Blackshot Ghosts [Closed]

[CastoffCaptain]

Quick.



She had to be quick. Kara didn't know how long Maverick would stay in the shower, and she had too many things to do while he was there. The moment the door clicked shut, she scurried to pick up his clothes. Dropping them in front of the washer, she sat down to tug at her boots, lips pursed in grim determination to hurry, then leapt up after adding her socks to the pile. In the kitchen, she filled a bowl with hot water, snagged a questionably clean hand-towel from the rack opposite the stove, and rushed to the opposite side of the apartment. Behind a folding screen, she peeled out of her pants and underwear, blackening the air with a curse at the amount of mud that had soaked through to her skin. Scrubbing at it as best she could, she wrung out the cloth and caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror beside the bed.


Pale. Freezing. And terribly, terribly dirty. One foot twisted to cover the other, black-painted toenails contrasting with alabaster flesh. Her sweater was probably ruined--a clay-soaked arm print encircled her back. Hauling it over her head, she let it fall to the rug and removed the next layers for good measure, teeth chattering violently. Goosebumps raced up her arms, lifting the thread-thin scars her clothes had masked. Cuts, scratches, tears, and bitemarks scattered over her body chronicled the time before she'd learned avoidance and protection from the supernatural. Before she'd met B. There were only a few newer than the rest, thicker due to their relative age, one of which cut through a corner of the skull-and-wings tattoo between her shoulder blades.


The gun lay in pieces on the carpet where she'd placed it, as naked in front of her as she was to it. Kara shoved the magazine to the back of her underwear drawer. The bullet found a home under a pewter rat skull on her dresser, and the rest of the Sig slid beneath bed, just far enough that her foot couldn't touch it.


Washing off the rest of the muck, she slithered into a black pair of fleece pajama bottoms and a tank top on which was printed a Magic Eight-Ball. Its divination triangle read: All signs point to fuck off. Throwing on the first cardigan in reach, she padded barefoot to the washer, dirty clothes and washcloth in one hand, bowl of water in the other. Into the washer went everything but the bowl and the odds and ends Maverick had forgotten to remove from his pockets. Lifting his keys to eyeball the deranged unicorn light dangling from his keychain, Kara shook her head. The day kept getting stranger.


With the washer humming away, she deposited Maverick's pocket-items next to his boots and halted. Miguel's shoes peeked out from behind the guitar case, resting atop a Spanish novel. She didn't have time to scowl at them. Instead, she beelined for the kitchen, where Bernard was already waiting for her.


"Ledaig," she said, one ear listening for the shower, and stood on tip-toes to bring the bottle down from the top of the fridge. "Might as well."

Softly, Bernard began to speak. His blue eyes tracked her while she plucked each ingredient he suggested from the cupboards. Never once did he blink. Never once did the devotion behind his gaze falter. Whisky, honey, and a few herbs later, and the monk's modified hot toddy bubbled away on the stove, the tea-ball jittering excitedly against the side of the pan. She stirred it with a spoon and tasted the concotion. It was... interesting... but at least it was strong. Holding the spoon between her teeth, she mumbled a thanks to him.


Bernard's head lifted. Taking a step back from Kara, he tilted her a smile stained by melancholy and quietly faded through the wall. She watched him breeze across the apartment and out through the front door, puzzled by his sudden departure.


Three paces into following him, she realized the shower had stopped. The door opened. Maverick stepped out.


Thoughts scattered, abandoning her to instinct.


skin. heartbeat. muscle and heat. he was. jaxon was.


Five seconds after it'd happened, Kara realized he'd asked her a question.


"Wut?" Fuck! She removed the spoon dangling from her mouth and her mind came galloping up to greet her like a labrador with a stick. "Right. Drink. And blankets. I forgot the blankets." Kara retreated hastily, blistered by the sight of him. Even here, no longer staring blatantly, she could trace out the curve of his chest, his arms, his jawline. The kitchen gave her shelter from all but her shame. She squeezed her eyes shut until fireworks exploded behind her lids and she huffed a breath.


She had no right to look at him like that. Not now, not like this. What the fuck was wrong with her?


But.


he was. jaxon was...


"Grab the quilt off the bed," she called, cheeks aflame with fury. Pouring the warmed liquor into a mug, Kara set to reconstructing her walls inch by inch, piece by piece, so that when she finally emerged from the kitchen, no sign of disruption showed. No sign of emotion at all.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

An awkward stretch of silence filled the gap between Maverick’s question and Kara’s reply, during which the ex-soldier met her unsubtle gaze with a slightly quirked brow, and slowly raised his serpent-wrapped arm to scratch at his scalp. He almost repeated himself, but by then, she had snapped into action, scurrying off into the kitchen with fire at her heels.

Another second passed before he kicked into gear.

“Right.” As he stood from the couch, an exhalation of air from his lips concealed a light chuckle that was neither smug nor strained. His bare, calloused feet padded against the floor as he made his way behind the shades that hid her bed, as instructed, and pulled the quilt free from the mattress. After draping the blanket over his shoulders like a cloak, he walked out to meet her.

It was a dismaying change, seeing how quickly Kara turned to cold stone. Something rooted deep inside his core was telling him to mimic the motion. Something else, some smaller, unseen force, was setting the needle on Pink Floyd’s The Wall album. It was hard to describe, even to understand, the threads of trust being woven from him to her.

She had seen him break.

It was his turn to be shamed, though for a much different reason. The guilt flooded into the crevices of his face, and as his shoulders slumped, he appeared much older, wearier.

She shouldn’t have seen that. He shouldn’t have done that.

One hand reached out to take the mug with a muttered thanks. The other arm was absent-mindedly tilted so he could stare blankly at the Norse rune inked into his skin. Closing his eyes for a few moments, he lifted the warm cup of alcohol to his lips. It burned as it went down his throat, due to both to its contents and the fact he hadn’t waited for it to cool. Lowering his hand, he kept his eyes on the mug, because he was unable to move them anywhere else, even though he felt as if he should look her in the eyes with what he was about to say.

“Listen…I, uh, I need to get this off my chest, yeah?” His voice was soft and quiet, unusually vulnerable, considering its owner. “What happened today-I’m…Shit, it seems so fucking pointless to-“ He sighed in frustration. “-Yeah, it is pointless, but I am sorry. The thought that I could’ve-“ Shot. Killed. He couldn’t say the fucking words. “-done something...” He let the sentence trail off, because the thought he described tore a hole within his gut, and wormed its toxic condemnation inside his conscience.

With a hard swallow and effort, he forced his gaze upward, and continued, “I would never hurt you. Not intentionally. It’s important to me that you know that.”

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Maverick's struggle with an apology twisted her guilt just a little tighter. She tamped it down, forcing herself not to follow his gaze to the tattoos he continued to glance at, to the broad column of his neck where his pulse thudded, to anywhere else but his eyes.

