(Musical accompaniment: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G39OBZhNzFA




April 2nd, 2013


It had been weeks since the last major episode with the ghostly antagonist, as if Fionna's brief-but-sudden loss of patience in the moments after Steve's Madness match with Kheldar had the desired effect and earned her something of a reprieve of sorts. The specter lingered however, often prompting a reminder of her presence with a soft, malicious hum from a corner of the governor's office or the hollow echo of laughter at the end of an empty street.

Nothing so overt as before.

What mitigated effect it was all having on the machinist was hidden well, but not completely, as the man solidered on beneath the worry over Fionna's stress levels and buried as many a troubling sign as he could beneath the heavy veneer of stoicism for her benefit. It was an old habit that he had resumed with ease, pretending he was fine and that his personal world was right as rain. Sometimes he even made the shouldering of burdens seem easy.

But it added up.

His sleeping and eating had become somewhat erratic, and twice texts had been sent to Fionna at work expressiong concerns over his mood swings from one of the boys. The last came a few short hours before she was due home, but upon arrival, his sneakered feet could be seen dangling over the edge of the building.

He'd taken to sitting at it's edge when he thought.

She wasn't convinced that he saw the specter of the woman whose subtle harrassment she'd been hell-bent on ignoring. Spirits like that usually gave up, like naughty children, if their antics weren't given any energy through attention. So far, it hadn't worked, but the incidents had dwindled.

Steve, however. Steve was worrying her. She frowned as she looked up at the building, nearing on her bike and pulling down the alley to circle into the loading dock at the back where she usually parked. She headed straight up to the rooftop garden, bypassing their flat altogether.

These were stolen moments, those times where he'd managed to sequester himself away from the world and forsake all masks beneath the light of an unjudging moon. It was in those times that he shared his weakness with the shadows and no others, his bearded chin propped up in his upturned palms as he stared into the night's sky.

Dimly, Steve was aware of the sound of her bike, it's familiar rumble echoing off of the alley walls and rising to ears only half listening. She'd want to change and unwind, he assumed, and perhaps steal a few moments of her own before coming to him. In that, tonight, he was wrong, but continued his skyward search when she stepped out onto the roof.

She sought him along the west wall, above the painted stare. His blonde head picked up the last glints of wan sunlight from behind the clouds that were gathering tonight, jockeying to hide the stars. The sound of the door opening presaged her arrival. Her heels tapped over the paving stones that led around the little koi pond to the shrubbery pots along the edge of the space.

"Hey."

The soft lilt of the word and it's delivery held far more gravity than the familiar click of her heels, drawing a veiled look over his shoulder and a slow smile. "My thanks to the angels," he quipped in a rumbling croon, hitching up a smile that chased away his previously unmasked concern. "For sendin' me Heaven on Earth for a perfect sunset."

He only half turned, leaning the bulk of his weight away from the edge of the building to fix her with his full attention. Hawkish blue eyes made a study of her in approach, playing at non-chalance.

"You shouldn't sit on the edge like that. It's dangerous." She masked her worry in a lilting tease. "You could land on someone and hurt them."

"I used to do this for hours on the edge of the Freedom building," he countered with a confident smile and a bob of blonde brows, before throwing his legs to the safe side with a spin. "Which was much higher." It made for the short, painful stab of a memory that preceded his rise and was masked with the feathered pass of a kiss across the corner of her mouth.

"How goes savin' the realm?" A diversion. A distraction. Anything to keep the focus of things upon her, where he could play the part of her rock.

"Oh. I'm just going through the motions now... a few more weeks, and it will be someone else's worry." Her fingers fretted in the small of his back.

"What's going on?" Loaded question, undiverted.

"Try not to sound so excited about it, huh?" Both weathered hands fell to the feminine flare of her hips, lingering with the familiar pass of his thumbs' pads over her abdomen. In truth, there had been very little in the way of active discussion about her decision to not run another term, and Steve had been loathe to show anything other than acceptance of the decision. It might have been a topic worth discussion had she not plied the question.

"Just... holdin' down the fort. Just trying to keep it all steady while you do what you need to." Soldier on, Armstrong. Soldier on. He'd seen some of the reports that reached her desk, from other sources and with details just as sordid. "Trying not to give you more to worry about."

"I don't like that. It just makes me worry anyway, you know. The only difference is, I have less information, so I worry more." His hands roamed south; hers went north, grazing against his ribs.

"So tell me what's going on."

"Other than..." he started, broad features screwing up as he considered the weight of his words. "... sometimes I feel like I'm goin' a little nuts. Like the guilt I've had layin' so deep inside me is just pulling me in so many directions and the regret is... getting to me." His gaze sought hers. "Voices inside my head..."

She leaned her head back, the loose ends of her long hair stretching for the paving stone behind her, trying to get a better look at him. A real look. She wasn't laughing. Indeed, she took him quite seriously.

"What voices?"

