InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "he’s kinda sweet."

Erebos (the__dark__one) wrote in paxletalelogs,
@ 2011-09-05 20:31:00

Entry tags:

erebos, nyx

HOMECOMING [Cat]
WHO: Elias + Cat
WHAT: Second Meeting
WHERE: Pax Lobby
WHEN: 7:03 p.m., Monday, September 4th
STATUS: Complete

Labor Day. His office was closed, so he had spent the afternoon and early evening with his mother. She hadn't recognized him today; he'd been a stranger again. The heaviness of watching his only family degrade into such a state was weighing heavily on him as he stepped out of his car and set the alarm. It was possible she would remember him again the next time he visited. She'd remembered him on Sunday.

Blowing breath through his nostrils, he started for the doors to the apartment complex, efficiently palming the rest of his keys while pinching the door key between index and thumb. From the corner of his eye, he caught another figure -- a woman, from the glance he threw toward her -- and she was also heading for the doors. From his quick calculation, she would arrive just before him. Out of habit, he jogged for the door, unlocked it and then pulled it open and waited for her to enter ahead of him. Although it was a kind gesture, his expression showed that it was also quite automatic. His mind was anywhere but on the person entering just ahead of him, and if she'd said anything, he didn't register it.

There were still the monthly bills to pay once he was upstairs, then he wanted to ensure that his erstwhile roommate was well fed before he headed out again. His meeting notes were at his desk, carefully stowed behind lock and key, and he would need those for his conversation with this Ms. Karin Shepherd in a little less than an hour.

As Elias turned these things over in his head, planning out his next few moves, he couldn't help but notice that he and the woman he'd let in were both going to the same place: their mailbox. He realized belatedly that she very well had said something at the door -- and he must have ignored her. It was somewhat... awkward.

He smiled politely at her as he flipped from his door key to his mail key and turned it in the slot. Should he say anything? Probably not. Besides, she was rather... Well. Gorgeous. He wasn't sure how he'd missed that until now.

(Post a new comment)

full_of_stars
2011-09-06 11:24 pm UTC (link)

He was difficult not to notice.

Obviously, his features were striking. He cut an impressive figure, and he emanated a sort of brood drew the eye, and so as she walked toward the building, she hadn't missed him, but had gone out of her way not to gape. One of her clients who lived in Newport Beach was having an all-day barbecue-cum-pool party. The event was far from over, but Cat had slipped off to pick up some Vicodin from home. She felt a migraine coming on, and acquiring it from the client or one of his friends would give the wrong impression. Well, maybe not the wrong one, but not the one she wanted to give.

And so she was back at Pax, trying to beat the pounding in her head to her apartment; if she took the pills in time, she'd be all right -- better than ever, in fact -- but there he was, Elias Sandoa, who apparently had decided to act as though he didn't know her.

It was strange when he didn't talk to her. Her greeting had been polite enough, but after the way she'd responded to his rather grand gesture, she imagined he might still be stinging. That he couldn't respond to a simple greeting made her bristle inwardly a bit more than she cared to admit, but outwardly, she maintained her cool and walked, heels quietly clacking on the tile, to her mailbox. When he smiled at her, her own expression reflected her reaction in an arched brow as she looked at him over her mail. It was as though he were seeing her for the first time -- not just today, but ever.

Then she realized he was.

Still, he'd ignored her greeting at the door, though he'd obviously been distracted... again, she felt a sting of annoyance, but it was subverted by the affect of his smile, and the realization that he'd not intended any insult.

Of course, what he intended once he did realize who she was remained to be seen.

"Elias," she said, her voice smooth, even, and cordial. "How are you?"

(Reply to this) (Thread)

the__dark__one
2011-09-07 01:43 am UTC (link)

That voice.

Awareness snapped through him like firecrackers. She was standing in front of the mailbox he had often glanced at on his way to his own. She was the right size as he recalled from her leading him through the corridors of their apartment building. And her voice, like velvet in the gloaming. "Ms. St. Giles," he said. His throat had turned into a column of pebbles he struggled to talk through.

