February 14th
It was one of those nights that he, surprisingly, made it down and upstairs in a timely manner. Undisturbed, unmolested, invisible. And with a tray heaped with supplies to cover the night's tea needs. Constance's gift saw plenty of use at these times. Balancing the tray on the inside of his forearm, he unlocked the door and stepped inside, his head inclined, gaze on his feet. His hand on the door eased away the yellow light from the hall until a soft click rendered them alone. "I'm back."
She would have looked surprised at his speedy supply run if her features weren't already too busy being contorted into an expression of slow burning worry. It's the same expression that she's worn majority of the day. Brows pinched together, lips turned down at the edges in a frown, golden eyes holding a lot more thoughts than what she's actually saying. "That was faster than I thought it would be." She gives him that much. It was easy to time him and how long he had been gone, down to the minute since she had his cellphone cupped in her palms in her lap, using it for the clock to count down the minutes. In the time he was gone she hadn't moved at all. She still sat cross legged right in the middle of the bed, wearing one of his shirts. She would say it's because it makes shifting easier, the extra fabric that doesn't cling to her, but it also brought her some additional comfort to have his scent of freshly burnt matches wrapped around her.
"There are times when I don't dawdle." Sometimes he did, caught up in the act of people watching. Though often, he felt like a spectator at a colosseum, looking down into a pit in which savagery and violence and primal tendencies governed all. Tray set to the desk, he'd put the witchlight stone in the window sill. The glass caught and reflected the light, throwing it back at him and he room. Like a miniature full moon, the very one they were waiting for. One teabag for each cup, he filled them both with the kettle of hot water he'd brought. Honey, vanilla, chamomile; all three scents mingle in the tense air. He figured she would need it. Bringing her her own cup, he sat beside her with his own.
"I appreciate it this time." Usually she didn't mind and time spent alone was easily filled with her own amusements or naps. Sometimes both. This time around the air in the room is thick and the silence is unbearable by herself. She tracks his movements through the room, the witchlight managing to make her eyes look like pale pooled honey. The moment the aroma of tea hit the air she inhales deeply and already the familiar scent of calm is relaxing the crease in her brows to some degree. "That's perfect." One hand takes the teacup he offers, the other hand lifts his phone to show off the time disapprovingly. "Ten minutes to." Tilting the phone this way and that like it were an hourglass and she could speed up or slow down the passing of time by such simple means. She can't. The clock says six forty-three and it is unchanging. She takes a sip of tea, glaring over the rim of her cup at the phone like it's a traitor.
Blinking when he's presented with his own phone, with each subsequent flip and turn and shake, there's a tightness in his chest that becomes unbearable to weather. Quickly smiling, chuckling even, he reached for her hand, for his phone, to gently take it from her grasp. "There's a mundane idiom: a watched pot never boils. Yes? Do not focus on it so much. Time will pass whether you're watching it or not."
She wasn't expecting a chuckle from him but more importantly she wasn't expecting the phone to be taken from her. There's a sound of protest, not exactly a growl or yowl but a very feline whine caught in her throat that persists even though she gives up the phone into his possession without much more of a fight than that. "I'm not worried about boiling pots. I'm waiting for the moon and I still can't feel it." Her pout is interrupted by a sip of tea and the cup lowers just enough so she can speak while still inhaling the calming blend of vanilla and honey. "You'll wish I had the time in front of me when the moon is in place. I could very quickly turn into a mess and I can't feel it coming since the moon abandoned me." She looks at him over the rim of her cup. "What if it's worse now? What if it's not even a normal shift into a cat? What if I begin puking blood again?" All of the possibilities seemed so much worse now that she didn't know what time it is.
As forced as his smile was, it became real very soon. He presses a button on the outside of his phone to darken the screen and he slides it protectively into his right boot. Its fit was snug, uncomfortable, but altogether better than the concern that she'd drop it. "The moon did not abandon you. In fact, I think there are actually two in the sky here. If one did, then certainly the other has not." Returning her look, but he had yet to take a sip from his own tea. "All of those things could be true, but they also could not be. Either way, you'll not have to deal with it all alone."
