor, but she had him here, she had him, her best friend, he was back.

Stop it, Jones.
wake up, jones
but i can't move my shoulders, regulus

awake now, jones?

The definition of waiting is not lost on Hestia and she quells with what meager patience she has left to rebuttal. As awful as it sounds, as horriffic as it may seem, Hestia is taking utmost feral curiosity in his reactions; the hands in his pockets, tapping feet pacing the floor. It's outstanding to her that she could even have this effect on him, though she reminds herself that this is, of course, irrelevant.

"That I what, Regulus? What is it that I am only able to attract men who are incapable of loving me? Caring? That you don't think it can be him, and you know him so well, and you expect me to trust you. Trust, trust goes two ways, Reg. TWO WAYS." Her voice is rough, desperate and above all, bare all. With another impassive (but who are we kidding, Hestia is never impassive) look, she holds her hands out to him in silent need.

"Why can't you just tell me, Regulus?".... "Why?"

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[info]writtenblack
2012-06-21 03:24 am UTC (link)
"Don't call me that!" Regulus snaps, and he barely hides the layer of ice underneath his words, as polite people would. He bloody hates nicknames, and he loathes the fact that she sees fit to employ his so recklessly (just like--), in this situation, when it was such a rarity in the past.

Princes and Kings don't ply to demands made by half-bloods (get it? 'little king'? ha, ha, so very witty -- but Regulus does take his namesake very seriously. He takes his family very seriously, which is why he is so easy to rile up, which is why he really does want to punch Sirius in the teeth when he spits out such bullshit about them and when he pretends he has a better, surrogate family. Regulus knows that his brother is baiting him; openly. Regulus replies with sarcasm, but sometimes he ends up punching walls as an aftermath. The Blacks were all really quite screwed up, and screwed over. A lovely family.

Regulus has not seen mother for almost two years.
Perhaps this is why it hurt so much. To be asked if…

Regulus has seen obligations. It was hard not to, because they have all slapped him in the face, all at once, and for a boy who was used to getting his way -- even if second in line for so long -- he felt damn furious that he had to comply to anything. And she is asking him to do the same. Comply. Bend. Answer. They are words with the same meaning.

He refuses.

Hestia is the sort of person who would read the lines he writes and say 'I'm sorry for you.'
He is the sort of writer who would stab his quill in her eye in retribution.

His teeth clench so hard that pain jolts through his jaw, unadulterated and sharp, and he doesn't stop pacing, changing course and coming to her, forcing that damned hand down.

Too much touching, today.
It seems so.. unsanitary.

But this is not the same sort of touch.
Its violence is restrained, but barely; his anger, too, it--

"You don't know what you're asking, you stupid chit."

Regulus is angry, very angry. But it is not because she is probing at his thoughts; he has those in safe-keeping. He is angry because -- how could she, how dare she, what nerve she has to ask for him to sign her death sentence, by telling her -- plainly, openly -- the damned truth.

(A truth he is not certain that she (is willing) able to believe.
Oh, and by the way, you are shagging a sadist and a murderer. Felicitations on your /most/ excellent selection. )

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[info]ex_alluringl235
2012-06-21 03:29 am UTC (link)
Contact.

For the record, she loves his name. Regulus Black, Regulus Black. Regulus A. Black, but she loves it the most when its Reg and he's angry at her, or anyone else for that matter because it means that he cares about something, that he finds something worthy enough to be upset about. She loves it even more when he pushes her away because he's glacial and she's not ashamed of it.

Regulus gives her his fight and oddly enough, Hestia starts to feel at home with him, entertaining herself with the thought that maybe they hadn’t changed that much, maybe they would be fine.

The temperature in her behavior warms up and she shrugs at him, hands crossing her chest. "Please don't call me that, Regulus. It's not very nice and I do not enjoy it." She doesn't mean this, the word has no great effect on her and he knows it, even though he says it with venom; why it does, she's never sure, but Hestia continues on. She starts to pace now, trying to think of how she can get him to talk, get him to consent.

It's not about compliance, it's about compromise; Hestia thinks that compromise is doing something that you think is wrong because someone else asks you to. She would compromise for him, but only just - she was in charge of her life, not him, and when she twirled around to face him, his sparrow is right back where she needs to be: Five feet away from him, hair over her shoulder and eyes on his like they were glued there by an unbreakable vow.

"I'm going to be fine," she starts calmly, hands tucked in tightly against her chest. Her breathing is slow and deep, almost like she's preparing for a heavy blow (though she knows that he would never and takes great solace in this). I can do this, he won't hurt me, we can do this, I can't hurt him. "But I don't think you know what you're doing to me, Regulus."

There is no more sadness to her voice, just facts - the facts were, she was fine. She was fine.

"I trust you, Regulus. You can tell me. I.. I would really like it if you could trust me and tell me."

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[info]writtenblack
2012-06-21 03:49 am UTC (link)
Hestia Jones is a sparrow. Not his sparrow. That difference needs to be highlighted, for future reference (it is always nice to be able to categorize -- good, evil; right, wrong; black, white. Simple. Easy. Regulus Black spends his lifetime living in-between shades of grey. He bloody hates that sometime, but it's really the only way.) Humans are, by instinct, stupidly possessive. They relate everything in their environment to themselves. How selfish. My toys, my friends, my family, my country, my me mine forever! …but to acknowledge that something is yours implies you willingness to take responsibility for that one object. Regulus is not prepared to take responsibility for Hestia Jones. He was certain that someone would, at one point or another.