So he knew. He hadn't been so far gone out there that he couldn't look back now on his actions and pin blame to them. Kara stayed quiet after he'd finished, and it was clear that she'd gathered up each fractured sentence he'd spoken and was turning them over, examining them before she answered.

Sleet gave way to snow outside. Kara brushed past Maverick and stood in front of the shelves beside the futon, putting a finger on a lead soldier only a few inches high. All around the toy were the odds and ends of other people's lives: an egg cup. An abalone shell. A stack of photos and a child's hair bow. A set of dog tags, a pair of glasses, and an old clay pipe. Two bowls sat on the shelf below these, their misshapen, uneven forms no accident. Kara's hand hovered over the smaller of the two, its circumference less than the surface of her palm, then picked up its larger companion. Both had been cast with a red glaze that faded upwards into black. Both had been shattered and pieced back together.

"Sorries aren't pointless if they're genuine," she said a tad sharply. "Don't devalue yours."

Returning to Maverick's side, Kara held the bowl out for him to see, angling it so that the light caught the glue which held it together: gold. Worth far more than the ceramic itself, it gleamed between the cracks as if it were still molten.

"Kintsugi. It's part of a Japanese philosophy. Our imperfections, our breaks? They're what make us who we are. It's what we do with the pieces that defines us." She shrugged a shoulder. "Some people shatter and they just leave themselves as shards, hurting other people, cutting whoever touches them whether on purpose or not. Others, like you, B, and me? We put ourselves back together the best we can." She traced a line that ran like lightning across the side of the bowl. "There are very few of us who aren't broken, Jaxon. It's not a sin. It's not a weakness. It's a chance to learn from where you've been and turn it into something better." One eye narrowed, and she managed a self-conscious smile at her own words, as if half-expecting him to tell her she was full of shit.

The smile disappeared. "Besides, I don't blame you for what could've happened out there. Here." She held the bowl out to him, her brows knitted, watching him for signs of refusal. "Someone gave it to me because she needed to. Now it's yours."

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Maverick turned to watch as Kara retrieved the bowl, a feeling of unfamiliar unease and uncertainty seeping into his gut. He took another sip from the mug, and set his jaw as she told him not to degrade his apology. Though he didn’t offer a rebuke, he disagreed with every fiber of his being. Because words were useless in the grand scheme of things. Actions mattered, were all that mattered, and his had been found wanting.

His eyes traveled down to examine the offered pieces of ceramic, following the varying fractures across the curves of the bowl. His gaze turned toward hers as she began her explanation, and he curiously tilted his head to the side. It was an interesting practice, Kintsugi, and a moving thought. He wished he could wrap himself with its serenity, like the way he currently cloaked himself with the blanket around his shoulders.

But people had died. And someone should feel shitty about that. As the last left standing, that was his burden, his fate; it was hard to forget or forgive with the terror that plagued his dreams, reminding him of his greatest failure.

But with that smile on her lips, he could only meet it with one of his own, even if it was debased with the kind of tiredness that tugged at one’s soul. Or perhaps it was due to the drowsiness that was starting to cloud his head; he assumed that was from the concoction in his hand.

He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief moment as he muttered, “Were it so easy.”

His head then turned as he searched for an appropriate place to put down his mug, and after setting it on the corner of a table, he reached out his hands to take the gift. He hesitated at first, afraid that he might drop it, before taking the piece of art carefully within his hands. As she had done, he turned the bowl over a few times steadily, tracing his fingers over the bright, golden linings.

“I appreciate the thought, Kara,” He said softly. “But…it seems valuable to you. I’m not sure I can accept it.”

He considered that for a moment, and his eyes moved to examine the other trinkets that shared the bookshelf she had gathered the one he was currently holding from. “The rest of those things, did people give them to you too?...People you’ve helped?”

 

[CastoffCaptain]

The weather mirrored Maverick's weariness. Grey skies wept a mixture of sleet and snow now, caught in a middle territory of uncertainty. This time, when Kara stared at him, it was without the former smoldering need that had accosted her. Fingers needed to smooth the lines in his brow. Hands needed to brush his burdens to the floor. She was painfully aware of the possibility that the only person who could have done that very thing was mouldering in the mud near the harbor.


Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, a corner of her mouth curled upward. She'd expected his refusal, but not his observation. An amused grunt punctuated his questions.


"I don't like taking money from people I help," she answered, and started toward the kitchen. "Most feel like they have to give me something worth something, so... nine times out of ten it's an object that was special to them. Or to the person who died." Once again she shrugged, then disappeared around the partial wall separating the rooms. A cabinet door whined, a shelf creaked in protest, and seconds later a voluble thump announced that Kara had climbed onto a counter and hopped down again in a mission of retrieval. Glasses clinked, the fridge door sucked open and closed, and she appeared once more. "Letting go of the thing's a way of letting the person go, I guess. Well. Letting them move on, anyway."


She held two tumblers and a fifth of Mystic bourbon. Tucked under her arm was a bottle of water. Propping the liquor and the water on the futon cushion, she placed the glasses down by Maverick's mug and pulled a chair over from the dining room table. Halfway back, she paused. The room was too silent, and B's pull was weak. Pressing an ear to the door, she closed her eyes and listened; he was just past the threshold, faint and still but there, most likely playing Cerebus in the hall to Maverick's brother.


"Sneaky," she whispered, and sat down in front of her weary guest.


"We'll have one drink. You tell me about one tattoo, then you can sleep if you want. And you're keeping that," she jerked her chin at the bowl, staring grimly at him.


But the graveyard glare she gave him was no threat. It was a bastion against any rebuttal he could give, opening up a back-road for him to accept what little she could offer without the price tag of obligation.


Sitting back, she propped her feet on the futon, crossed her arms beneath her breasts, and wove her chilly toes together. "You pour."

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Listening to Kara explain how she acquired her unique, mortal collection as she slipped out of his sight, Maverick took a seat on the futon, and as he waited for her return, curiously kept turning the decorative bowl around in his hands, enthralled by its significance and broken beauty. He stole a drawn-out glance at the bookshelf, wondering about the stories contained within its inhabitants, and that caused a thought to breeze through his mind. It was quickly pocketed for later, however, as his attention switched to Kara, and he watched as she made her way across the room.

His eyes lingered on her form with her movements, possessing as much subtlety as hers had, and as she took a seat, crossing her arms, he had to jerk them upwards.

She spoke with certainty in such a way that brokered no argument, just shy of ordering him around. A smirk tugged at the edge of his lips, and he titled his head curiously, taking a quick glance down at the Japanese artifact, before his eyes lifted back to hers. “Yes, ma’am.”

Carefully, he set the bowl down on the table, as far away from everything else upon the top without risking it taking a tumble. Next, he shrugged the blanket from his shoulders to free his arms, and tugged the quilt down to cover her bare feet. Then he reached for the bottle of liquor, popping off the top, and with his left hand, filled up the glasses, leaving only just enough of the cups empty to prevent easy spilling.

Setting down the bottle to trade it for one of the tumblers, he leaned forward to offer her the drink. “All right. Seems fair enough with all you’ve done for me today.”

