hey howdy hey! obligatory pinned post explaining that this blog is a hub world for various muses and associated side-blogs: if you’re here for some writing shenanigans with me then you’re probably in the right place.
though communication may at times come from this main blog, i may end up speaking on behalf of other side ones where it comes to thread ideas and pitches.
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They grow mellow and tame as plates slowly empty. There's room for a small second serving, though the last of the flat breads can be saved for the morning, and they wash their food down with watery red wine. Perhaps other than Miss Denvers and Jason (as the cook himself, on the receiving end of a roll of compliments), no one else seems to mind whether Mycroft eats or not, or how much. As bellies grow warm and heavy with stew, and drink dulls the senses, the boys begin to sprawl around the fire like cats, legs stretched out in front of them, backs supported by whatever they'd been sitting on not five minutes prior. Jason clears the dishes into a bucket of soapy water then joins the scene, his own cup in hand, anchoring down next to Elena.
It's the appearance of this fine bottle of brandy that rouses them again, a boisterous wave of collective cheer circling the fire, wet teeth gleaming in the flickering light. "He wouldn't know good liquor from a stream of piss." Wallace jests as Mr Holmes comes to hand over the goods to the snuggling couple, making the devil the butt of his joke. So unusual this impulsive cheek coming from the elder, and so sudden, that the group barks with cheer, and even Thorne seems too content to mind it, snorting, a bring dumb grin on his gaunt face. He pulls out his guitar instead and settles between his lady's knees.
"This is kind of you." Dahlia accepts the brandy by freeing one of her hands from Thorne's locks, which she had begun to gingerly untangle. She reads the label carefully, lips pursed in sustained approval, then pours herself a shot after getting a good sniff of the bottle. Following the Englishman's suggestion, she takes a small, savouring sip, and immediately the grounding, dilating spices of the blend flood her mouth, velvet down the throat, perfectly settling. Wooden and citrusy notes remain long after that first taste, so much she can feel her feet rooting into the earth, frame losing some of its practised rigidity. About as dangerous as it was delightful. "I'm only sorry there won't be any left for you to take back." She admits with a toothy smile, splashing a bit more of the honeyed nectar into her cup to share with Thorne, some into Mycroft's own (after chucking out what was left of his wine), then passing the bottle around.
Music lifts from calloused fingers again, rising like smoke in the air. They drink, and smoke, and stories become songs, until other songs are evoked from memory. In their mother tongue, the brothers and Thorne harmonise surprisingly well, and though one or two try to get Jhin to join, the old cougar just shakes his head and goes back to whittling, onyx eyes glinting in the dark. They will carry on until, one by one, sleep would beckon them into their tents, before the night grew too long or the fire turned ash.
Cradling his pipe with the tenderness of handling fine crystal, Mycroft exhales another billowing cloud of smoke into the crackling atmosphere. He chuckles in response to the teases levied against Mr Astaire, gratified in having witnessed these more nuanced depths to Mr Burke. Remarkable what a full stomach and turn of shared cheer could do for one's constitution— he feels bolstered to an extent he hadn't experienced since before he had boarded the train in Sacramento, where last he had enjoyed the privileges of comfort as regular routine.
"Like any luxury I would rather it be enjoyed here and now, than lost or forgotten upon the road elsewhere." He opines with a thoughtful smile as Miss Dahlia kindly pours him a portion of brandy, a cup he then lifts using a languid grasp of his fingertips around the vessel's rim. From which leaps forth the oak-steeped burn of dark caramel, spiced cinnamon and ashen smoke; a heady blend he savours with a tightened gasp, allowing for his burdens and cares to fall away from him for but a little while. For as long as the guitar strums, and husky voices gather to hum with harmony.
As their fire begins to flicker and fade, the group's number begins to whittle down in gradual increments— though otherwise at leisure, Mycroft retains an active attention for the changing face of his company. He is neither desirous of being first nor being last to leave the circle, and is therefore pleased to find that he has exhausted the final dregs of his tobacco at a point in which a few departures have already preceded his own. Taking that signal as his cue to retire, he rises to his feet and thanks the remaining merrymakers before tottering off to his tent for a spell of evening respite.
Following final adjustments in hygiene and clothing arrangement, his efforts at finding his bedroll beneath the darkened veil of his provided tarp take but a moment due to the already diminished space to negotiate. Indeed when his knees hit that softened bed of canvas and quilted cotton, his head all but collapses upon his travelling cushion with welcome surrender in turn. Exhaustion threatens to take him completely, though he has but a whisper of remaining sense in him enough to consider first the daunting weight of his own circumstance.
Though Mycroft's body ached and the workings of his mind had been worn thin as gossamer in his efforts to entertain, prove his uses and maintain himself all the while— he was alive. He yet breathed, had brokered a deal and secured for himself a fair degree of personal autonomy. Remarkable, given how this day's afternoon had begun. He was relieved to be past what he now hoped would be the worst of it, his concern now being whether he had been able to accurately map the prospective actions of two individuals enmeshed in his broader plan.
He thinks of Sherlock, wherever that boy is, out there beneath the same bright moon. And he thinks of— his hand feels around in the dark, falling upon his neatly folded waistcoat from earlier that day and withdrawing a large silk handkerchief from its breast pocket. Clutching this token to his cheek, he buries his faces in its lush fabric and breathes in gently. Lavender, bergamot and mandarin.
Tension leaves his body with a wilting sigh, and so do his thoughts follow into that welcome chasm of somnolence.
It had been a prescient decision to bring his umbrella for the proceedings at this palace, Mycroft considers to himself with idle satisfaction as he regards the thickening cloud cover above them. Recent fluctuations in the Gulf Stream had precipitated adverse weather conditions off the coast of Brittany just two days ago, while a cold front had been reported in Strasbourg last Friday. All this to say, a storm was brewing— quite rapidly. He stands to one side of the door as Mr Kirkland fusses over his vestments, umbrella yet folded and propped to one side as one would present a handsome cane. In contrast to his much older friend, he is in no particular hurry to rush his departure.
"Never thought he would cease that tiresome monologue. Unbelievable how late the evening has run."
Though it is quite entertaining to watch the shorter man shake his thoughts about out loud in the meantime, as a child might shake a jar of candy in hopes of releasing the treasure within. He supposes there is some manner of catharsis, or relief, in the otherwise aimless venting of his grievance. Therein lay the worthy treasure, in addition to that bouquet tucked under his arm— once intended for the Tsarina of Russia, he observes, as a gift from the Republic of France. From prior experience he found it best to simply listen on such occasions, provide thoughtful accompaniment and otherwise demonstrate one's attention. Allow the river to run its course, in a manner of speech.
Of course, he is never permitted to remain an entirely passive partner in conversation. Mr Kirkland has his tells, and they rest predominantly in his posture— the straightening of his spine betrays his intent to engage, while the tilt of his head suggests curiosity.
"You're certain you won't attend?"
His answer is quite simple, delivered with neither pause nor hesitation.
"Quite certain. The hour is late, and today's periodicals await my attention."
This answer appears to perplex the spirit, whose heavy brow creases with a discerning doubt; now, it is to his advantage that Mr Kirkland is eager to vacate these premises in short order, or he might have found himself subject to an interrogation. Blissfully, judgement passes between them without further remark or query.
"Mm. Fair enough I suppose." Mycroft can almost feel a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding leave his lungs— it was not by any stretch of the imagination his desire to entertain discourse of a personal nature. Such subjects were reserved for private speculation, and even later hours than these.
"Then a good evening, and we shall reconvene on the morrow." Mycroft doffs his own top hat in response to the like gesture given, readjusting the rest of his umbrella upon the gravel while watching the elder man take his leave. Thought not before...
"The report on today's conference—" Ah, there it is. Mycroft lifts his head and smiles slightly as he watches Arthur remember his otherwise forgotten point of interest in real time. A near miss, though he had counted upon his delayed recollection.
"—shall ready by 5 o'clock, tomorrow afternoon."
In fact, his schedule for tomorrow had already been planned to the minute. A decent night's sleep, breakfast taken at his leisure, followed by a study of the dailies and a write-up by 3 o'clock— after lunch had been taken at his restaurant of preference.
Of note however is Mr Kirkland's brightening expression just before he turns again, as though his friend were contemplating what he would otherwise do without him.
Well, wasn't that just how they had all been drawn into his orbit to begin with?
~*~
Mycroft spends his next minute or so watching the storm break upon this city, still sheltered himself by the threshold of the palace, otherwise imparting farewells on the final trickle of friendly dignitaries as they pass on their way to the queue for cabs that would bear them elsewhere. Drawing his large coat about his broad centre in an effort to better warm himself, the aged diplomat otherwise contents himself with examining the architecture shielding him from the worst of the elements— a fine work sculpted in the twilight years of the Renaissance, though not without those modern touches forged from the brimstone of Revolution.
In truth, he could be passing his time within the bowels of this very building, hovering by the fire crackling in the front parlour with no thought or care for this adverse turn of weather. But if his estimations were correct, this would itself be but a passing discomfort, and he would soon be delighting the curiosity of his desired company. For he was certain that events must have been brought to a close at Eden, as much as it was no doubt Mr Kirkland's intention to extend them beyond their natural point of termination. Thus must all guests, wanted and unwanted, be otherwise ejected from the venue and sent forth to fend for themselves in the eye of this tender gale.
What he could not predict, however, is the manner in which these guests must have left the place. With fanfare? With disappointment? Or perhaps seeded wonder, admiration?
His thoughts wander, and he cannot help but wonder in turn if the course of the evening had granted James every wish he had wanted to extract from it. Whether it had returned his confidence, whether it had invited hope in him— however misguided, however warped from the crooked roots of his own ambition. Despite Mycroft's every intention to remain distanced he had sent Sherlock into that den of vipers in a fit of beckoned curiosity, wreathed in a message writ in scarlet thread and absence otherwise. Would his presence have changed anything? Should he have gone with him, secured a minimum baseline of peace in that wretched place?
