Do I throw my clothes in the fire? Do I throw my hopes in the fire?

[killtime]

WHO: Andy & Co.
WHERE: Various.
WHEN: After her un-RIPing.
WHAT: She's back.
WARNINGS: Language, alcohol, drugs, death-talk probably.


CLOSED TO CASSIDY | Outside a bar (somewhere)
[ There's a small comfort in knowing that all her shitty coping mechanisms are right where she left them. Apparently her sham death hasn't done much to change her trajectory or her habits. She still knows all the bars in the Porter cities like the back of her hand. Booze is the way she's going to deal with this one. Which, given her mood, probably isn't the brightest idea but hey, what the hell's the worst that can happen? She actually dies? Ha.

But it turns out that having recently had your own death stolen from you isn't an acceptable excuse for beating the shit out of two drunks that rubbed you the wrong way, and Andy lasts about fifteen minutes inside one fine establishment before a team made up of security, the bartender, and a couple brave patrons manage to throw her out. Standing there on the sidewalk outside the bar with her bloody knuckles still regenerating, she throws up two middle fingers at the door. ]

Fuckers!


CLOSED TO REX | Maurtia Falls #10
[ It's purposefully late when she finally shows up at the house. Way past Martin's bedtime, for sure. She isn't sure she's ready to face the kid yet. Or any of them, really. But she's already exhausted all the bars, and she knows she can't avoid this forever. Doesn't even really want to exactly, it's just... Ah, fuck.

She stands on the porch for a long time. Smokes a whole cigarette there like an asshole before she finally knocks, very quietly. It's half a self-sabotage — because if nobody answers, she can say she fucking tried and leave again before she has to confront anything that she feels or the people she feels those things for. ]


CLOSED TO MARTIN | Maurtia Falls #10
[ Martin probably needs his sleep. She knows that. She doesn't want to wake him, not for her sake. She just... She just wants to see him. To remind herself that he's here and that makes her being here slightly more bearable. Like the sight of him might anchor her to this reality when she might otherwise throw herself into the metaphorical abyss for want of her own death. It's not a fair burden for kid to be one of her reasons for living, but...

Andy cracks his bedroom door open ever so slightly, lingering there in half in the hallway just trying to catch a glimpse of the child she's come to think of as her own. ]

Comments

[crassidy]

[Coping mechanisms are always something Cassidy's been pretty terrible at too, but considering the last few days he's had and his entire time back home, he thinks he's entirely justified in losing himself to a night of excess drink and drug taking. Not that it's entirely unlike every other night for him.

He's outside the bar smoking a generously sized joint as he watches the commotion spill outside, chuckling to himself at the familiar figure of Andy getting not so gracefully shoved out of the establishment.]

Alright there, love? Too much to drink, or not enough?

[killtime]

[ That's a voice she knows. Which, honestly, does a lot to defuse her temper. She still looks visibly annoyed when she turns around, but the chances of her straight up murdering a friend is... Well, not zero, but hey. It's been a long day, and killing is a lot of work. ]

Never enough. You would know. [ She still vaguely remembers that one time at the bar. Nobody's ever kept up with her like Cass does. She kicks a rock off the sidewalk in the direction of the door for good measure before coming over to join him. ] Long time, no fucking see.

[crassidy]

Oh, aye, long ol' time.

[With a hefty exhale of smoke, he pushes himself away from his leaning spot on the wall, moving in closer as he holds the half-smoked joint out towards her in a peace offering. He'd really rather not be murdered, if it's all the same, immortal or not.

It's been long enough, apparently, that Cass has finally got himself a nice new hair cut, all fade shaving and a mass of curls, plus he's gone heavy on the guyliner. Other than that? Same old Cassidy in shitty dumpster dive chic, and the general look of a man who's been on a non-stop bender for years.]

Looks like you've had a week almost as bad as mine there, love.

[killtime]

[ She accepts this peace offering with a little noise of acknowledgement, lifting the joint to her lips and inhaling deeply before she answers, words wrapped up in curling smoke: ]

Yeah. I miss being dead. [ Flat voice, slight shrug of her shoulders. She passes the joint back after a moment. ] What the fuck happened to you?