He held out his arm, examining the serpent and rune that covered it, before looking at the hammer on his chest in consideration. He scratched at his scalp as he tried to decide which story to tell. The ones on his knuckles were too simple, the tree on his back too painful, and the wolf burned into his ribs too damning.

He had been asked before about the markings that covered his skin, but he always answered with a tongue-in-cheek explanation, unwilling to go too deep. Finding the words to explain what was in his heart, expressed in silence and only through action, was more difficult than he’d imagined.

Finally, he nodded toward the arrow-shaped marking on his forearm, extending his limb so she’d have a better look. “This was one of the first ones I got. It’s the Norse rune for the god of war and justice, Tyr. He’s a guy I guess you can say I relate to. We’re both warriors.” He smiled sheepishly as he realized that she might not know what he meant by that. “You know, born to fight, and unafraid to do so, but also knowing what’s worth fighting for…And, if needed, willing to sacrifice anything to protect what’s close to you.”

With a shrug of his shoulders, he reached over to retrieve the second glass, raising it to his lips to take a healthy swig.

“Do you have any?”

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Odd, how a stranger could fill a room and shrink its walls when they weren't a fixture of the place. Even before Maverick removed the quilt, his newness had made Kara's home seem smaller and less familiar than it had been previously-- as if they had both stepped onto a miniature stage-replica of the apartment downsized by a third. When he bared his upper body, however, claustrophobia lumbered in.

Kara sat immobile, chin tucked a millimeter toward her chest, her breaths shallow and almost non-existant. To stare at him, his arms, his triceps, the dip between his collarbones would throw open the confessional door and leave her sins exposed. To meet his gaze could prove just as dangerous, and to avoid looking at him altogether would point to her shame, or even worse, prudery. And so Kara watched his hands. The logical portion of her side-brain not yet smashed by the primitive noted his confidence with the bottle. It also looked on in alarm at the amount of liquor Maverick doled out, wondering if he'd intended to pour her enough to knock her on her ass three times over.

After a moment's hesitation, she took it from him.

The tattoo he chose pointed directly to the ones which held more meaning for him. Kara didn't blame him for opting for easy. She didn't return his smile when he gave it to her, but allowed herself to lean in a little to view the arrow, lips parted, absorbing the philosophy that shaped his world.

Tyr. Norse. How on-point B had been.

And how similar their outlooks.

Kara couldn't help it; her dark eyes locked on the scar on his chest, branding the shape of it into her memory, then--

"Yes."

It was unfair. Maverick's walls had been blasted down by shock and grief and she'd witnessed every heartbeat of it. He'd placed himself wholly in her trust, emotionally bloodied and raw, and now she hesitated on the brink of closing off her own doors to keep him from glimpsing her own badly-healed wounds.

Fuck fairness. She didn't have to show him a thing.

Kara bit the inside of her cheek, hard.

No.

Her free fingers squeezed the reliquary around her neck. Placing the drink on the floor, she withdrew her legs from the warmth of the quilt and stood, swiveling the chair so that she could sit down again without its back blocking his view. The silence of the apartment was broken only by the heartbeat tick of a clock on her work table, suddenly loud and intrusive.

Sliding the cardigan down as far as her elbows, Kara turned her head so that she could catch Maverick's reaction in her periphery. The original design had been done on her nineteenth birthday, then redone only a handful of years ago with the addition of skillful shading. The scar running through it had come after that, marring the wingtip of the cemetery symbol. She hadn't bothered to change it since.

Two words wisped beneath the skull, barely missing a pale and ragged semi-circle of old toothmarks: Memento mori. On the best of days, her ink was enough to make most people stare in curiosity. On the worst, the marks around it were what garnered the ugliest attention, and it was these which made Kara doubt it was the tattoo Jaxon would be busy trying to interpret.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

During Kara's reluctance, in the gap that followed his question, Maverick wondered with a carefully guarded expression if he'd crossed some unspoken boundary. He didn't blame her for it, but nevertheless, it made the empty space where his own wall once stood blatantly clear and hollow. He felt an automatic need to hide his vulnerability, drown himself in the whiskey, and try his best to forget the day.

Yet she bared her skin for him, exposing herself in ways he was sure made her uncomfortable. People like them didn't get tattoos because they were cool, or out of some knee-jerk reaction to rebel against authority, but rather to remember. A story was drawn across her shoulders, like the one across his torso, unique and beautiful in the most tragic of ways. If only she would give him the cipher to decode its meaning, but that would require an intimate glimpse into her being; he should know, that wasn't given out so easily. And while he longed to know-in such a way that wasn't familiar to him-he was afraid she'd completely shut him out if he nudged her too far.

Perhaps it was selfish, but he didn't want to be alone. Was terrified of being alone.

So he tried his best to gather up hints on his own. His eyes darted over the symbol, examining each intricate line that led into another. Though he did his best not to linger too long on the scars that were permanently slashed into her pale flesh, like the nasty hole in his, he couldn't stop himself from looking. He wouldn't dare ask about those; if she felt safe enough around him, she'd tell him. He did, however, feel for her what he felt for his fellow brothers-in-arms that had also earned a Purple Heart. It wasn't pity-pity was an insult-but understanding. Unexpectedly, the warrior within him also created a need to protect.

But with his guess from what those markings where from, gathered from bits of their earlier conversations, he doubted he'd be much use on that front.

Lastly, he tried to put together a rough translation of the Latin phrase. Memento could be linked to a souvenir with significance, often to remember something: memory. Mori, he could only think that it reminded him of mortal, which tied to death: a thought only strengthen by the canvas the dead word was inscribed upon. Without a Latin dictionary or translator, the best he could do was piece together remember death. He was reminded of the World Tree inked painfully into his back, and how it needed a new name added to its branches. It didn't seem right that she was showing so much of herself to him, and he had opted for the simple.

During his internal process, his brows were kept furrowed in thought, and his lips carefully drawn into a straight line, as he did his best to hide whatever emotion was present within him. And he kept silent, because he didn't know what to say without sounding meaningless, trite, or insincere. Words were never his strong suit.

For a moment, his gaze dropped to the glass containing liquid numbness within his hands, and he frowned briefly. His intent had been to drain the whole thing, bidding sorrily for a dark, empty, improbable sleep. It always worked as well as one could expect, but could he be blamed for trying? He thought he had reached the paradoxical, freeing serenity of rock bottom a year ago, only to discover today that things could get fucked even more. Much more.

Closing his eyes for a brief second, he shook his head, and set the tumbler on the far side of the table, before turning his eyes back to Kara. This time he didn't focus on her tattoo or scars, but her face.

With slow, deliberate movement, so she could gauge his intent, he stood from his seat, giving him reach to gently place his palm against the naked skin on her shoulders.

Since his words escaped him, he softly spoke hers instead, "I see you. I hear you. You're not lost."