No, Mycroft grows cold as the storm batters these lavish palace gardens before him with a relentless curtain of silver-studded rainfall. It was not his responsibility to cushion the excesses of other men, whatever their former or current relation to his own person. He had made the right decision, removing himself from this picture so completely. So absolutely as to leave no room for negotiation regarding where he stood, where his sentiment remained even after all these years: steadfast, and without compromise.
Negotiation fed a man like James as validation by another name. He would seize upon any sign, the slightest signal of accommodation as permission to continue just as he was— to have been justified in his actions past and since. Thus would Mycroft continue to punish him, with averted eyes and persisting silence. Let James Moriarty twist in the wind, simmer with dissatisfaction and invite ruin upon whatever surrounds his person. Howl at the moon, for all the good it will ever do him.
But three minutes since Mr Kirkland had departed from the threshold of this palace, and still enough time to place recent years beneath the scrutinising lens of his evaluation. Much remained uncertain, and so they had each clung to what was known to them— returned to old routines, cyclical patterns and habits that came as second nature to them. Thus does Sherlock investigate, James scheme, and Mycroft Holmes contemplate. Data yet rules the day, and so he awaits news brought on the familiar click of booted heel, scraping gravel with a loping gait that could only belong to one person. He has yet to pull his gaze from the rainswept gardens, and so far lacks the need to.
"Ah, there you are. How was your evening, Sherlock?"
A haunting cry pierces the tranquil veil of good feeling that had otherwise permeated the steps leading out from the venue. Crowds drunk with pleasure and made stranger to the grief expressed by a woman in the throws of insurmountable loss cast her a skirting glance as they leave, their flow unimpeded as a river may part unfeeling around a rooted stone. The twinkling bosom of the city beckons, and each assume another will address the tumult cast before them.
Drawn to the doors by this asymmetric note of discord in an otherwise faultless harmony, James manifests upon the threshold to the venue amid a bearing that was both silent and phantom-esque. Brow furrowed with vested intrigue, his cavernous eyes dart about the scene before he promptly tilts upon the axis of his hips and utters a few words aside to his men at the door: obstructions to the exit should be removed in short order, and clean-up may be required in the aftermath.
With his instruction given, James promptly turns on heel and withdraws inside again. As he passes through the oncoming throngs of merry going people, his thoughts begin to drift back to a certain exchange he had entertained a mere two hours ago.
~*~
The grandfather clock stood tall at the north-west corner of his club's lounge has struck upon its eleventh hour, beckoning him once more down the clandestine stairwell leading to his private library— a vast stone-bricked cavern entrenched deep beneath this building's foundation, extending to all four corners in its breadth, depth and accompanying dimension. Forth into its frigid bowels does he then step, his grim countenance lit only by a flickering amber tongue of candle light, the iron-wrought torch clutched in his grasp granting scant visibility of the limestone beneath his feet. Nevertheless, each step is taken with profound caution.
For he dares not tread upon the venuous map of numbers etched in chalk upon this floor: an equation five years in the making, inscribed with chalk through his own labour across the grand expanse of this hollowed out cavern. This endless stream of numbers and symbols paints in its progression a colossal, golden spiral of mathematics, leading in an increasingly tightened arc towards to a central circle drawn five feet wide in circumference. The course of this massive feat of calculation was itself punctuated in intervals by alternating offerings in the form of obscure totem, rare artefact and earthly substance gathered over the span of the Eurasian continent— meticulously placed and subsequently arranged to satisfaction.
As one would solve a garden labyrinth James follows this path demarcated by chalk inscription, descending in this gradual spiral towards the centre of his own grand formula. At the innermost bend of this circling pattern he takes a pause, withdrawing the bejewelled ring he had recently retrieved from M. de Lioncourt and leaning down to place it in a specific, hitherto empty, space awaiting provision. Neatening its placement, he pulls back to a stand once more and continues on to the very centre of this fabricated maze. He feels the weight of one more trinket in his coat packet as he moves into position: a glass of crystal, inscribed with the initials of a certain 'M.M'. Itself a proverbial card up his sleeve, should it have need to enter the state of play.
There otherwise, at the eye of this proverbial storm he was poised to summon, James stood above a bowl of black water shimmering with mercurial stillness between his shoes. Holding his torch just above this ceramic saucer, he takes in a deep breath— deep enough to heave his closed shoulders and thus anchor his conscience. All preparations have been made according to his precise specifications, there was therefore no need to waste even a second further in passing time. At once does he thrust the torch flame down between his feet directly into the shallow bowl, extinguishing his only source of light with a violent hiss of steam as ripples fan from the applied pressure.
Fire and water. Biblical, and primordial— the secrets to alchemy had lain in his recent discovery that it was merely another science. Elements combined to form new compounds that engender further reaction, and for this particular mixture he must add as catalyst a final component to complete its formula. A name of ancient and foreign origin. To even utter it aloud he had been told was a transgression of grievous magnitude: indeed, though a man divorced from the house of his own faith, James would have confessed each syllable felt like hot coals upon his tongue.
𒈲𒊮𒉣𒇬
At first, there is nothing. There is but darkness, and silence.
And then, all at once, the Earth begins to shake. The air in the room begins to burn with unbearable heat, scalding his eyes and throat as though he had just been thrust head first into the bowels of a great bonfire. Nevertheless consumed by his own conviction, James stands his ground as the stonework beneath his very feet begins to shift and crackle beneath the pressure of a surging, titanic presence. In a spontaneous eruption of light does the grand cavern-spanning formula launch into function, figures and symbols lit up with incandescent clarity and beckoning forth a coursing flood of luminous, acid green liquid from buried depths beyond the earth.
Though noxious to his senses and certain to be fatal upon slightest touch, James remains unharmed otherwise by this veritable whirlpool of primordial toxin summoned to fill to brim the vast expanse of this cavern. Though towering in walls of fifty feet at glancing count above him in complete circumference, the bone-melting venom remains contained by the boundary marking confines of his formula— at the eye of this proverbial storm, the Professor makes his stand before the emergence of an entity that surely defied the utmost extent of mortal description.
As an academic, he nevertheless commits himself to a fair attempt.
These great rushing walls of viridescent poison begin to curve in upon themselves, coiling into a colossal spiral of winding scales that emerge from this birthing chrysalis in shards of blackest obsidian. An underbelly dark as void teemed with scintillating flecks of silver, reminiscent of constellations cast by God's hand against a canvas of empty space— drawing upwards into a gargantuan, serpentine silhouette that in turn spawned two spear-taloned forelegs, then a vast curtain of leathery, bat-like wings that even semi-folded seemed to shroud the room whole.
This primeval devil, this dragon of Oriental myth reared a fang-bearing head that yet formed with a majestic crown of three cruel horns that could each spear a modest cottage with little exertion, eyes that burned that toxic hue of blinding chartreuse, and a bearded jaw woven with golden links of fabled jewellery. Yet did the creature's vibrant strain of venom course the extent its dark form, as veins of ore might gleam throughout a mountain's sheer facade— granting light alongside the continuing upward rush of excess toxin about its form otherwise, each drawing attention the extent to which this summoned behemoth now loomed and wound about him. Denying him any chance of escape.
He has heard this dark aberration called the Undying One.
Lord of Shadows. The Great Beast of the Pit. In their prior means of intermediary-conducted correspondence, James had simply referred to them as the Demon.
"The identity of your mark for collection."
His voice is plain as he remarks upon this particular component to their transaction, his gloved hand sweeping outwards to indicate the ring he had but recently placed within the course of their grand summoning circle.
Blazing, aqueous irises that could very well swallow him whole within their abyssal depths move with tremendous purpose— an entire, winding torso bending like a towering tree subject to its own storm follows suit as the entity regards the offering in question.
"It is changed from what was agreed."
That infernal voice thunders from depths borne of primordial water, that which James now understood had helped birth the cosmic map he had once devoted his mortal life to the study of— apotelesmatikos, stars that claim even now to shape the course of human destiny. A scale of chemistry in which the laws that governed life itself could bend, in which the doctrine of certain death could unravel into obselescence.
"Fundamentally, it is not." He nevertheless contests with peevish impatience, his indicating hand returning a neatened fold upon the small of his spine as he calmly recites the terms sealed in blood between them. "I offer you a count of mortal souls, each condemned to a thousand years of damnation in your service. In return, you summon forth a mortal soul from the realm of the deceased and tether them to the land of the living for a corresponding number of calendar days from this date."
The roar of the surrounding whorl threatens to deafen him, the tails of his coat lashing like whips in their conjured winds while he yet stood his ground with uncompromising recalcitrance. His pocket watch glimmered from the base of its swinging chain, hands of fine silver trapped each at the numerals for twelve and one.
One set of twelve souls trapped within confines of enchanted metal, traitors chastised and caged for the partitioning and theft of his enterprise in his absence. The last to fall as such comes to mind unbidden— lain upon the floor of his study some months ago, as a bronze replica of Laurent's Psyche clutched in his grasp dripped with liquid crimson.
Ungrateful rats, each and every one of them. One thousand years of torment seemed mercifully short as recompense for their treachery.
"There was agreement upon the return of a mortal soul, not one already damned."
His ongoing disagreement with the Demon distracts him from his stewing displeasure. not so much however as to dampen the sharpness of his faculties— those which swiftly rally to an aggressive defense in the face of this colossal phantom increasingly bearing down upon him.
"Is not a damned soul still a mortal one? I scoured the contract thrice over to ensure the terms were without chance for misinterpretation." The Demon of course refers to their subject's vampiric nature. While James had digested the various clerical arguments as to the fate of those pitiful creatures' spiritual essence over the last handful of years, his conviction in the terminology used within the contract in discussion remained absolute.
"Besides I have a mind to expand the parameters of our deal to the maximum available." He all but scoffs with a wave of his hand, half-turning his body from this black scaled behemoth before turning his own ghoulish visage to regard the beast with a declarative pointing finger to gather their fixed attention. His pale skin gleams a sickly green from the fathomless walls of luminous water that yet surround him, encasing him within a spiraling noose the same hue of Dionaea muscipula's outer epidermis.
How then does a spider negotiate the trap built for a fly?
"Twelve days, twelve mortal souls. Upfront— a thousand years each."
She spins an entrapping web of her own.
