DAEMON・DAES

now here's the thing . five has had an understanding that there is something beyond the commission . fact was , the commission wasn't the only time agency out there . the tva , the time agency , the department of temporal investigations , the time patrol - there was so much && every time he got on that damn subway express he found another one . but from what he could discern , the commission was on top . above all other agencies . they were the ones controlling everything .

all other shit was just ... well shit .

so time cops was not an unreasonable . it causes a frown to form on five's face as he thinks about it .

❝ well , i was a member of the commission , an organisation that carries out executions to correct time line && all roads lead to an apocalypse . ❞ he told her . ❝ && unlike you , i found that an alternative , 100 year old version of myself created said commission to stop the apocalypse . go figure . ❞

He plays along so smoothly, never missing a beat. It's a little disconcerting, but he's not wrong: she doesn't know the half of it. There's no way anything he's saying is even remotely true—no way that he could actually be familiar with whom she's speaking of—but it's just close enough that it gives her pause. Her mother is cagey when it comes to time-related authorities. All Nutmeg actually knows is that, because of her mother's actions, their family would technically be considered fugitives. No "time cop" has come to arrest her personally, but it's surely a...matter of time.

"The founder, huh? So you're some kind of big cheese. I guess that's cool," she scoffs. "Or not. That must be a lot of pressure. Actually—" Her brow knits and she squints until her eyes are no more than smoldering slits.

"You formed the organization to stop the apocalypse, but the apocalypse still happens?" If she wasn't so sure they were just screwing around, his words would instill fear in her. His face is a mask. He's good at this. She walks a little faster, until the tips of her shoes are nearly touching his, if only to encourage him to stop showing off with his backwards gait. "The way you tell it, it's like you...failed. Or are going to fail." Time is relative. He gets what she's saying, whether or not the verb tense is right.

"That's depressing." Her mouth snaps shut. She's not about to rag on a guy for not being the hero in his own fantasies. "How do you live with it?" Her hand spins in the air, prompting him further. "The killing, I mean."

❝ i never said anything about it being used as emergency surgery . ❞ five pointed out , looking over as he walked . && that was true , he let his lip curl slightly into a smirk at the thought as he moved . blinking would be quicker , but he had been told off by viktor that it unnerves people without abilities . so he waits for her to catch up .

“You're weird,” she decides. It's clearly not as judgmental as it sounds, because it doesn't stop her from continuing to follow him. Weird isn't bad. Her whole family is weird. Her dark stare doesn't falter under his piercing gaze. It's only slightly impressive that he manages to not trip or bump into anything while walking backwards.

“But you got one thing right: I’m the youngest officer in the history of Time Cops. They made me in a lab just to search every timeline until I found you...I also have a license to kill.” It sounded like something her mother would say. Nutmeg was fairly certain the time police were real, regardless of whether or not any normal, chronological civilian would know of them, or even believe in them. Right now, it didn't matter. “You’re under arrest for crimes against humanity…like gross misuse of a straw.”

"Whatever you say, little prince." She toys with the handle of her parasol, spins it gently as she appraises him. He's really coming in hot. She doesn't know why he's so annoyed in the first place. Not understanding the intricacies of his mood swings—or at least his penchant for insults—is different from actual stupidity. Of that much, she's certain.

There's a remarkable similarity in the way they both take the bait, unable to let the other have the final word, but that's not something worth dwelling on now. His perception of her intelligence shouldn't matter, but he manages to be just tetchy enough to let it get to her.

❝ straws are also great for preforming impromptu tracheotomy . ❞ he says , not indulging any further as to why he would know this or his judgement on it . she didn't need to know that he had used a straw to do that .

Nutmeg allows herself a moment to mull over the proposition. She loves a good gift, and knowledge is amongst the greatest of them. She knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if he’s a little mouthy—or a lot. On the off chance he’s not joking, it would behoove her to keep track of any place that won’t card for drinks. More than that, more than she’ll let on, she really wants the crazy straw.

Her heavy boots clop along after him.

“Unfortunately, I haven’t had the pleasure of performing emergency surgery.” One eyebrow raises. “Maybe I should start carrying a straw on me? Pen, pocketknife, straw: perfect EDC.”

Her head inclines curiously. She doubts he’s speaking from personal experience, but just in case—

at least he can be certain that she won't try && take another bite .

five chews at the marshmallow && peanut butter treat . take as good as she got , he supposed as she retorted that she needed it around him . go figures . most do . his eyes narrow slightly before then reaching into his trouser pocket , fishing out his hipflask . turning it over in his hand , he then held it up .