 

[CastoffCaptain]

She'd expected him to ask-- ask about the tattoo, ask about the scars, ask about the backstory behind all her hurts. Those questions would have been easier. So would've the answers. The dead hadn't caused all her scars. This was the one that marked the end of most of them. The Latin--remember you must die-- a reminder. Her reminder.

Even for all of his conscientiousness, Maverick took Kara by surprise. Watching him rise above her like a god out of the ocean, she locked her bones and fixed her expression. His touch didn't startle her. His statement did. Anger flared instantly at the gall he had to use her words against her. Shock shoved anger out of the way and replaced it with fear too quickly to process. Kara ran from it, snatching the glass of bourbon from the floor so fast it sloshed it over her hand and the hardwoods, and she took three hard strides away before she halted.

"Of course I'm not lost!" she snapped at him, clumsily working her cardigan back up her shoulders while trying to keep more booze from spilling. To combat that happening, she tossed back a swallow so large her body rebelled against it. She held it in her mouth without breathing to keep from gagging on its fumes, then forced it down. With her back to him, she rasped, "And maybe I don't want to be seen."

Skirting the dining room table, Kara hurried for the washing machine where Maverick's clothes spun toward the end of their cycle. Always a lightweight, she instantly regretted bolting the bourbon and placed the glass on the dryer, then picked it up again as if it were a life-preserver.

Stupid.

Breakfast had been ages ago. On an empty stomach, even one sip meant a loss of control.

Stupid.

She should have let Marnie take him home.

Stupid!

...He was only trying to connect.

"Sorry," she tried, but couldn't get it above a whisper. Flicking an accusatory glare back at Maverick, she ground her teeth together, then stared into her glass. One more swig and a hollow half-laugh followed. "You don't know... you couldn't-- Fuck it." A shake of her head, and she crossed one arm over the other, turning away from him once more. Watching the snow swirl on a headwind outside, she cleared her throat and said, "I'm sorry today happened to you, Jaxon. Really."

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Kara's volatile reaction struck Maverick out of left-field, and he was left standing motionless and dumbfounded in his spot, as she rushed away from him in a fury of emotions. He should've seen it coming, but perhaps that was the perfect vision of hindsight talking.

This was a bad idea.

His posture stiffened defensively, and his face hardened into its usual layer of unbreakable stone. Because he wasn't sure what else to do, he squatted down to push the rug away from the encroaching pool of spilt alcohol. Next he pulled the quilt up, tossing it onto the futon so it'd be safe, and pulled the chair out of the way.

He didn't answer her at first. For a few moments, he merely sawed his jaw back and forth, before muttering, "Don't." He didn't want to think about today. Think about Ayden. Or Maxson. Or Keyes. Or Anderson. Or any of the rest.

If it wasn't winter and currently raging outside like a blizzard, he'd have grabbed his clothes, wet and still soapy or not, and just went...somewhere. Anywhere.

Run from her like she ran from him.

The realization was...If there was a word for it, it wasn't in his vocabulary. Shocking and humanizing, humbling, even.

Narrowing his eyes, he tossed a look over his shoulder in the general direction of the door, which, though he didn't know the exact circumstances behind why, was where he assumed his brother had been exiled.

He shook his head, took a moment to let his gaze naturally soften, before glancing up at Kara. She was hiding pain, like he hid pain, because they had learned the harsh lessons of the world that parents, at least loving parents, wanted to shield their kids from. The scars that they bore-the mental ones that went so much deeper than the physical-taught them being alone was better than being vulnerable, because that path always went wrong.

He raked his knuckles against the wooden floor, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Look, I-You're right, Kara. I don't know."

That much was obvious.

With a slight hesitation, he continued, "But I would like to."

Slowly, this time because he was scared to do so, he stood, stepping clear of the bourbon's crawling path, and onto the soft fabric of the rug. Lowering his head, he turned to expose his naked back to her; Yggdrasil sprawled across his skin, the branches reaching toward his shoulders, each one carved with a name, and the roots dug into the small of his back, covered partially by the towel around his waist.

His hands jerked down to shove into pockets, only he wasn't wearing any jeans, so he gripped the edge of the towel instead.

"And I might understand more than you think."

 

[CastoffCaptain]

"Don't."


Kara closed her eyes. With one syllable, Maverick swept away her defiance and anger she felt toward his intrusiveness. He was right. Most likely without being able to put it in words, he was right--this had been his sanctuary. These four walls, closed off to the outside, to his brother, to life and death and all the violent, hideous things that had happened in between, had been a safe place, and with one apology, she'd almost thrust him out into the cold again.


She let go a sigh and put the glass down, the effects of the bourbon spreading out from her core with a blunt warmth. One by one, while Maverick crouched on the floor, attempting to find his place and his feet once again, Kara removed her rings. Five in all, they clattered mutely against the top of the washer, the last of her removable armor.


Hypocrite, her conscience hissed at her.


Ten years ago, the teenager who still lived in her scarred skin would have demanded know why he wanted to know her. Even now, watching his reflection in the tin mirror Miguel had hung over the washer, the urge to ask why? taunted her. But that question teetered dangerously close to why me? and she'd be damned if she slipped down that slope ever again.


Different pieces, she started to tell him. Different stories. You and I are different, but maybe...



Kara swiveled to face him and froze.


skin.



heartbeat.



No. He wasn't a stray puppy.


muscle and heat.



Her feet made no sound on the rug, drawing her of their own accord toward him. Each footstep soft like snowfall, the tree at her eyeline. So much of him, here, exposed.



he was.



He was vulnerable. She shouldn't. Her mouth opened to tell him so, to murmur a warning against her fingers that traced out the first name high in his branches and then moved on to find his spine-- but all that escaped was a shuddering breath.



jaxon was.


Down the trunk, skin brushing skin, mothlike, traveling toward the towel but stopping just before that boundary.


jaxon is.


Kara turned her hand over to stare at her fingertips, then closed them--not into a fist but a cage to capture the life that she'd touched. Coming around to stand before him, a mix of guilt and need and outright fear in her eyes, she placed that hand over the puckered reminder that he was more than the sum of his wounds.


She shook her head.


"J," Kara whispered, and the world narrowed.


jaxon. Is. alive.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Maverick didn't hear Kara approach. He hadn't expected her too. At first, he flinched away from her touch, sudden and intimately invading, even though her fingers just lightly trailed down his spine, running over the names of the dead he carried with him, the ones that didn't speak. He felt helplessly exposed, like he was baring his throat to her teeth. The back of his mind was waiting for the bite and blood that would follow.

His head turned so he could gaze over his shoulder, but he could barely catch sight of her in his peripheral vision. In the silence, he became deeply aware of his own thunderous heartbeat, pounding as if it were being struck by the god's hammer on his chest.

He watched as she circled to his front, eyes following her movements, studying her features.

She was afraid.

Her palm rested against the wing of the raven Munnin, perched upon the head of Mjolnir. Prying his fingers from the towel wrapped around his waist, he lifted his hand to grasp hers, sliding her palm over to cover his heart.