For a moment, all he could do was stare. She was here. This was what she looked like - and he hadn't imagined a more perfect form for that voice. But it was her face that surprised him the most. Now that he studied it, he realized he'd seen it before -- but in one of those head-splitting visions. Suddenly, he wanted to ask her if she owned a blue, floor-length dress or a butterfly hair pin encrusted with what looked like sapphires.

He did not ask these things.

When he realized he'd been staring for longer than two seconds, he cleared his throat twice.

"I am well," he said at last. "And yourself, madam? You look..."

Perfect.

Perfect, but there was a pinching around the corners of her eyes. He frowned.

"Are you well?" he asked carefully.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

full_of_stars
2011-09-08 02:10 am UTC (link)

"I'm --" she shook her head, forcing herself to keep her eyes open, not to pinch the bridge of her nose, or rub her temples, or engage in any of the other futile little gestures she generally used to try to stave off the headaches. "I'm well enough, thank you for asking."

She took a breath. These protracted silences -- she didn't know what to do with them. She was accustomed to the flow of conversation running smoothly, to being able to direct it, shift it, mold it as it needed to be. Here, though, now, everything seemed more difficult. It wasn't the migraine, as much as she would have liked to blame it on that; rather, it was this repeating sense of deja vu, this unrelenting sense that there was something she should be remembering but simply couldn't quite bring to the fore of her mind.

It was an instance where small talk seemed absurd -- those little conversational lubricants seemed empty and almost offensive to use here. And yet, he was a stranger.

Even so, there was nothing else for it.

"How was your weekend?"

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

the__dark__one
2011-09-09 03:53 am UTC (link)

It seemed clear as the air around them that she was most decidedly not well enough. It was also as clear that she had no intention of talking about it or even acknowledging it. Elias understood she had no desire to welcome him into her concern -- and although it felt wrong not to try to assist her, he felt that anything more than his initial question would be met with no smile.He grit his teeth and forced himself to accept her answer as it was. For now. Until he had a better chance to assist her.

But when she tried to ask him about his weekend, Elias dropped his head and stared at the floor for a long moment. His shoulders rose and fell with a controlled and steady inhalation and deep exhalation. When he looked up again, it was with nothing short of sincerity in its purest form.

"This isn't the way it should be," he said. "Ms. St. Giles - Cat - I am sorry for having put you ill at ease. You did a grand thing for me, that night. You showed me a kindness I haven't received since... I wanted to capture my gratitude with something so fine as the gift you first gave me. And yes -- I dared to hope that we... Well, now I hope you will forgive an impertinent man his assumptions. Now that I've seen you, it seems... almost laughable... to have thought -- Do forgive me, Ms. St. Giles. I trust we can be cordial neighbors."

His words were unpolished, wretchedly raw, and drawn from his throat in such a way that it seemed clear he very rarely spoke about personal matters. He could have captured his feelings far better in verse -- but that was always a separate matter entirely. He should have waited until he had the words right to try to speak them.

But she was there. In front of him. Beautiful and so distant. She was a robber of words.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

full_of_stars
2011-09-09 02:11 pm UTC (link)

To have the curtain of polite restraint that had settled between them was something of a shock, though at the very least, her jaw didn't drop, her eyes only widened slightly. She listened and watched and wondered and didn't understand why she felt so uncomfortable around him even while there was something beyond articulating that drew her to him. And she hated that, she found. Hated this feeling of being off-kilter, of not being readily able to assess the situation and handle it accordingly, of being...

vulnerable.

He was so serious, so intense. Nothing could be laughed off, or brushed away, or wended around prettily. He was an immovable force, and even when he looked at her with those soft eyes and spoke sweetly to her in his strangely formal way, there was something unyielding underneath it all.

It all drove her a little bit mad.

For a moment, she was quiet, measuring her response. Last time, she'd been too harsh, and harshness wasn't the appropriate reaction. It wasn't even the one she wanted to give, at the moment. But there was a brief flash of lightning pain, accompanied by some strange sense memory that she didn't understand. She put her hand out to rest it on the wall of mailboxes, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. Then she looked up at him.

"There's no... there's no need for grand gestures, Elias," she told him. "I helped you because you needed help, and I was happy to do it."

She took another breath.