[crassidy]

Well that's something that needs unpacking... [Half muttered to himself around his smoke, because what the fuck does missing being dead even mean for a person?]

Iiii... went home for a while. Had a shite time of it, honestly. Wasn't much better when I get back thanks to a certain One Eyed Monster... Long story. [But he's not really in the mood to be hanging outside a bar talking about life woes when they could be getting wasted.] C'mon, wanna grab a drink somewhere else?

[killtime]

[ What she really wants is to be thrown back into the blissful black oblivion of nonexistence. Or at least, barring that possibility, to avoid going home for a while. Home — not home, really, because she hasn't known a home for an age, but something frighteningly close. A place with family. People she owes things to. Like apologies and other things she'd half-rather choke on. People her heart yearns for even if her gut recoils at the very idea of seeing them right now.

It's messed up. But not half as messed up as she wants to get. ]

I can't tell if that's a euphemism or if you actually call some poor bastard "One-Eyed Monster." [ But yeah, she wants to go. So she steps back out towards the street, fully expecting him to show her to the nearest bar that hasn't banned her in recent memory. ] Sorry you had a shit time. I'd say some sentimental garbage like it'll get better, but I'm in one of those self-loathing moods that really makes optimism feel like a rusty nail in the eye.

[crassidy]

[There is nothing "poor" about Starr, but shit Cassidy's not really in the mood to be discussing that part of his life right now, not about the Grail, not about their constant harassment, and especially not about Starr keeping him naked in a basement for an entire day. It's just not something to discuss out in the middle of the street, even for no-filter Cassidy.

When she steps forward, he follows suit, sparing a glance up and down the street before nodding down towards the flickering neon of a shitty looking dive bar a few blocks away. Hopefully she hasn't been banned from there too. Their general approach to trouble is kicking the shit out of it, so could prove a fun night no matter what.]

Join the bleedin' club. It's like. It's like even when y'get somethin' that might be good, you got this part of you that already knows it'll go to shit. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but sooner or later it'll end. Wish I could tell you it gets better, love, but it doesn't, just gets shitter the older y'get. At least death is a bloody option for you, eh?

[darkov]

[sleep is probably a good idea, but not one Martin finds easy tonight. he may have sort-of kind-of renounced some Darkov ways aloud, but he's still one biologically, and so darkness doesn't really convince him to close his eyes and rest.

especially not with his head buzzing with so many thoughts and worries. Andy's not actually on the forefront of his mind right now, instead being preoccupied with the visions of others peoples' lives instead -- not the oddities, but...the similarities. the things that, when he reflects on them, give him such an aching longing. sleepovers, campfires, holiday parties (that seem so like the dinners held at the house that he's found he has to really concentrate to realize the faces in those images aren't ones he already knows)...the feeling of moving into a new home, of seeing a sibling or child off to their first day of school...

the feeling of a loved one returning after a long trip.

that's the ache in his chest when the door gently creaks open, with only bare nightlight glow creeping past Andy's shape. Martin's eyes flicker toward it almost instantly, and a heartbeat later he's sat up, expecting it to be Rex come to inquire of...something. he's not sure what he'd need this late, but...

...

he can see her face in the dark very easily.]

...Andy?

[killtime]

[ It's like a stab in the chest to hear him say her name. She hasn't felt fully solid since the Porter brought her back — like she was half-existing, vibrating on some intangible frequency between despair and anger. Gods. She'd left him here. Some part of her had been glad to. And he was the one that had to walk her to that black void —

She has no right to be here. She should go. But she can't make her feet move. Seven thousand years, all the lives she's taken, all the wars she's fought — and she's paralyzed by the voice of a child. ]

...Hey, kid.

[ Her voice cracks ever so slightly. ]

[darkov]

[oh, no.

it really is her there, isn't it? if she were just a phantom, her voice would sound different -- just in his head, not ringing into his ears. right away his chest tightens up even more, swelling up with a mix of elation and dismay. it's riding the wave of that feeling that belonged to a stranger -- a fleeting, dying memory of waiting for news on the safety of a loved one only pick up the phone and hear their voice.

relief. joy. grief. how does he pick just one when it barrages him all at once? never mind having to remember that...she never wanted to be back in the first place.]