He didn't want her to be afraid.

He was never good with words, so he didn't speak. He didn't really think, either. Just felt and acted.

Closing the little gap left between them, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. For a short-lived moment, he hesitated, giving her time to back away, if this wasn't what she wanted. Or perhaps it was because he still felt that fear too, and it cut more fiercely than a sharpened blade.

Fuck fear.

His lips pressed against hers, jaw opening to swallow her own pain and fear in an unspoken promise, an oath, to protect. At first, the kiss was slow, but his own burning need born of his chest consumed him, setting his mouth ablaze in quick motion with passion, and his hands moved; one lifted to cup her face, the other to press her body closer against his.

 

[CastoffCaptain]

don't you say it
don't say
don't you say it--
one breath,
it'll just break it
so shut your mouth
and run me like a river
*
​

Sleep unraveled softly. Kara climbed up toward wakefulness through its clinging threads, pausing here and there to sift through a dream or to shift more comfortably where she lay. Music beckoned her. Aware of it only as a tertiary layer of her consciousness, she noted more quickly the wrinkled and matted sheets that twined around her legs. Then, swallowing revealed another puzzle. Her throat was raw. The air, pleasantly cool across her back, smelled of snow and laundry, of sweat and--

One eye cracked open. Panic swept in.

The guitar.

Her head snapped up at its sound. Momentarily disoriented by the fact that she was facing the foot board, Kara grunted, then peered at the sofa. A Vietnamese folding screen partially blocked her view, but the muscular curve of the arm wrapped around Miguel's guitar dispelled her worry. The events of the last few hours tumbled in upon one another, a jumble of frenzied desire and laughter and lovemaking and one short pause for ice cream before finally, sleep. Kara grinned into her cardigan which, she noted, was going to have to be washed. A sigh saw her sitting up, legs tucked at her side, her hair a frazzled cloud around her face.

She was going to be-- no, correction--she was already sore.

Her muscles complained when she slipped to the edge of the bed, a joyful ache which she welcomed. Funerals foster fucking, or so went a little gem she'd refrained from telling Jaxon. Death, even the slightest hint of it, could spawn the need to prove life, and the foremost manner of doing that was what she and the man who was busy fingering another man's instrument had done for most of the afternoon. And they'd proven life to one another in a strange and powerful way, unexpected and, once it had begun, free of the guilt she'd tried so hard to cling to.

Now, making her creaky way toward her chest of drawers to pull out a clean pair of pajama bottoms and underthings, Kara let herself smile. Draping the clothing and a Crunchy Boy Donuts tee over her arm, she came around the corner of a folding screen and just stared.

They'd all been attractive in their own way, the ones who'd come before. Most were the lean and gothy type, drawn to her darkness and unable to handle their own. Others had been too ordinary for their own good and had seen her as an escape from their dull, washed-out existence, but they'd been fun only for a fling or two. The last had been Miguel: small and slender, an artist with the expected baggage of sensitivity and complications, and pretty, very pretty.

But none had understood, and none had been quite so mind-shatteringly, heart-stoppingly beautiful as Jaxon. It seemed neither fair nor properly earned, and Kara was acutely aware of the fragility of it all. She didn't dare speak. She didn't want to break the moment. Soon, once the roads were clear, this little paradise would have to be abandoned and the ugly work would have to begin. Cops. Relatives. The morgue. Reality would come crashing in on them and it would call no quarter.

But she couldn't stay speechless forever. Crossing toward the bathroom, desperate for a pee and a shower, she said with a brow-cocked smirk, "You go through my underwear drawer, too, or did you stop at the first thing that wasn't yours?"

*
shut your mouth, baby--
stand and deliver​

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Jaxon's fingers danced across the dulled strings of the guitar with gracefulness and dexterity; his hardened hands, though they were more accustomed to his own twenty-year-old Fender acoustic, had no trouble navigating the neck, or plucking the strings with his thumb and fingers, since he wanted to keep quiet, so he wouldn't accidentally stir Kara from her slumber. He wasn't playing anything in particular, but piecing together bits and notes, occasionally hitting one that halted the melody, causing him to start once more. Every now again, his left hand lifted to tweak the tuning, adjusting the instrument to find the serene sound forming in his head, and threading together in his palms.

The squeaking of floorboards caused his head to tilt. His fingers refrained from pausing in their rhythm, but his eyes lifted from the six-string as his ears tracked the movement. Watching Kara emerge from behind the folding screen caused a smile to tug at the edge of his lips. Behind her, white snow matching the color of her skin coated the cityscape shown through the windows, but it paled in comparison to the allure of the marble-cut goddess in front of him.

During this precious moment, he wished his artistic talents stretched further than what he currently held in is hands-though he also played piano some forgotten years ago-so he could capture these few, fleeting seconds forever on paper through drawing or painting. He settled for soaking it in, eyes traversing her body from toe to head, watching her as she watched him.

It didn't seem quite real, like the last few hours were some rare-extinct, really-peaceful dream within his mind. As if he could wake up at any moment, and be shattered by the harsh world outside. With how his luck ran like cold blood, he couldn't believe how it had struck while the iron was burning hot.

Once again his head tilted, turning so his gaze could follow her as she crossed the room. With a short, airless laugh and smirk, he replied, "Don't tempt me."

Stretching out the fingers on his right hand, he gently placed them against the vibrating strings, bringing a sudden stop to the sounds they had created. Idly, he tapped at the mustache formed with angered words sharpied into the solid, wooden body of the guitar. He didn't need to guess who owned this instrument, and perhaps its history would bother another man. He didn't judge a person by who brought them into this world, a dog by who held its leash, or a guitar by the hands that previously played it. These things were beyond control, and to do so, considering the damning things he had hidden in his closet, would be beyond hypocritical.

Leaning the instrument against the sofa, he stood slowly, stretching out his arms, before running his hands through his hair, which had reached a surprising new level of dishevelment. His jaw unhinged in a yawn as his bare feet padded over the recently cleaned spot on the floor, where bourbon had seeped into the boards hours before. After making his way to the dryer, he dug through the laundry to pull forth his warm clothes, dressing in everything except for his woolen shirt, which had been placed on the radiator to dry.

"Don't forget to wash behind the ears," he called out with a grin, meandering back to his seat. He made a short stop by his belongings near his muddied boots, plucking a checkered pick from a small leather pouch that accompanied the unicorn on his keychain, and retrieving his bullet chain, which he hung around his neck.

This time when he picked up the guitar and placed it within his lap, he strummed with abandon, falling into the melody of the first song that came to mind, and singing the lyrics in his low voice.

Spoiler: Bread and Butter (Acoustic)

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Kara's experience chided her, seeping up through the warm glow of bliss. Stupid. This was a stupid mine field to sprint through. It could all blow up in her face in an instant. But another dead voice whispered to her up through the layers of history: If all time is eternally present, all time is unredeemable. No past. No future. There was only one life to live, wasn't there? Huffing a laugh, she smiled a small and secret smile at the sight of Jaxon and the guitar just before she closed the door.

