Eli Pride is Elizabeth Bennet (hybristic) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-04-22 21:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | elizabeth bennet, hatter |
Who: Eli and Julian
What: Bedtime and guns
Where: Reliquary
When: The night of the march
Warnings: None
After the chaos of the parade, Julian had quickly lost himself in the crowd, enjoying his costume a great deal even after several people got rather hostile about it on his way home. The two men, who were average size and rather stupid, quickly realized the wrinkled Bat wasn’t as innocent as he seemed, and Julian got away with only a bump or two. He was still in a fine mood, and he returned to his room to put away his mask for safe keeping, but he didn’t want to forsake his new pajamas, so he kept those on as he pulled out the cardboard box in the closet he stashed his belongings in: various plastic toys, an antique silver spoon, Isaac’s loaded 9mm, a package of ginger cookies, and a knitted cap.
Eli was still in the shop, having spent a late evening trying to find a home for the Engineer’s new machine, and he heard Julian return home as he was locking up his office. Once the door was closed, he wandered into the hall and to the room Julian called home, stopping to knock on the door frame to announce himself. “Knock, knock,” he said, unworried when he couldn’t see Julian immediately. The closet wasn’t in immediate view, and neither was the bathroom. “Mind a visit?” he asked.
Julian sat back on his heels and leaned back to see who was at the door, not worried, just curious. He had sneakers on at the end of his onesie Bat pants, and they left prints on the floor and on his rump. “Hello. You’re not dressed up, you didn’t go to the parade? It was fun and supportive. You should have gone.” Julian beamed, hair mushed flat from his mask and flushed from the walk and the scuffle following. He pushed his box back into the closet.
Eli laughed a fond laugh when he looked at Julian in, he suspected, Bat pajamas. “Did you wear that to make a statement?” he asked, walking into the room with a smile on his face and taking a seat on the old, floral chair in the corner. “I saw it on the television. There were quite a few people present,” he said, making conversation. “Were they very much like ants?” he asked. “I took Georgie to the museum, and she felt the ants had protests to wage as well.” He was relaxed, all slouch after a long day and comfort in the presence of this young man-boy.
Julian flopped backward on his unmade bed. “No, they weren’t like ants. They made some speeches and waved a lot of flags, but mostly it was just dress-up fun. Like Halloween in the daytime.” He gnawed on one of the stale ginger cookies and put his arm behind his head, watching Eli slump.
Eli made a thoughtful sound, and he watched the stale ginger cookie get gnawed on, thinking he needed to restock on some of Julian’s preferred junk food. It was a challenge, keeping Julian and Georgie from battling over the same treats, but it was the sort of battle he’d take any day. It made him think of the boy with the television. “If you were trying to capture a very skittish kitten, how would you do so?” he asked. “And did you go merely because it was dress up, or do you have an opinion on the Masks?”
Julian wrinkled his nose in thought. “Animals like food,” he said, logically. He waved the cookie for inspiration. “If you feed things we keep coming back.” He grinned toothily, and then stretched on his bed. It was a truly childish motion, but he was extremely tall and long, and it showed. “The Masks are not that unique,” he said, almost disdainfully. “A lot of people do bad things and good things where no one can see, anonymous, and no one knows. Wars, spies, conflict. Why are these ones different?”
“Because they don’t hide, Julian,” Eli said. “They do it openly in theatrical costumes, and we all see it and feel we cannot ever hope to do the same. They are egoists, you see, at the end of the day.” He believed it, still, even after talking with the Bat and knowing of Rescue’s involvement, but his tone wasn’t as vehement as it generally was when he spoke on the subject. “I’ve not heard of your Issac recently,” he said carefully, curiosity in the statement.
“He has a different name; so you won’t,” Julian said, shortly, sounding not at all childish when he said it. He seemed to revert a second later, rolling over on his stomach and revealing shoe prints and dangling sneaker toes. “The Masks are hiding. They don’t have egos; egos look for adulation, Masks look for results. Like soldiers.”
“You approve of them, then,” Eli said, a question and a statement all rolled into one. Issac still worried him, possibly more so since he’d gotten the memory of him. “Issac was a soldier,” he added, not continuing on, waiting on a reaction.
“Maybe,” Julian said, frowning at the floor. “We don’t call them that, remember?” He reached for a pillow, then changed his mind and went still.
“What do we call them?” Eli asked quietly, almost afraid to jar Julian from confessions he had not yet made.
“It keeps changing,” Julian said, almost sleepily. “Actives?”
“Are you an Active?” Eli asked in a whisper.
“No. I’m inactive.” Julian gave a small, breathless little giggle. “Not actively doing anything.”
That reassured Eli, and it made him smile. “See that you remain that way,” he said fondly. He realized that meant something, that Issac was still an Active, perhaps. He would mention it to Drake. For now, he stood and took what was left of the old cookie from between Julian’s fingers and set it on the nightstand, looking down at the overgrown boy in Bat pajamas. “Am I frightening?” he asked, an afterthought.
