[ 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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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.