_______
Well I heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah
_______​

The second it shut, Bernard resurfaced. He slipped through the hallway and headed toward the apartment, invisible but for a cobweb's disturbance on the landing. The monk made sure to flare into view when he slowed a sleeve's touch close to Ayden, giving the other specter a stare that said in full: I have been, I am, watching you before he melted through the door.


Music flowed over and around him, filling the apartment like sunlight. Sitting at his usual spot by his table, he watched the newcomer's fingers dance along the guitar strings, noting with expertise each hesitation and confidence, the timbre of Maverick's voice, the more finely-tuned tone the instrument gave up now. He didn't bother to show himself, not immediately. At the song's refrain, the fingers spread across the top of his jeweled box curled in on one another, tightened to the edge of breakage, then relaxed. Little by little, Bernard outweighed the shadows and let himself appear.


He didn't speak. Dark brows pinched over a gaze which scrutinized more than just Maverick's untidy hair and musical reach. The ever-present melancholy behind his eyes was tempered by resignation and not a little judgement. Sweet, gentle lips parted as if for breath, then closed, twisting at one edge, and for a moment, Bernard glanced down at the rosary hanging from the rope around his waist. Beads carved from peat bog wood led in a blackened line down to a crucifix. Once beautiful in its simplicity, it had been reduced to nothing but its tip by a blade long lost to the ages.


Not everything could be mended.


His eyes snapped up to Maverick, locking on him through thick lashes. They slipped to the Japanese bowl now separated from its mate on the shelves and narrowed. Arching a brow at the man who sat across the room from him, he let concentration and willpower serve him and rapped his fingers in loud succession atop his box.


Not everything stayed shattered.

_______
Maybe there's a God above
All I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah
_______

​

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Ayden had banished himself to the furthest corner of the hallway, arms crossed, foot propped against the wall. There was irritation in his narrowed gaze, sizzled down from the blatant anger that had consumed him before. It was mixed with bafflement, and with the way he twitched about, feet shuffling to change positions, fingers tapping against his arm, he was reluctant to be in his position. As Bernard passed, his eyes darted to unwaveringly meet the other's, lips tilting downward in frustration at his inability to do anything in his current situation.

Past the barrier, Maverick let the last strung chord of the song dim out on its own, and slouched down lazily into the cushion of the futon that he was unconsciously claiming as his spot. One of his legs stretched out, while the other swung back and forth idly, and his lips formed a fool's happy grin.

It was a strange, surreal feeling that washed over him like a calm ocean, leaving him in something akin to a drunken state. He never wanted to wake up, but reality waited on the other side of the apartment door: a thought that was quickly pushed to the side.

It took him an unusual amount of time to register the tapping of fingertips against wood.

Snapping out of his almost giddy haze, his bright eyes shifted leisurely toward the source of the racket. The robe garbed phantom didn't speak, just stared, leaving Maverick at a loss. It felt like something was expected from him, wanted from him, and he had not the faintest idea what that something could even begin to be.

He blinked slowly. His hand lifted to scratch his scalp. His head tilted, and he raised an eyebrow of his own, returning the dead man's expression, though his was colored by cluelessness. After a period of silence, he cleared his throat, dropped his palm back to the neck of the guitar, and to give his hands something to do, began quietly picking the rough melody he had been composing before.

Carefully, he examined Bernard's expression, brows pulling together in thought.

Curious.

The heel of his right foot began tapping, keeping a steady beat that thrummed with the music coming from his fingertips.

With a shake of his head, his mind scrambled for anything he could say to break the silence. Dropping his gaze to the decorative box that the ghost guarded, he grunted.

"So, uh...what's in the box?"

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Eyelids that had no need to blink now fluttered at the question. Kara's guest had flung it unexpectedly like a spear through a shield wall, and Bernard took a mental step back in order to recover his defenses. Water hissed from the showerhead in the bathroom; there'd be no help from there, not for another fifteen minutes at the very least. His thumb began a circuit around his fingers, circling from pinky to forefinger over and over again. Leaning forward, he seemed as though he might speak, but a glance at the ugly scrawl surrounding the guitar strings stopped him.


His jaw clamped tight. His gaze shifted between the instrument and the man holding it, comparing--or perhaps conflating--the two. This time, when he drummed the reliquary box he now considered with a frown, no sound emerged. Gradually, the tension in his browline relaxed, smoothing over the creases cutting so deeply into his colorless visage. A decision had been made, or at least an acquiescence to a theory. Bernard sat back in his seat and eyed Maverick sidelong.


It started with an irritated hum from the nearest string of Christmas lights dangling overhead. Their shine dimmed down the line, presaging the creak of wood contracting; first one chair leg jittered against the floor by the dining table, then another and another. Like a dog yanked by a chain, the chair leapt out into the space in front of Bernard, rocked precipitiously sideways on the verge of toppling over, then slammed down on all fours to face the monk.


"Min heafod," he answered.


He spread his hand in invitation at the seat.


Only a few feet would separate the two men, should Maverick choose to join him.


In the bathroom, Kara put the phone she'd hidden beneath her clothes down on the sink. The message to Marnie had been simple: Tell Travis to make the call. Am ok here. Thx. < 3K. By now, the room had filled with steam, and the reflection that stared back at her from the fogged mirror was little more than an ethereal blur. She sighed, the exhalation pregnant with regret, and finally hit the send button.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

The odd hum of straining electricity was only given a small portion of Maverick's attention, his eyes ascended to trace the ceiling to locate its source. The sudden flight of the chair, however, was met with a reflexive, involuntarily response.

One second, he was holding the guitar, lazily sprawled out on the futon. The next-no, a fraction of a second later-the big man moved with an unexpected speed. The instrument was thrown onto the cushions, freeing up his hands, while his body rose like a bullet, darting to stand a few feet away from where he had been, and angled with his back facing the wall, giving him full view of the room, door, and with a turn of his head, the windows. His muscles were tensed, arms raised defensively, and feet spread apart to allow for quick movement across the area, in whatever direction he needed to go.

But he didn't need to go anywhere.

With narrowed eyes glued to the now stationary chair, he forced his muscles to give, dropping his hands to his sides. His mouth twitched, and his stone-like gaze shot to the monk. He didn't bother trying to register whatever Bernard had spoken; it hadn't been anything he could understand, not without a translator.

"Little warning next time? I'm new to this shit." A bitter harshness sliced into his voice, and he exhaled. His hand raised to gesture toward the chair, as his body slowly but surely began moving.

First, he stopped to check on the guitar, turning it around to look for damage; the cushions had softened its landing, so its only injuries were twisted turners and a scuff mark on the body. During this time, his front was deliberately facing in Bernard's direction, and the ghost always kept within his peripheral vision.

Gently, he laid the guitar down upon the futon, fingers lingering as he took a few moments to calm himself. With a grunt, he plucked at the top two strings, and they vibrated with dissonance. His brow furrowed, much in the same manner as his brother's.