Julian watched him with wise, half-closed blue eyes. “No. You’re soft. You’re a casual. You don’t know.” He reached out a long arm and patted Eli on the elbow, which just so happened to be nearest. “It’s better not to know, Eli,” he said, gravely.
Eli had been about to leave the room, but the grave tone in Julian’s voice made him stop, and made him sit. He sat on the edge of the bed, and he looked at those half-closed blue eyes. “What is better not to know?” he asked.
“If I told you,” Julian said, suddenly the boy again, “then you’d know, and it wouldn’t be better!”
“How can you be sure?” Eli asked.
“Everybody else is dead,” Julian said, sobering fast. “Except Isaac.”
“But does it stand to reason that they are dead because they knew things?” Eli asked. “Perhaps it has nothing to do with that at all.”
“No, it did. Don’t you like living, Eli? You’re very good at it.” He sat up in the bed, straight up, as if listening, like a hound that caught a scent; but he didn’t otherwise move.
“I like living very much,” Eli said, not moving away when Julian sat up, not scared of the boy in that way. “I had a memory, you see, of Issac being injured while he was a soldier. You served with him?” he asked, more statement than question, really; he’d already figured that out.
“Not... no. Not really. I told him where to go, and who was supposed to die.” Julian’s eyes were very wide now, but he wasn’t looking at Eli. His voice was very soft, very private. “He got hurt? Not on my watch, he didn’t.”
There was no keeping the surprise off his face at that confession, and Eli was entirely quiet for a moment. “Yes, he was injured. A rocket, I believe, hit the vehicle he was traveling in,” he explained, adding, “a military vehicle. You were not with him then?” he asked, though Julian had already said as much. He wanted more information, and he wanted to imagine a world where this precocious boy could call the shots in the manner he’d just suggested.
A soft frown settled over Julian’s features, but it wasn’t the pout he wore when he didn’t get something to eat. “...No. No, we didn’t move them with the military. Too obvious. Too easily tracked. Too much paperwork. Red, red... red tape.” Julian blinked, and he shuddered, as if suddenly frostbitten, and his gaze pulled away from the empty space beyond the wall. He curled up on the pillow and pushed his face into the familiar fabric that smelled of himself and smeared sugar.
Eli relented when Julian reacted, in his opinion, as if he was frightened. He reached out and rubbed the boy’s back. “It is alright. I shan’t ask any longer,” he said, sorry he’d upset him, but glad to be a little more aware than he’d been before. “You are not there any longer, and I won’t allow anything to happen to you,” Eli assured, and he searched for something distracting to say, a change of subject. “The kitten, what if it does not want to eat the food?” he asked, because that had seemed to make Julian feel safer, that line of conversation.
Julian’s spine was taut and his back was hard and unrelenting under Eli’s attempts to soothe. He tried to suffocate himself but ended up breathing through the fabric, and he wound his long arms in the pillow and did not reply. He wasn’t hungry, he didn’t want to think about food; he felt sick.
When Julian didn’t respond, Eli became truly worried. It was a rising, parental sort of fear, and he placed a hand on Julian’s shoulder and shook very, very lightly. “Julian, love, it is alright. Can you hear me?”
Julian pulled back, but there wasn’t a lot of room to do that, and with the pillow still pressed to his face and chest, he picked up one shoulder and shoved at Eli’s arm. “Don’t touch me,” he said, harshly. “You’ll get blood on you. Get off.”
Eli did not move his arm, not even with the shoving and the harsh words. “I will do no such thing,” he insisted, “as there is no blood here, Julian.” He sighed heavily. “Julian, do sit up and look around you. You’re safe in your room.”
Julian still felt sick. His head danced around behind his eyes and he wanted the room to stop spinning. Everything smelled wet and metallic. “Get off.” He pushed at Eli again, harder this time, in the shoulder, to make him move. There was strength in the shove, more strength than a child should have.
Eli was sitting precariously close to the edge of the mattress, and the shove sent him to the floor. He wanted to rub his shoulder as he looked up at Julian, but he didn’t, not wanting Julian to think he’d hurt him. Instead, he just sat there quietly, watching, waiting to see if Julian calmed down. He was worried enough to think about calling for help, but he was afraid it would only make matters worse. He would get some milk, tea, cookies, something if Julian didn’t seem better within a few moments.
Julian didn't have much perception of his effect on the world around him, and his purpose was accomplished now that there was distance. He did understand that Eli was vulnerable to him, but it didn't occur to him to apologize. He curled up against the headboard with his pillow, clutching it close, like a shield, and sniffed. "I don't want to tell any more secrets. Go away."
“No more secrets,” Eli assured him, and he looked back to the door and stood reluctantly. He backed slowly out of the room, worried that Julian would hurt himself while he was away. In the end, he left the door open as he made his way to the kitchen, and he was gone no longer than five minutes before he returned with milk and cookies, which he was rather certain Julian would not touch.
