Business & Personal
(Crispin)
It was the sort of day people remembered, despite the cold. Clouds were frozen tufts of candy floss, born effortlessly on the sea breeze in that way that clouds had (where it didn't look like they were moving at all). Great puffy mountains climbed by his imagination, taking him to far away lands and underground Faerie burrows. How he longed to let them carry him away to a place without care or worry.
Adulthood meant the death of those fancies but as with everything else, Fin had trouble letting go. Daily, his heart sang a slow dirge for his innocence. Wobbling at the fulcrum between regret and hope, forever incapable of finding a balance, Fin wondered if he'd ever be certain of his own thoughts or feelings. They had a tendency to shift and change shape faster than the smoke dancing above his fingers. It was cold, frigid even, but the wind had died down as evening encroached, tucking itself to bed with the sun. The change was a gradual dance, colors blending and blurring until it was one continuous brush stroke on a dark canvas.
Grey wool well versed in the RhyDin weather helped to stave off the worst of the biting air. Exposed skin was kissed red, turned bitterly numb but he didn't care, just enjoyed the quiet murmuration of waves lulling him into a temporary peace.
Cris knows the moment the nurse leads him down a separate corridor, he's going to be heading back outside. Quietly, he thanks the Angel for the two Thermis runes he'd already cut into his stomach, the extra layers that include cut-off leather gloves and a skullcap, and a thicker scarf he'd had set aside with the rest of his steadily growing wardrobe. Fin's meditative figure isn't hard to find against the backdrop of frothy, distant seawater and the dirty batting of cloud cover overhead. He nods his gratitude to his escort, directing his stride toward Fin once he's left alone. The nurse already on supervision duty looks up as Cris enters their proximity, and nods. Cris returns it on his way, shaking his left hand reluctantly from his coat pocket, the curl of two knuckles gently touching the outside of the other man's right shoulder.
Crunchy shuffly footsteps reach him but he doesn't turn until he feels the brush of fingers at his shoulder. A small, warm smile lights the Scot's face spying the Nephilim at his side. Right where Fin liked him. "We can go back inside if ye like," speaking in hushed tones so as not to disturb the metamorphosis of day into night.
Most of the noise of his stride comes from the reinforced leather coat he wears, its sheen nearly liquid in its newness. It creaks, quietly, even with how little the rest of his frame moves. The pocket change shiver of buckles on his boots joins that subtle shifting, but given how empty and still the courtyard is, it's no wonder Fin can hear him coming when he isn't trying to hide his approach.
"In a while," answering. He swings his gaze to the spread of bruise dark shadows coming up from the east. "What is it you're watching?"
A veil of warm breath closed around the back of his neck as Cris settled. Stars twinkled crisp and bright as they were unveiled by the edge of night. "Everythin' an' nothin', I suppose." True to his Celtic heritage, Fin lived in a Between place, constantly straddling the border between desires and thoughts. Somewhere between light and dark, he hung suspended, cocooned by the rambling wanderings of his mind. "Wha' did ye do today?"
He tucks his hand back into his pocket, draws his elbows in like their proximity to his ribs will hold in what little heat he has left. He feels the warmth of the runes on his skin radiating with the pressure. "Not very much, actually. I got somewhat of a late start." Cris hadn't expected quite such an easy lead-in to the matter he wanted to discuss with Fin. It's earlier than he'd planned in his visit to bring it up, but he does not think another opportunity will rise in time. "I spoke with Lucy, actually. Shortly before I came."
"A late start?" he murmured. Hard to think of the tightly contained Nephilim stumbling about higgledy piggledy in an unkempt bedroom. The mental image was as whimsical as the clouds from earlier, the two things seeming a fitting book end to the day. Smoke snorted from his nose in a burst, a physical show of his quiet chuckle. "Aye?" he asked, catching up with the conversation. "Wha' did the pair o' ye discuss?"
His pride enjoys that his all-over rigidity doesn't allow for the assumption that he can get a late start. From an early age, he'd had a disagreement with early mornings, and that hasn't changed. Only now, he finds himself still awake when they come rather than getting dragged, reluctantly, by the face to greet them. "Current events," rolling his shoulder, slight smile suggesting the vague response is intentionally sarcastic. "Actually......she brought to my attention her concern for your forge."