❝ i could offer you this - but i've decided . i don't want to . ❞ he gives a shrug && sticks it back in his pocket .

"Don't flatter yourself—I was just messing. Alcohol's not, like, part of my food pyramid. Unless? Could maybe count it as a grain, actually..." She's not sure how to feel about that. Even then, if he'd actually passed the flask her way, she'd have gladly taken a swig.

His next words catch her attention. Her eyebrows raise. She hums her approval. "Pure fuel! A man after my own heart." That came out stranger than anticipated. Her face crumples in much the same way it did when she tried Five's sandwich. "Yeah, I'll pour one out in his honor." Hardly an ounce of sarcasm.

The point of food isn't its flavor, but its content; if it keeps her going without gumming up the system, she doesn't much care what it is. For someone else, she'd go to great lengths to whip up the most lavish meal she could with whatever she had on hand, but her own meal prepping was much less remarkable. It wasn’t exactly her choice (the “other guy” had far more discerning taste) but for the sake of her sanity, it was easier to pretend the opposite. There was a time in her life she might have relished such an ostentatious sandwich. She couldn’t exactly fault Five, even as she chided him.

❝ the french sometimes place their wine in boxes . not all the time , but it's nothing to quibble about . ❞ he thinks back to a chataeu lafite that he found in the hollows of a cellar - once owned to an extensively elegant mansion . not a boxed wine , but on the subject , five can't help but let his mind wander back .

"Whatever you say, little prince." She toys with the handle of her parasol, spins it gently as she appraises him. He's really coming in hot. She doesn't know why he's so annoyed in the first place. Not understanding the intricacies of his mood swings—or at least his penchant for insults—is different from actual stupidity. Of that much, she's certain.

There's a remarkable similarity in the way they both take the bait, unable to let the other have the final word, but that's not something worth dwelling on now. His perception of her intelligence shouldn't matter, but he manages to be just tetchy enough to let it get to her.

five stops dead , looking over with venom in his eyes && he bristles slightly at the comment . he doesn't actually know how old he looks , he reckons it's not fourteen . or ten . he definitely thinks that he's looking nearer seventeen or eighteen now .

She clicks her tongue as her eyes flick him up and down. He really let that get under his skin. “Don’t act like you’re above grape juice.” To his credit, he looks similar to her in age. It's his retort that brings her impish joy and splits her face with a sardonic smile. What a kid.

he looked at her with an expression of pure disgust as she leapt over && took a bite of his sandwich .

five instinctively blinked to the other side of her && part of him wanted to punch her in the face for doing that . instead , he decided to threaten . ❝ eat my shit again && i'll dislocate your jaw from your face . ❞ he warned her . not an empty threat .

"Wouldn't be the first time. Would've deserved it," she agrees with a shit-eating grin. The sandwich does, in fact, taste like shit. She regrets it immediately. It wasn't worth it, not even to prove a point. The temptation to gloat, to lord it over a literal man-child that she bested him, evaporates when she realizes she's essentially stealing candy from a baby. "Don't you judge me."

She leans on the table a polite distance away and gestures for him to continue. He and his snack are safe. She doesn't want another bite. "Whenever I'm with you, I need a drink." The tone is playful, despite the sour expression she puts on. "Or maybe I wanted to cause a little madness and mayhem, make stuff explode. Maybe I'm too caffeinated and need help coming down?"

a need to dissect .

knife spread over the surface of the bread , five then sprinkles both mini-marshmallows && sprinkles . he then closes the sandwich with a press down of another slice of bread && takes a bite . ❝ all the booze is gone . trust me . i looked . ❞

Her lip curls as she watches him take a bite of the sandwich. Too sweet. Way too sweet. By smell alone, she can almost taste it. Disgusting. Someone needs to feed him something with actual nutrients, and she'd gladly volunteer, but booze isn't the only thing vanished from the shelves. There's not much here she'd consider actually edible. "Gonna tell myself this is for the better. I need a drink as much as you need a sugar high." She doesn't have to look at him to feel his eyes so clearly boring holes into the back of her head. It makes her hunt seem even more futile.

"Hey, anyone ever tell you that you've got a staring problem?" Her back still faces him. She stands there, hand tapping a beat against the side of her leg, as she surveys the scene before her one last time—or else waits for her cue. "I get it. They say the same to me. Bug eyes and everything." It's less facetious than it sounds. An unblinking, impassive, calculating gaze swivels to meet his own. "You wanna watch something so bad, watch this."