![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
16. Siamese
[Public]
In your opinion, when does an object lesson become so on point that the example in question begins to lose all credibility? Or to put it another way - when does the merely relevant become obviously contrived, when everything we are subjected to is the product of artifice to begin with?
[Spam for anyone likely to come by his cabin; if you want to be in on it, you are, etc.]
[It's been a very, very long time since he had to tend his own garden. Even the barge's facsimile is largely self-maintaining, but he finds himself restless with it. He needs more flowers, for hive of bees the whimsical reasons. So he's digging up some of the stranger and more picturesque plants, the bioluminescent ferns and the elaborately geometric succulents. All his plants are hardy things, designed and bred for resilience - no death touches his realm but what he allows, or so the catechism goes - so he has to pry up every centimeter of the root systems, has to kneel down and get his hands dirty. The blisters on his hands will fade fast, but in the meantime he savors the sting. It feels good to be killing things, even if it's only his plants.]
[Private to Hannibal]
How did you fare in London?
[Private to Sylvanas]
We were wondering if you'd be willing to look after our cats for a few days. Melchior and Lirath already get on.
[And the teacup persian kitten he got for Christmas is too much of a narcissistic fluffball to cause trouble.]
[Private to David 8]
How frequently does the barge make you human? Or anything that thinks dramatically differently from your normal idiom.
[It's not that he thinks David doesn't deserve politeness. He just thinks, given David's nature, that it's more polite not to waste his time with pleasantries.]
[Private to Bruce Banner]
I might need. A few days leave.
[He's not sure he trusts himself with patients, right now.]
[Private to Barbara Gordon.]
Anastasia was there.
In your opinion, when does an object lesson become so on point that the example in question begins to lose all credibility? Or to put it another way - when does the merely relevant become obviously contrived, when everything we are subjected to is the product of artifice to begin with?
[Spam for anyone likely to come by his cabin; if you want to be in on it, you are, etc.]
[It's been a very, very long time since he had to tend his own garden. Even the barge's facsimile is largely self-maintaining, but he finds himself restless with it. He needs more flowers, for hive of bees the whimsical reasons. So he's digging up some of the stranger and more picturesque plants, the bioluminescent ferns and the elaborately geometric succulents. All his plants are hardy things, designed and bred for resilience - no death touches his realm but what he allows, or so the catechism goes - so he has to pry up every centimeter of the root systems, has to kneel down and get his hands dirty. The blisters on his hands will fade fast, but in the meantime he savors the sting. It feels good to be killing things, even if it's only his plants.]
[Private to Hannibal]
How did you fare in London?
[Private to Sylvanas]
We were wondering if you'd be willing to look after our cats for a few days. Melchior and Lirath already get on.
[And the teacup persian kitten he got for Christmas is too much of a narcissistic fluffball to cause trouble.]
[Private to David 8]
How frequently does the barge make you human? Or anything that thinks dramatically differently from your normal idiom.
[It's not that he thinks David doesn't deserve politeness. He just thinks, given David's nature, that it's more polite not to waste his time with pleasantries.]
[Private to Bruce Banner]
I might need. A few days leave.
[He's not sure he trusts himself with patients, right now.]
[Private to Barbara Gordon.]
Anastasia was there.
[Private]
[Because she's not much better off. She'd never touch the cats, but leaving them alone in her quarters while she finds new and exciting ways to death toll isn't exactly the definition of responsible.]
[Private]
[She's the only person he really trusts with that.]
[Private]
She's shoving off her hood, running both hands through her hair.]
I'm hardly a better caretaker these days, Risen.
[Private]
[Neither quite sincere or rhetorical - or rather, the sincerity of it is a rhetorical device in itself. He doesn't believe she would. But he's asking.]
[Private]
[It's a legitimate fear. She doesn't want to poison Lirath. She's been trying to get killed outside of her room.]
[Private]
[It's very gentle chiding, if it's chiding at all; he understands the impulse. But disintegrating will do nothing for her here, where she will only be forced to repeat it again and again. The implication of obstacle is for her own good, but he respects her pain too much to make it any more than implication.]