You're back... [now there's guilt. he shouldn't be happy she's here, right? even though the muscles in his legs are starting to ache for want to jump up. no-- knowing what he knows. he shouldn't.

he should've been happy for her then, too. he'd been happy for all the other people he'd sent away as Peklabog. but when it came to her? even in the face of her joy?]

I...I'm sorry...

[what a disgrace. he shouldn't be happy at all.]

[killtime]

[ No, no — she can't stand to hear him say sorry. Not after she's failed him so terribly, after she's made those tiny shoulders carry the weight of her emotional baggage. She'd said she would protect him, but she hadn't even managed that much. What has she ever done for Martin Darkov but go off and die on him? Seven thousand years, and the one time it mattered for her to be present, to stay...

She'd wanted her own death so badly. Selfishly. She's old and she's tired and there's so little left she feels like she has left to give. Running on fumes all these centuries. But she hears him, sees his familiar silhouette in the dim light, and her heart swells. That exhausted heart of hers, worn ragged, somehow full of some powerful feeling.

Finally, she crosses the threshold. The first few steps are hard, but it gets easier the smaller the distance between them gets, and before she knows it, she's got her arms around him tight, crushing his small form against her. ]

Don't you dare apologize to me. [ Her voice is an emotional whisper. ] Don't you dare.

[darkov]

[any protest he may have had gets crushed and muffled in that swift embrace, and for a second there he's tensed up with alarm -- this is a kid not used to frequent and unannounced hugs.

still, the warmth and security something like this offers is hard to resist. Martin has to fidget a little in her grip in order for his arms to find some means of returning the gesture, of getting his fingers to curl and cling to the fabric of her shirt while he turns his head at an angle to breathe.

he was sure he shouldn't be happy at all, but he can't help it. he missed her. she's not the stable certainty that Rex brings, nor the emotional clarity Archie provides. she's almost...both? a bridge between them, where those lessons become a bit more palatable -- smaller doses of hard truths, given from a woman who's dealt with it all a dozen times over and more.

Martin's throat tightens up, swallowing with a wince that makes it clear that even if he wanted to apologize again, doing so would be rough, so instead he just buries his face into her shoulder.]

[killtime]

[ For a long while, all she does is hold him, letting herself feel comforted by how solid he is — and in turn, how solid that makes her feel. She hates the curse of her immortal life, but she doesn't hate being here with Martin. She doesn't hate all the little moments they've spent together. She doesn't hate having the chance to look after him. The feelings make a complicated, twisted knot inside her, but that matters less than this reunion — the fact that she's back and he's still here, so she gets to try again.

It's barely there when she speaks, the words a little rough from suppressed emotion: ]

I'm the one that should be sorry. I didn't protect you. [ Lower: ] You had to do a terrible thing for me.

[ct_7567]

[ Rex adapts.

It's what he does. It's what he's always done and, from the sounds of it, it's what he always will do. It means that he's stepped carefully around the empty spaces Andy left in his life without much fanfare, recognizing his own anger, his own sadness, his own bitterness, and then pushed it to the side. He got reassigned another partner at work, cleaned and pressed Andy's clothing and gathered up the belongings she left behind and put them in their own room, acknowledged that he has one less friend and ally in this world, and carried on without the expectation of ever seeing Andy again. It's easier that way. Why torture yourself with anything else?

He hadn't been home for very long when he hears a knock on the door - he got assigned a double-shift and that's never something he'll rebel against - and pauses just long enough that Andy may well think that nobody's going to answer.

When he does answer the door, he's still in his uniform, though it's untucked and rumpled, his face covered in unshaven stubble, blond hair a touch too long in the way it always gets after back-to-back shifts. For a moment, all he can do is stare, gobsmacked by her sudden reappearance, surprised in a way he oughtn't be, knowing the nature of this place. ]

Andy.

[ Once, Andy only had meaning to him because she was one of Anderson's people and, by proxy, one of Martin's people. He hadn't expected that to change as swiftly as it had. If it hadn't, he wouldn't be feeling the way he does now, a gladness suffusing his body as certain as remorse does, knowing that she doesn't want to be here. Perhaps it would be kinder of him to acknowledge that.

