sweethymns | OPEN RP POST QUATRE

[He pauses only long enough to bring the mug to his lips again, considering her question. She made it easy, at least, just him having to reply with a yes or no.]

Yeah.

[He places the tea back down again, and the fingers of his left hand trace over the scarred initials "AD" on his right, without truly thinking about it.]

Yeah, I remember.

[He remembers properly now, too, though that was mostly a recent development.]

Mm.

[Fingers drum against her mug and then she finishes it off. Her eyes are on him this whole time, carefully watching although it isn't a calculated gaze. Curious, wary, perhaps tempted to ask more.]

When's the last time you slept?

Edited 2016-09-16 15:19 (UTC)

[Now that he isn't sure of. He's lost track, what with all the reality and time hopping -- had he slept at all since he first stepped foot on Columbia?

Honestly, the last time was probably when Elizabeth knocked him over the head with a wrench. He was out for a few hours then, and he wonders if that counts as sleep.]

That's something I'm not sure about. I've been busy, haven't had a lot of time to sleep.

[48 hours maybe? Longer? Who knows.]

Well, I'd recommend sleep first then, before doing anything else.

[A decisive nod as if this is the best course of action.]

You'll need it to properly process your mental and emotional state. If you need an alarm to wake you up, I can provide that. You're not in a condition where it's safe to try and figure things out, especially if you came from a situation that required guns of all things.

[Another scoff that he wouldn't be able to stop even if he wanted to.] Required a lot more than just guns.

[But whatever. He's not really in a mood to explain further, though he does wonder exactly why she's being so nice to him. He's a complete stranger, plopped right into her living room -- and she's providing him a place to stay?]

Why are you doing this? You don't even know me.

[... Give her a sec, she's thinking this over.]

[And she runs a hand through her hair before setting her glasses back on the bridge of her nose again.]

I just now realized that I could have handled you in a variety of ways, but I can't say this outcome is all that bad. As they say, it could be worse.

But, if you're asking me why...

[She makes a noncommittal gesture with both hands.]

... I don't think I'm very good at acting like a normal person?

[Why is she like this]

[For a moment, he looks surprised at that answer; it certainly wasn't what Booker was expecting. Despite everything, despite himself and all he's been through, it manages to eke the smallest chuckle out of him.]

I could've told you that from the five minutes I've known you.

[What a weird woman.

A hand comes up to scratch at the stubble on his face.] Regardless, I... well, it'd be remiss of me not to say I appreciate it, irregular or not. And I don't really need a bed; the sofa's comfortable enough for me. [He's slept in worse places.] I, uh, actually wouldn't mind washing up some first, though.

[He sounds vaguely hesitant to ask, like he's already encroaching on her hospitality. But god, he's covered in dirt and grime and sweat. And in some places, dried blood.]

[Her face turns a little red at his chuckle and remark and she looks down for a second before looking at him again.]

That easy, huh?

[And yeah, she's noticed those dried blood parts... Don't spook her so much, god DeWitt. At his insistence, she replies in a rather stubborn manner, shaking her head.]

My house is too big. You're not going to take up space by taking up the spare bedroom.

As for washing up, there's a shower right next to said bedroom, so I don't think you can refuse that.

[He's spent some time as a PI; it doesn't even take that much to realize that, yes, Amelia is a strange girl, no doubt with some kind of story. He wonders what it might be, but doesn't entertain the notion of asking just yet. Now wouldn't be the time nor the place, and he's not sure he's up to swapping life stories this afternoon.

So he just shrugs a little at her "that's easy" comment, and at her offering for him to stay in a spare bedroom, he frowns. He really doesn't deserve that much, but if she really had no need for it, then he may as well take her up on her offer. A guest room would afford some modicum of privacy, at least, whereas the living room would not.]

I rightly can't. [He takes one final sip of tea before setting the mug down again and making a move to stand up, scooping up his holsters off the ground as he does so.] Not to hurry you, but I think I'm gonna take advantage of that right now. It'd be rude of me to stink up such a nice place.