Should he tie a noose around her neck and hang her, then?

Her words fly past him and he pays little attention to them. He's a touch surprised, yes, at her willingness to let this slide, at her willingness to suddenly turn as sweet as apple crumble pie.

"If you trust me, then stay away from the sodding--" There it is, on the tip of his tongue, and he is surprise to find it there. The word tastes of ash, or grounded cinnamon. Extremely dry. Making you choke. Death Eater. He supposes that he should have found the title humorous, had he thought about it at a superficial level -- but there was something extremely attractive to him in the very thought. Eating death… surpassing death, handing it out like hot cakes and manipulating it like putty. Simple and easy. Who had never wished to play God? And yet. The thought seems both appealing and revolting, all at once.

Regulus cannot do it. (What? The knot or simply the act of--)
He turns from her only to get himself a glass of water. Tap-cold, but it feels soothing as it slides down his throat.

But that does not mean he cannot give her the tools to hang herself.
That is a tad different. He can argue with his own conscience that it isn't his hands that will be stained red.

"Do you know what it is like, Jones?" He changes topic abruptly (or does he?), putting the glass down on the counter. Light catches the crystal at the right angle, and splits into multicoloured fragments all over the surrounding surface. Regulus's slim fingers twitch, and he raises a hand impulsively. But instead of reaching for his left arm, he merely traces the rim of the glass, in an idle gesture that is followed quite closely by his gaze. His eyes don't meet hers until the last words. "Do they teach you what it is like to have the Mark? It burns, Jones, when he calls. It's like being branded all over again. It screams and moves and it will never leave. You can't remove it. You can't hide it fully. It remains in your skin, dulled or scarred but it's there. It's always there."

He snickers, raises the glass -- takes a sip.
Lukewarm.

Of course.

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[info]ex_alluringl235
2012-06-21 03:54 am UTC (link)
It's not that Hestia doesn't stop herself from looking at him, it's that she is afraid that he'll disappear on her again - the thought makes her rile up again, almost like being licked with a hot piece of paper. She rolls her head on her shoulder and observes as he drinks, not caring if he sees her watching - they are in her flat, she's amused; he found the cups, easy like falling asleep.

His words sink like anchors into her skin. Mark, burns, branded, moves; but by then she's squirming on the couch - you see, what Regulus is saying is a little too much for her. His thought are intimate, the most outstanding ones she's heard from him yet and the way he speaks is full of...

No.
And then the laugh.

Her hands are still, but for the first time, Hestia Jones is wondering when her life got so fucked up, and when exactly her (because she is not afraid to take ownership, responsibility) Regulus turned into this man. He was not a boy, he was not young - Regulus was old, and quite frankly, he was not exactly making sense.

She goes to speak but feels her head go to the side, not in confusion but in a slight state of dizziness. Hestia has to recalculate, reconsider. See, the way he talks about it is so personal, so... Hateful. The truth about it, well, the truth was exactly that- facts, and he spoke so eloquently but he avoided her gaze until those words slipped out of his mouth like oil...

Always, always, alway-

"Show me your arm," ...It was a whisper but it was broken, almost like a last resort, a Hail Mary - she had to see his arm. She had to know. But see, Hestia wasn't waiting, she wasn't going to wait. Her eyes weren't waiting either and she felt the tears come before she spoke again, her voice slightly mad - he had to be lying. Had to be.

"Show me your arm, Regulus!”

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[info]writtenblack
2012-06-21 04:14 am UTC (link)
You would think that Regulus could take interest in that. Force the knife in deeper. Watch tears fall across her face like flower petals and count each one. They're fairly atypical, you see, and yet twice, twice tonight --- But. You see. That is not quite it.

The reason why Regulus doesn't cry is not only due to mother, or to his education. Of course, one can hardly exclude such factors and their impact on his character, but the truth of the matter is that it's primarily due to his dislike of it. When people cry, he wants to stomp on them and beat them to the ground. He doesn't know why -- he doesn't know what unsettles him so much about tears, about the implicit trust required to show that level of fragility -- but tears turn him cold. Tears can be a weapon; because they are so bloody unsettling that…

For the record, Regulus always wears white button-down shirts and black trousers (sometimes grey), and has done so since he was fourteen. Habit. A timeless picture. And long sleeves.

It's like a dream scenery all over again.
Hestia Jones asks him: 'Tell me, Regulus, which side are you on?'
And the only valid reply is: 'Think, Jones; you know exactly which side I would choose.'

Hestia Jones makes demands -- demands? out of him? that is such a bloody joke that it is almost funny! -- but they are not the right sort, and this is not what his words were supposed to lead to. Had that been hatred, lacing his voice? Regulus doesn't know; but he knows that his heart is not climbing into his throat, it is not throwing itself against the back of his teeth, it is not pulling apart his gut or tearing out words that he has never meant to say --- so he knows that all will be alright.

"This isn't about me," He snaps, and his voice is clipped. The last word stretches across his tongue with heavy emphasis, and all other words die promptly in its wake. He lets it linger. Says no more.

Think think think.

The glass of water is held in his hand, between the two of them, like a barrier. Perhaps, unconsciously, he wants that separation between them, something solid that delimits this is my side and this is your side and do not cross this boundary and ruin everything. Or perhaps he simply needs something to do with his hands.

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