He unhinged his jaw, scratched furiously at his beard, and made his way over to accept the monk's invitation. His hands grasped the back of the chair, and he leaned part of his weight heavily against it, testing the waters, before sidestepping around it, and taking a seat in front of Bernard. Planting his feet firmly on the ground, he crossed his arms over his chest.

With a tilt of his head, he arched a brow expectantly. "I suppose you don't speak Arabic?"

 

[CastoffCaptain]

So the stranger didn't run. Stranger? The edges of his mouth tweaked up, off-setting the downturn they'd tried to affect, then rearranged themselves into something more saintly. No, not stranger. Not after the hours he'd had to endure in the hallway listening to a more primitive version of the song he'd just been subjected to. Mischief hid beneath Bernard's serene expression at Maverick's rabbiting, belying a slice of payback.

The ugly notes Kara's new friend plucked on the guitar drew a genuine frown from the monk, but it was quickly replaced by a satisfied nod. Should the strings be tuned again, this would be acceptable, said the motion. Should they not, then all the better for the instrument's owner.

A second nod dipped Bernard's chin lower. It was smoothed with a smile, a courtly gesture out of place for one so humbly garbed-- a greeting of a higher station for his companion that, despite its contradictory nature was as sincere as the pained twinge he'd given the injured guitar. Still, the only answer Maverick received for his efforts at communication was an enigmatic stare that neither denied nor admitted knowledge of another language.

Where Maverick sat in defense, his arms crossed over his chest, the monk leaned forward with an elbow upon his knee, his thumb resuming its circle around his fingers. Perhaps the many heartbeats he let stretch between them was a deliberate tactic to unsettle the man seated before him. Perhaps they were simply used to find the proper angle at which to start again. Either way, the clock on Kara's work table tapped along in the silence that fell.

When he sat upright again, the massive, softly luminous figure flattened his hand against his chest and repeated in the manner of a teacher to student, "Min." His first two fingers traveled to his temple. "Heafod." Without giving Maverick any chance to respond, he let loose a volley of Old English, aiming his pinky at the words inked onto the living man's fingers. "Beo ou sum iserwhyrhta?"

Knowing full well his query wouldn't be understood, he let a pause slow the assault, grunted a noise of questioning, and jabbed a finger at Maverick, "Beo--" again, he pointed, "ou--" then mimed striking the air with a hammer, "--bleacsmid?" He sat back, crossed his arms, and stared at Maverick in full expectation of an answer.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Maverick sat still as a statue, the rough features of his face remaining just as motionless. Guarded green eyes firmly held Bernard's gaze, waiting with a patience that was neither innate nor cared for by the ex-soldier; instead, it was a reluctantly learned and necessary skill. His posture was built with a vigilance that hadn't been consciously intended, but unshakeable, nonetheless. It wasn't until the holy man spoke once more, gesturing in a wholly unthreatening way, that Maverick was able to relax his shoulders.

He supposed his hope for a common tongue had been a galaxy away from a long shot.

With his gaze narrowed, chin tilted downward slightly, and brows pulled together, it was easy to mistake his expression for anger instead of thoughtfulness. As he mulled over the phantom's intended meaning behind his foreign words, Maverick's hand lifted to pull at the scruff on his chin.

It was easy enough to decipher that Bernard had been asking about the tattoos that graced his knuckles. An extra moment was taken to connect the motion made in the air with the word bleacsmid. His mouth moved as if he were silently repeating the word. Blacksmith? His head titled slightly, and his eyes dropped to examine the lettering on his knuckles. Iron and fire. So the monk could read modern English, at least a bit. With an inhalation, his gaze shifted from one inked word to the next, grazing over the curved up hand stationed within the crook of his elbow.

"Am I a blacksmith?" The spoken assumption of B's question was quickly succeeded by an answer, "No. It's more...What's that damn term?...metaphorical." He paused, and within his eyes settled a weariness. His mouth opened again with hesitation. "I, um...Guess you could say I was once reforged."

A weapon strengthened in fire. Steel may be stronger, but iron was the blood of the earth.

His throat cleared, and his stare shifted to the watched-over box. Min: the monk had gestured toward himself with that. Mine? Heafod: that had been followed by a touch to his forehead.

And Kara carried the ghost's toe around her neck.

The ex-soldier's jaw slanted, his lips parted, and his eyes widened before quickly narrowing. Jerking his gaze back to Bernard, and a thumb in the direction of the box, he asked rather bluntly, "Your head's in there?"

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Warnings had lined up on Bernard's tongue, waiting to march out on Kara's behalf. Maverick stalled them, however unwittingly-- this last word being key-- by the slow and visible transformation from incomprehension to understanding which played out upon his features. The monk had learned Kara's modern tongue not solely through the need for communication but also through desperation for connection, friendship, and eventual salvation; this lesson had none of that urgency. Memory surrounded the specter like a canticle while he viewed the process work its way through Maverick from one end of the language barrier to the other.

The sheer effort it took for the man to unravel the mystery minded the former cantor of the boys he'd taught both letters and Responsories. It was never the sharpest ones who brought the most satisfaction when they tackled a puzzle, but the dullest, for the sweetest-won struggle was always the steepest climb. A clipped but pleased ha! applauded Maverick's translation, although the smile attached to it was quickly reined in. Bernard nodded as much at the explanation of the tattoos as in agreement, and the tension seeped from his shoulders.

And so it was that when Kara's new lover inquired about the contents of the reliquary box, Bernard didn't drag the man's attention back with a snap of his fingers, warnings regarding Kara at the ready. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap and inspected the jeweled surface as if seeing it for the first time.

His gaze whipped to the guitar again, then to the bathroom door. A deliberation was being made, one which he weighed hard against the little time he'd spent with Maverick. Tapping one thumb against the other, he canted his head to the left and slipped his tongue between his teeth.

"Gése," he nodded, guarding their privacy with a murmur. Even with a dipthong that smeared the next word's middle consonants, the name the English had given their nightmares had changed very little in a thousand years; "Northmen," Bernard raked a thumb across his throat, "beceorfen mé." He shifted his position in the chair, his eyes fused on Maverick's green ones.

"But first, for the afterlife," he whispered in Old English, then bent to make the same motion at his ankles, "so I could not walk."

Up, to slice at his knees, his voice growing hollow. "So I could not pray."

Across his groin. "So I could not love."

His guts. "Eat."

Wrists and elbows. "Fight."

"Speak."

"See."

His thumb hovered beside his left eye, as unmoving as granite, then lowered, fingers twining together in his lap. The lights overhead brightened, no longer subject to the dead man's memories.

On the table beside him, the gold-plated pin securing the box's lid rattled, then slid from its housing with a slow and agonizing chitter of metal against metal. Hovering for a moment on the brink of freedom, it plummeted to the tabletop and rolled toward the edge, picking up speed as it went.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

This time Maverick caught on quickly. The words that came out of the monk's mouth, which moved along with the gestures that progressed across his body to outline his torture, weren't needed. While the deeper implications hidden within the elder language Maverick couldn't understand were lost and beyond him, Kara had already shared with him Bernard's fate earlier in the day: 'The Danes chopped him into pieces. Literally.'

