[there is considerable silence before anna says anything, or at least she respectfully allows him to finish without interruptions. depends on how charitably he wants to take it.]
...Could go back to Gus, if you want. "Augustine" is kind of a mouthful.
[yeah, she's here.]
Can't believe I spent this whole time worrying and you didn't even see the first message. What, did Alfred delete it or something? [a quiet laugh. she wishes her omen still had her back like that, but it's her own fault.]
But it's probably better like this. I was really hopped up on the Reckoning's Kool-Aid that first time. Made a pretty sick Marianas Trench reference at you, though. Since I was taking some real desperate measures.
[ The twist of a wry smile on his lips probably comes down the line — ]
I've been told that, a time or two — about the mouthful, that is. I don't actually care which you choose, although I think you're the only one I've actually said to call me Gus, here — for most people, it's Augustine, or Patience, or "that guy with the plague-doctor shrike mask", as the case may be.
[ At least she knows the mask in question — and his face, now, for that matter.
His fingers are tapping restlessly on his knee, at this point, thinking about Alfred deleting his messages — screening his calls? — and then not even telling him that Anna had offered up some sort of threat.
Threatening him with a Reckoning, no less. ]
I'm not entirely certain what he did with it, [ he says smoothly enough. ] I take it that you are, ah, not as infatuated with delivering such a... terminal justice, shall we call it, at this point?
I'd much rather go back to the musical references, even if I am not the singer that you wanted.
[water under the bridge that she'll cross when she comes to it, perhaps? she'll let herself be satisfied with that. there's not really any other option available to her either, ultimately.]
Sure aren't, Gus. [she decides to switch back now, at least. there are other names she could call him now, if she wanted to, but she'll stick with the one that he's actually asked her to use—at least, now that the fact that she knows more than she once did is out there.] I'm more in the business of being what tomorrow needs now... or at least, I'm trying to be.
[the time between the sentences is longer than she thinks it should be. she's not sure how long it actually lasts. that's the way time dilates around the weight of her regrets, she guesses.]
I don't know what that looks like anymore, though. I mean... all right, fuck it, I'll just say it. I'm having a hard time moving past John. And maybe you get that and maybe you don't. I don't know.
[ He clears his throat; less of a need, not quite a performance — maybe more of a warning? ]
As far as the first goes — I'll believe it when I hear you sing it, even though I won't insist you sing it for John, or for anyone else you think might hate your guts —
[ And the kicker: ]
— not that I think he's actually all that likely to, mind you, any more than I do, unless I've missed a memo somewhere.
But.
[ There's a weight, a pressure, to the moment of silence he spends, here, organizing his thoughts well enough to phrase this for her; enough, maybe, to keep her silent, until he's done. That, or the fact he hasn't addressed her most salient final point. ]
— Actually, before I agree or disagree, I think I should probably make you tell me what moving past John is even supposed to look like, to you.
[she knows this is a tricky subject. the fire has burned away into a cold, condensed ash of fear, but that won't stop her from being cautious about mentioning john. stripping away all that remains of whatever pretense they may have left. she's certain he's figured it out by now, all she left on the table in their last conversation. she wasn't subtle in the least, but that's never been her strongest suit anyway.]
[when she answers, it's like she still hasn't had a lot of time to sort through the words, even though she's been thinking about this for weeks.]
I spent months of my life here trying to figure out what John was up to, and then he just showed his entire hand all at once. [he just... tweeted it out.] And I thought, dumbass that I am, that I could still use whatever friendship I thought me and him had to, like, convince him that it's okay for him to just fucking stop what he's doing. Just sit back and chill and, like, live his life with the people who still matter to him, the same as we're all doing.
[she sighs. the throat-crushing terror of that night when she'd read him the riot act is still fresh in her head.]
But he's convinced that John Gaius doesn't exist anymore. That all there is left is the Necrolord Prime, that... that he's a god, and I am not. And moving past that just means stopping myself from feeling whatever bullshit way I feel about him. At least for long enough to convince myself he doesn't matter anymore.
[she takes a breath and realizes everything that just came out of her mouth.]
Hell of a fucking thing to tell someone I barely know, but here we are.
[ He lets out a long, slow whistle, because... well, because he's an asshole, sure, but also because it is a lot, and it's the sort of thing where one of those whistles says a lot; not that he isn't obviously overly fond of his own voice, as well, and yet even he does actually know that sometimes it's worth condensing a few hundred, thousand, hundred-thousand words down into a single drawn-out sound. ]
I don't know that it's going to help, per se, [ dryly, so dryly, "if Anna shakes her Omni a few grains of desert sand may fall out" levels of dryly, ] but you've got some company in that boat you're in. Up to and including the part where he's killed you for it, more or less, and yet still has to face the fact that you're still here.
