#heyerald

@heyerald​ inquired:  [ CHALLENGE ]:     in a motion designed to challenge the receiver's authority, sender pins receiver against the wall. (folklore verse)

     Tʜᴇ ᴏᴜᴛʙᴜʀsᴛ is sudden and unexpected. He knows he pushes Jon's buttons — often on purpose, sometimes not, but in general, he has some intent behind it, and if it's only for play, or to make sure the kid would do better against anyone out there, more keen on inflicting harm — but the physical violence is new. If it hadn't been for the surprise, they wouldn't be here: Jon might be taller than him, but there wouldn't be that much of a difference in physical strength if either of them were human, and less so now. If he breathed, the air would have been knocked out of him, but as it was, he blinks a couple times, glasses (more decoration than aid at this point) misaligned and then he grins, all fangs and terror.

     "Ohhh, I'm proud of you!" And he is, the excitement isn't fake. He can break out of this grip any time he likes — shapeshifting is a skill that mostly be myth, but there's enough wiggle room to slip through cracks or out of situations such as these. But the fact that this child of his would finally, finally take to defending himself — beautiful. Now, of course, they would need to work on whether or not it was appropriate here, but —

@heyerald

      "Iᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ be, eventually." Not quite dismissive; while he still very much stands with the position that Jon needs to make most experiences for himself, grow into the role carved out for him and doing quite well so far, almost better than expected in some ways (even if, naturally, it might not look that way for the Archivist himself, but that's because the grand picture is still closed to him. Not for that much longer and he'll come to understand, come to know why this all was necessary, come to see), there lays the conclusion that maybe some things need to be explained. Some smaller things to help set everything else into place. Not too much as to not misdirect where things are going, of course; there are some things that one can only prepare towards in a wrong way, actually diminishing any chances of success.

      Of course, that concept had not taken well with Jon, so, a compromise then.

@heyerald​ inquired:  ‘it’s a personal journal, and therefore it’s private.’ (folkLORE AU)

     "Aɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ secrets could you possibly keep? You hardly ever leave here." There's a considerable amount less of that childish aura here, in the walls of their own home. Well, of course: technically his, and albeit the younger spends more time inside the walls than he does by now, it doesn't seem to stick at all to Jon. But there's less need to pretend here, even if it's only partly a game. Fingers still on the spine of the little book that Jon seems so insistent to get back, and ah. He thought he raised him better than to keep secrets, for what need is there for them in between a family? Disappointing, and the initial flare up is anger, is to make sure the other one will not come up with such silly ideas again, but it shows only in the quivering of a smile and fangs bared for a second too long.

     Maybe he's too harsh on the kid. Maybe that's why they don't get along. He's trying, but —

     "Fine then. I'd prefer you wouldn't attempt to keep such things, but at the very least take better care of them." Another moment of hesitation (not a heartbeat, there is no such thing between the two of them) before he holds it out, then. "I trust you, but it goes both ways. How long I will be able to do so when you don't extend the same to me I don't know. I'm trying, Jon."

Dᴀʀᴋ ᴇʏᴇs flicker to the other's face, and it's momentarily that something clears up over them. Just a moment. It's not that he's gone, it's just that it's hard to think sometimes through the thick fog of violence, of hunger, of yearning, of blood. He doesn't expect Jon to understand, not to the same degree — this wasteland is a Watcher's paradise for obvious reasons, and while they are both changed, are both monsters, are both so very hungry, seeing and knowing is nothing like the violence, the anger, the need to tear and rip and take a life and stain his hands anew, as if they are ever clean, as if the blood is not constant on them, as if they are not ever not coated in it, wet and glistering.

Hands that he looks down to now, and that are not made to hold anyone else's anymore. They are to grip around the axe. They are to tear through limbs and organs. They are to destroy. They are not to hold. If he were to take Jon's hand and squeeze as he says, he would break it.

There are moments where he's more lucid than others. This is one. None of them are a mercy: he hates what he has become. What he has been made. A part of him is bitter towards Jon for it, but they are both monsters now. They are both something worse than what should walk the earth, apocalyptic hellscape or not. They are both — wrong. He does not deserve comfort. Has not, in a long time.

"Mʜᴍ. Yᴇᴀʜ. That does sound like you."

He could be supportive. He could say that no, this won't happen. He could say he has Jon's back (which he has, even if sometimes more begrudgingly than other times). He could be nice about it. Or simply sound less cheerful than he does right now. But in his experience, trying to talk Jon out of that mood by actively listening and being supportive doesn't help much. It's not that he won't do that, later, when he's a bit more calmer, but first it's more important to get him out of his head before he gets in too deep and sulks.

@heyerald​ inquired:  ‘  so  why  are  you  showing  it  to  me?  ‘

     "Bᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ I need you to understand why." The bodies aren't a great sight, but they are necessary. Nothing like what their kind does: no little wounds or even a torn throat, and only the blood drained. Those are entirely void of anything, fallen in husks that would perhaps fall to pieces if one so much as breathed as them too hardly (and how good they only do to be able to talk), spiderwebs running rampant and becoming much, much thicker a bit further in. They won't go as far into this cavern system: even being this close was dangerous, was begging for one of the mothers to be alarmed and all senses are on high alert, waiting for the first moment of something changing so they could make their way out before it was too late. A mortal soul wouldn't be able to: to come even close to those webs and breathe in it's venom would mean certain death.

THE SMILE RUBY WORE HAD BEEN CRAFTED specifically to get under his skin. It was almost overly friendly, with a wicked hunger brewing underneath. “Good Msr. Bouchard has insisted you take the day off,” Ruby said. He hadn’t, of course, but if Magnus had an issue with it, he could come down here himself. “You’ve been working too hard, Dear Mister Simms, and I’ve been informed that the only time you relax is when forced.”