bat winged man eating lion (mortale) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-01-02 21:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | castor vance, ireland rhodes |
i pull the trigger at your command.
WHO: Castor Vance & Ireland Rhodes ft. Julia Drake
WHAT: A due visit, with unexpected company.
WHEN: Sometime on the 31st
WHERE: Mars
WARNINGS: uh none actually
Time was not on the B52's side, not when the warrant had ordered an apprehension and return before the new year. They had hours to return to Ganymede before the clock hit midnight, and every minute counted, but there was something that Castor had to do before they left the red planet, and it couldn't wait until the next time they were planet-side. With his brother back on Ganymede, or wherever the Kamikaze was, there was one person he needed to see. The next time we're on Mars, he'd said to his mother over voicemail weeks ago, I'll stop by. Now with Lionel (Eugene?) on board and ready to be brought back to HQ, Castor's guard was lowered, attention spotty as he turned into the dorm corridor, jacket in the process of being shrugged on. There was almost an awkward intrusion on his path, Ireland who had been leaving his room(taking advantage of Dix's absence) to shuffle outside. "Hey, cap." A hand held up in salute, beaming(and if there was something missing or added to the expression on his face, evidently Ireland was not wearing any masks today). "Heading out?" Surprise flashed in Castor's face, but the instinct to cover it up, to smooth out the edges, came slow and not entirely in full. His fingers hovered by the jacket zipper, falling away shortly after. "Yeah. I shouldn't be long," a pause, stiff (secrets like sand in his mouth), "but there's someone I need to see before we take off." Ireland touched his arm, a gesture to help brush any creases. "Don't rush, we have plenty of time to get back still." There had been questions about their bounty, discretion demanded his silence, but those were answers that couldn't come from Castor, only from Grace, or Lionel himself if he chose. What followed instead of answers was a tight smile, self-deprecating in its nature. "I used to think that all I had was time, but this can't wait. Not this time." The hand crept up, clapping Castor on the shoulder. "I meant that you should take all the time you need seeing this person." Ireland didn't like the expression, wanted to smooth it out. "You want company? I was going to step outside, we can get some air." Which wasn't really what it was, but Ireland was happy to go with a less direct route. And if his captain got that, it wasn't so clear. Forgetting his own discretions for a moment, Castor drew his touch upward, to rest it against the side of Ireland's forearm. "Are you okay to do that?" Concerned, not patronizing. Light touch where the stitches held the skin together, in a few days they would be removed and if they had withstood Dix's poking, then… "Yeah, as long as you don't plan on running a marathon it should be no problem." He had no idea where they were going, but Ireland was curious(one if those few times that he was allowing himself to pry gently, touching the topic indirectly). "I'd like to go with you." There was something wholly new to this: inviting another person into his private life after the return of his brother into his life, and Castor had been more than ready to approach what came next on his own. But after consideration, company would be welcomed, where it once wasn't. Whether Grace, Ireland, Star, Hector — he could keep that door ajar for them, for now. "Okay," he conceded, when the next move was clear. The trip to the downtown core took longer than usual with Castor ensuring that he wasn't rushing them, despite his earlier words. Not much was said of who they were going to see, but smatterings of easy conversation happened here and there where the silence didn't stretch between. An easy role for Ireland to follow, cheerful observations. When they at last reached the paved walkway, the stones leading toward a well-kept, but old house, he paused in front. "Ireland," an awkward stop, before the next try came, easier with his back facing. "This is my mother. And if she calls me something else," one more pause, "it's because Castor isn't my real name." That was not expected. Someone else might have frozen for a few more minutes, struggled with conciliating the two rather significant revelations just thrown his way. Ireland just pressed his hand to the small of Castor's back. "Okay." No questions, no doubts, no demands for anything. The shadow in those blue eyes had not darkened Ireland's basic nature enough; he would accept, without questions still. And he was overstepping boundaries between captain and navigator. "We should have bought her flowers." Because, of course. "She doesn't like them," Castor admitted, his voice caught in a daze. "They remind her of funerals." With that thought weighing heavy on his shoulders, he stepped away, the warmth of that touch lingering as he crossed the rest of the way to the front door. Ireland filed away that bit of information for next time. With his heart caught in his throat, he rapped his knuckles against the wood. The delay was short as a middle-aged woman appeared from behind the door, recognition written into her face: she knew who Castor was without having to ask, but it didn't mean she was pleased to see him. His jaw clenched: guilty, not angry. "Is she here?" She sighed and sidestepped. A brief look was directed to Ireland over his shoulder before the tense invitation was taken, seeming like all of his nerves would rip through the coat for all to see, sparks flying. The small house was, for lack of a better word, homey. Modest, simple, organized. Everything had its place. Everything belonged. (Not unlike the house kept by Ireland's parents). Except for a woman sitting in a chair in the open den, her hands knitted in her lap. Julia Drake was beautiful, but weathered in her eyes, in the lines of her face. There was a certain frailty to her, a contrast made all the more clear by broad, muscled Castor coming in closer, a moth drawn to her flickering flame. He lowered to a crouch on the carpet in front of her, much like as he had for Kirby, but there was a tenderness in how he scooped one of mother's hands into his and brought it to