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[anewlanguage]

[Cain is aware what day it is and, as you probably guessed, he's drunk. Plastered. In the garden, twirling a ripped-off stick deftly between his fingers. He only slips at the end when he's meant to catch it.

He sings, too, as he's wont to do.]

...but I've still got my health, so what do I care?
My best friend, alas, is a glass solitaire,
but I still got my health, so what do I care?

By fashion and foppery, I'm never discussed.
Attending the opry, my box would be a bust....


[ooc: feel free to catch him in the gardens, the halls, wherever. I'm not bothering with much continuity, it's a free for all.]

Comments

[routemistress]

[Some part of Iris is wondering, almost sourly, if Dean chose this week to go home on purpose. And then she second-guesses her first thought, because after that row they had, she's a much better candidate than Dean right now to get between Cain and any really egregious destruction the date might move him to.

Under that, she's silently cursing Terrans and their stupid greeting-card habits and calendars, and wondering if there's a single person on this sodding boat whose day has been improved by this day's mawkish, unnecessary, artificial significance.

Out loud, all she's doing is singing along and trying to smile.]

I never shall have that Park Avenue air,
but I'm in such health, why should I care?

[anewlanguage]

You're a fan?

[His voice is thick with whiskey, but that stick is lethally expert now that he's focused on playing with it. He'd suspected someone had come into the garden, but he's glad it was Iris. He's pretty sure getting shot again by one of his many admirers would have just pissed off the med crew at this point.]

[routemistress]

...'Ave you met me? 'Course I am, you pillock.

[She's not here by chance; but he probably knows that, or would if he were letting himself think. She's here because contrary to popular perception, Iris takes wardening seriously, and part of that is preempting triggers like this one.]

...I'm more in a Dusty mood, meself.

[She doesn't wait, just launches softly into the Dusty number she thinks of as her signature tune. One of her signature tunes.]

Though I'd rather go and journey
Where the diamond crescents, glowing
Run across the valleys
Beneath the sacred mountain

[anewlanguage]

Let's do somethin' upbeat.

[But he can't seem to think of something that fits the bill, and just stops twirling his toy and looks at her.]

You look tense.

[routemistress]

[She just gives him a Look back.]

Are you going to make me tell you I'm worried about you? 'Cause I were just goin' to go with pretending nothing was up. But I'm easy, sweetheart.

[anewlanguage]

Nah if it's about me, I'd just as soon go back to thinkin' about Bette. How'd she get around into your world anyway?

[routemistress]

Get used to it, sunshine.

[She comes down off her bench to sit closer to him.]

...I don't exactly 'ave a world, you know. But I 'ave a spent a lot of time on Earth, one way and another. Nearly all me favourite music's from there.

[anewlanguage]

[He sets the branch down, staggers a little, and sits beside her.]

Yeah? I didn't know we're that talented. Who's your favorite?

[routemistress]

[Iris leans close, because touch; he's clouded with the wrong kind of drunk and the thornbushes are bigger, blacker than on his good days, but he's himself. It's grounding and uplifting at the same time. She isn't trying to influence his mood, she never does, but her own should be more perceptible. If he cares to look.]

Modesty don't suit you, sweetheart. You're magnificent. Humans generally, I mean.

[This with a sly smirk for him.]

...Dusty, probably. Cilla. Emmylou. Kirsty. Janis. Too many to choose just the one.

[anewlanguage]

[He's afraid to spread this mood to her, and even drunk he's doing his best to keep his soul on lock down. It's not a rebuff, or the equivalent of a locked door; he just doesn't dare venture out right now. It's as introverted as David Cain can possibly get.]

Janis Joplin? Heh, now there's a woman I could've made a home with. How many years did y'see on earth anyway?

[routemistress]

I'll take you out to the Proximan Chain, you can try your luck. She'd love you.

[She's not trying to intrude on it, but she's there: a kind of Iris-coloured, palpable mist, crystalline with concern, interposing itself between him and everything else.]

...Got a bit tricky to keep count, what with all the alternates and that. Most of the 1970s. Good chunk of the Napoleonic Wars. The odd dirty weekend in the Jurassic - don't ask. What is it with some folk and dinosaurs?

[anewlanguage]

[He refuses to let himself reach out to it, but he gets a distinct sense of comfort from her being there, concerned for him and willing to stay with him anyway.]

I always figured if someone wanted to be around giant carnivorous animals, they could go take a dip in the Nile. Plenty of crocodiles there who looked just the same back when.