Market rate, bulk purchase. The offer is irresistible to one in desperate need of supply, of the attached promise in stable income. Indeed in response to his suggestion there comes from this serpentine devil a rumble deep enough to drive chasms into the Earth: not entirely displeased, though no doubt yet rankled by his continued impudence. One must be bold in any matter of business, unflinching and altogether correct in their course of speculation.
"You carry yourself with the arrogance of one who has dared with demons before."
Such an impression given will protect him more than any ancient spell or armour spoken of in the legends and tales he has known.
"Indeed, though better known as stockjobbers in our humble mortal circle."
There again, that same cacophonous rumble. A different timbre this time— more alike to the languid roll of unrelenting waves against a faraway ocean shore. In that strange and foreign harmony James detects a modicum of understanding, even a borderline appreciation for his turn of quick-witted comedy. Rumours had abound in the texts of a once human element to this abysmal creature; absorbed, consumed or born he did not know. It is, whichever, another notch as to his certain success here.
"Nevertheless, I demand weight in recompense. Tempted as I am to take even your warped existence to pay for the trouble of this particular soul's collection."
Those slitted pupils appeared to expand with the promise of infernal chasm.
"You cannot." James calls the bluff with instinctive confidence, drawing himself taller as he continues to stand in place. This was but a standard intimidation play, designed to provoke him into contemplating potential concession. "Written as it was, the contract binds you as much as it does me. You know as well as I there was a clause guarding against offense upon my person."
As well as wrangling the speculations of market makers in the manifested Hell that continued to call itself the London Stock Exchange, he had as well in his younger years been intimate with a former barrister of the highest calibre. He could not have been more prepared throughout the course of his mortal life to dance with the Devil on matters of a contractual nature.
There is a silence. Considering, deliberative.
Then at last the Demon turns his bearded head, that great draconic snout exhaling a stream of verdant steam. It is a dizzying fog, tantalizing for its invigorative properties despite the lurking promise of an envenomed demise. Life and death entwined, that most eternal and bittersweet temptation.
"Nevertheless, there must be addition. For I will be bearing the weight of another's damnation, however briefly, through my sphere."
For the first time during this exchange, James puts his fingers to his gaunt jawline in deepening consideration. His deep brow furrows further still, a quickened mind darting to parse the Demon's antiquated speech into modern economic understanding— they speak surely upon some manner of trade tariff, a tax on imported goods of a directly competitive nature. For damnation was itself a currency levied by demons, its value therefore had corresponding weight in spiritual exchange.
"Then it shall be of my choosing: soul, place and time. You are at war, and your need for cheap labour is great. You cannot afford to refuse my condition."
Arrogance tested upon the Demon's patience, James nevertheless continues to advance his offer with strident purpose. To pause would only give rise to doubt, delay and detriment to his position. He had kept this card up his sleeve this whole while, knowing it might grant him scope for elevated negotiation.
"As a gesture of goodwill, I commit to you the soul of Bradley Moss. Damned as it is, mortal as it too has been— for services rendered of an equal and correlating nature." Having withdrawn the crystal glass from the confines of his coat pocket, he now proceeds to drop it into the pitch dark bowl of water between his two feet, just as he had extinguished the torch before.
Not a splash is heard, nor is a ripple or droplet thrown from this deposit: this glass of crystal, marked with Bradley Moss' touch, merely slips beneath the shimmering surface with the soundless damnation of umbral void and silence.
"On the condition that this soul shall not be taken within the boundaries of Eden."
A final act of spite, to close this damnable evening with.
James recalls almost pettily the idealised perfection he had observed that vampiric couple conducting matters of the heart with in the beating centre of his grand lounge. That truly saccharine wish the husband of the pair had submitted to his lottery, a shared love seemingly without fault or blemish. Even damnation in death had evidently failed to dim their reciprocal passion, vibrant and entwined as they had remained even beyond the dread of the grave.
What fairness lay in him having to witness such an arcadian fate, so egregiously, so exactly divorced as it was in every conceivable fashion from his own?
No. If he had not been allowed his happiness tonight, why should those so privileged be allowed their own? Five years, twelve souls, one grand wish— and yet in the end not an ounce of private satisfaction.
He won't have it.
Martyrs should be sacrificed upon the altars they with such behaviour so crave.
To this given sacrifice, the Demon indulges first in estimating silence. And then one final time, that great rumbling of momentous acknowledgement resounding through this gargantuan cavern like an Earth-splitting storm. He knows their primal judgement before those rapturous, thunderous words reach him
You are sovereignty embodied. Authority does not come from noise in you — it comes from certainty. You do not give yourself lightly. Love, loyalty, devotion — these are not accidents in your life. They are decisions. Once chosen, they become sacred law.
You carry yourself with dignity that cannot be negotiated. Your words are not casual; they are vows. When you speak, you are not expressing emotion — you are declaring truth as you see it. You do not laugh easily. You do not trust easily. You do not forgive betrayal. Crossing you is not an event — it is a mistake that echoes.
There is a fierce protectiveness in you, especially toward what you claim as yours: your bond, your name, your place. You guard these not out of insecurity, but out of reverence. Commitment, to you, is holy.
Your anger is not chaos — it is judgment. Cold, deliberate, precise. You do not explode; you decide. Yet beneath the crown exists a hidden tenderness reserved only for those you have chosen. To them, you are steadfast warmth, unwavering loyalty, a sanctuary that does not abandon.
Your flaw is devotion that refuses to see fracture. When something sacred to you is threatened, you may fight the world before questioning what you love.
You are queen not because others bow — but because you never kneel where you do not believe.
Your Shadow: Pride that binds you to what wounds you.
Your Power: Unbreakable dignity and chosen devotion.
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You are depth without display. You do not seek attention — yet presence gathers around you like shadow gathers around form. Silence is your native language. While others speak to be heard, you speak only when meaning is unavoidable. Your words are few, deliberate, and heavy enough to linger long after they are spoken.
You observe more than you reveal. Knowledge comes to you not through movement, but through stillness. You understand patterns others overlook simply because you are willing to remain where others flee — in discomfort, in truth, in what is hidden.
You are not drawn to conflict or spectacle. Drama exhausts you. You prefer distance, clarity, control of your inner world. You do not perform power — you contain it.
There is an intimidating calm about you. Not coldness, but restraint. People sense that beneath your composure lies something immense, something that does not need to prove itself.
Trust is rare in your world. You do not open doors easily. But once someone is allowed within your inner circle, your loyalty is absolute. You protect quietly, fiercely, without announcement. Devotion, for you, is not spoken — it is enacted.
You embody the keeper of boundaries, the guardian of what is real when illusions fall away. You do not chase life’s noise; you hold its truths.
Your Shadow: Isolation can become a fortress that even you cannot leave.
Your Power: You are unwavering depth — the one who remains when everything else changes.
There is, however, one final element of personal business to attend to. One of such import to James that he declines any subsequent attempt by his staff to distract his attention otherwise, cutting through the throngs still lingering in his parlour that he might then ascent the grand staircase leading to the second floor of the building with a quickened pace. Returning once more to the cloistered confines of his study, he strides over to the glass cabinet the wall, unlatches its and carefully retrieves a glass bottle.
Glenlivet, single malt whisky. 1874. The very same beverage he had instinctively reached for in his moment of preoccupation within these premises just some hours ago. A burdened sigh escapes him with the correlating weight of measurable years, having too vividly imagined the alternative context in which this fine bottle could have been enjoyed tonight— two glasses, even finer company.
There was no altering how the course of this evening had wended from what he once envisioned, and he must adapt his plans accordingly.
Resolved, he closes his gloved fingers about the bottle's girth and bears it with due care from the shrouded depths of his study. Descending the staircase once more, James lifts his head as he's able to from the rounded set of his shoulders, his piercing gaze sweeping the sea of faces before him for the infuriatingly familiar features of but one.
Fortunately he finds his old mark keeping himself sequestered, quite characteristically, from the flow of the greater crowd— he corners the younger Holmes by an exquisite suit of armour he had procured from a meticulous curator's gallery of Renaissance items of interest here in Paris. A ceremonial suit from Henri III's reign, its steel alloy chest plate depicted battle scenes in a Classical style. Regarding this superior craftsmanship briefly, James couldn't help but imagine that the detective had been drawn to it in some expression of kinship with the original bearer.
Knight of the Realm, Defender of the Common People or some such.
For a practiced logician, Holmes had always carried an element of fairytale about him.
He returns his gaze to the man in question without a word spoken as to his own contemplations there, merely extending the bottle of whisky to him through the delicate use of two cradling hands— gesturing with an indicating nod accompanied by a rhythmic tap of gloved fingers in impatient expectation.
"For our mutual acquaintance." James declares, almost imperious in his desire for swift acknowledgement of and agreement with the task from the man stood opposite him. It twists his gut to know this was no demand given, but rather a request made in desperation. One that he attempts to bury in the set of his jaw, the fix of his eyes which did not blink once in their held gaze.
Involuntarily, he abruptly recalls the contents of the message Holmes had delivered to him using the wish the latter had submitted for this evening's lottery. His frown deepens, though less from malice than a nauseating tinge of uncertainty.
"You will ensure that he receives it."
Rather, James commits himself to the memory of the meaningful year behind this beverage presented for private delivery. One that would be understood solely by the man destined to receive it: 1874, his and the elder Holmes' last months in London together.
One particular evening had entailed a private party with masquerade elements, enjoyed in the excesses of their shared youth. There in that wealthy patron's private den had flowed a most extravagant fountain of red wine, indulged in as they had equally the company of salacious artwork, mischief-led laughter and reigning revelry.
And so, at last, the denouement to this evening's glorious affair.
Having conducted his final rounds in both public business and private pleasure, James finds himself satisfied in the gradual release of his guests 'neath the continuing night's moonlit canopy. At the grand double doors to his extravagant venue, propped open by bronze-sculpted stoppers caressed by hand into the mold of scallop shells, well-groomed attendants hand outgoing guests a basket each brimming with gifts to take home with them.