his lips. Some of the haze in Julia's eyes cleared with that, though not all of her was present. Wherever she was, it was a faraway place. She took her free hand, resting her fingertips against the side of her son's face. "Markus," she whispered, her touch featherlight. It sparked an automatic spark of protectiveness over her, over Castor. And there were few things Ireland could think, none he could say. That he understood the importance of this moment was clear, but did Castor? It was almost like being thrust headfirst into cold water, instincts dictated one reaction but you had to reign them in before making a mess of things. Castor's real name was considered, chewed, and found ill fitting; that didn't make Ireland feel comfortable. Burying that deep, he approached close enough to rest his hand against the back of Castor's neck. Markus. Like a tight knot slowly unfurling, he relaxed beneath that touch, but it was Julia who reacted first with her gaze. She didn't have her eldest son's blue eyes: these were slate gray, empty of all but blossoming warmth. "Who is this?" she pondered aloud (as if not directed to anyone but herself), though she kept her gaze above. Castor breathed a shaky exhale against her knuckles. "This is Ireland." Not My navigator, not My friend. He was more than that. More than words could say, for the time being. Best not to think about it. She smiled, soft, and reached a hand out for him. "Ah. I know that name, don't I?" Apparently, the last day of this year was attempting to kill Ireland with surprises; hiding it as he stepped closer, Julia's hand small in his. Liking people was in his nature, but right now Ireland felt overwhelming fondness for this woman: the delicate face, warm gaze. So many things about his captain made sense now. Ireland beamed, "Nice to meet you." Voice soft, squeeze gentle; certain that this was where Castor had inherited that softness beneath the armour; a good person at the end of the day. That smile remained, genuine but almost frozen, as though her muscles wouldn't allow it to fade as she failed to return the squeeze, and not for a lack of affection. "Is my son looking after himself? He focuses too much on others," she confessed, like Castor wasn't less than a foot away. "So little on himself. Tell him not to so often." The truth of that statement was acknowledged with a faint nod. "Don't worry, he has-" friends, colleagues, people, "-me nagging at every turn to do just that, but promise-" Another squeeze, accompanied by a solemn nod, "-I'll make sure to remind him." As if that was enough, Julia drew herself away, her frail hand moving to Castor's hair to slip through the slicked locks there in the way only a mother could; it drew him back to present, eyes raising. He could practically hear his heart thudding as her gaze fell to his throat. "Are these new?" That tattoos lining his neck were certainly not new, and his shoulders gave in slightly at the question. Last he'd seen her, she'd asked the same of him; this renewed curiosity meant that she'd forgotten. Guilt slammed into him, vicious and unforgiving. "Kind of," he offered instead, hoping to force the subject out of the way by slowly unraveling the fingers of her other hand to stare at her palm. Stiffly, Castor reached into his coat pocket to produce something that clinked with the effort. "I was going to send this to you." A thin, precious chain with an ornate ring linked through was placed in the center of her hand. "For Christmas. I thought— it wasn't enough of an apology, so I didn't." Julia's fingers were soft on his jaw. "Why are you sorry, baby? I have you here. You brought your friend." Another smile, directed upward. "You can stay for tea, can't you?" He flicked his eyes to the back of Castor's head and made the decision he thought was best(the possibility of it being a mistake weighing down). "Yeah, we can stay for tea." Ireland cleared his thoughts the only way he knew how: making himself useful, "Going to get the water ready, kitchen is this way, yes?" It was running, it was giving Markus some much needed time with his mother. From down on his knees, Castor couldn't angle his head appropriately to catch Ireland's gaze. He simply leaned his shoulder into the other blonde's leg, his silent, tired Thank you. It wouldn't be enough time, but there was never enough of that, anyway. And absolutely not enough to make up for two lost years over tea and light conversation, carefully avoiding any mention of the kidnappings so as not to trigger her worry over another son being in peril. Even though being a reclamation agent, a Killjoy, meant that death was always one step in the wrong direction of a bullet. But in Julia's eyes, he was infallible. Invincible. Castor supposed it was karma that had his mother mistakenly calling him "Sam" before the two of them left back through the front door, soul-numbness returning. He caught hold of one of the porch pillars, the wood chipped beneath his hand, the movement so sudden that Ireland bumped into him. Stumble, hand to hip, brush. "Cas?" The name dropped quietly between. "What?" As a rule, Castor Vance didn't cry. He didn't cry, but Markus Drake did, or had, in his past, when he was certain that no one was looking. With the slow turn came a quiet, disbelieving laugh, a hand settled firmly against the middle of his chest. Upon looking up, his lashes were wet, but Castor Vance didn't cry. "Thanks for coming, Ireland. She really was happy to meet you." "I was happy to meet her too." And for lack of words or anything better to do, Ireland just pulled Castor close, encircling him in a hug, nose tucked against his neck. Just as easily as it had been of late to wrap him up, his captain allowed the embrace, reciprocated with fists curling into the back of his shirt. That wetness had yet to clear away no matter how often he blinked it back, but he murmured "We should get back to the ship" into Ireland's shoulder all the same, grip tightening, contrary to his words. "Well." Ireland lifted his chin to prop it on Cas's shoulder, "I want to linger out here a little longer." At least until the wetness was gone, however long it would take. And rather than protesting to that with words, the former gunner in his arms heaved a breath that almost shuddered on the exhale and settled in, content to remain grounded there. |