"If you want to ask me out, just ask me out. You don't have to buy me flowers or make elaborate arrangements. Ask me -- ask me -- out, and if I say yes," a very subtle smile hinted at the corners of her mouth, "we shall talk and maybe have drinks or dinner and spend time together, and you'll stop calling me Ms. St. Giles because it makes me feel like a damned schoolmarm, and then we'd go from there, I imagine."

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

the__dark__one
2011-09-11 10:24 pm UTC (link)

How had he seen her face in the strange visions he'd been having?

The theory that his visions were of something real and immediate gained some ground now that he knew it was her in some of them. Until he could match what he was seeing with something he could immediately see in front of him, he couldn't be certain that his suppositions were correct. But knowing now that some of his "sight" was of a very real person -- it could support his idea. And, at the very least, it was new data. New data about a mystery was never unwelcome.

But these thoughts were only a few of many circulating in his head as Catherine St. Giles spoke -- and certainly not the most important. Elias listened carefully to what she said, restraining from ascribing his own interpretation or hope and instead accepting exactly what the words meant -- and nothing more. He felt on uneven footing; he felt like a fool. And in the moment, his refuge was logic. He could not allow himself to hear or act on anything else other than logic.

And so, once Ms. St. Giles finished, he nodded. He could indeed understand the drive to assist when assistance was needed; that same responsibility was deeply ingrained in his own psyche. It was part of the reason why there was a boy in his apartment. It was part of the reason why he was going to a Starbucks without a laptop on a Monday night. He understood it. But understanding it did not preclude the acknowledgment that it had meant a great, great deal to him. He was not one to be in a position of helplessness. It did not sit well on him. And yet, he had been -- and she had kept him from becoming wholly lost. No, it was nothing he would soon dismiss. But he recognized now that she had most probably dismissed it. The appropriate response was to accept her dismissal. He would do so -- outwardly at least.

"As you wish, Madam," he said in response, reminding himself again not to call her Ms. St. Giles. She had certainly earned the respect that her proper address provided -- but again, she seemed not to want to accept it. Again, he recognized that the appropriate action was to cease to follow what social mores said was respectful and instead use her own preference. He would do this as well.

But as for her comments on how he should ask her out, as for her dissection of the act and tutorial of what came after, he only nodded. The woman was quite clearly out of his league and quite clearly resistant to all his previous extensions of amorous intent (he deliberately set aside the remembrance of her cool fingers in his hair), and it would be foolish to believe that her "if I say 'yes''" statement meant that she was inviting him to ask.

He was not too proud to admit that he could use teaching in how to court a woman. He was too proud for such teaching not to sting, sharply.

"I will keep it in mind," he said at last, turning the key in his mailbox.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

full_of_stars
2011-09-14 01:34 am UTC (link)

For a moment, Cat's jaw did drop -- lips barely parted, she very nearly took a step back, but managed to refrain. She held her ground; her hand slipped off the mailboxes; she nodded. Apparently she had been too harsh in her rejection that first time. Normally, she'd shrug it off; one man was the same as the next, if a bit different, and if she didn't suit one, she'd suit the next well enough. While the admiration of men could be useful, it was a dangerous thing to invest in too heavily.

For some reason, though, this instance bothered her far more than she could have expected.

But there was nothing to be done about it. It seemed clear that door was closed now, and there was nothing to do but collect her mail and make a graceful exit.

"Well I am glad we got that cleared up then," she said, then unlocked her own mailbox to retrieve its contents. Another spike hit, though -- it felt like right between her eyes, and this time with a flash of something past, lovers in shadow, laughter, a smile -- the end of the world. Or the beginning of it. Alone, together, looking over the edge into something entirely new.

Her fingers curled around the edge of her mailbox; she squeezed her eyes shut. She took a breath and slowly released it. Another.

Another.

She needed to get to her flat. She could call Andrew and beg off, she could turn off all the lights and take refuge in blessed darkness.

She just needed to get to her flat.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

the__dark__one
2011-09-15 04:10 am UTC (link)

He nodded, turning toward his own mailbox. But as he retrieved his own mail, he couldn't help but notice that the woman to his left was very quiet. Perhaps he had said something to offend her. He glanced sidelong at her, frowned, and locked his mailbox. But he stayed, measuring the silence, and then finally looked back at her again.