First to one's notice a red rose and chrysanthemum bouquet, flush with a complement of freesia, astrantia and eucalyptus then finely bound together at the stem with silken ribbon. Then a memorial coin cast from gold bullion, housed in a small cushioned box and minted with a seal unique to this establishment: a pomegranate tree weighed with the bounty of fruit amid a lush garden, forgotten fetters half-buried in the soil she feeds upon. In turn a perfume bottling the distinctive aroma of osmanthus, delivering notes of fresh apricot amid the fragrant warmth of spices, an undertone of rich leather, and a rounding tint of vanilla.
Included as well in this gift basket is a neatly collected, string bound bundle of pamphlets enclosed with discounts to star-studded shows being performed in theatres across Paris. Then perhaps most preciously, a latched tin of deep maroon coloration depicting a gilded arched gate leading to a glittering garden of flowers, dark gold lettering in cursive titling the contents as "Garden of Sin" with an originating location and year stamped as Eden, 1899.
Within this tin sits a sealed bag of loose leaf tea, as well as card informing guests that when steeped to correlating preference, this tea should offer effects identical to that of the wine imbibed from the fountain featured as the centerpiece to tonight's venue.
Each guest is thanked for their patronage upon their exit, the descent down iron-railing bordered steps carpeted by a roll of deep red velvet leading them back into the waiting embrace of this fair and fabled city. It is a slow and leisurely trickle, with no obligation placed upon guests to vacate the premises before they themselves feel suited to do so. For some, there are needs in company or consolation still to be met, and so for these remaining guests in attendance the night goes on...
What persistent facet of weakness, stubbornness or otherwise dominant vein of idiocy is it that drives such wretched souls to beg from those who would sooner burn them? Whether for the purpose of sport or simply fuel for his grand furnace, James would not rush to stipulate over which. Kindling— that is what he sees piled before him.
Yet desperation continues to cling to Mr Griffin like an unsavoury aroma, blood irises pooling in supplication for a scrap of acknowledgement beyond his immediate, functional use. Is this beggar before him the genius who discovered the chemical formula to render oneself unseen to the naked eye? He would scarcely believe the claim, if his appearance had not matched the accounts that James had gathered otherwise.
This man wishes to be chosen. He would tell that him that he will never be chosen.
Not so long as he prostrates himself like a common wretch.
Instead, the Professor permits a crooked smile to bloom upon his pallid features at the sight of that modest warmth rising in Mr Griffin's countenance.
Viscous, honeyed courtesy.
Such as well is the melodious voice that muses in response to his customer's pertinent line of questioning, gathering the chemist's heart-held hand instead into his own gloved palm and laying his other atop it— his spider-like fingers slowly closing as a tooth-lined trap might about Mr Griffin's own.
"Call upon me at your convenience. However—" He chuckles with the softness of a feather's edge, instruction hence given following a veiled pretense of patience and open generosity. "Do be sure to send word ahead of time. I expect my schedule will be quite demanding, and should very much like to arrange an appropriate afternoon during which we might continue our discourse."
James releases Mr Griffin's hand once more, as delicately as one might have placed a porcelain doll before withdrawing to view her new arrangement upon the mantelpiece. Straightening to his full able height once more, the host folds his hands neatly behind himself and nods curtly in signal of his intended, imminent departure from this engagement between them. One more glittering smile, for good measure.
"It has been a delight, Mr Griffin. I do hope you enjoy the rest of your evening, here in my garden of earthly pleasures."
His heart is thumping in his chest at the gestures of delicate affection his host bestows upon him. It's everything he wanted— so he hears the bite behind the illusion of patience. The wine, long-ago drunk, lingers bitter in his mouth.
It is not his fault; no-one can suffer me for long.
So he cherishes these favours of polite affection; touch, smiles, the delicate returning of his hand; like prescious treasures. He keeps his eyes locked on Mister Marley, nodding along at his instructions.
"Of course, I should not wish to trouble you, Sir, not now, not in the next century."
He's trying to play it off as frivolity but the night has exposed his soul as few other nights had; his desperation to belong, and his eagerness to please to do so, thoroughly denuded.
The finality with which his host wishes him well hurts. He wants to be invited to talk with him, to laugh with him, to hear more about the fascinating life he must have lived to become the patron of this place, but he daren't trouble him.
I'm too foul for such fine company. I should be grateful he invites me to stay at all now that our business is done.
And so, the first words out of his mouth are,
"Thank you,"
and he bows, his carefully returned hand across his chest, "I am sure I shall. It was a pleasure to have met you, Mr Marley."
And he hopes his manner was courtly, not foolish, as he watches the man disengage from his dealings with a guest of such inadequate calibre to the assembled.
"A great deal of fun." Dahlia adds, concluding her answer, statement which could be applied to any of the titles she'd mentioned. Perhaps because fiction was more of a rare indulgence than a hobby for her, the lady favoured works that were either adventurous, playful, or full of dramatic twists, a sure remedy against boredom or mind that grows too dull from focusing only on work and survival. Mr Holmes is polite enough to add his comment without an opinion. It wasn't hard to guess that even here their preferences would diverge.
As Jason determines the readiness of the stew, Thorne's hand steadies on Dahlia's hip, bracing. All around the fire faces turn to the food, hunger having reached its aching threshold, folding into slight despair. Sensing this imminent shift of focus, the lady delivers a comforting squeeze to Thorne's fingers; a thoughtless, gentle touch, marked by the unspoken familiarity between them. As their cook begins to ladle generous servings into tin plates, two halves of freshly baked flat bread on the side, Rayan hands these out, starting with Dahlia and Elena, then going down the rank of seniority. Dahlia thanks the young man and holds her portion like something sacred, head bowing and eyes softly closing in quiet gratitude for the meal she has received. Habits that hadn't quite shaken off – if anything, it is easier to feel thankful after you have known scarcity, or the labour that takes to nourish others.
She's heard of The Acharnians, but is admittedly not aware of the plot, and leans expectantly ever so slightly forward, prompting Mycroft to elaborate while she waits for everyone to be served, idly stirring her spoon around her plate. The endearing way he perks up at the memory of this beloved play is noted, a tranquil smile resting on freckled features from that contagious joy. A true connoisseur of the arts, his classical background continues to shine through in their exchange. What a fascinating, fragile little life he must lead back home.
The group collectively tucks into their meal with audible gusto and relief, humming around mouthfuls of praise and lines of lighthearted conversation, spirits instantly buoyed. Though her hunger is not to be underestimated, Dahlia cannot help but feel moderately self-conscious about her manners, having grown fairly relaxed around this lot. She nods and listens, smiling to herself and wielding her spoon delicately, scooping steaming broth up to her lips. "Hard to miss the irony of recognising works of fiction in scenarios life leads you to." How many times does one dream of escaping to worlds bound in pages? Swooping love stories that conquer space and time, endless wonders to be found in seafaring adventures. Fearing she might get carried away in a rapid of useless thoughts, she concludes:
"Hopefully you can return to your cradle of comforts soon."
As sun-beaten faces turn one by one towards the humble feast promised them, Mycroft finds himself momentarily displaced from his present— struck by the desire to regard this ancient ritual with an almost sacred observance. A shared succour drawn from the very marrow of life, here born the baying desperation to persevere and survive. From the genesis of their species had sprung the grand feasts of old, cause to gather thus beneath the light of a silver cold moon. Fire as not only the bringer of warmth, but of breath-giving sustenance. A community huddled within enclosing hands wrought by nature, cupped in that sheltering crucible with the comfort of sated bellies until the coming of a more forgiving sunrise.
To this day the modern calendar remains marked by festivals that have long since lost their distinction in shape, the substance of each nevertheless a tender message gifted them by those who came before. The meaning having been saturated by life in the city, suffocated beneath the encroach of mortar and gaslight in turn, lay buried in their subconscious in letters of half-familiar code. Like children displaced from the homeland, theirs is the generation that has forgotten its own tongue. How was it that so many people living so closely together could become so distinctly separated? Here, a small village unites in singular purpose.
Survival is, of course, that great leveller of all points in differentiation. There is comfort in convenience, but perhaps the more that comfort propagates the more distanced they become from being human.
Mycroft blinks himself back to reality upon suddenly recalling a weighted presence in his lap, glancing down and finding a tin plate brimming with food clutched between his broad hands. It appears that some time had passed since his attention had wandered, prompting him to fret as to whether he had remembered to say "Thank you." Lifting his head and looking around himself, Mycroft can see that whether he had or not was no longer anyone's concern: the hungry must eat, and empty stomachs cannot wait for permission. At once, then, the anguished agony of needing to clear his plate— to not waste what had been given to him. This meal had been prepared through means of unimaginable labour, far beyond that sliver which he had contributed towards the tail end of preparation.
He could not thus imagine a greater disrespect here than a plate left untouched or barely eaten. Perhaps it is fortunate, then, that his appetite has consented to partial emergence in the wake of an ease fostered by friendly conversation. Nevertheless Mycroft eats slowly, even more leisurely than he is wont to do otherwise; terrified of spooking his own gut like it was a nervous horse beneath him, he takes his time. Treats each tear of flat bread with the care he'd show a portioned fraction of fine Kashmiri silk, using it to soak the broth and savour the softness of the interior crumb. When anxious for the intermittent turn or twist of his own stomach, he pauses in preference for indulging in conversation: either continuing his own with Miss Dahlia or simply listening to the various causes for an ongoing, genial burble of laughter about the fire.
Bit by bit, he works through his frankly invigorating and sapid dinner, grateful to feel a strength returned to his body; too alert as he'd been to notice its prior absence. Though he is last to finish, it is not for want of enjoyment for the culinary work involved— indeed, he had turned to Jason several times throughout the meal to make invested comment or vibrant observation upon his process. To the extent that he finds himself compulsively recommending a dark brandy as digestif for this meal, letting slip that he has just the specimen tucked away in his valise, bottled in nearby Napa County. Ah, well. Perhaps he might have liked to withhold that information, having once imagined another purpose for it at a later date.