[It's spoken wryly, but it's half true. Everything here seems so... clean, Booker is almost embarrassed to be in this house in his state.] If you don't mind showing me where it is...?

Ah, yes. Right.

[Amelia stands, briskly walking over to the hallway. She's looking into it and taps the wall with the palm of her hand three times (because if he looks in now, it'll be bigger than expected, not fitting with the form of the house), before gesturing to Booker with her other hand.]

Two doors on your right; bedroom and bathroom respectively, there's a door that connects the two. If you need me, knock on the door across from yours.

[He nods and follows over to her when she motions for him to come. Looks like a normal hallway to him! Well, as normal as things can be for a man way out of time.]

Right. Thanks again, Miss Amelia.

[He just gives her a lingering appreciative look before disappearing down into the hallway, straight towards the bedroom. It won't take him long to get settled in; he doesn't have much, just his gun and the clothes on his back, and he'll be eager to indulge himself in a hot shower (once he gets over how alien the bathroom will look to him, cozy home or otherwise.)]

[So that went better than expected. There's a lot that's been left unexplained, but Amelia feels like she probably made the better choice of letting this Booker DeWitt focus on his recovery. He's not a raving madman so that's an immediate relief. The resignation he displayed was somewhat troubling to Amelia, but she's not able to put a finger on why. Probably impossible at this point.

Overall, she's not in danger, he's getting some rest, and NOW THE MOST IMPORTANT PART OF ALL.

Grading papers.

For a lifetime of witchcraft, Amelia Eva Steinbeck sure is entrenched in the life of a mundane. It helps since she hasn't made one mention of anything abnormal about her when she's already so odd to begin with. Lives alone in her own house, full of wind chimes and lets a gunman with bloodied dirty clothes stay in her house?

Those thoughts idly run through her head as she reads and grades the last few papers in her stack at 7 AM in the morning. Her phone is next to her, blaring out a familiar and nostalgic tune which she hums along with.]

Nothing ever lasts forever
Everybody wants to rule the world...

[When Booker goes to bed, sleep takes him hard. And his dreams are just as eager to visit him in equal force.

They're varied, strange -- images of a city in the clouds, a girl in a blue dress, "twin" scientists and their riddles. Blood and bullets and his hand twisting into black claws, his nose bleeding while staring at a man who has his face, but doesn't. A monster, casting deep shadows on the ground as it circles Booker, swooping in with a screech that could stop your heart.

Again, Booker startles awake. The shock blazes through his system, and he reaches for his gun... but only grabs at a fistful of blankets.]

Shit... [He tosses the comforter off of him, sitting up, confusion flittering away as he remembers where he is. What had happened. That redheaded woman letting him stay in her house, letting him sleep in one of her beds. He rubs a hand through disheveled hair, waiting for his heart to settle, blinking away sleep. He won't be getting more of that, now.

Sunlight filters in, grey and dim from an early morning sun. He isn't sure what to do now, so naturally, he pulls himself out of bed. He's wearing a loose white tshirt and checkered pajama pants, a sight that would be comical if not for the fact that he's too grateful to have them to laugh at them.

In the distance, a tune catches in his ear. Booker recognizes it, and it makes him furrow his brow in confusion. A tune he had not heard since Columbia -- he hesitates only for a second before deciding it's worth investigating.

And so only minutes later, Booker can be seen hovering in the entranceway of the room Amelia is in. He doesn't know if he should interrupt. She looks busy, but that song spikes his curiosity enough for him to make his presence known.]

What song is that?

[Mornin'.]

Oh. Morning.

[Amelia looks up at Booker from the kitchen table and glances back down at her work. A red ink pen is being twirled between her fingers, albeit unsteadily. She's almost done with her grading and on her last paper and the pen scratches quickly across the surface.

She's dressed lightly for a Saturday morning; just a simple blouse and some slightly rolled up jeans and her hair is tied back in a messy bun.]

You woke up earlier than I expected...

[Oh, right his question. Almost lost her train of thought there, but it's been a while since she had company.]

Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Tears for Fears. 1985.

[Without looking away, her other hand moves to press the button on her phone to lower the volume.]