Fin turned his chin until his eyes were visible beyond the edge of his hood, brows furrowed lightly. "Aye?" Curiosity and mild concern were expressed as one in that word, wondering if something was wrong. Was it the building itself? Had something happened to it?
"Mhm." He shoots his gaze around their immediate vicinity, heads toward the nearest table to relieve it of one of its chairs. The wrought iron is cold on his fingers. He hoists it up, bringing it to Fin's side and resigns to sit with him despite the chill he knows will seep into him, even through the thickness of his gear. Leaning forward, he rests his forearms on his knees, split shoulder width apart. "Primarily, its maintenance." He taps the calloused pads of his thumbs together, sucking the back of his teeth. Finally, he looks over. "How much do you know of what's being done to maintain it? Perhaps Lucy herself, or Fox, has discussed it with you?"
Normally, when bits of the story came stiltingly and the speaker was shifting around, that was bad news. The kind that made Fin anxious, adrenaline eclipsing anticipation of the surely horrible news that would follow. However, since arriving here and working with Dr. Leister, Fin was a little more capable of handling the suspense. A mantra was chanted silently in his head while he savored the roll of heat and flavor across the back of his tongue.
"Eh...if I recall, ye told me tha' ye were workin' some small weapons jobs. Tha' be the last I heard." A thought occurred that hadn't before, this intrusion of the real world a cuff to the head. "Do I no longer have any customers?" he asked carefully.
He bows his head, running the palm of his left hand across the back of his right fist. Half fingers of his gloves keep the thick silver ring out of his reach. He can't feel the bones in the back of his hand, under the runic eye Marked there. Looking away, he nods for the answer Fin gives. Rising, slowly, from his lean. His shoulder blades hit the back of the chair, discomfort spraying through the bed of muscles surrounding them, a sensation that he ignores. "In a manner of speaking. Lucy has mapped out the path of funding. What she adds, and the piddly amount I manage to collect through my attempts there. But she's noticed that, yes, of late the customer flow has begun to dwindle."
Six beats later, "She's posed a suggestion to correct that."
Taking in the last drag of his smoke, its held in his chest for as long as he can manage comfortably before letting it trickle from his mouth. "Well do no' draw it out," the words hoarse with gruff humor. A resigned, gallows humor for whatever problem he was about to bear. "Wha' does she want to do?"
Part of his mouth turns up. "A temporary, extra set of hands. One that has knowledge of the inner workings of a forge that I do not. She discussed it with me first for the time that I've spent there, but the both of us think that, at present, it is the best course of action, and would like to hear what you think."
It was a lot to absorb between one breath and the other. Nodding slowly, Fin gestured with a tilt of his brow that he'd like to go inside. A withered husk was pressed between callused fingertips, the butt dropped in the bin next to the doors. The metal handle was still bitterly cold against numb fingertips, a jolt that only hastened him inside with a shiver wiggling down his spine.
"Another smith workin' m'forge?" It seemed...unnatural to imagine another blacksmith in the forge he'd built. He wanted to squirm with the discomfort squeezing his stomach, but it was the smart thing to do. This would be best for his business and the future of his career. Still...
"Eh, d'ye know who she wants to hire? Wha' would happen when I leave here?" Though that seemed a distant concept (and perhaps, inspired a lick of fear), it had to happen one day. "Wha' if they no' be a verra good smith?" Didn't want his stock to plummet with the neighbors.
Cris nods, mute, and follows Fin's lead back inside the facility. Heaves a sigh of relief as the warmth of four walls envelopes them, presses in enough to let him tug the skullcap from his head. He tucks it into his coat and scrubs one hand through his hair to wake it up from where it had spent so long pressed flat. Longer than he tends to keep it, though shorn enough to keep a neat style once he lets it fall, locks droop against his temple, a single crescent of half damp, earth brown joining his hairline with his right eyebrow.