Committed to both his word and his vision for complement in palate however, Mycroft nevertheless musters the initiative following the handing over of his cleared plate, hoisting himself to his feet and taking his leave but momentarily. He emerges once more from his tent with a labelled, unopened bottle in one hand and a briar pipe loaded with crushed tobacco held aloft in the other one. After handing the fine beverage first to Miss Dahlia for her (and Mr Astaire's) elevated opinion, Mycroft contents himself with bringing flame to his pipe's chamber, puffing once then twice to get the leaves burning before taking his modest seat once more.
"Mind, I've been told it's quite rich. I would recommend a small portion, a shot of sweetness to aid the workings of the stomach." Mycroft remarks about the bit of his pipe as he gets comfortable, pleased to have a weighted item resting in his mouth again— such that it excuses him from having to partake in the excesses of verbal speech. More permanent an aid in this realm than his cigars, in any case, which was most helpful when one was slowly succumbing to the allures of fatigue in the wake of said digestion.
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"I can imagine." She returns from her fleeting nostalgic daze with a quiet smile, accepting that she would likely never get to see Mrs Booth light up a venue again. Vivid was the memory of those fierce eyes facing the audience, the way she haunted– possessed the stage. Yet even if the actress decided to return to her craft full time, Dahlia had no plans to set foot on the East coast any time soon. Women and girls of her kind were given so few role models and muses that when one stood out from the sea of obedient mothers and wives they clung to their every move, wishing even a morsel of their courage and audacity for themselves.
"I shall keep that in mind." His offer's a kind one, though she cannot imagine an opportunity would present itself to use it, if they were to part within the next couple of days. She's pleased with the compliment he pays the plan, and for a split second there's a twinge of retroactive regret, hoping her men hadn't been too rough with this meek house-cat, now assisting them with dinner, a gentleman only in manners, only upon closer look. Finally just a few more minutes until their meal was served, which prompts Dahlia to invite Mr Holmes to come sit with them closer to the fire, where she takes Thorne's right and leaves ample room for their guest on the seat beside her.
"Inspiring might not be the right word, but I saw 'Guy Mannering' one late December and it was exceptional." Delighted to return to their previous topic regarding the world of theatre, the answers jump easily from her tongue. Thorne ultimately relinquishes his guitar to wrap his arm loosely around his lady, intent on listening, his hand resting comfortably on her hip. "I also enjoyed 'As You Like It', and– oh!" She jolts at the snap of fingers, as though suddenly remembering a long forgotten note in the archives of her mind. "I read that 'Lady Audley's Secret' had a showing in London. I was disheartened when nobody on this side of the ocean was interested in taking it to the stage."
"Didn't you get a copy of that in San Francisco?" The demon casually chips in, pinching and stroking the pleats of her dress between thumb and forefinger, his eye almost exclusively on her with a dreamy, enamoured air about him. Even when he had no idea what she was saying.
"Yes, I left my original back home." Dahlia clarifies, her attention swinging from one companion to the other. Recalling Mycroft's comment on Dante's name, she opts to add, meeting the Englishman's silver eye: "I wouldn't say I'm much of a fiction reader, you see, but I am sure you will agree with me when I say one must be allowed to indulge from time to time. Do you have a favourite play, Mr Holmes?"
The invitation extended by Miss Dahlia to join her at the campfire occurs to him as one of paramount importance: it was itself a small gesture, disproportionately loaded with implication. That of acceptance, inclusion, and security— amplified each in magnitude by the space left for him to take his seat at her side, that they might even continue their conversation. Checking first with Jason that there is nothing more he can presently assist with in their makeshift kitchen, Mycroft is ushered off with a wave of a scar-flecked hand and hence sidles himself through a small maze of camp supplies to reach his intended destination.
"An intrepid work on that perennial subject of inheritance." He remarks as to the premise of Guy Mannering while he takes care not to trip over a sack of unused potatoes, rather delicately stepping about the lain log acting as their bench to seat himself at Miss Dahlia's right-hand side. Though the soles of his fine leather shoes plant themselves firmly upon the grass beneath them, his knees fall at a comfortable, non-intrusive width where he otherwise clasps his hands neatly between. Engaged, his usually impeccable posture can't help but curve forward slightly, his gaze all the while affixed to the woman next to him.
"Our modern Lady Macbeth." He observes with a languid smile alongside the mention of Lady Audley's Secret in turn; perhaps somewhat sensational for his taste, but he could otherwise understand the appeal for a more diverse audience. Mycroft had been about to add more, even muse upon the opening lines to Jaques' famous monologue, until he had found himself distracted by Mr Astaire's wandering arm falling upon his mistress' hip with the comfort of a much-loved hand purse. Miss Dahlia's response had been quite charming, her ease as to this turn of physical expression such that Mycroft couldn't help but draw further conclusions as to their interpersonal history.
Again that canine-like devotion, presented with a flowering bouquet of intimacy.
Feeling as though he were acting the part of voyeur all of a sudden, Mycroft breaks his line of vision and becomes very interested in his own clasped hands again. Flexing his thick fingers within this interlocked cradle, he smiles quietly as he finds comfort of his own in the recollection of works much beloved in his own memory.
"It may seem self-evident, but I do also enjoy those penned by the Bard. More recently I had the pleasure of spectating several classics from Molière, performed in the original French." With key members of the cast visiting at the time from the Paris Opera no less, a most singular delight for the hungering state enthusiasts of London. Ever had the dailies featured a column on the latest theatrical news brought in from the French capital, English eyes habitually drawn to the continent for muse and creative impulse. Mycroft raises his head again, allowing for his pensive gaze to rest upon Miss Dahlia's curious mien as he arrives at the actual answer to her question.
"If you were to ask after personal preference, I would admit to a particular fondness for The Acharnians, as scribed by the Athenian playwright Aristophanes." His expression brightens at the memory, one that felt increasingly distant from him in years as well as geography. Mycroft expels a short breath through his nose, casting his line of vision down to his finely manicured fingernails once more, scraping them for dirt in a habit of subconscious compulsion. He continues to talk as he does this, his thoughts clearly drifting somewhere quite removed from his reality. "There was a performance in Oxford, where I had the pleasure of assisting in translation for the illustrated libretto."
Dropping his fingers again, Mycroft breathes in before fixing a smile to his fire-warmed features, his enthusiasm for their present conversation brimming to the surface as he watches the flames before them flicker and dance.
"A humble farmer, wearied by war and those who perpetuate it, secures a private treaty of peace with the enemies of his state. Though obstructed by corrupt politicians, the soldiering mob, and a half-convinced Chorus, nevertheless he carves for himself from the surrounding storm of chaos a single house of peace and earthly pleasures— where he lives out the rest of his days cradled in the comforts of friendship, abundance and material indulgence."
He punctuates the story with an implicating smile given in Miss Dahlia's direction, possessed with the knowledge that this recounting was so far the closest he had come to speaking of himself in the entire course of their discussion. Perhaps as if on cue, the sonorous clang of a ladle and pan being brought together in order to announce dinner seizes their group's collective attention.
By some coincidence, underscoring that very subject of material indulgence.
"Mrs Booth? I was convinced she had retired." Dahlia confesses, having visited the venue a couple of times and even attended what was then rumoured to be the actress's farewell show. Unfortunate news broke with the beginning of the decade which further withheld McVicker from the stages, and it's evident that this return stirred a considerate wave of nostalgia in their auburn-haired mistress, a smaller one of jealousy. It would be too easy to allow this stream of memory to take her; the afternoon spent getting ready, debuting a new dress, meticulously doing her hair with the help of a maid. The bumpy ride to the venue, the perfumed, bustling crowd, familiar and foreign faces, gossiping in rounds. Then the quietude before the curtains opened, before the orchestra ceased tuning their instruments and plucked the introductory notes to the voyage they would all collectively embark on.
She collects herself with a drawing breath, at once returning to the dusty campsite where their dinner now vigorously bubbled, demanding the last batch of ingredients to feed grumbling bellies. How unusual and curious, for one to thrive so far from where they sprout in the world. Different climate and all.
On the verge of lightly chastising him for not answering her question, Dahlia angles her face down in Mycroft's direction, her countenance mirroring his levity, amused by the cheekiness of his delivery. He's quick to clarify his position as an empirical man instead, placing the human eye above God's. Indeed, they had more in common than initially presumed, and she does not conceal an uptick of approval when named as the day's Judge. "Knowing what to say and when to say it is a most valuable skill."
Satisfied by their exchange, Dahlia mercifully allows him more space, pacing aimlessly and getting in poor young Jason's way as he ferried items from the kitchen to the fire, and back. She had no problem indulging Mr Holmes' curiosity there, it had been a relatively simple trick. "We wired someone we know in the area asking to disrupt the line. One hundred and fifty heads of cattle grazing right across the tracks can cause a significant disruption – enough for the horses to catch up with the train, and the boys to sniff you out." Spotting a fallen twig of rosemary on the ground, she picks it up and twirls it delicately between her fingers, an easy smile settled upon her mouth.
"A delightful surprise, the theatre was practically percolating with excitement upon her unexpected substitution." Mycroft reinforces the conviction duly expressed in his direction, having himself been very much under the same impression upon entering that most fashionable venue. It would seem however, more to his immediate interest, that Miss Dahlia had been something of a fan— enough so at least to have kept up with Mrs Booth's career. How long had it been, he wonders, since she had last trod the paved streets of New York City? Did she miss the life, in part if not completely? The momentary stall in their conversation would appear to suggest as much, indeed her strawberry-rich features had taken on that distant, pensive quality he was coming to recognise in her deeper contemplation.
He allows her the space to reflect, continuing to supply their young cook with the final round of ingredients for their stew— the vegetables chop well beneath his knife's edge, once more speaking to their appetising ripeness. At last, prompted by the rich and succulent scents emanating from that heated pot, his hunger has begun to stir from the depths of frozen slumber. If he could eat and keep down even a small plate of food tonight, he would consider it a substantial victory. Mind over body, he attempts to muster himself through mantra. Otherwise extended compliment for his conversational discretion, Mycroft brims with gratitude for the recognition; it was not often that this very consciously trained skill was noticed beyond the results or satisfaction it thus catalysed for those around him.