I can bring fish over. I'm capable of - logistics. Just not proximity.
[Private]
I've lived more than my fair share of days.
[It's not quite snappish, but there's definitely some resentment of being parented by someone who's asking her to protect his pets from himself.]
Do you want me to come fetch them now?
[Private]
[It's a reason to continue, but not an order to. They all have too few choices to take more away.]
Please.
[Curt, but there's softness in it, real gratitude if not quite humility.]
[Spam]
[Spam]
I'll burn you after, if you need it.
[It is not an apology. But he gave Arthas a match once, and it seems terribly wrong that he should offer her less. He certainly has enough alcohol nowadays.]
[Spam]
It won't do me any good here. [There's a thank you implied in her tone, at least.] Is there something you need?
[And she doesn't mean cat-sitting services.]
[Lirath, meanwhile, is in immediate delight to see his fearless leader once again, and at once starts to bathe the house cat in happy, rough tongued licks.]
[Spam]
[But sometimes we need things that do us no good. Or something.]
I'm. Working on figuring that out. This will help.
[Time and space; a reprieve to be slightly mad in without wrecking the things he's built patiently. He could hurt himself neatly enough, if he wanted to induce raw apathy, but that feels too much like surrender. And he wants it to be Hannibal, if it's anyone: wants the dull monster of Hannibal's obsessions to serve his whims instead of the other way around, with a vindictive pettiness that waits with a pulse-like steadiness in his breast.
Melchior squeaks happily, while Adelaide observes the proceedings with a queenly disdain, before yowling in bewildered indignation at being handed over.]
[Spam]
Sylvanas is silent a moment, considering the situation, what it means. He's afraid he'll hurt them. Because he's been hurt. She doesn't know by what. She's been too self-involved of late. But she understands all the same.]
If you didn't ask me for this, I'd offer a trade. Our current needs are... complimentary, I think.
[It's said so blandly, like she's offering to loan him a cup of sugar, and not offering up a willing exchange of cathartic pain and violence.]
[Spam]
I did ask.
[Still softly, still so mild. If she were anyone else, he might think it was a barb, a reprimand, a goad to regret - I'd let you if only you hadn't pushed this on me - but he thinks it's the logistical barrier with her, that she will do as she is told (asked), but wishes she were free enough to let him take her apart. Her suffering appeals only sparingly. Beyond the rash undiscriminating edge of his temper, she has earned none of animosity. But that she needs it deeply enough to offer the way she does - that appeals considerably.]
...I don't want to hurt you until I'm in control of myself again.
[As much as he means too, as much as suits their complimentary needs. No less, and no more.]
[Spam]
Sylvanas nods simply, in acknowledgement. She'll take the answer for exactly what it is. They were both too much alike, even in their distress, to misread each other's meaning, to take offense when none is meant. It's a small relief to still have that, someone she could speak directly with and not have to over explain herself just for clarity. With Beatrix gone, he's the only one left that she has that with. It's something she values deeply. It's why she hadn't even tried to push him away. She needs what he gives her too much.]
Perhaps another time, if it still serves us.
[Her eyes cast down to the cats at their feet. How simple life could be. They sat there, friendly and without worries, while those that loved them stood there and talked of pain and madness. It was rather enviable.]
How long will you need?
[Spam]
[Nothing will be solved, in that time, but he will find his balance again, between clutching his rage as a shield against hollowness and buckling beneath it.]
I'll collect them in three, unless we arrange something different before then.
[Spam]
I will keep them protected until then.
[She would need to stay on this side of a new death toll for three days. The Emperor wanted this kept from Zane, and that meant not drawing more attention than her new warden was already giving her. That was fine. She could manage three days.]
[Spam]
[There's weight in it, more breath than necessary, lets the rawness of his gratitude show. It's a small thing, compared to all their burdens, but it's a measure of honesty - of weakness - he would give to very few.]
[Spam]