#whywhitby

She's ok now, mostly. She had returned to the church for a little bit after, not long but enough to feel empty. The void of something else inside of her body.

There is a sigh for a second as she looks at for a moment she felt herself somewhere else completely. The sensation of her nose bleeding wasn't there so at least there was that.

Although she must admit there is a weirdness to doing this without a rational thought behind it. Mostly being Leo but, it's kind of fun. Refreshing in the way of she can at least fully embrace whatever she sees or feels while they look at this property.

Frame turns and both hands are held out, EMF reader in one and a thermometer in the other. Head nods slightly, a notion for her new partner in crime to take them both. A weird mutual understanding, they had exchanged perhaps only a few words since they met. But Whitby understood her, and in return she understood him. For all the weirdness they both had, it was nice not have to speak and fill the air.

Leo was lovely, she really did enjoy their friendship but it was nice to spend a day with the Wheel of Fortune instead. That was him, for both reverse and upright. She had seen it.

❝When we are there if it screams tell me.❞

There is a brief moment she pauses. That was a weird way to say it but that is usually how Leo gets tipped off. The screaming of that stupid reader. She gets the nose bleed and he gets tinnitus. Poor Whitby, she would feel bad if that happened to him.

Better than her fate, she supposed. But, still it would be nice to clarify, and maybe warn him of what a ghost screaming means. She isn't completely sure how much of this he knows about. Free hands now grasp around the cross on her necklace. Weird, she still hates the church and yet it haunts her more than any spirit.

❝The EMF reader. If a ghost screams, that means death. But-- if that happens just tell me too. I can deal with it.❞

A MUFFLED MELODY plays beneath stacks of paper on his tape recorder. Shostakovich : symphony no. 9. He's humming along, playing with the progression of time itself like a fiddle second to his movement. There is a serpentine quality to the way he approaches Whitby, holds his gaze - smiles, almost.

"The bugling loves interrupting my work, doesn't it?" It's not so bitterly said, though there's nothing about each word that suggests Edward is pleased with the pause put to his musings. A riddle needs its time. Its space. It's a symphony of its own. To introduce so much as a bump in the acoustics muddles it. And what a bump @whywhitby has been. A pesky, pesky little thing denting his pretty walls. "Is it my attention you want?"

He reaches his hand out, pinches cheek and pulls ... without the usual sting. It's a part of his composition. A sleight of hand, that gentleness, hiding the other palm subtly behind violets and greens. And still, Nygma holds his gaze. Pinch becomes pat. And a good, purposeful glance below the eyes. There is something he insinuates, but is it what he'd like Whitby to think?

Ahead he leans. "You have it." A slick motion. One single curve - a line headed straight for abdomen but almost miraculously - or perhaps without miracle at all - missing where it would damage too well. He presses his dagger, pushing, bringing himself in, too, with that smile now complete. "Congratulations." The bump is nicked.

@whywhitby : “Would you like some sugar?"

First response thumping against his simplest of minds is 'would I like what, honey?' - but that's not a good glove here. And so he thinks, just a little longer, about what would make for a better joke. ( Sugar. Sugar is sweet. The question is sweet. He's got it now! )

With a smile and the cup extended, Scott parts curved lips to speak. "That would be pretty sweet, yeah." He sounds a little proud of himself, though he wonders if - in its unusual subtlety before the heaps of puns he's thrown Whitby's way - that instant of thought would amount to little beyond his own recognition.

Either way, he is content. Looking over the trail of ants on his knee and begging them softly, with his communicator, not to take the sugar away and run. ( Samanta is eager to threaten that she will, eventually. )

"You know, I was wondering when to bring this up - but I figured, hell, let's be spontaneous. Whitby, do you feel like joining an insanely awesome security company I know about?"

@whywhitby said SENDER helps RECEIVER wash ash or grime from their face.

Missouri's eyes are closed. Whitby's hand is on his neck, soft and cool. Grounding. The cloth is rough where it scrubs at the ash that is caked itself into the lines of his face -- stuck fast with sweat and salt and grime -- but Missouri relishes the sensation, the pressure. If he just focuses on that, he can ignore the way his heart still races, unsteady in his chest.