[ His fingers itch for a cigarette; the house is both far more flammable and has far worse air filtration than the Mithraeum; he compromises by pushing a window open, as he keeps talking, and then rolls and lights his cigarette as soon as he sits back down on its sill. ]
It's quite a lot like one of the last things I said to him, before, [ elliding neatly past quite a lot, really, ] about trying to make him just stop —
— and, well. [ He exhales: smoke and bitter, not-quite-silent laughter. ] Nearly half a year here, already, and I'm still learning things I ought to know by now, when it comes to John Gaius.
The problem is, of course, that he's full of bullshit.
[ There's a kinetic restlessness in his energy; he's pacing, wait, no, not inside his bedroom, better out on the porch, easy enough to slither through the open window anyway, and he doesn't actually give the slightest shit if John hears him, through either an upstairs window or the link that Augustine forced on him — ]
There's a phrase you may have heard before, although I've heard the first word any number of ways — "Sometimes, seldom, often — wrong, but never in doubt." That's him.
Made worse, of course, by the fact he is God —
[ — not that Augustine is actually noticing, here, that he isn't saying a god; that to him, John is still first and foremost and capitalized — ]
— but there's still a man involved in the equation; always has been. The Man who Became God; the God who Became Man.
Became Squid, and Filled Up With Bullshit, et cetera, but nevertheless.
[ He's lost the point; he stares at the tip of his cigarette, and the smoke drifting away from it, and tries to find it again. ]
For what it's worth, anyway, I'm fairly certain the only person he'd actually listen to about taking a fucking chill pill and acting human again is... locked up and frozen solid somewhere near the core of [ wait for it ] Pluto.
[there are so many things she could say during all this. instead, she listens, and hears the telltale signs of that damned cigarette case of his, and she opens the window of her room to let the heat roll in even more freely than it already is. she pulls her beaten-up pack of cigs out of her jeans pocket and sets her omni down so she can light one in the manner to which she's accustomed. maybe it's stupid to invite more corruption or pollution or whatever it is she's doing, but she doesn't know what else to do right now.]
[as he explains things, she lets the nicotine try to calm her brain. it's good that she has a kindred spirit, she thinks. it's good that it really doesn't matter how close anyone is to john. she's not special, but she's not being betrayed, either. he really is just like this now. but—and there's the little bit of doubt. right at the end, there. it's the thing that she thought did make her special. she takes a moment to breathe a plume of smoke out.]
[so. she'd been locked inside pluto, huh? the center of pluto. in her tomb by the sounding sea of stars. yeah. yeah, john would do that kind of bullshit, wouldn't he. when she speaks again, her tone isn't as icy as the subject matter would imply.]
He called me something before he killed me, you know. I don't think he meant to do it. A slip of the tongue, so I guess this is one of those seldom times. [she takes another slow drag and breathes it out. this time, it's for dramatic effect.] Our names are just so goddamn similar, me and his Annabel Lee. Maybe I thought that made my opinion worth something more to him. But I guess I deserve to be chained down in the core of the Ninth House, too, for thinking crazy shit like that.
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no subject
...Could go back to Gus, if you want. "Augustine" is kind of a mouthful.
[yeah, she's here.]
Can't believe I spent this whole time worrying and you didn't even see the first message. What, did Alfred delete it or something? [a quiet laugh. she wishes her omen still had her back like that, but it's her own fault.]
But it's probably better like this. I was really hopped up on the Reckoning's Kool-Aid that first time. Made a pretty sick Marianas Trench reference at you, though. Since I was taking some real desperate measures.
no subject
I've been told that, a time or two — about the mouthful, that is. I don't actually care which you choose, although I think you're the only one I've actually said to call me Gus, here — for most people, it's Augustine, or Patience, or "that guy with the plague-doctor shrike mask", as the case may be.
[ At least she knows the mask in question — and his face, now, for that matter.
His fingers are tapping restlessly on his knee, at this point, thinking about Alfred deleting his messages — screening his calls? — and then not even telling him that Anna had offered up some sort of threat.
Threatening him with a Reckoning, no less. ]
I'm not entirely certain what he did with it, [ he says smoothly enough. ] I take it that you are, ah, not as infatuated with delivering such a... terminal justice, shall we call it, at this point?
I'd much rather go back to the musical references, even if I am not the singer that you wanted.
[ ... as it were. ]
no subject
Sure aren't, Gus. [she decides to switch back now, at least. there are other names she could call him now, if she wanted to, but she'll stick with the one that he's actually asked her to use—at least, now that the fact that she knows more than she once did is out there.] I'm more in the business of being what tomorrow needs now... or at least, I'm trying to be.
[the time between the sentences is longer than she thinks it should be. she's not sure how long it actually lasts. that's the way time dilates around the weight of her regrets, she guesses.]
