Re: quicklog: atticus/matt
[Matt opened the door, saw a woman dressed in a way that niggled his memory infuriatingly, and that was aside from being incorporeal. He knew Atticus was somehow haunted, but it was different to see it two inches from his face and reaching for his arm.
It took every atom of self control he had not to flinch back. That icy touch traveled up the metal of his arm in a way that made him go stone still. He was sniffed, approved for entry, and then the woman was gone.
It took him a solid minute hanging onto the doorframe until the cold started to leech out of the metal, fade from the heavy seams rooted against his spine. It kept him there, frozen in place, breathing supercooled air that wasn't here, smelling the ice crystals forming in his nose, tasting the metal of a the tissues of his tongue as they froze in a rictus in his mouth. He had to think to himself, walk, and then he did it, one foot in front of the other, pulling the door shut behind him.
He looked up at Atticus in the loft, but he could really only see a sliver of him from below. It was still freezing in this room, and his eyes fell on the dead stove.
Matt crossed to it. This, he could fix. Fire would mean warmth. He'd feel better, if he was warmer. And, he reminded himself, the patient upstairs shouldn't be shirtless in a freezing room.]
Don't like her.
[He was looking for the matches - there they were. He got the fire going in five minutes or so, feeding it sticks from the wood pile. If there was a starter log, he didn't notice it, or seem to need it.] Don't let this die again.
[Short, clipped statements. His voice was still raw, but not quite as flat a gravel as it was when he first came to Repose. The logs caught and began to slowly curl and blacken around the edges, spreading blissful heat into his body. He rested the palm of his metal hand on top of the stove as it warmed. The arm could heat or cool itself as necessary, and had temperature protocols in place to avoid roasting the asset alive if it caught a piece of superheated shrapnel, or plunged a target's head into a sink filled with boiling water. But the heat shielding could also be eased to allow faster heat replenishment at the core, which was exactly what he was doing after the touch of death made him think he was back in the tank again.
That done, he climbed the stairs, almost tripping once on a stack of books, and halting only when he reached the top. Now, finally, Atticus was in full view.
He looked him over. Matt had blue eyes, dark, almost green, and they suited him better now that they focused clearly on their targets. That he was able to leave bad memories downstairs and not carry them up with him was a testament to almost two years on his own, finding his footing. Atticus, on the other hand, looked like shit. What was worse, he was still attractive.]
See you don't need a blanket. [That pelt of hair on his chest surely served its purpose. He crossed to him and took the bottle of whiskey, setting it on the night table. Then he sat on the edge of the bed opposite him.] How's the book?