"People who're supposed to be dead," he said candidly; seriously. Whatever facade of non-chalance that the machinist had previously affected was lost in the seriousness of the admission. "Someone I lost back on Earth. She talks in my head sometimes. Says... things. And... someone else I thought was dead has turned up recently."

Neither sounded like good things. Far from it.

"Come downstairs," suddenly. "I need paper."

"Paper?" It struck him as random, with his thoughts so easily scattered by the discussion and logic momentarily being something hard to grasp. "I... okay."

Uncertainty wasn't an expression that the machinist wore well, unflattered in the increased worry lines that marred somewhat handsome features and stole much of the charm from the smile he so suddenly forced. For once, when he slipped his hand into hers, it was for his own reassurance and not the opposite, with hesitation in his step as they exited inside and made the descent.

She kept a spiral notebook and pencil in the kitchen for messages. It was enough for her intentions tonight, and when they decended, she headed for the kitchen without a break in her stride to think about where to look.

She loosed his hand to collect what she needed and went to drop into one of the dining chairs, one leg tucked under her, shoe dangling from her foot. Fionna flipped the pad open until she found a blank page, and started sketching.

He lingered only a short distance away, muscular arms rising to fold across the broad expanse of his chest as he tucked his bearded chin low to watch her at work. Blonde brows had settled into a furrow when he leand against the counter, patient but pensive.

The woman was beautiful, she supposed, in a dark, exotic, curvaceous way. She had full lips, smoky eyes and and glossy, curling hair. Her smile was mocking, and there was nothing warm in the gleam in those eyes, though. Fionna could sketch her from memory - she was her daily companion of late.

When she finished, she set the notebook down on the table, pushing it toward him, and stood up to go get something to drink from the fridge.

Hawkish blue eyes remained more intent upon the face of the artist than her work throughout most of the time that it took for her to finish the task, making a subtle but thorough study of her face before she was finally finished and pushing the notebook his way. With a small roll of hips, Steve pushed off from the counter and closed the short distance to the table, the heavy weight of his scrutiny shifting from Fionna to the product of the few minutes of her labor. Recognition set in almost immediately, but his gaze lingered on the perfectly rendered picture of a face he thought he only ever saw in his dreams. In his nightmares.

The machinist hadn't even realized that he'd so suddenly sat down hard on the floor, the notebook falling away from him with a clatter.

"No. Nononononono..." The repetition came out in a hushed, breathy mutter, the cracking of something fragile within.

She left off at the fridge, turning to hurry back to him, heels clattering on the aged wood of their floor. She crouched down with her hands on his shoulders to steady him when she got there. She assumed he'd recognize her. The spirit seemed bound to him and she knew he'd been seeing her, too. His reaction was more than she'd expected.

"She was just in my head," he murmured painfully. "Just in my head. My guilt. My fault. Mine. I wasn't good enough... Erica shouldn't be here..."

He was babbling. Steve Armstrong, the man who'd always been so stolid and strong and had provided her a rock-like presence to lean against when things got tough... It was like watching the cracks in that rock widen into fissures.

Who would have imagined that him, of all people, could sit on their floor like that with his arms thrown around his knees and rocking. It was surreal.

"This is how I'm paying... Paying for everything..."

"Listen to me." She was calm where he wasn't. Steady where he was shaking. "Look at me."

"Never was good enough, you know," the tone could have been conversational, in an odd way. "And when they left us behind... always left us behind..."

Her voice, steady where his was breaking, cut through the fresh waves of anguish that had been lurking beneath the surface of his steady calm and the machinist's gaze was glassy with unshed tears when it lifted to hers.

"Listen to me, carefully, Steve." Her eyes met his and they were uncompromising. Pay attention.

His chin tipped forward in the barest of nods, the back and forth rock of his body coming to a stop as she captured his attention.

"The spirit you are hearing, the one who has been following me around... she is not the woman you knew. It isn't your fault that she is here. What happened to her was not your fault. But you can help her now."

Was he paying attention? She spoke slowly, with surety.

"I couldn't get to her in time," he murmured in reply. "There was so much blood..." Three deep breaths were draw in, the admission threatening to derail the handle she'd gotten on him, before the soft lilt of her voice captured him again. His expression was agonized, but she was reaching him through it all.

"I start to find peace. I found you. Now this..."

"You aren't listening. Stop making this about you. It isn't about you. It isn't about me. She's mad... you didn't do that. But she's here now. There are times in this place when the Veil between realities gets thin and breaks. Not often, but it happens. And when it does, the spirits of those who should have gone on and haven't can come through.... like a storm. This is a storm. This is about her, and how you can help her now. You want to do that, don't you? You want to help her move on and find peace?" She was uncompromising. She didn't coddle him. She didn't pity him.