Julian looked up from his position at the end of the bed. The cardboard box from the closet was pulled out of the closet and open at his feet, the toy cars askew. He'd peeled the torso of the Bat costume off, revealing a chest all bone and sinew, more if the former than the latter. He was holding the gun, black matte and serious, in his hand, resting on his knee. He didn't lift it. His eyes went to the cookies. "I'm not hungry," he said softly.
Eli stopped for one second when he saw the dull metal of the gun. He recognized it, the weapon, as Drake’s, and he exhaled long and slow as he walked into the room and put the milk and cookies on the nightstand, giving Julian a wide berth. “The milk, then, perhaps?” he asked, his voice as calm and harmlessly academic as always. He did not fear Julian, did not think Julian would shoot him, but he knew enough to realize he shouldn’t spook the young man. “That belongs to Drake,” he said quietly.
The greedy, jealous Julian always claimed anything in his hands as his own. He didn't move, just transferred his gaze to Eli's face. "I have it now. It won't matter unless I have to use it." The soft, even tone was unfamiliar, almost a different person. Almost. He smiled slightly, wide mouth flat. "It makes me feel better."
“Because it keeps you safe?” Eli posited, sitting on the edge of the bed with the milk glass clasped between his hands. He made no effort to take the gun from Julian, and he made no sudden moves in light of the unfamiliar tone.
"No, because at least this way there's a chance I'll take the other guy with me." Julian didn't stiffen defensively when Eli sat; the other man was no threat to him. "Maybe that's wrong; more unnecessary death. You smell like cigarettes." The smile lingered.
“I have been smoking too often recently,” Eli admitted, an uncommonly common statement given the situation at hand. “No one here is going to harm you, and so you have no need to take anyone with you,” he explained rationally, holding out the glass of milk in case Julian wished to appropriate it in place of the gun.
"No, they wouldn't come from inside," Julian agreed, shifting a little to spread his knees and settle his shoulders. "I like it here. Good place to die, when it comes to that." He looked at Eli as if seeing him for the first time. "Just don't want you to get hurt." The blue eyes filled and became glassy, and Julian pressed spider thin fingers into his eyelids. "Around me..."
Eli carefully shifted from the bed to the floor, until he was sitting beside Julian, glass of milk still in his hands. “No one is dying. Not me, not you, love.”
"Strange thing to call a crazy man," Julian said sadly, letting his gaze fall of its own accord, bent down under the weight of the realization, temporary though it was. "And," he added, in a slightly chiding tone, thinking Eli was needlessly sugarcoating it, "People die all the time."
“Yes, but not just at this moment,” Eli said, holding out the milk. “Shall we trade?”
Julian shifted the gun in his farthest hand, scenting an unfair trade in a little of his old manner and a little of his new. He was slipping again, and unsure. "No, it was a present for me. Maybe he wants me to kill him with it."
“From Issac?” Eli asked, even though he knew it had to be from Issac, probably taken from Drake during the meet-up that had been bollocksed. “I doubt he wants you to do any such thing. It was, most likely, for protection. But, as we’ve discussed, you hardly need that now. You can return it to Drake, if you like,” he suggested harmlessly.
"It's not a safe as you think. Besides, Drake lost it, it's mine now," Julian stuck his chin out a little, resentful. "You don't know what Isaac wants. It is better to stay on his good side, both of the four."
Eli sighed, putting the milk back on the nightstand in a long stretch. “Then put it in the box, yes, so we can settle in to sleep. You do not need it now, do you?”
Confusion took over. Julian's lucid periods were extremely few and short, and he never seemed to understand what was happening, or detect a difference. "You're not going to take it?" he asked, anxiously.
“I trust you not to harm anyone,” Eli said with a blind kind of trust. “I will not take it,” he assured. He believed trust begot trust, and he had no intention of returning to the box. “I merely ask that you trust me in return. You are safe here, Julian. Now, put the gun away and climb into bed. It’s been a long day, and you can do with some sleep.” He held out the milk again.
There, Eli was wrong. Even Julian, who had little in the way of complex thought and was careful to shy away from the memories that hurt, knew that Eli was wrong, that he would hurt whoever he needed to hurt. It was part of what they made him. After his knuckles went tight and then lax again several times by turns, Julian finally seemed to forget why he picked it up, and he engaged the safety then dropped it with a clang on the toy truck. Ignoring the milk (possibly on principle) he stood up and flopped back under the covers.
Eli ignored the box, opting to stand and set the milk on the nightstand again (beside the cookies). He took just a second to straighten the covers over Julian’s shoulders, and he sighed a heavy sigh, a worried sound. “Sleep well, wee Bat,” he said, a reference to the pajamas the boy wore, and then he backed out of the room with one last, worried glance at the box. Julian broke his heart in so many ways he couldn’t find words for, and that gun clanging atop that toy truck drove it all home sharply. He’d not be getting any sleep that evening, he knew.