She did not look "well enough" now.

"Ms-- Cat," he corrected quickly. And, when it seemed she wasn't listening, he stepped closer. That frown deepened. No, she didn't look well at all. The sight of her tiny, delicate fingers curling around the edge of her mailbox struck him profoundly. It was not right. It was not right. Tucking his own mail under his arm, he gently -- gently -- set his fingers over hers, using no pressure at all. "Cat," he said again, and his voice was as gentle as his touch. He didn't know what else to say. She was not receptive to him. He understood it well enough. He was no fine catch, as evidenced by... so much.

But regardless of whether or not she would abide him, she needed something. "I will help," he finally said. If she told him what to do, he was hers.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

full_of_stars
2011-09-17 01:27 am UTC (link)

She took a soft, shuddering breath. It had come too soon -- too soon. The pain was burgeoning, almost blinding, and without meaning to, she leaned toward him. Holding herself upright in moments like these was always a victory of will. Her breaths were quiet but shallow as she struggled to control how audible they were.

"I..." She closed her eyes and shifted her hand under his, moving it to his arm as her other hand reached out to close her mailbox. Fumbling, she removed the key.

"Thank you," she said softly, strain in every note of those two syllables. "Could you -- I think I might need you to see me up to my flat. Apartment. Please." Her grip on his arm tightened as another wave of pain hit her, this one bringing images of shadow and him, him again, swathed in darkness. His face was different, but the same -- they were --

"Please," she said again, even more softly this time.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

the__dark__one
2011-09-19 04:11 am UTC (link)

The rest of the world grew muffled, as if a great swath of gray velvet were suddenly dropped over it. The woman clinging to his arm stood in stark relief to such silence and became, instead, everything. He didn't think. He didn't feel. There was What Must Be Done and there was Everything Else; and only one was important.

"Mm," he answered.

First, he took the keys from her hand. Then, he bent low and set one arm against the back of her knees. The other one -- the one she had seized -- twisted gently to free itself, then went behind her shoulders. When he started walking, it was done carefully, on the balls of his feet only, so that he lessened the jarring and jostling impacts she'd otherwise have endured. Elias did not look up at anyone who might have been watching them; they didn't register. He had but one goal. When the elevator slid closed and started its climb, he most fastidiously did not look down at her. Instead, he stared straight ahead, reminding himself near constantly that she was not his.

But even sighing with pain, heavy with restraint, she felt like no one else he'd ever had against his chest. She felt like she was built to be with him. His jaw clenched tightly, and he kept his eyes forward. What was it that plagued her? Possibly those migraines she'd told him briefly about. That meant that there was a prescription in her apartment. He could see her home, then see her medicated, then ... leave her.

His arms tightened. "A migraine?" he asked very softly, looking to confirm what he would do once he unlocked her apartment door.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

full_of_stars
2011-09-21 01:15 am UTC (link)

The low, soft rumble of his voice seemed to be one of the few sounds she could bear to hear. She felt each word, each sound, move through her like the roll of a wave. Her eyes remained closed against the light in the lobby, then the elevator. Her breath came too short, soft and ragged; she held tightly to him as they moved. For a moment, she could only nod, her body tense as she braced herself for another stab of pain. When it came, she bit her lip, sucking a breath in through her teeth. As it moved through her, so did impossible images, Charlie and her Rylee and him. Elias.

Not Elias.

Finally, it all subsided for the moment. She took deeper breaths, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

"Something... something like that," she said, trying to keep from sounding as though she were panting. "They've gotten worse... since I came to California."

She took another breath.

"Must be all the damned... clean air," she quipped weakly.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

the__dark__one
2011-09-21 12:01 pm UTC (link)

Impotent anger rose in coils within him. Illness knew no sense of wisdom; otherwise, this migraine of hers would have known better than to attack her while he was there. Or. Ever. It was foolish to allow himself to become so furious. He recognized, acknowledged, and dismissed the fact. He was angry. Every small sound she made, every twisting of her muscles deepened his response.