He presses his hands tighter together into his lap to stop them from shaking. The hair on his forearms is wiry and coiled from the flames. It feels like he will never get the smell of it off of him.

He is silent, just breathing while Whitby cleans his eyes, his cheeks, his ears… his mouth. Only when Whitby works his way down to his neck -- his quick fingers reaching out to work Missouri's torn and ruined shirt from his shoulders -- does Missouri finally open his eyes.

Whitby is looking at him with intense focus, his familiar eyes wide and serious. Missouri feels a different sort of warmth rising up in him suddenly -- a sick sort of slithering heat -- unbidden and frightening in its own right.

He reaches up to still Whitby's hands over the hollow of his throat. His pulse flutters there -- he wonders if Whitby can feel it against his fingertips.

"… Thank you," he manages, in a low whisper. His throat feels scratchy and raw from the smoke. He swallows.

"… For all of it, I--"

He does not really know how to say what he wants to tell him, so he gives up and closes his mouth. He reaches out to cup Whitby's face instead, thumb brushing over his cheekbone…

@whywhitby said SENDER pulls glass from RECEIVER'S skin carefully.

Missouri grits his teeth. However carefully Whitby works, each shard pulls sharply as it is released from his skin -- just like so many teeth. He stares at the wall and tries to focus on anything else.

Whitby's hands are cold against the fever-heat of Missouri's back. He can feel the fingers of his left hand slotted against his ribs where he braces him, steadying. Every once in a while Whitby's thumb rubs back and forth, perhaps subconsciously soothing. His other hand works deftly, methodically, clearing each splinter in quadrants. Missouri keeps his head slightly bowed so as not to block the light.

For a long time, neither speak.

Whitby's breath puffs against the back of his neck. If Missouri closes his eyes, he can almost imagine the look of concentration that must surely be painted across the younger man's face -- the slight flush high on his cheeks, his tongue perhaps trapped between his teeth. Missouri swallows, throat tight.

His voice is rough when he speaks, with exhaustion, and with something else, more nebulous.

"You… don't have to be so gentle."

@whywhitby sent:

“you almost died.”

He speaks to her and there is silence. To be honest she thought she already had. It was the first time in a long time that when her eyes closed she dreamed, she saw things. Good things. And yet when her eyes flickered open again, she was back here. Back with Whitby.

To be honest, she knew that her luck would be living. To carry the weight of guilt she always had, the world was a cruel place and death would be too kind to someone like Sabine.

With gritted teeth and searing pain in her side she shifted to sit up better. For a moment things felt so intense, she could not process the pain, different parts of her felt on fire and then numb.

❝That explains why I feel like death.❞

Her voice was soft. Different than the normal abrasive nature that is within it. It was kindness she is certain, especially given that she knows if memory serves he most definitely went out of his way to get to her. Strange to think that she was the least trusting of him and now, he was the closest to her. Whitby and her understood one another on a strange level. It was almost comforting though.

Almost. Although an almost does not stop the small smile on her lips.

@whywhitby sent:

“just lean against me.”

Pinhole vision goes in and out, her head is pounding and she is not completely aware of everything. That ticks in her head more than anything else, the fact that she is a liability in the moment.

But, she can not help but persist, even knowing this purely because there are too many variables at stake. As much as she has kept her distance she cares too much about making sure Whitby makes it out of this in one piece.

There are no words exchanged, instead dirt covered arm wraps around his shoulder. She is still careful, the amount of weight she allows herself to put on him as they start their path.

Gritted teeth conceal the pain she feels, the way her body feels as if it were on fire. The less he can discern about her injuries the better, the less of a distraction she is. But that sneaking paranoia creeps in, what are they really dealing with here?

@whywhitby said : "vitamins, the one-a-day kind."

Missouri snorts and rifles through his desk drawer until he finds the bottle of pills, then chucks them lightly at Whitby -- aiming only vaguely for his head. Then he settles back and kicks his feet up on the chair next to him.

"That's apples you're thinking of."

He grabs the next folder from the stack of reports and scans the first page absent-mindedly.