((Thank you to Crispin))
It was one of those nights that he, surprisingly, made it down and upstairs in a timely manner. Undisturbed, unmolested, invisible. And with a tray heaped with supplies to cover the night's tea needs. Constance's gift saw plenty of use at these times. Balancing the tray on the inside of his forearm, he unlocked the door and stepped inside, his head inclined, gaze on his feet. His hand on the door eased away the yellow light from the hall until a soft click rendered them alone. "I'm back."
She would have looked surprised at his speedy supply run if her features weren't already too busy being contorted into an expression of slow burning worry. It's the same expression that she's worn majority of the day. Brows pinched together, lips turned down at the edges in a frown, golden eyes holding a lot more thoughts than what she's actually saying. "That was faster than I thought it would be." She gives him that much. It was easy to time him and how long he had been gone, down to the minute since she had his cellphone cupped in her palms in her lap, using it for the clock to count down the minutes. In the time he was gone she hadn't moved at all. She still sat cross legged right in the middle of the bed, wearing one of his shirts. She would say it's because it makes shifting easier, the extra fabric that doesn't cling to her, but it also brought her some additional comfort to have his scent of freshly burnt matches wrapped around her.
"There are times when I don't dawdle." Sometimes he did, caught up in the act of people watching. Though often, he felt like a spectator at a colosseum, looking down into a pit in which savagery and violence and primal tendencies governed all. Tray set to the desk, he'd put the witchlight stone in the window sill. The glass caught and reflected the light, throwing it back at him and he room. Like a miniature full moon, the very one they were waiting for. One teabag for each cup, he filled them both with the kettle of hot water he'd brought. Honey, vanilla, chamomile; all three scents mingle in the tense air. He figured she would need it. Bringing her her own cup, he sat beside her with his own.
"I appreciate it this time." Usually she didn't mind and time spent alone was easily filled with her own amusements or naps. Sometimes both. This time around the air in the room is thick and the silence is unbearable by herself. She tracks his movements through the room, the witchlight managing to make her eyes look like pale pooled honey. The moment the aroma of tea hit the air she inhales deeply and already the familiar scent of calm is relaxing the crease in her brows to some degree. "That's perfect." One hand takes the teacup he offers, the other hand lifts his phone to show off the time disapprovingly. "Ten minutes to." Tilting the phone this way and that like it were an hourglass and she could speed up or slow down the passing of time by such simple means. She can't. The clock says six forty-three and it is unchanging. She takes a sip of tea, glaring over the rim of her cup at the phone like it's a traitor.
Blinking when he's presented with his own phone, with each subsequent flip and turn and shake, there's a tightness in his chest that becomes unbearable to weather. Quickly smiling, chuckling even, he reached for her hand, for his phone, to gently take it from her grasp. "There's a mundane idiom: a watched pot never boils. Yes? Do not focus on it so much. Time will pass whether you're watching it or not."
She wasn't expecting a chuckle from him but more importantly she wasn't expecting the phone to be taken from her. There's a sound of protest, not exactly a growl or yowl but a very feline whine caught in her throat that persists even though she gives up the phone into his possession without much more of a fight than that. "I'm not worried about boiling pots. I'm waiting for the moon and I still can't feel it." Her pout is interrupted by a sip of tea and the cup lowers just enough so she can speak while still inhaling the calming blend of vanilla and honey. "You'll wish I had the time in front of me when the moon is in place. I could very quickly turn into a mess and I can't feel it coming since the moon abandoned me." She looks at him over the rim of her cup. "What if it's worse now? What if it's not even a normal shift into a cat? What if I begin puking blood again?" All of the possibilities seemed so much worse now that she didn't know what time it is.
As forced as his smile was, it became real very soon. He presses a button on the outside of his phone to darken the screen and he slides it protectively into his right boot. Its fit was snug, uncomfortable, but altogether better than the concern that she'd drop it. "The moon did not abandon you. In fact, I think there are actually two in the sky here. If one did, then certainly the other has not." Returning her look, but he had yet to take a sip from his own tea. "All of those things could be true, but they also could not be. Either way, you'll not have to deal with it all alone."
((Thank you to Crispin))