"I've made it my life's work." He embraces the observation made of him, much like he had before Mr Rodriguez down at the lake's shore. They had already seen him wield his words in both defense and diversion, paired with some rudimentary calculation it had been the sole means by which he had navigated this entire misfortune— perhaps crucially as to their trust in his bargaining position, Mycroft was not a man to extend a promise he could not deliver upon. Sincerity in the negotiation, prudence exercised otherwise. This was yet another service he could provide for the collective, if at any point on on their pilgrimage the need arose. Yet another card thus placed upon the table between them.
"If, therefore, there is use to be found in its application, I would be happy to oblige."
Mycroft allows the offer to stand as delivered, coupling pride in his communicative work with that in his recent exercise in culinary labour, when he is able to hand Jason his entire board of sliced vegetables for their timely addition. A satisfying splash of bubbling juices sees those carrots soon simmering upon the surface of their evening's stew, stirred and mixed with a lush range of herbs, game and accompanying spice. Resting his knife aside for the moment, Mycroft watches the pot boil upon the fire with grown investment, nurtured in part by his humble hand in its creation. Though his gaze rests upon the meal being prepared, in truth his attention is wholly absorbed by the answer soon given to him regarding the delay incurred at Truckee.
A quiet, satisfied smirk ticks gently into place.
"Genius." He remarks, quite simply.
Relieved of Miss Dahlia's gentle method of interrogation (and therefore encroaching presence), Mycroft straightens within his seat and heaves a sigh through his nose. Utilising unique environmental obstacles proffered by the nearby plains as directed by a local contact, a pincer maneuver in effect— trapping his train between their vanguard and the mountain range. The timing would have been excruciatingly close, meaning their gumption was about as impressive as the plan had been itself. A most American solution to the challenge, really. He chuckles to himself softly, flexing his wrist somewhat to alleviate the minor strain of his own kitchen assistance.
"Just one." He admits freely when prompted for another question, attentive to the fact that the rest of the camp had begun to stir in the knowledge that dinner would be served imminently. Indeed Jason had just scooped a sample from the communal pot by wooden ladle, testing the aromatic concoction with some visible satisfaction strafing his otherwise stoic countenance. Mr Burke seemed to be rousing from his nap, no doubt prompted by the gathering swell of cooking scents before them, while Mr Rodriguez seemed newly settled back into their gathered company. Though Mr Astaire's guitar continued to languidly strum, he imagined this latest meandering melody might soon be designated the last one.
"Is there a stage performance that you yourself have found particularly inspiring?"
For the first time in a few minutes, Mycroft meets her eye again. Curiosity renewed, he is genuinely interested in whatever answer she may have to give, as well as generally sensitive to the fact that she might appreciate a moment longer to talk on the subject of theatre. She had seemed to very much enjoy their prior exchange, and he had to imagine that opportunities for Miss Dahlia to indulge in any discussion upon the arts were comparatively hard to come by of late.
"In New York?" The readiness of her question betrays her, eagerness in the way she searches to complete the full picture of this fantastic experience accidentally revealing her own familiarity with the place. Though she catches the slip, she doesn't appear overly concerned by it. If Mr Holmes had been able to accurately guess deduct where Thorne and the brothers hailed from by their accent alone, she was certain he had already made other conclusions about her origins as well. Instead, she is fascinated by the coincidence (if it could be called as much...) of specifically Lady Macbeth being highlighted in this performance.
"Are you implying something, Mr Holmes?" Though she dons an innocent smile, there is a cunningness behind it that would be easily perceived even by firelight. Dahlia steps delicately closer, pretending to inspect the quality of his work with a knife, attentive to the slightest shifts in his demeanour following her proximity. It's a gentle, playful pressure, of one who tests the sturdiness of a man who had already begun to unravel, despite his best attempts to find grace and purchase in the fall. "Are you a man of faith?" It occurs her to ask, a fair brow elegantly cocked, peering down at the hunched gentleman.
Perceptive of this shift, the devil's melody quietens, ears straining to listen into a conversation he wasn't part of. The life she's led before the gang took over it stirs a strange feeling within him, that of wanting to read a book in a language you do not speak. There wasn't a single one of them that could sit with their lady and chat about this life of 'culture' reserved for the wealthy; they heeded her stories with a slight dullness to their faces, puzzled, swapping looks, scratching. That their Englishman could humour her was both a welcome diversion and a threat. The winds of the past often howled as a sirensong, calling you back. One must know to stand guard.
Dahlia covers her mouth at the Donner Party mention, part humour, part horror. A tragic event no less, but the timing of his anecdote amuses her. "I am flattered that you would open an exception for me. But fear not, the only service expected of you is to hold your end of the bargain." She lifts her eyes to watch Javier's quiet return to camp, his hair swept back, loosely buttoned up, towel swung over his shoulder. He walks straight into his shared tent with his brother to retrieve a woven serape in earthen forest tones, wrapping it about his frame to ward off the setting cold.
"Any other acts of chivalry or generosity shall be unprompted."
Mycroft adjusts his seated position with marginal invigoration: there was the confirmation, almost to a set of coordinates one could pin upon a map in turn. Though Miss Dahlia's expressed familiarity was not sufficient to indicate former residence in New York City per se, it limited the likely radius of the range by a fair margin. He maintains focus upon his work even as he turns this information over in his mind, not wanting to draw attention to the inner workings of his thought process otherwise— entirely for the purpose of passive exercise, as they were in nature. Hardly worth the note of remark or conversation.
"Yes." He answers promptly as to the question of location, allowing a charmed smile to light his freshly groomed features with shared pleasure and fond reminiscence. It does not take much stretching of the imagination to place himself back there, in the balcony-lined box overlooking the grand stage from the theatre's second floor— how those tickets had even been procured in the first place at such short notice, he had not the inclination to delve into. "Despite my demanding schedule I was persuaded to attend a show at Booth's Theatre, where Mrs McVicker Booth made a most astonishing if fleeting return to the stage."
It was in that fair woman's fierce-eyed and sharp-tongued delivery that he had seen this haunting writ large, a grief that fed into her performance with visceral immediacy. Mycroft returns to Aspasia of Miletus, the documented history of women seizing survival by the strength of their conviction as performed before their audience, by their willingness and quickness to unsheathe the knife. Miss Dahlia hovers above him as an ode to this legacy, refuting the mold of her gender that she might thrive on her own merit, her own accomplishment by way of enterprising organisation. Infidelity, witchcraft and insanity— such were the traditional labels levied upon such women.
Envy has ever been a poor substitute for the opportunity to surveil and learn.
"I attend the services." Mycroft answers her faith-relating question with a humoured tick of curiosity in his voice, brushing a few stray curls from where they had slipped further down his forehead before they could threaten his vision. He tilts his head to regard her encroached figure with a sly smile of his own, interested in the segue made from what he may or may not have been implying into this particular line of enquiry. It was quite the personal question, and Miss Dahlia had so far struck him as quite the practical person. Perhaps on this point, they would find themselves once more aligned to some degree. He had begun to feel very much as though she were testing him.
"But I find my faith in knowledge. From what I observe, read and experience." In this realm however, his answer must be the honest one. As though to demonstrate this wisdom in practice, he widens his sleeve-rolled arms slightly to indicate himself, then looks about the campfire to refer to their present company before returning his gaze to Miss Dahlia. Pointedly, Mycroft lowers his voice with earnest implication— entirely deliberate, this time. "It was not God who determined my fate today."
Underscoring the weight of choices that had led to this very circumstances they now enjoyed, culminating in Miss Dahlia's own undisputed authority, Mycroft pulls a designated board for chopping over his knees and begins to slice the carrots into smaller samples suitable for the stew burbling over the camp's wood-smoked fire.
"Then I shall play my part to the utmost extent of satisfaction." He laughs a little along with her overtures of reassurance, his gaze darting up briefly to take note of Mr Rodriguez passing nearby before returning to his current occupation. The music seemed to have quietened, suggesting Mr Astaire was perhaps indulging in distraction. Speaking of which, it now occurs to Mycroft just how close Miss Dahlia had begun to linger, close enough for him to catch a waft of her current scent— spring-like, fresh. Before he can identify the finer notes and subsequent profile he promptly buries himself in his manual labour again. He ought to use this opportunity to finally ask the question that's been weighing on his mind since earlier in the day.
"How did you delay the train at Truckee?" Mycroft lays the knife down upon the board at this point, shifting within his seat that he might regard Miss Dahlia more directly from his seated vantage point; his expression softens with honest regard, bolstered by the genuine curiosity that had compelled him to enquire. He cants his head, voice mellowing with a smile as he clarifies further upon recognition for the forward nature of his question. "I don't mean to pry into the details nor reach of your network, only lend compliment to a practiced hand in the art of extraction."
"I do miss the theatre." Humoured by his anecdote, Dahlia candidly confesses that she missed some city luxuries and that, despite their best efforts, there were forms of refined entertainment that her itinerant family just did not provide. She'd last had her fill in San Francisco, and that'd felt like a lifetime ago already. "Do you go often?" If Mr Holmes' encyclopaedic performance had delighted the men during the ride to camp, perhaps he would now indulge her by exploring a rare stretch of common ground. Having run out of immediate errands, the lady leans against the side of the wagon to watch Jason ferry back and forth between their makeshift kitchen and the fire, a large, heavy pot already dangling above the flames.
First goes the meat, the spices, chunks of garlic and onion, bay leaves, a glug of whiskey. The smell of food being made is enough to stir Wallace awake, his whiskers parting in a yawn. Chillies pop in the hot oil, flesh begins to sear and fat breaks down, binding with the rest of the flavours. Salt is thrown in, and lastly ladles of water, followed by the lid, allowing the stew to simmer until it was ready for the vegetables, potatoes and beans.
Momentarily distracted by Jason's ongoing magic, Dahlia promptly readdresses their guest, watching him as he sat on the low stool, humbly bent over a bucket of peelings, his hair set free from comb and pomade and falling more naturally over his forehead, framing his amiable face. "I must say sunlight and blue skies agree with you." Considering what he had been through– what they had put him through not that long ago, Mycroft had settled quite readily into camp, even going out of his way to contribute however he could. It was the kind of initiative Dahlia had to imagine was more of a survival instinct kicking in than a habit, but it was noted all the same.