I don't know what that looks like anymore, though. I mean... all right, fuck it, I'll just say it. I'm having a hard time moving past John. And maybe you get that and maybe you don't. I don't know.
no subject
[ He clears his throat; less of a need, not quite a performance — maybe more of a warning? ]
As far as the first goes — I'll believe it when I hear you sing it, even though I won't insist you sing it for John, or for anyone else you think might hate your guts —
[ And the kicker: ]
— not that I think he's actually all that likely to, mind you, any more than I do, unless I've missed a memo somewhere.
But.
[ There's a weight, a pressure, to the moment of silence he spends, here, organizing his thoughts well enough to phrase this for her; enough, maybe, to keep her silent, until he's done. That, or the fact he hasn't addressed her most salient final point. ]
— Actually, before I agree or disagree, I think I should probably make you tell me what moving past John is even supposed to look like, to you.
[ Bit of a letdown, really, isn't it. ]
no subject
[when she answers, it's like she still hasn't had a lot of time to sort through the words, even though she's been thinking about this for weeks.]
I spent months of my life here trying to figure out what John was up to, and then he just showed his entire hand all at once. [he just... tweeted it out.] And I thought, dumbass that I am, that I could still use whatever friendship I thought me and him had to, like, convince him that it's okay for him to just fucking stop what he's doing. Just sit back and chill and, like, live his life with the people who still matter to him, the same as we're all doing.
[she sighs. the throat-crushing terror of that night when she'd read him the riot act is still fresh in her head.]
But he's convinced that John Gaius doesn't exist anymore. That all there is left is the Necrolord Prime, that... that he's a god, and I am not. And moving past that just means stopping myself from feeling whatever bullshit way I feel about him. At least for long enough to convince myself he doesn't matter anymore.
[she takes a breath and realizes everything that just came out of her mouth.]
Hell of a fucking thing to tell someone I barely know, but here we are.
no subject
I don't know that it's going to help, per se, [ dryly, so dryly, "if Anna shakes her Omni a few grains of desert sand may fall out" levels of dryly, ] but you've got some company in that boat you're in. Up to and including the part where he's killed you for it, more or less, and yet still has to face the fact that you're still here.
[ His fingers itch for a cigarette; the house is both far more flammable and has far worse air filtration than the Mithraeum; he compromises by pushing a window open, as he keeps talking, and then rolls and lights his cigarette as soon as he sits back down on its sill. ]
It's quite a lot like one of the last things I said to him, before, [ elliding neatly past quite a lot, really, ] about trying to make him just stop —
— and, well. [ He exhales: smoke and bitter, not-quite-silent laughter. ] Nearly half a year here, already, and I'm still learning things I ought to know by now, when it comes to John Gaius.
The problem is, of course, that he's full of bullshit.
[ There's a kinetic restlessness in his energy; he's pacing, wait, no, not inside his bedroom, better out on the porch, easy enough to slither through the open window anyway, and he doesn't actually give the slightest shit if John hears him, through either an upstairs window or the link that Augustine forced on him — ]
There's a phrase you may have heard before, although I've heard the first word any number of ways — "Sometimes, seldom, often — wrong, but never in doubt." That's him.
Made worse, of course, by the fact he is God —
[ — not that Augustine is actually noticing, here, that he isn't saying a god; that to him, John is still first and foremost and capitalized — ]
— but there's still a man involved in the equation; always has been. The Man who Became God; the God who Became Man.
Became Squid, and Filled Up With Bullshit, et cetera, but nevertheless.
[ He's lost the point; he stares at the tip of his cigarette, and the smoke drifting away from it, and tries to find it again. ]
For what it's worth, anyway, I'm fairly certain the only person he'd actually listen to about taking a fucking chill pill and acting human again is... locked up and frozen solid somewhere near the core of [ wait for it ] Pluto.
no subject
[as he explains things, she lets the nicotine try to calm her brain. it's good that she has a kindred spirit, she thinks. it's good that it really doesn't matter how close anyone is to john. she's not special, but she's not being betrayed, either. he really is just like this now. but—and there's the little bit of doubt. right at the end, there. it's the thing that she thought did make her special. she takes a moment to breathe a plume of smoke out.]
[so. she'd been locked inside pluto, huh? the center of pluto. in her tomb by the sounding sea of stars. yeah. yeah, john would do that kind of bullshit, wouldn't he. when she speaks again, her tone isn't as icy as the subject matter would imply.]
He called me something before he killed me, you know. I don't think he meant to do it. A slip of the tongue, so I guess this is one of those seldom times. [she takes another slow drag and breathes it out. this time, it's for dramatic effect.] Our names are just so goddamn similar, me and his Annabel Lee. Maybe I thought that made my opinion worth something more to him. But I guess I deserve to be chained down in the core of the Ninth House, too, for thinking crazy shit like that.