"Another, yes. She's not started looking yet, we were waiting for your input. But I suspect that should she go ahead with this process, the fact that the position is temporary will be discussed and agreed upon outright. From there, if you'd like for them to continue working with you, you certainly have that option. Or, if you prefer to work alone-----then they will have no choice but to accept that decision. As for their skill, this course of action is meant to preserve Iron Clad for you in the future. We would not allow it to fall into disrepair because of someone's ineptitude. I will still be there, I will watch."
Winter's accoutrements were kept snugly wrapped, waiting for his body's heat to suffuse all the layers. Hands were kept hid inside pockets for now, helping to rein in the jealous, selfish darts that pricked the back of his neck. It was almost adulterous to allow another person to work in his space. Fin had to fight past it to force his head up and down in a nod even though a question hadn't been asked.
The mantra was repeated while he sucked in a deep breath, knowing in his heart that they did this with the best intentions for him and his business. Just didn't expect it to sting like it did. On autopilot, Fin drifted in the direction of his room. "I know ye will, Crispin. I trust ye an' Lucy to do yer best by me." Gratitude for their caring drove one side of his mouth up, leaning close enough for his shoulder to nudge the other man's. "How will ye go about choosin'?"
Cris sucks his teeth in the quiet, focuses on the stale, sterile scent of the facility around them. On how he can smell, behind all the dry air, some citrus cleanser and a play at something floral to freshen up the atmosphere. He follows in Fin's wake, looks up at gentle press of the Scot's shoulder to his. "Lucy is more well connected than I. I may pose that she begin her search without me, then narrow the pool of candidates, if there's even a pool to be had, so that I can meet them. Beyond that....." he rolls his hand, then reaches for the door handle to let them inside his assigned room.
"No matter what happens, I intend to speak to Shae about further warding your home against entry. It is a precaution I would like set in place before we bring anyone into the forge."
That was the sort of consideration he cherished, thinking of his home before Fin could even pose the question. Tension leaked from his shoulders and they dropped away from his ears. "Tha' be verra kind o' ye, Crispin." The backs of his fingers brushed against the other's in a show of thanks. Heading through the door so graciously held for him, Fin looked at the interior of his room as if surprised to be there.
"I think tha' I would like to meet any she be considerin'." Following on the tail of that, he wondered why she hadn't told him herself, if she was going to be facilitating the process. "I would like to see their work, see them work in the forge." One vacation day had already been granted, perhaps he could beg another on behalf of his forge.
A thick layer of leather, one of thin wool, another of thinner cotton keeps most of Fin's touch from reaching down too far. He feels it still, soft as his own half smile, and steps over the threshold of Fin's room. The flat of his hand guides the door closed at his back. His gaze wanders to the empty bed, remaining there throughout Fin's answer. One beat afterward, then three. He sucks his teeth, his jaw tight at its hinge. Frowning, he nods twice. "I will let her know."
Already sensitive to the presence of tension in himself, it was easy to read it along Crispin's frame. Ambient heat finally soothed his aching ears and in a bid to avoid absorbing what he could feel, Fin busied himself with removing his jacket, hanging it in the small closet off to the side. "Eh, are ye alrigh'? We could go have a cup o' tea," seeking to mollify whatever upset the Nephilim.
A minute jump goes through the thin muscles of his upper lip. Irritation, frustration, slim as a rapier, and just as swift. He draws in a single breath and leans away from the door, lifting his hand with a half shake of refusal. "No, thank you. I'm fine." Though, he isn't one to deny tea often. His hand slowly falls. He looks away from the bed to Fin, finally. "May I tell you something?"
Asking to ask a question was never a good sign. Instantly, muscles twitched, his heart sped up, pupils contracted. A curious frown formed, steeling himself for the answer. "Eh, aye, o' course. Ye know tha'."
He tucks his hand away into his coat. Mirrors it with his other, elbows pulled in tight to his ribs as he approaches the center of the room. "Neither one of was want to do this, Fin. You must know that. Lucy's first choice, and certainly mine, would be to bring you home. For it to be you that fills the place you worked to acquire, for it to not even be a thought in either of our heads to bring another in. The second would be for me to take up some sort of apprenticeship, somewhere, to learn more than I know so I could better benefit Iron Clad beyond using a whetstone.