But as short as Rex's life has been, most of the people he's known and come to love are dead. Andy isn't. That's not something he can say about the rest of those that he's lost and despite the way she may feel about the matter, it's not an opportunity Rex is going to waste.

It doesn't take him long to cross the distance between them to crush her in a tight embrace. ]

You could have called first, [ he mutters into the top of her head - little gods, she's short - but all it is is something to say. ]

[killtime]

[ She knows she doesn't deserve this welcome — to be embraced by a friend, to feel even the smallest measure of comfort after everything she's put him through — but she can't bring herself to pull away either. She's just so tired. So weary. It's true that some part of her clings to that feeling of being robbed — jilted by death, by the Porter — but some part of her is relieved too. Relieved to find she still has a place here. Another chance.

All the angry tension she's been carrying in her shoulders ebbs. She lets herself wrap her arms around Rex in return. Tomorrow, she'll deny it ever happened, but in the moment, she clings to him like he's the only anchor she has in this world, and maybe that's not so far from the truth either. When it comes, her voice is muffled. She probably can hardly breathe with how tightly she holds him, but she doesn't give a damn. ]

You know me. I never call ahead. [ The stifled wryness in her voice falters when she goes on — and there's something raw about it, something exposed. ] ...Fuck, Rex. I'm sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry.

[ Sorry for being so willing to abandon them. Sorry for wanting to die when there were things to live for. Sorry for not being a better friend. For failing to protect Martin, even though she'd promised to. Sorry for making him bear the burden of her regrets and apologies now. ]

[ct_7567]

[ Rex had been angry when he heard of Andy's death. He'd been angry in a way that he didn't know how to comprehend, angry in a way he never was for anyone else's deaths - perhaps it's because he had counted on her to be the one to survive, to never put him through this, as though it's a personal insult that she finally had the nerve to die right when he was getting to know her.

But all it really takes is hearing her voice and feeling the way she clings to him to make all of that pent up anger bleed away with a suddenness that surprises even him. Soft, he can't help but scold himself, but he can't even hold onto that for very long. There are worse things than being soft, around here. And after everything she's been through, maybe Andy deserves it. ]

Ah, [ he says, a quiet rumble deep in his chest. He cards his fingers through her hair (a foreign sensation; nobody he's hugged has ever had long hair before) and rests his chin on top of her head. ]

Don't. You have nothing to apologize for. Not to me.

[ Even now, he has no idea what happened. He couldn't get any details out of Martin, and no other avenues were forthcoming. In the end, he'd known only that Andy had died, and that she was glad to go.

It's nothing that he wasn't already aware of. ]

Sounds to me like you've been through enough without me piling more onto it.

[ Absolution, of a sort. She'll have to apologize to Martin, and to anyone else she may have hurt. But Rex is only collateral. She deserves at least one soft place to fall. ]

[killtime]

[ His forgiveness shames her. She's done nothing to earn this friendship, this understanding. This comfort. He's always been too good for her and too good to her, even though she's done little for him in return besides smoke on his porch. Or intimidate the occasional soccer mom. She can't help feeling that there's a bigger debt here to be paid than she can ever make good on — all the more because she knows he doesn't think of it that way.

What would be more selfish right now? To stay or to go? She doesn't know what the right choice is, but his embrace feels like coming home, and she's just so damn tired. Run ragged with her own emotions, the weight of her seven thousand years even heavier now than ever before. She needs this. Needs her family. Needs them to let her try again. Can she even ask for that?

Reluctantly, she pulls back to look up at him. Her face is weary. Her voice is weary too. ]

I was hoping you'd be pissed at me. [ He's endured her more than most. Tried to get to know her even though she fought it every step of the way. Gave her patience and camaraderie and a place to stand at his side. He's earned the right to be pissed at her. ] I was ready to abandon you. I fucked up. I... [ Frustration swells in her voice suddenly. ] What the hell do I do with your kindness, Rex?

[ct_7567]

[ He lets her pull away, however reluctantly, but he still keeps his hands anchored on her shoulder as though it will somehow keep her here, prevent her from doing the unimaginable ever again. Or perhaps he simply needs the concrete proof that she's here, that this isn't some vision come to taunt them, that this is real.

