nikolai (mindsight) wrote in crestwoodrpg, @ 2015-11-30 00:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, day: october 15, james thompson, nikolai mason |
Who: James Thompson & Nikolai Mason
What: How not to deal when your dead husband reappears.
When: October 15, 11pm-ish
Where:Nikolai’s apartment
Rating: TBD, I guess
Status: Incomplete; closed
His husband. It seemed impossible and absurd and if Nikolai thought it could help him process, he would have pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Trusting his senses was uncommonly hard.
This had to be what insanity felt like. Believing the impossible so utterly and so completely it felt real. His sleeping and waking hours for the last four years had been filled with the hope of finding James. Of proving that gut feeling right. The gut feeling he had abandoned last year in order to get some peace. To come to terms with this new lack in his life.
The last few hours passed with Nikolai existing as a nervous wreck, careening between overwhelming anxiety and barely suppressed excitement. That, unfortunately, made everything more difficult. Being the professional that he was, Niko had no problems keeping his powers firmly in hand, but the constant presence of his trigger heightened every one of his abilities, making everyone’s emotions that much more vivid, all their thoughts that much more insistent, and Niko had gone so far as to pull on a pair of gloves, not wanting to even risk an unexpected psychometric episode. It wasn’t pretty. But he was dealing, primarily by spending hours doing nothing but painting.
Crestwood was nothing if not efficient, so he’d already been informed that James would be rooming with him tonight. It had been more than Niko dared to hope, honestly. He would not have been surprised if they had opted to keep him under lock and key for the first night. (Beyond that, it wouldn’t be surprising if they were keeping an eye on him anyway, just from a more distant perch.)
Just as he was debating which distraction to opt for next, a knock sounded at his door. Instantly his heart was in his throat. After a few deep breaths, he set his glass of water down and opened his door, hand on his gun like any good paranoid.
But there wasn’t any need. It was James, complete with an agent escort. With a curt nod he thanked the agent and said he would take it from there. His hand went to his chest, tracing the familiar ring of silver underneath his shirt that rested atop the tattoo that had been his daily reminder of his devastated marriage. Barefoot and dressed in faded paint-covered jeans and long-sleeve shirt, he looked decidedly less like the agent that had come across James only 12 hours earlier.
“James,” he murmured and stretched out a palm, slowly to make sure his intent was clear, taking the other man’s hand in his to lead him into his apartment. What came next, he couldn’t fathom.