The machinist had studied a lot of things during his time in Rhy'din. A lot of monsters. But his focus had been on the corporeal things that went bump in the night and the means to combat them. Not this. But it was the harder edge of her words that caught his attention and lifted his bearded chin a little higher. The oppressed clouds that had appeared in his eyes started to clear, with only the single rivulet of a tear wetting his cheek as it ran down.

"She deserves peace," he agreed quietly, drawing in another breath. It was a firm response, cutting through the guilt and the pain.

"She does. And so do you. We'll find a way to make it happen." She softened a minute bit, letting her hands slide up and down along his arms, soothing and encouraging.

"I..." he murmured softly, leaning forward until his face found solace within the crook of her neck, warm breath teasing soft flesh through the escaping sigh. "...thought I left all this back on Earth. Christ, I've got enough skeletons in my closet from my timehere, before I met you. First them and now this. I know this shouldn't be about me, Fi, but it's really hard at the moment to not believe that this is me payin' for my sins."

"Well, that's because you're looking at it through guilt you should have given up ages ago. It's become a comfortable thing, and an easy pattern to fall into. So stop it." She didn't mince words. Tough love.

"Probably," Steve conceded with a nod, loosing the curl of arms around his knees with a grunt of personal disgust when he realized the position he'd put himself in. Slowly, tentatively, he pushed up to his feet in an invasion of her space. After all this time, Fionna's read on the machinist was spot-on, earning her the pensive curl of a smile. Tough as the love was, her close proximity still made for quite the balm.

When he rose, she did slowly, a hand following up along the line of him to steady herself. Not that she needed help with her balance, really, but the contact was reassuring for them both.

She didn't relent much, though. "Not probably. Definitely.

"You're lucky I love you," came the quiet, playful barb of a quip in reply. In truth, and given credence by the underlying emotion of his tone, the machinist saw it as the other way around. But the application of a tease, no matter how weakly delivered, was a reassuring sign.

"It'll get sorted," Steve promised her moments later, when weathered fingers sought out the smoothe curve of her delicate jaw for a gentle stroke. The warmth of the familiarity was good for the man's resolve, her presence akin to the very rock he'd worked at being for her in recent months. "I just... It's just a blindsided shot, is all."

"We can't do it alone. We have to talk to someone who knows how to apply a little pressure in the right direction. I can hear her, but I can't make her do a damned thing. You know that, right?" She wanted to make it clear. They needed help.

"I don't know anyone like that. Could ask around, though." They were chest to chest now, one strong arm falling to encircle her waist. It was a suddenly possessive move; territorial but with no one around. He knew the place was warded, but the smallest fraction of insecurity was enough to make him want to vainly protect what was his from the previous taunts he thought were all in his head.

"I know the difference between a medium and necromancy or spirit magic, yeah. It's not your problem to deal with anyway. Has she been talkin' to you?"

She wasn't going to lie to him. She nodded."Yes." She didn't elaborate. "I know a few people who might be able to do something... Ali, maybe," she sounded reluctant there, though. "And there was a man he and Sinjin know... I don't know if he's still around, but I could ask."

"I'm gonna ventured a guess, since you're not giving details," the smile he musted waivered a fraction. "That whatever you two talked about, it wasn't pretty." He didn't, however, press for details. They were hers to give or not. The reluctance of her suggestion wasn't lost on him, so Steve merely nodded along to it all before responding. "If there's someone you feel comfortable with, sure. I can also do some askin' around. There's still a few people in the business who will talk to me and aren't total nutjobs."

The stark reminder of Randolph's return remained. Neither he, nor anyone else from the Society, had resumed the previous contact. There had been no task assigned or reprisal for the machinist's lack of attempt at getting in touch. That in itself helped to frazzle his nerves more than a little, but for the time being he knew better than to go looking for them.

"We just need to... be careful. Keep an eye out for unusual stuff. Not just her."

"She doesn't like me." That was enough, wasn't it? She knew he heard her, too. She'd seen him react.

"Check your sources first. See what you turn up. If we have to ask Ali or this Mesteno I met before, then we will . But check your friends, ones you trust."

"Then she must be crazy," he quipped, trying to turn down the volume on the tension that had been created by the evening's revelations with a gently plied joke. It was accompanied by the unspoken, but expected: Because anyone who doesn't adore you is an idiot. They were silent words that were easily read on the smile he mustered for her.

"I'll talk to some of the magical brains I still know in the occult community. Even the untrustworthy ones will talk with some greased palms, especially if I approach it academically or from the perspective of a hunter. One way or another... closure." Leaning in, his bearded cheek rubbed lightly against her smoothe one. "Maybe... maybe on a better night, when there's less stress...I can just let it all out. I've bottled up so much and spared too many details about... stuff."

* * * * * * * *

"Play for me," he said to her some time later, when the tension and pain of earlier events had ebbed and she had asked him what he wanted to do. "The piece you did on my birthday."

And for a little while, the machinist didn't feel so fragile.


(Adapted from live play with FioHelston!)