#daylighter

whatever is in the bowl is a mystery to him; it looks like some bizarre european concoction with enough tomatoes or beetroots to turn it appetisingly red; mysterious chunks seem to be plaguing it, too — misshapen victims drowning in all that liquid, all assorted shapes and shades of undercooked potato yellow. he thinks he sees a lone sprig of rosemary surface for a second before sinking to its useless death at the bottom.

he looks at the equally bizarre european across the table from him, watching him, threatening him wordlessly to eat the damn soup before he, too, ends up floating in among the unhappy vegetable bits.

"you're going to make someone a very menacing wife one day," he tells ken, taking a hesitant and distrusting spoonful of the murder slop; it tastes like tomatoes and salt, a little sour. could do with some pepper, or another two hours on the stove. mmm. beetroot? almonds?

hold on. almonds?

neil tries to blink away the dark spots crowding his vision, pain and fear blending together until he forgets which is which.  he keeps his hand curled around his knee, but he sits up, reaches out to that flash of blond hair that's painfully familiar to him  (wrong boy, though). shaking his head, he swallows the lump of panic clogging his throat — he can't stay there on the floor, not knowing if he's able to put weight on his knee, waiting miserably for the nurse to breach court jupiter's doors.

'' don't— ''   he has to take a few steading breaths before he can continue, fingers tangled around kenneth's shirt sleeve in the tightest grip he can manage.  there must be something ugly on his face, white knuckled despair showing through the cracks, blowing his eyes wide.   '' help me get up. i have to get up. ''

STILL, A GREAT DEAL OF LIGHT FALLS ON EVERYTHING—, van gogh wrote, a quiet rumination lettered to his brother upon the persistent nature of light , that deceiving softness, brief but unflinching in its lasting hours. the very first time sunlight filtered through, brushed against him in the shape of a man, he'd recoiled, curled away like a paper singed away through flames. still, . . . . a great deal of light . . falls on everything. he crushes the paper in left hand, a half-written letter, thumb smearing into the dark-stained blots of ink, all a torn blur through the margins. that's what love does. makes you stupid, but in a good way. it's better than damn opioids, makes you forget that there's a boot right over your throat. diondra had once said, he could smell the perfume on her neck. white-peaches, grapefruit, and something like crushed jasmines. and so it must have— or it did, he'd forgotten that very thing, the boot over his throat, he'd forgotten twice, and twice was far too much for father to excuse. first, diondra, and now. . . .

the museum was quiet in the hours of twilight, and there he stood, a foot and a half away from the portrait of a dutch painter, a crushed letter in one hand and a pen half-way deep in his pocket. never the eloquent, collie, collie. diondra's voice remained, mocking, yet unreachable like a lone star drowning somewhere in the distance. makes you stupid.

the tiles echoed behind him, and he spins just in time, meets violence with violence, palm of his hand to the edge of an elbow. breath halts, the old fury climbs in his throat, thoughts piercing to senlac, another agent sent to hunt down the failure. a flash of gold catches the corner line of his vision, and he releases his breath. half in relief, half in irritation. " why are you here- " the words spit out darkly but falls downwards, barely out past his breath before the pain bites, sharply and heavily, the fist collided to just beneath his diaphragm without forgiveness. he could feel the deep wetness of blood spreading, wound unfurling past its stitches as the night loosened above him, the ceiling drifting before ken's face fell apart past his vision. " fuck you, my knife wound. . . " one hand to his shoulder, he feels his heart rattling as he tilts forward, eyes closing as a rush of cold pulled him into silence.

she is silent as she draws near, crouched form bearing the weight of her initial suspicion and fear of another attack. in front of her, kenneth outstretches his wounded arm, and the glint of poison in the foggy atlantean light heightens her awareness in an instant. in his space, in his bubble of safety, kida is unabashed as she grabs his arm. "i do not know what that was," she admits to the newcomer, bright eyes flashing a look into his face. she pulls the injury close, removes the crystal from around her neck, and gives ken another look — this one cloudy with concern. "hold still." the waterfall behind them sprays in their space, creating a light scene of moisture around them — enveloping the two in something humid and serene. it's the perfect place to cool off after an unplanned attack (shrouded, safe, low to the base of atlantis's structures and hidden from most view), and perfect for fixing up the wounds that seek to rip kenneth vareck from the mortal coin.

not anymore. kida hovers the crystal over the poisoned spot, watches as the air around them chimes, and presses a solid palm upon the injury to seal the magic in its place. when she removes her hand and gazes up at ken, the cut is gone. the poison has vanished. it is as if the attack never took place.

she stands nearby, silent, motionless, arms crossed across her chest. rain drips down her montrals, her face, her clothes — her cloak is thick, but not enough to protect ahsoka fully from the elements as it pours. water droplets stick to her eyelashes, to the point of her nose, but the togruta remains still. reactionless. a statue of training and slow breathing, even after kenneth's prompting. keeping an eye on me? once, the gentle tug may have summoned a smile from her lips. once, she may have rolled her eyes, scoffed, shrugged her shoulders. not now. not anymore.

the sky brightens with lightning, the air, caustic with nearby thunder that seems to shake the dirt and grass beneath their feet. at long last, movement — ahsoka tugs the edge of her hood down to her forehead, a small attempt at shielding her gaze from the downpour. "i'm admiring your work with that." a vague chin-jut towards ken and his blade, towards his practice. his stance on a boulder outcropped from the ground gives him balance, gives him height amid the storm. his stance is just. his skills, natural, obvious, but borrowed with anger and vengeance at the forefront. that, alone, is why ahsoka has refused to practice with him — the violence she sees within ken's brutal slashes is too familiar to her. the feeling cuts too deep.