[routemistress]

[It's enough. Entwined interdependence isn't a thing either of them want anyway - well, only on select occasions, at least. This is better.]

Old friend of mine [and by old friend, she means lover] - she 'ad a massive thing about 'em. Kept 'em as pets. Dinosaurs, I mean, not crocs. I never did see the point; they're thick as bricks, they don't 'ousetrain and you can never keep a cleaner. They do 'ave nice feathers, mind.

[She touches one of the plumes on her favourite hat.]

[anewlanguage]

Too bad I'm not a poacher, you and your time travel'd make me a wealthy man. [...He already is one. He just doesn't care much for the money; he'd become an assassin for the experience. Money just allowed him the means to keep improving his talents.]

[routemistress]

[It's a different, an older passion that lights Iris' eyes, now.]

Oh, there's so much out there. It does me 'ead in that I can't take you out of 'ere. Yet. What is it with me and people who want to wrangle bloody dinosaurs?

[And then, as if apropos of nothing.]

...There's cloning firms'll pay a lot for skin an' feather samples. Don't 'ave to finish 'em off, even, just 'old 'em down long enough.

[anewlanguage]

You offering me a new job? [He grins, though, because even if he's never been terribly interested in the ancient past, he loves adventure.]

[routemistress]

You'll want summat after 'ere, won't you? There's a lot of multiverse out there.

[So does she; it's a large part of why she loves him. And although Iris isn't a planner-ahead, much, she's got a good sense of timelines, of possible futures - and unshakeable faith in his eventual graduation.]

[anewlanguage]

[He's not sure what's going to happen after this. Though he won't say that--admitting it feels dangerous--it's there in his expression, a whisper if her mind is near enough.]

You know me, I'm up for anything.

[routemistress]

[Which is a lie, but not one Iris takes issue with; it's one he wants to be true, and the exceptions that make it a lie are so very specific. So she smiles, because he'll tackle that exception sooner or later.]

The question is, love, is the multiverse up to you?

[anewlanguage]

[His lip twitches, very slightly.] I don't plan to make ripples in it. Think I did enough of that in my own universe, eh?

[routemistress]

Enough?

[She says it with a lifted eyebrow, not very willing to believe in his capacity - or at least his desire - not to ripple, once he's taken his time regrouping and reassessing. But it's the second thought she responds to, at least tangentially.]

...can I ask you summat? 'Ow'd you get into the business to start with?

[anewlanguage]

[He smiles, stretching] Ohh...I was in the military. Special forces, that kinda thing. Figured out I make better money and prob'ly a bigger difference being a mercenary, so I left soon as I could and started making a name for myself. After a while didn't matter if I was making a difference as long as the pay was high and the job was interesting.

[routemistress]

Difference?

[She doesn't ask to what - he'll clarify or he won't, and if he does he might tell her. It surprises her. It doesn't quite fit with the picture she's been assembling, and she's avid for the missing pieces. Nevertheless, she keeps talking, softly, lying on the grass beside him.]

...It is interesting. I'm not a big fan of people bein' dead, you know that already - but I've always loved a fight. Or a challenge. And it's both. I can see it.

[Sometimes too easily for her own peace of mind. But she doesn't say that aloud either.]

cw: mention of child abuse

[anewlanguage]

I was an idealistic kid once upon a time. [He says this ruefully, rubbing his brow] Seeing people starving in other countries, being trained to think it was the fault of the dictators (or elected officials, or whoever) and then not being allowed to go take the bastards out.... Assassinations sounded better. I learned pretty quick that people are people, and they're going to tear each other apart. It doesn't matter how many tyrants you kill, we're basically like any other animal. Survival of the fittest.

Along the way I learned my version of 'fittest' wasn't just about being the best shot and the hardest punch, though. Learned to grin my way through it all, learned to love what I do on and off the job.

[And then he'd had Cassandra. And then he'd learned what loneliness felt like, what it was like to literally have nothing to live for but a pile of tapes with a little girl silently obeying his orders...and smiling at him even after he shot, stabbed, and beat her.]

<3 <3

[routemistress]

They are. Same thing applies to any people that've learned enough to 'ave government and all. It's one way of dealin' with it.

[And there are the thorns again. She's not, today, going to name them; it's enough that they're there, that he can certainly see her seeing it. Instead she leans in, drops a kiss on his temple, that soft spot where the skin is finest.]

It's that I love, in you.