"Hmm, it's not him you should be worried about." She chuckles, intertwining her fingers behind her back. Javier was hard to anger, and more often than not awaited someone else's orders before employing forceful tactics. To have been running with Thorne for so long required a hefty amount of patience, after all. "My, a mountain lion? I should hope you'd offer to do the same for anyone else here, not just Mr Rodriguez." Naturally, she must tease, lighthearted and swaying gently back and forth on her shoulder and heel.
"But let's make sure you do not become anyone's dinner tonight, please. No matter how enticing it might sound in a dark hour of need."
His heart lifts at the swift pluck upon the subject of theatre on the part of Miss Dahlia, a barely concealed smile blooming upon his plush features as removes yet another bush of leafy greens from his next carrot's crown. It felt refreshing to return to topics of conversation with which he was more familiar, as though he could just as well be discussing Drury Lane's latest productions in the front parlour of an especially cultured lady's fine residence. Here he is, already beginning to wonder again just what manner of home Miss Dahlia had grown up in herself; miles away from here, somewhere on the opposing coast of America.
"Oh yes. I find works of the stage most invigorating to watch." Mycroft takes the opportunity to lock eyes with Miss Dahlia, who had since taken up a more enduring position leant against the wagon hitched next to their makeshift kitchen. His tone takes upon a meandering cadence, recalling in turn an apt anecdote from the comfortable environs of recent memory. "Just last month I had the pleasure of witnessing quite the stirring performance from an especially impassioned Lady Macbeth."
He returns his gaze to his work, methodically stripping the vegetable in his hand of its skin by way of brisk and practiced routine. "Power, grief, delusion— the human spirit bares itself in art to depths otherwise furiously hidden in everyday life."
Mycroft sets the newly peeled carrot in his hand aside, adding to an organised pile rendered brighter and more vibrant now that he had whittled the majority of these specimens down to their core essence. He would therefore shift to chopping in short order, that he might correlate the task's completion with the ripening of their stew presently bubbling over the fire. Distracted momentarily by the sumptuous scents emerging from the pot before them all, his pewter eyes roamed its heated lid curiously— what a splendid blend of spices they had brought together for this broth, the addition of a splash of whiskey had been especially inspired in his speculative estimation.
To the compliment of his renewal beneath this foreign climate, Mycroft lowers his head and scrapes his final carrot with motions a little more focused and deliberate in nature. Miss Dahlia had not been the first person to remark as much, when presented with his more dressed down appearance. He's ultimately glad to hear it in this context as well, though it does invite a shyness as well as a queer sense of discord in him. Discord for her words implied a belonging, which was both reassuring to hear and dangerous for him to believe in. As he had recognised upon the lake's shore, fear continued to underpin his cognition in this company: either he would learn to unlearn this alertness in due course, or he must pass the rest of his journey in this overtly cautious state.
He'd quite prefer the former, if he had the choice of it— it truly felt terrible to be so very tense all the time.
"He's most considerate." Mycroft agrees quickly with Miss Dahlia's remark upon Mr Rodriguez's character, the returned smile evident in his voice. Though at once his mind races with speculation as to who he should rather be worried about. On instinct, his gaze roams towards Mr Roi and Mr Burke, whose tempers he most immediately feared in action given their otherwise so far demonstrated disposition: the quietest so often harboured the highest capacity for violence. Though he had already comforted himself with strategies of approach regarding these two men, allowing for him to rather continue indulging in this most pleasant exchange with Miss Dahlia.
"I would say a lady would warrant such a defense, certainly." Both his thick brows raise amid a roll of voiced humour, setting aside his last peeling job and leaning his elbow upon his knee that he might look back up to her fair mien with that same expression. His own tease, in turn.
"However, I heartily pledge not to seek service upon a plate. Irony of our relative proximity to the site of the Donner Party occasion notwithstanding, of course."
A small amused twitch into his cheek; he imagined, hopefully, this was not at all a joke too morbid for this company.
It would be some time until Javier followed, relishing a moment of solitude before returning to the pack, left floating with more questions than answers regarding their peculiar guest. It was nice to see Mycroft more at ease, though, and to confirm that there was no resentment held against him for that uncomfortable experience they'd shared by the river at noon. Just following orders, and all. Up at camp, his brother squats on a small stool and prepares the evening bread while chattering away with Thorne. Between his knees, in a large copper pot, a mass of kneaded sourdough is divided into portions with wet hands. Each serving is then stretched and flattened through a series of honed manoeuvres and dropped into an oiled cast iron pan sitting on hot embers. The bread cooks quickly on both sides until black blisters swell, flipped by fingers too calloused to burn, and is then set aside in a cloth lined basket.
Jhin and Elena sit in comparative quietude side by side on one of the larger logs, settling into the routine of cleaning guns, sharpening knives and mending belts and clothes. As Wallace continues to doze on and off, Miss Denvers busies herself with random tasks around the area, replacing tapers in lamps, collecting laundry, updating her travel journal and jotting down some quick notes for the morning. She'd changed into a wrapper dress in tones of ochre and sage for nighttime comfort, and about her shoulders hung an ecru woollen shawl, which slipped easily down to her elbows once in a while, though she did not seem to mind.
"That's because nothing grows in the city, Mr Holmes." Dahlia comments, intercepting the conversation he'd been having with Jason during dinner prep as she stops by to load a bag of laundry into the wagon through the front. It was easier to pay to have it washed whenever they stopped at a town than it was to put someone on scrubbing duty. She hops back down and dusts off her hands, a healthy glow spread over her face from the effort. "I would ask if you needed anything cleaned tomorrow, but you seem to have taken care of it already." It's a discreet enough comment as she hovers by Mycroft's right shoulder, letting him know she had noticed his state upon returning from the lake. No judgement there, it could be how they conducted business in Europe, for all she knew. Didn't queens bathe wearing their intimates?
"It's kind of you to lend a hand." She offers Mr Holmes a genuine smile and then lifts her gaze again, moving it about the camp. "You didn't drown my other boy, did you?"
While delicately peeling the carrot within his grasp, Mycroft can't help but pause to appreciate just how thoroughly washed the vegetable had been prior to this stage in preparation. Such work must have been done shortly before they had arrived at the camp, only reinforcing just how meticulously timed this entire operation had been. It was becoming more and more apparent over time as to how Las Fieras had been the first to not only uncover his initial deception, but then even so much as catch up to him.
This observation breathes new oxygen into that question he had been holding onto ever since the announcement of the delay at Truckee, but for the moment Mycroft holds onto that point of query in favour of complimenting the scar-bearing cook as to his diligence in dinner preparation. The commendation seems to have an effect on the young man, as when an effort is latterly made to bridge the gap in introduction between them it comes through in a distracted half-mumble. Jason? Jason. Yes, he is certain that he had heard that correctly.
His gently charmed expression redirects to Miss Dahlia upon her timely interjection, a small chuckle rumbling within the column of his throat: too true.
"I'd hazard the difference in sunlight to be a factor, as well." Mycroft offers with a humoured perk of his brow, deeming it appropriate to provide additional context for those in the group who might not have heard much told of the home island's adverse climate. "Last I saw so much blue in the sky was in a stage production of Twelfth Night. It was painted on the backdrop, in a most exotic departure for the benefit of London's imagination."
With his shoulders buoying briefly at his turn of dry comedy, Mycroft returns to his work while keeping an eye on Miss Dahlia's business in his peripheral vision. Gathered laundry, going by the size and estimated weight of the bag— and the most handy glimpse of a dust-flecked cotton sleeve through the otherwise roped up opening, of course. His head dips a little further into his peeling at the remark made in allusion to his damp, recently hung articles of clothing: victims to a spur of the moment decision he was now having to regret latterly. Perhaps there was still a chance to add his shirt, at a more appropriate time after dinner or before the morning departure.
"I must imagine that is one contest he would have won quite handily." He safeguards his sanity by focusing himself upon Miss Dahlia's otherwise justified enquiry, his own thoughts likewise turning to Mr Rodriguez; wondering when the man he had left behind might feel stirred enough by hunger to at last join the rest of them. Mycroft stalls upon peeling yet another strip of carrot into his bucket, holding the knife aside as he twists at the waist to look up at at Miss Dahlia with a reassuring smile of his own.
"Though I did offer to guard him from the very real threat of mountain lion attack, Mister Rodriguez seemed quite content to finish his bathing routine alone." His light-hearted tone suggested that Mycroft had found this to be an altogether reasonable request: it had, after all, seemed clear to him that his friend rather enjoyed an occasional respite from bustling company. A most relatable disposition, really.
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Javier blinks back, puzzled but slow, content, untroubled, lips nuzzling the shimmering upper layer of water. Coyness seizes his fellow companion, who appears to freeze under the rogue's offer, black streaks of hair stuck to his forehead, no doubt considering his response – and definitely believing it to be genuine. He waits quietly, without prompting him again. Told to stand at ease, he then watches Mr Holmes drift back to shore and pluck himself out of the lake, and understands that's as much as he's gonna get out of him. "I didn't do anything." Not one to dwell, Javier begins to turn, his body a large wavering shadow, arms alternately lifting overhead and diving again to lazily propel himself parallel to camp.
He doesn't get far until the admission of pleasure stops him, and he laughs because that's the safe thing to do, because this is not someone he should play games with at the end of the night. He was not oblivious to the effect his presence had on the other, but could not determine it as pure academic fascination or animal in nature. Everyone gets curious, after all. "You don't have to say those things." Javier calmly explains, meeting Mycroft's gaze. He means to reassure. "Y'know, the sweet talk so we don't eat you. Already said we won't." But he has to imagine at least some part of the stranger had to remain scared, untrusting regardless of how the tides turned. Perhaps it would only truly know ease once they were all out of his sight again.
And then he lets himself look, because what else is there to do, and Mr Holmes is still standing there dripping, trapped in his wet trousers, and there aren't that many new faces they see sometimes for weeks on end. Just the same circle, which grew tighter and smaller around the whirlpool of whatever Jhin, Dahlia and the devil had going on.
