InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret"

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 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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