"Shh," he said -- and for all his fury, it was a very gentle, very quiet sound. She didn't need to be making jokes right now. She didn't need to try to put him at ease. It was futile, a waste of her time and energy, and he much preferred she reserve that for herself. The elevator door slid open and he stepped carefully into the hallway. In his right hand, he distinguished which of the keys on her keychain felt the most like his own door key, then pinched that one between his thumb and forefinger.

"What prescription do you need?" he asked, approaching her apartment door.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

full_of_stars
2011-09-23 04:54 pm UTC (link)

At this point, she wasn't sure it mattered. The headache had set in with full, blinding force, and she took a soft, shuddering breath to try and make the pain abate. Generally, if she hadn't caught it before now, there wasn't much use in trying. Even still, it seemed a shame to disappoint him, and she certainly didn't want him feeling obligated to nurse her. Her eyes still closed, she took another deep, soft breath, then said,

"I have... Vicodin. In my medicine cabinet."

She swallowed, and memories that she knew weren't hers flooded her mind; some past life, children, living somewhere dark and safe and beautiful. Flying through the air, and he followed her, she drew him along with a smile and dark wings.

But then, pain again, savage and sharp.

"Thank you," she said weakly into his shirt.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

the__dark__one
2011-09-27 11:54 pm UTC (link)

Not his. Elias slid the key into its locked and told himself she was not his. He nodded to her words, nudged the door open with his toe and then gently closed with his heel, and reminded himself that Ms. St. Giles was not his. He navigated her darkened apartment without any thought or consideration for lights and went straight into her bedroom and mentally insisted that she was not his. He did not pull down the blankets just yet. Instead, he carefully (carefully, carefully) set her on the edge of the bed. (And reiterated to himself that she wasn't his.)

"Stay seated for just a second," he said, guiding her hands to the edge of her bed for something to hold to.

He always saw very well at night. But lately, it seemed his night vision was improving. He headed out of her bedroom and straight into the adjoining master bathroom. The medicine cabinet was well stocked, but he didn't struggle to pick out the few prescription bottles -- and then read them in the light coming in from the small bathroom window. One to two, it said. He palmed the bottle, then left for the kitchen. She was breathing raggedly as he passed through her bedroom, and he winced once his back was to her.

"I hope it helps," he said when he returned, pressing the glass of water into one of her hands, and two pills into the other. While she saw to dosing herself, he went around and turned down the bed. "If you'd like, I'll come to check on you in a few hours."

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

full_of_stars
2011-09-28 01:51 am UTC (link)

She was barely aware of what he was doing; as soon as he set her on the bed, she tried to steel her spine to keep her upright, but kept slipping into a slump every time she let her guard down - which was frequent. She kept seeing things she didn't understand, feeling sensations, emotions that weren't hers -- but were. The nausea was second only to the head-splitting pain that accompanied these flashes of memory; her hands pressed into the bed, the memory foam conforming to the curve of her fingers even through the bedspread. She'd been looking down until he'd come back, trying to regulate her breathing. But her every heartbeat felt as though it were beating against her chest, her skull.

When he returned, she took the water and the pills. She closed her eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by the urgent need for him not to leave. In the hopes of alleviating that irrational thought, she put the pills in her mouth, then chased them with the water, then reached over to the nightstand with a trembling hand, setting the glass down with a shuddering breath.

She nodded then, unable to speak, unable even, it seemed, to open her eyes. The nausea would subside. So would these flashes. These elegant flashes of other lives.

"Thank you," she said in almost a whisper.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

the__dark__one
2011-10-02 05:02 pm UTC (link)

Now he did pull down the covers from the bed. When Cat didn't immediately move to lie down, he gingerly set his hands on her -- and why was it so difficult to do that now that he was in her bedroom, if she could mean nothing to him -- and guided her down to the pillows.

He moved as quickly and quietly as he could, slipping off her shoes, pulling the blankets over her, taking the empty glass from the nightstand... He was going to be late to his meeting if he didn't hurry. But looking down at her, huddled down into the darkness, he hardly seemed to care.

But there was Charlie to think about. And her little man. He drew himself back to his purpose for the night, frowning. "I'll be back in a few hours, then," he said, pocketing her keys.

And then he left, depositing the glass beside the kitchen sink as he went.

(Reply to this) (Parent)