"Nah, you don't have to watch." He sighs, deliberately rolling onto his back, arms spread like beating wings and closing in a slow sweeping motion, pushing water away from him until his right hand traces ghostlike up his inner thigh, gives his groin a subconscious squeeze, and floats out again. "I'll head up soon." It was getting dark, cold, and hunger was beginning to hollow him out, so whenever he was sure Mycroft had left he too would swim back to his towel, pat himself dry, throw on his jeans and boots, and clamber back up to the fire.
And there, Mr Rodriguez's most pleasant thunder roll of laughter once more. It is a response he is altogether glad to have prompted from his company, feeling very much as though they had spent their bathing routine knocking billiard balls around a table together: no stakes, gleaning just a little more as to what the other was about at their leisure. Courtesy and humour, in tandem. It's a terribly agreeable impression, especially when married with the sentiment next extended to him— an astute perception paired with a thoughtful turn of reassurance. Mycroft leans back upon the balls of his feet, a deepening tick in his smile returning a sense of ease to his glistening countenance.
"It's my only defense, in the wilderness." His playful joke acts threefold: acknowledging that his self-preserving tactics had been made, poking a little fun at his own maladapted placement out here, and yes— confessing that a part of him was still scared. Would continue to be scared, to some extent of foreseeable future. For himself. For his brother, now travelling the continent alone. In the knowledge that other groups were hunting for him, or a man like him, out there somewhere. His comfort came in two things known for certain: he had allies, and he had a plan. Most immediate among these was the emerging solace of being able to count these hardy men and women as his friends in this ongoing venture.
"But thank you, for saying it again." Mycroft's tone of voice, while gentle, pushes with heartfelt emphasis on delivery. Implying thus that he'll be doing his best to acclimate from now on: a little less of London's delicate dance in etiquette, a little more of the frontier's preference for frankness and candour. Fear was best remedied by familiarity— with time, he will feel at ease. His body must forget the train, the gun's barrel pressed to his knee, the other people leaving the observation carriage and the thought of death swiftly coming upon him. It had been Mr Rodriguez who had first reassured him that he wasn't going to die back then, and it was Mr Rodriguez who even now continued to make him feel safe. He would always remember that much.
Nodding once to announce his imminent departure following his friend's encouragement, Mycroft spends a moment too long in directing his body back towards the distant gathering of tents further up the shore. Long enough to catch the hand strafing across the southerner's own strong inner thigh— all of a sudden Mycroft feels as though his sodden undergarments have become far too tight indeed, and is possessed with the need to change into something more decent. He turns his head away and, determined, makes his way back towards the bustling action of the main camp as appropriate.
Dinner preparation is still underway when he arrives, and he's grateful to see a bunch of wild carrots have been set aside by the young cook atop a rounded barrel for his attention. A quick flick of his gaze swiftly identifies Mr Astaire as the musician of the group, guitar propped upon his knee and fingers strumming a soulful little tune— he can see that it is a handsome, much loved instrument that has seen both travel and no small amount of use. The wood itself is warm in colouration, though pales in comparison to the brilliance of Miss Dahlia's hair, which now shimmers with newly groomed attention as she passes here and there; Mr Burke for his part seems to be content where he'd last been left before the crackling fire itself, unmoved and unbothered since.
All in all it seems that the group had settled in quite comfortably following their long hours on the road, longer still than that part of the journey he had shared with them; conscious however that there were eyes upon his rolled up, waterlogged trousers, he keeps his stride swift and steps mindful as he makes his way back towards his personal tent. Therein he promptly disappears to steal for himself as much privacy as he can for a brief interim, enough for him to change into a fresh pair of linen underpants and charcoal-hued trousers, find a place upon his tarp's propping post from which he can hang his wet clothes, then return refreshed for his assistance within the kitchen.
Mycroft greets the present gang members with a nod and smile each, before setting himself down upon a low-stool by the barrel and thanking the youthful chef as the latter promptly nudges an empty bucket for trimmings his way. Knife in hand, he enquires briefly after the cutting preference before beginning his work peeling the vegetables in question. At once it feels good to be at work, able to focus on an action that naturally casts his gaze down and fixes his attention on a repetitive, simple task that offers both greater use and contribution. Much like the reins clutched in his palms earlier in the day, the weight of a peeling knife's grip in his hand feels strange and rather distant to his memory— but not lost altogether, he can recall the technique.
"I do envy the quality of your produce here." He can't help but comment, somewhat conversationally. The carrot in his hand was remarkably firm and well-sized, and of a shade most vibrant to the naked eye— the greens were also crisp, springing gently beneath even the slightest touch. An altogether healthy and impressive specimen.
"The ingredients consistently retain their flavour into the final dish, as opposed to fading into quite the mild palate upon preparation."
Is Mr Holmes unraveling at last? Javier continues to throw him surreptitious looks, mildly fascinated if not downright puzzled by how someone could look so stressed while bathing. They had privacy, clear water, and plenty of space to sprawl under the sky as it burned its last embers, but the Englishman's behaviour was jerky and erratic, quite unlike what was expected of someone who seemed to plan his whole day before he fell asleep the night before. Was the stress of the day getting to him, or was there a different reason why he was so unsettled?
"Ah, is that so." Taking it first as a compliment, Javier laughs it off, not one to be modest but neither one to brag. He jumps back into the water to lastly wash his hair, and it's from his stooped arch that he catches another peek of Mycroft about his business, his pants rolled up and bearing no secrets, offering up a most enticing jiggle of flesh as he frantically scrubbed his arms, his soft chest. Well, who knew he'd been hiding all that under the expensive linen. Narrowly avoiding getting suds in his eye, Javier sets the bar of soap aside to dry and disappears back beneath the surface, this time indulging in a proper swim, allowing the gentle current to finish cleansing body and mind.
He shakes out his hair when up for air again, wipes water from his eyes. Mycroft was heading closer, though he had the face of someone who didn't plan on getting back to shore. Javier floats in place, amusement shimmering in dark mossy irises. He wanted to ask him why he'd been looking, but that would almost invariably be perceived as a threat. "Should I leave, then? So you can be at ease." He waits for an answer with only his head above the lake, part of him worried that the other would get too adventurous and discover last minute that he didn't know how to swim, or get caught up weeds and pulled under, or be seized upon by snakes. Hazard magnets, these dolls.
Mercifully, it would seem that the deeper hues of his admiration had gone undetected by the other man. This was reasonable. It was hardly the expectation on either continent for one of Adam's endowment to gaze upon another with sentiment other than sporting, academic interest. Certainly those same bricks lay within the foundation of his own attention, however that no more was suspected from his person was most assuredly a boon of fortune. Hiding his face from Mr Rodriguez through the scrupulous angling of his body while waist-deep in this water, Mycroft continues to rinse his skin of soap and tries not to let his contemplations linger on the sound of this southern fellow's laughter; peppered, full and warm. Not unlike the crackling fire awaiting them both.
At the sound of a splash nearby, Mycroft jolts from his thoughts and lifts his head to find his new friend indulging in a leisurely swim about their shared stretch of shoreline. Relaxing again, a whisper of good-natured humour at his own expense flits through his expression: a hare in the company of wolves, he remained most evidently. Though he doesn't quite follow Mr Rodriguez's lead on this point, he does indulge in a partial swim into the deeper expanse of lakebed, so that he might submerge himself up to the jawline once more. Some buttons are then popped well beneath the water line, sodden fabric slipped just enough to lend some rinsing attention to thighs, rear and sack before swiftly (awkwardly) drawing his articles up again. All done.
With that Mycroft takes one final dip below the surface, at last feeling able to declare himself quite clean. Upon re-emerging and floating a little closer towards the lake's edge again, he's nevertheless caught off guard by the generous-minded offer put his way. Locking eyes with Mr Rodriguez on accident, Mycroft stares at him for a moment before subconsciously sinking somewhat into the water again, such that now only his mist-like eyes shimmered above the lake's surface— unwittingly taking on the appearance of some raven-coiled creature newly emerged from the black lagoon. He says nothing for a brief moment, perhaps an embarrassing amount of time.
It would be quite pleasant to bathe in complete privacy, but equally it seemed rude to send another man from his own routine on mere account of warming his sensibilities. He was well rinsed from head the toe, and he was growing conscious of his pledge to the cook of their group at the campfire. Least of all, he had no desire to give his friend the impression that his presence here invited any measure of offense. Thus, raising himself above the surface again and mustering some spirit, he at last offers Mr Rodriguez an appreciative smile of his own.
"A very mindful offer. But no, thank you."
As though to communicate conversely that he was quite content with his time in the water, he pulls himself towards the shallows before drawing into an upright stand with a shower of twinkling droplets and streaming rivers run down the length of his broad body. Rubbing his eyes and nose again, Mycroft sniffles and runs his hands through the water around him again. A last rinse.
"I am quite clean, and you've already made so many adjustments for the comfort of a stranger, I can hardly ask for another today." Mycroft's feet find dry land again in a slosh of clear water, navigating their way through a maze of uneven pebbles towards his towel and shirt again. Drying himself down from crown to toe, he dons his rolled up shirt again and slings his towel over his bare forearm, plucking his soap up into his hand as he turns to look back at Mr Rodriguez; still bobbing in the water with that boyish smile reaching right up to his glimmering eyes, evoking in his impression quite the appeal in charm.
"Besides, I rather enjoyed the company." He confesses candidly, his own smile warmed by the distant glow of their camp's fire. At this point Mycroft's brow furrows slightly, as though troubled by a thought: he'd had every intention of leaving Mr Rodriguez to his peace here, but was that either generally practiced or wise in this environment? He glanced along the extent of Lake Tahoe's shore either side of them, as though anticipating some manner of... creature to emerge spontaneously. He then looks back out to where Mr Rodriguez was floating, features still creased with tentative concern.
"Shall I stay while you finish, or...?"
He might require some direction, here. Though truthfully, Mycroft really wasn't sure what service he was offering exactly otherwise. If a mountain lion suddenly leapt from the bushes, the best he could do is provide a somewhat sufficient hors d'oeuvre that might leave time enough for the rest of the band to pack up and depart the area for a less feral stretch of shore. Or else try to shoot it dead, modern gladiators in this arena of American wilderness and such.