Behind his eyes flashed buried images. He felt his shoulders tensing once more of their own accord. The pressure his teeth were applying to each other caused a hard white line to appear along the length of his jaw.

Humanity never changed.

Deftly, his hand snapped out with speed to catch the pin before it tumbled upon the ground. With the cool metal in his palm, his warm fingers enclosed it, twirling it around in his grasp, before he leaned forward in his chair to carefully and gently place it back upon the table.

Spirits and the paranormal were new to him, but cruelty was something he was all too familiar with, witnessed in the butchered bodies of men and women, soldiers and civilians alike; with each one that came, it became easier to blur out the faces, turn them into just another reason to pull the trigger. All but three.

For the shortest of moments, his gaze dropped to his necklace, his lips twisted into a snarl. His hand reached out to pull the chain, like a shirt collar cuffed too tightly, choking him.

Inhaling, he slumped back in his seat, arms crossing once more over his chest, and he finally broke his silence, voice tight and laced with a repressed rage, "Shit like that? It's beyond people, time, country, culture. Cruelty's a fucking human phenomenon." His mouth opened in a silent and bitter scoff, before his features were overwhelmed with fatigue.

Exhaling to bring back whatever amount of calmness he could, his gaze dropped to his feet. "I'm sorry you suffered through that."

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Bernard lacked the blankness that would have pointed to his being lost in the conversation. Every word Maverick spoke was understood, from the roots of the language to the branches of emotion. A little time was spent in contemplation of the object around the living man's neck, perhaps too long in the wake of the man's last words, but the knowledge of its reason was there. Pain given, pain received, scars carried well past the wounding. The thumb on his right hand found the first rosary bead on his belt and rested there without disturbing it, acknowledgement of the burdens all three of the souls in the apartment carried in their own unique and physical form. His gaze scudded toward the floor, pulled low by a mix of sadness and what might have been a fleeting anxiety. Those blue eyes closed for a moment, lest they travel toward the closed door again.


When they opened, they sought out the box and the pin that now sat on the table, then flicked to Maverick. This time they contained not only a vague surprise but amusement. The latter lacked any bite. He inclined his head in acknowledgement of... something positive, and with a hefty amount of acceptance at what had just transpired to shift his features, the monk got to his feet.


His forefinger aimed at Maverick's chest and made a swirling motion, taking in both the puckered flesh veiled beneath his shirt and the hammer with its ravens. The middle finger joined the first, and the monk traced the sign of benediction in the air with a half-smile.


"Te absolvo," he said and leaned in close, a brow cocked, "Maverick."


"What the fuck?"


The question snapped at the heels of Jaxon's nickname. Kara stood in the bathroom door, hair dripping, a bead of water clinging to her nose. Her clothes were bunched and damp, having been hastily thrown on during the last electrical anomaly. The shower still ran, spilling steam out into the main room, where it curled around her feet and died.


She pointed at the pin on the table, alarm vibrating through her frame. "What the hell is going on?"

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Maverick's eyes, once focused on the rug beneath the soles of his feet, now shot up as they caught sight of the monk's movement, watching cautiously as the phantasmal hand extended toward his chest. The holy man's fingers were aimed so precisely at the former soldier's scar, outlining the emotion, the memory, the reminder ingrained deeply within his skin, deformed by the mark left from his own dance with death.

His brows lowered, pulling together defensively to shield what emotion he was trying to hide buried beneath his gaze: fear born not from being threatened, but of being known and uncovered. His back pressed firmly against the chair, as he unconsciously tried to put distance between the two.

Te absolvo.

He knew what that meant without a deep dive for answers, the word baring its English reincarnation: absolution.

And Bernard was close now, in a way that made Maverick's body lock-up.

There was so much written in the chiseled face of the warrior, pieces of his armor chipped off by a few, simple words. Something similar had been said by Ayden, but had been left unheard, because his brother hadn't know how deeply Maverick had been cut, couldn't understand the wound left on his very soul that wouldn't heal. Pain, guilt, and confusion, all twisted into anger, and all were easily read in his eyes, by the way his mouth twitched.

Anger: It was more familiar, so dark and hollowing and cold, but familiar and therefore safe.

He hadn't heard the bathroom door open, or noticed Kara's presence with his back angled away from her so, not until she spoke.

His body twisted suddenly, head quickly turning in her direction. He hadn't thought about properly distributing his weight, or the way the sudden jerk on the side of the chair would cause the thing to give. It toppled over, and Maverick, a man with arguably some of the most sophisticated military training in the world, went with it. There were still small saving graces in the world, and the rug happened to provide some amount of cushioning as he crashed into the floor without a single trace of gracefulness.

Faceplanting had a way of centering a man.

After a moment of silence and a drawn-out grunt, he rolled onto his back, tilting his head back against the ground to put Kara within his vision.

"I don't-...I don't even-...I didn't-" He sighed in exasperation directed at his inability to form a sentence, and raised a hand to gesture toward Bernard, or the last place he had seen Bernard, since his eyes were kept on the upside-down version of Kara he was currently watching. "We were just talking."

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Old floorboards volumized the sound of Maverick's clumsiness, and it took all of Kara's willpower to keep her hand from jerking up to cover her open mouth when he landed. His explanation fell as flat as he had. Water puddled with every stride she took toward him, each successive footprint thinning out on the hardwoods. Her lips were set in a hard line, her eyes aflame with a multitude of emotions, all shards from a recent breakage.


Bernard moved to intercept her, stepping over Maverick's middle without regard to the fact that his robes flowed through the prone man instead of over him. "Sicut enim erant loquentes," he agreed. Kara glared at him, but he met the look with such studied innocence it resurrected his former mischief.


In a movment similar to the one that'd brought him near Maverick only moments before, the monk leaned forward and murmured in her ear. What he said left Kara dumbstruck. She blinked, eyes narrowing, and tried to shake her head but the motion fizzled as soon as it started.


"Permission?" She nearly choked on the word she'd translated from his Latin; it tasted foreign, unrecognizable. "After what happened with--"


Bernard skimmed by her and faced the windows, his hands behind his back, watching the late afternoon paint grey across the sky.


Something had happened, a mystery Kara couldn't unravel. The air was thick with it, and her ghostly friend's silence left her confused and uncertain, wondering if she'd been betrayed or saved and unable to say by which man. Scowling down at Maverick, she nudged his arm with a toe. Each breath she took was heavy, measured through flared nostrils. The anger had evaporated, leaving a disgruntled residue in its wake. Rolling her eyes, Kara dropped to the floor with the rug a border between them, knees tucked close to her chin.


"I can't tell if you impressed him or if he's being an asshole right now," she spoke low, so that only Jaxon could hear. "I thought... I thought something bad had... are you two... y'know. Good?"