"It is yours, Fin. And it should remain yours."
Expectation and reality waged war across the Scot's features. The words were heard, collected by his brain, and then pieced apart until understanding filtered down a few seconds later. A fist squeezed his chest until he grew dizzy and remembered to breathe. All of it filtered through fear, shock, denial, humility, gratuity, love. Each one hit him with the force of a mack truck, barely fading before the next followed.
It was some minutes before he could control his limbs and move, eating the distance between them with one great stride. It was more of a pounce than a hug; Cris was clutched tightly to the Scot's chest, arms wound tightly, his face tucked against the familiar heat and scent of Crispin. Fin trembled from head to toe, leaning on the Nephilim as much as embracing him.
Words were forced past the golf ball in his throat., muffled and hoarse. "Yer the best an' truest o' men, Crispin."
Some minutes. Too much can happen in some minutes' time. Silence builds a wall around the inside of Fin's room. Brick by phantom brick, one for each muted beat that passes. Cris counts forty-three of them before he takes a breath to break it. "In hindsight-----I should have done so earlier, no matter when I thought, or hoped, that you'd return to us. I refuse to call it foolish. I am no different than any other. I've told you before that I would see you well, I would see you home, and-----"
Fin rushes forward and Cris can only shake one hand free of his pocket in time by the time they collide. There isn't enough of him to take on Fin's taller frame. The force of the other man's embrace, the emotion that propels it, drives him back a single step. It buckles his knee where he's dug in to stand firm against the way Fin tries to bury himself in a grave that's too small. He doesn't lament the breath Fin had wrung from him. His own arms rise, wrapped tightly around the other man, his right palm clapped firmly on the meat of Fin's shoulder. He swallows. Under the thickness of his coat, his shoulder blades pull and spread.
He doesn't want to tell Fin that he's wrong. Surprises himself with the thought that, perhaps, Fin isn't. At least not entirely. He knows his own inclinations lean toward better than most, and he's certainly known better, but he's known worse, too. He doesn't think it's worth anything to rip a hole through what Fin had said. It's enough, he thinks, that someone else believes it. Because perhaps in time, he may change his own mind.
"I am your friend," he says after seventeen more, silent, brick laying beats. Quiet to fit the hush. Reassuring, reminding. His arm around Fin's neck tightens. "And I miss you, and I swear------I swear that if you said the word, I would take you from here and bring you home myself."
The barrier seemed to hold time at bay, too, for as long as he held on to Crispin. All of it muffled in the soothing blanket of the Nephilim's embrace. It seemed out of nowhere, this solid and steadfast connection between them, for it had never gathered such strength as when he landed himself here. Almost in the same manner as Fin and Lucy had been before her incarceration. Wanting what isn't readily available.
His grip falls slack but still he leans and holds, gathering his grounding anchor against him. Words splinter and die before reaching his tongue, none of them worthy of the moment. The oath brings the threat of tears, eyes squeezed tight against them. Steeling himself, Fin finally lifts his head, half a step put between them. "I know it." At odds were the shaky breath and firm conviction behind the words. "I know ye do no' like me in this place. I do no' like it, but I must needs stay a wee bit longer. I...I canno' say how I know it, only that I feel it in m'bones."
A bracket of his hands on Crispin's shoulders is made, his grip digging indentations into fabric and flesh. "Ye be more than a friend, Crispin, an' ye know it," with a bond more sacred than mere friends. "But I could have another visit out o' this place. Dr. Leister told me."
The tension of his embrace migrates to his jaw so that he does not lock Fin down when he retreats, even if it's only half a step. "What is it.....? What is it that you feel this place gives you?" He mirrors Fin, his hands in the dips between the other man's neck and shoulders. He'd get to the Scot's next field trip in a second.
Difficult to answer, harder still to define. Every attempt to corral the words ends in knotted lines and cut threads. Starbursts of feelings are all he can conjure, wordless and shapeless. He can't look away from that hazel gaze pinning him in place, supplicating instead of demanding. It hurt, but he tried because it was Crispin and Fin couldn't bear the thought of letting him down.