Either way, he's not letting go just yet. ]

I was. Angry. [ He sighs. ] I'm not anymore. I don't think I could be angrier with you than you are with yourself.

[ He couldn't say why. He couldn't say why on either front, quite frankly. He had been angry in a way he wasn't with any other death he's experienced, and it had been as startling as it had been unwelcome. And then it had faded as quickly as it had come.

Is it pity? Empathy? Sheer relief to have her back? Rex has never been good at identifying his own emotions and as time goes on, it grows more complicated by the day. He doesn't know how anyone does it. He knows that the Jedi do, spending hours in meditation and self-reflection, gathering their emotions and expelling them into the Force, whatever that means.

All Rex knows is that that sounds like sheer torture and that he would rather embrace the gladness in his heart instead of dwelling on injured feelings of -- abandonment? Is that what that was?

At least her last question has an easy answer. ]

You could come in.

[killtime]

[ In a rare moment, Andy hesitates. It's just an open door, that's all. Benign and innocuous. Someone she trusts is inviting her in. Beyond is safety and familiarity. So why is it so hard to take that single step over the threshold? She keeps one hand loosely caught in Rex's clothes, as if that might anchor her here and keep her steady — or keep her from running away.

Maybe she's just afraid of how good it'll feel, just to be home. ]

I... [ Fuck. Fuck it. Okay. She takes a breath and moves her feet. Seven thousand years, and it feels like one of the hardest things she's ever done. Just looking around and seeing that it's all the way she remembers makes her chest go a little tight. ] I don't know if I still belong here.

CLOSED TO LOGAN | The Iron Throne (Mid-September)

[killtime]

[ It's been a lot of up and down. Some decent ups, all things considered — she's been welcomed home, despite all the shit she put everyone through, and she could almost pretend like things are halfway back to normal — and there's been some pretty shitty downs too. The existential crisis of having her own death foiled, after seven thousand years. A person doesn't just shake that off. That and everyone's utter forgiveness has left her with this restless, discontent feeling. Probably because she loves nothing more than a good self-sabotage.

Either way, she's been a garbage human being for a couple millenia, and all these good warm feelings doesn't change that. Sometimes you need a night away from family to indulge the vices you've had since before Christ was born, and she knows at least one person who's an irreverently good time. She meets him outside the club late in the evening, looking like death hasn't changed her too much — boots, leather jacket, cigarette. Same old Andy. ]

[grandtheftequine]

[ Logan, on the other hand, has had a great time lately. Sure, he's been busy with his new responsibilities as ambassador, but he's been sure not to let that get in the way of celebrating his victory for the majority of the past couple weeks. Which is why, when Andy had invited him out, he hadn't exactly had a hard time finding an opening in his schedule.

He's standing at a side entrance when Andy shows up, finishing his own cigarette, and he waves her over. He is, as always, impeccably dressed—though his tie is crooked in the way ties tend to wind up around strippers who know you tip well. ]

Glad you could make it.

[killtime]

[ She knows exactly how a tie ends up crooked like that in a strip club, and the sight of it earns a wry twist of her mouth. Patting him lightly on the chest over that crooked tie, she greets him dryly: ]

Managed not to die on the way over. [ Andy pauses to put her cigarette out under her boot before brushing by to head inside. ] Thanks for making time in your busy schedule, Mister Ambassador.

[grandtheftequine]

[ He chuckles at her pat on his chest, following her through the door and back into the club. ]

After the times we shared behind that McDonalds, how could I not?

[killtime]

[ Amicably: ]

Fuck off. Like you're the sentimental type. I bet you were just free and bored.

[ Some part of her is always at home in a place like this. No expectations. Lots of booze. Lots of bodies. A person could forget themselves a while here, that's for sure. ]

You do anything fun while I was gone besides beat a dog in an election?

[grandtheftequine]

[ Logan has a reserved booth tucked away in a private corner, and there are a few of the club's employees of various genders loitering around the general vicinity. There's even fresh drinks waiting for them at the table, one of which is in Logan's hand basically immediately as he sits. ]

You'd be surprised at how much of my month that took up.