[Closed] Like Real People Do

[Lars]

vortas 2, 2719
the leviathan in the early night

Lars just wanted to drink.

There was nothing else to it - he wanted to drink until he wasn't even thinking about drinking, until his senses dulled and then faded completely into unconsciousness. Fortunately for his pockets, it didn't take much to get him to that point, otherwise the passive would have been tucked away in his apartment by now, hidden beneath his blankets to block out the rest of the world. He had taken to doing that more often as of late, spending his nights away from the Queen in the relative comfort of his home rather than in the taverns he'd grown so accustomed to. This was good for a few different reasons, the biggest being coin - he was saving more than spending, just in case; it was better for his mind, he thought, too, staying away from the general population for a while.

Some nights, however, were too difficult. Some days were too much to handle on his own, and he knew now from experience that going home to be alone with him (you) would do nothing but worsen the issue, because he would only pick and pick and pick at his thoughts like loose thread until they unraveled completely. He didn't like that. The unraveling. Some nights made him feel utterly powerless, somehow more so than when he had been a slave. He thought it was strange, that; he'd always figured things would be better outside. They were, for the most part, but he didn't like it, that unstable, shaky feeling.

Tricky Yulis was a Hessean like himself, and he lived up to his nickname. He was tricky in the worst of ways, Lars thought, because he haggled and wormed his way out of things he ought not to. Every man had a price, yes, and Lars' had not been paid. Tricky Yulis liked him a good amount, that much was safe to assume with how frequently he sought him out at the Mad Queen, but Lars did not care for loyalty from a tricky, non-paying pirate. He was a wick, and he was tall and trim save for the belly always filled with ale - he was tough, too, and had the scars to prove it.

Not so tough, though, that he wouldn't let his guard down around a trusted confidante - if someone such as Lars could be called such a thing. It was preferable to some of the other terms thrown around, he thought, because it sounded important somehow; he didn't know the meaning of the word, but that wasn't anything new. What was new, however, was the fact that he'd asked old Tricky Yulis to meet him in the evening outside of the Queen instead, "seeing as we know you're not paying anyway," yada yada and that really should have been the first warning sign to the other Hessean, but men were stupid when they wanted something. Unfortunate for Yulis, perhaps, but he found it quite useful himself.

They were standing behind a house out in Sharkswell, where the light didn't quite reach and they were somewhat alone, if one ignored the hushed (and insistent) voices from nearby. Tricky Yulis was leaning on him like he'd went in for a hug but forgot what he was doing halfway there, his arms hanging limp at his sides and his head resting heavily upon Lars' shoulder. Lars had one arm around his waist, holding him upright, while his other pulled back from his chest to slip the knife back into his pocket. He considered, for a moment, wiping his hand clean against the pirate's black jacket, but stopped before his fingers could touch the fabric. Pale eyes narrowed slightly in the dark, and he pushed the wick forward (or rather, backward) until he could see the jacket a bit better. He'd worn it open, so it was saved from the blade... Lars pulled at one side of it, moving his arm out from behind the wick so that he spun and fell rather unceremoniously to the ground, but the jacket was pulled from his frame, left in the passive's tight grip.

He put it on, pulling it closed around him - it was a little big for him (he must've gotten skinnier, but when?) but it was nicer than the shirt he'd been wearing before, that'd been taken off sometime before and that likely sat on the ground around him now. Lars took a deep breath, throwing one last glance at Tricky Yulis' body before he started walking, his arms held around his waist to keep the dark blazer closed. He kept his head down as he walked, mostly, only looking up when necessary to ensure he didn't bump into anyone or anything.

"I don't like wearing Yulis' jacket, Lars."

"Shut up, Lars," he returned, already losing his patience, "we're getting a drink and you're going to shut up."

He did not shut up, though. He never shut up. He didn't shut up for the entirety of his walk, and he knew he looked like a moony lunatic talking to himself because of Lars. The passive made his way out of Sharkswell and onward, until he was surrounded with noise and lights and the salt of the sea mixed with the strong smell of alcohol. Lars made himself focus on it, that smell, let it drag him towards the closest establishment that would sell him something good. Or - good enough to get him sloshed, and hopefully Tricky Yulis would be good for one thing and have some money stashed away in these pockets, then he wouldn't even have to worry about the money he'd been saving.