"I fear it will sound selfish," he whispered. A wrinkled brow and cant of his lips as he chews his cheek are the effort made. "It...this place...it be a haven o' sorts. A place for me to...hide." Just thinking about going through everything up to this point without the assistance of Leister or Hamilton House brought an unrivaled weariness to his heart. "Out there, I would ha'..." Mirthless laughter blows past his lips. "I would no' ha' survived."
Cris hears his own definition for it come from Fin's mouthing. Hiding. He looks between the other man's eyes once they rise. Slowly, he pulls his lips in, tastes the salt of them on the seam of his frown. His brows come together. He nods twice, and swallows, squeezing the space between Fin's neck and shoulders tighter.
Sputtering justifications spring to mind but with a sigh, they are ignored. "I could no' do it alone," he whispered, finally letting his gaze fall between them, resting on the collar of the other's shirt. "I could no' heal m'self. Everythin' else was a reason no' to."
A thin line of muscle rhythmically flexes in his jaw. His teeth come together and release, come together and release. Effort collides with the desire to say something, anything, puts in him the illusion that he's trapped in an elevator that's just begun to plummet. With his gut hiked up to rest somewhere near his lungs, making drawing a simple breath an arduous task.
Of all who could pass judgement on the way Fin had chosen to repair himself, he can't. He'd stayed within the same room for days. Weeks, at a time. Going, often, days without speaking a single word, without looking away from the same window. It didn't matter when Leena came home, or if she did, sometimes. It didn't matter that his body ached all over for lack of movement. He lets his lips go, color slowly returning to them. His grip on Fin's shoulders eases. Slips an inch down over his collarbones.
Still, he keeps his gaze fixed on the man's shirt where it teases the delicate hollow of collarbone. Stomach sinking, he forces out the question, knowing he needs to hear it for himself. "D'ye forgive me?"
His exhale leaves through a slit between his lips and teeth. Harsh, reflexive disbelief for the fact that Fin thinks to ask at all. His left hand rises, clapping to the corded length of Fin's neck. "There is nothing to forgive. It concerns me, only, that this place may one day stop being a haven for you, and a prison instead. One that you'd willingly retreat to under the misguided notion that once you leave, you'd need to face the world outside on your own. But if you know that that isn't true-----that is what's important. You do know that, yes?"
Fingers felt loose and noodley after holding on so long. By millimeters, he relaxed them so they could eventually fall away from Crispin's shoulders. "I know ye stand by m'side, all o' ye do. I be grateful for it, more than I could e'er put into words. I do no' doubt ye." One of a handful of people about which Fin could say that. Words wound on a ribbon coiled around him, seeping into his skin as they haunted from the past. "But there will be a time when I have to know tha' I could stand on m'own, if need be."
He nods, tension in two fingers dimpling the flesh at the back of Fin's neck before they fall. "We will, all of us, be within shouting distance. Always, Fin."
"I know it," Features softened, chest rising and falling with a deep breath. "Withou' ye...this world would no' be bearable. I am lucky to have ye willin' to give o' yerselves to me."
He smiles. His other hand slips, outlines the shape of his shoulder on its way down. "Were you undeserving, that would not be the case."
Three beats later, "I will let Lucy know what you've decided, and your condition," regarding his introduction to all candidates. "And I will speak to Shae about the wards on your home."
Nothing he could say to that except refute it, which Cris would not hear. Abashed, at a loss for words, Fin ducks his head and turns away to relieve the quicksand of the moment. "Thank ye, Crispin. As always, ye be so verra though'ful. There are private things in m'home I would rather others no' see." Things he didn't want anyone else to know about.
He nods twice, slowly tucking his hands slowly back into his coat.
Pasting on a small smile, he turns back to his friend. "I would walk ye to the door, if I may. If ye be finished."
"I need not leave just yet. Least 'til they tell me to," indicative cant of his head to the door behind him. "But I wouldn't mind a cup of tea. We've put it off long enough, yes?"
His shoulders dropped lower, mouth easing into a more natural curl. "Aye," he murmured with a nod. "I would like tha'."