Guess you weren't around when that came out then.

1985?

[Damn. Now he can't help but wonder with cynical amusement which universe stole the song and which did it originate from. (Though he knows the answer, he knows of the composer who apparently took due "inspiration" from different realities.) He has a lot of questions running through his head (and he ignores the remark about being up early), but the first query comes easily.]

I've heard it before. So what year is it now?

[Mentioning the year was somewhat intentional in order to gauge his origin. His inquiry and reply was rather telling. Now to see how he reacts to... ]

21st century. 2014.

[Yeah, we're going there.]

[w h a t

Booker doesn't know what to do with that information. He looks a bit in shock, leaning against the entrance to the kitchen with one arm.]

2014? [He's in the 2000s?!]

I- [He pauses, still processing this. It would explain a lot, in retrospect. The odd design choices, the strange technology -- like that glowing box producing music from some group called Tears for Fears.

Oddly, this information just makes him feel... even more adrift than before. He tries to keep his gaze on her, but there's something unsteady about him.]

Goddamn.

[When she sees him go unsteady, Amelia sets her pen on the table and she stands up with clear concern in her eyes.]

Booker. Still with me?

[Instinctively, her hand reaches up to touch his forehead as if trying to calm him (and she is, it's the magic, it's a simple spell with a low pulse to give off a soothing sensation.]

You should have slept longer.

Edited 2016-09-17 01:48 (UTC)

[While Booker would normally recoil from a stanger's touch (he doesn't know Amelia that well, after all), he doesn't move from it-- he's trying to understand why he would have brought to some world in 2014. It didn't make sense. Hell, he should be dead, not displaced down the stream of time. Is this how it was going to be? Would Elizabeth show up again to straighten this out? Would he ever even see her again?

So Amelia's touch goes oddly unresponded to, and it's only when he feels a strange rush of... calm he comes back to reality. He's not sure why, but it helps him regain his focus.]

Y-yeah. Sorry. [He straightens, trying to pretend it's not as disquieting as it really is.] I slept well enough. Just my dreams woke me up, is all.

Oh. Okay.

[Her hand is set down and she takes one step back.]

So. Man out of time then.

[The way she says and takes in the situation just adds to her oddness and a dissonance to the whole situation they've found themselves in. As if the unusual and out of place were everyday things to her. And in a way, Amelia does realize that she should be reacting a bit more to the fact that this man was from a different time and yet she doesn't want to make a fuss. And she's had over 60 years of magic and there are stranger things still.]

[Man out of time, indeed. And many more things.] 1912. [He utters it breathlessly, as if to himself.

But he forces his resolve to strengthen, and looks directly at Amelia, searching her expression, as if it'll unearth some clue about this insightful woman.]

You don't seem all that surprised.

Um.

To be honest I think my reaction is delayed to the point where my surprise is dull, but trust me.

This is a first and I have no idea where to go from here.

Edited 2016-09-17 02:22 (UTC)

Well ain't that great. [It's dry and sarcastic, and a bit deadpan. And it's not her fault, but something clicks in Booker that resembles frustration towards his situation. His confusion twists into a clear frown.]

What am I supposed to do then? Like I said, I'm not even supposed to be here. Unless this is some surreal afterlife, I'm pretty certain that I'm not even supposed to be alive.

[That had been part of the plan, back then, in the river. That was where the twisted version of himself had been born, and it was there he would kill him.]

[She holds her breath, and clasps her hands together trying to think. He isn't supposed to be alive? Then he was either dying or already dead. But he slept like a physical person would and woke up normally. So check that off. Also his forehead felt real, so that's another thing to take note of.]

... First thing's first. There's a change of clothes in your room.

[It was totally there, this whole time really]

Then we're going to go outside. Stretch your legs. Be ready to talk when you want.

[They can go to the local cafe that's empty this early in the morning and the owner knows Amelia well enough to just leave her and any company she has well alone.]

But leave the weapons behind okay? Civilians in this age aren't allowed to carry arms without a license.

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1/2

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lil' time skip

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