InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "It stinks!"

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

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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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