Lars pulled open the door, stepping inside with a quick glance about. It was... nicer than many of the other taverns he'd been into - he was at a loss for the place's name, and could only hope that he'd not stepped foot into some forbidden area for someone like himself. He brushed off the feeling, continuing on further into the building until he came upon the bar. Sitting down beside a few unfamiliar faces, Lars ordered the cheapest drink he could think of from the little barmaid, afterwards pulling the jacket around himself a little tighter as he waited.

"We should be at home," he murmured, eyes following the barmaid (he'd heard someone call her Sally, he thought) as she moved behind the counter, "no we shouldn't. You only like it there because of the nice curtains. I want a drink first."

His drink was set before him, and Lars reached out to grab it a little too quickly - his cold fingers knocked against the glass, topping it over and spilling most of it out on the counter, to the side. Save for his hand, he was left dry, but he wasn't so sure about the person sitting next to him. Pale eyes darted up to the stranger's face, now, and Lars picked up the mostly empty glass, keeping it from spilling out any more.

"Ah fuck," he cursed quietly, more to himself than anything, before speaking up a little louder, "sorry - are you okay? Did it spill on you?"

[Peregrine]

02 of Vortas, 2719 - Early Night
The Leviathan Public House, The Rose

Drinking was nice. They liked drinking, generally speaking. Liked the Leviathan, too, on account of how nobody bothered them and they could just sit at the bar and watch. If other patrons were less happy that Peregrine was there, that was their business. Peregrine liked to look. Window shopping, they thought, and almost chuckled to themself. Stopped just in time, remembering as their smile tended to unsettle. A waste, really. They liked how this face smiled, it had been why they picked it in part. Just seemed as they couldn't get the knack of doing it quite right. They kept their face neutral instead. Or they thought it was neutral. Maybe they were wrong, considering as folks tended to look at them and then look away right quick. Fair enough.

Drinking, though, drinking was good. Softened the edges of the aches all through their joints that they'd expected to settle out but they never had. Weren't too sure if it were them or the flesh what had the pain in it, but they were stuck with both a bit yet. The barmaid was a right good sort, not kicking them out even though they dropped a glass to shatter to the floor more regular than they'd like. Maybe she liked the face--they were curious. It really was a very good one. They could ask, but they never seemed to hold the question in their mind long enough. Slippery things, thoughts. Like eels. Eels in barrels. Where did eels come from, anyway? Peregrine had never seen a young eel, didn't know as how they spawned. Maybe they just came from the water direct.

See, slippery! They had a drink in front of them and they'd been thinking about... What was it? The barmaid. Serafina. Sibelle? Sally. It was Sally, that was her name. And they were... Gideon. Gideon Gideon Gideon. Peregrine had to remind themself of the name often, even though they'd picked it out. It had seemed like an easier name to remember at the time, and now it was too late to change it. They had already told it to someone. Several someones, actually. Boss. The folks as ran the boarding house. Some strangers who hadn't wanted to hear it. Possibly SerafinaSibelleSally the Barmaid, too. They were in the Leviathan often enough.

Peregrine looked up when the seat next to them was, suddenly, not as empty as usual. Interrupted in an interior monologue about the migratory habits of saltwater fish, and their value as food. A shorter sort than they were now, and Peregrine tried not to loom in their seat. They did not succeed; looming seemed to just be what they did, now. Dark eyes studied, unblinking, the person who had come to sit next to them. Almost, they concluded, as pretty as they were. Almost. If Peregrine heard him mutter to himself, they ignored it. They were still staring when the other person's glass was knocked sideways, soaking Peregrine through.

"Most people won't eat garfish, you know, because the bones are green. But the color is harmless." Wait. Stop, retreat. That wasn't the words they'd meant to--what was it they were supposed to say? Shit. They were drunk. Peregrine liked being drunk, but when thoughts were so slippery it didn't help having them swim away. Swimming like fish. Peregrine blinked, slowly. Their gaze was steady, looking not at the glass but the face of the man who had knocked it over.

"Your hand is wet." A pause. "Yes, it did." They offered no thought after this, just a bald statement of fact. "But I am undamaged," they added, helpfully. Their voice was flat and oddly inflectionless, with an accent that could have come from many places or nowhere at all.

[Lars]

vortas 2, 2719
the leviathan in the early night

He was concerned, at first, that the stranger was simply too shocked, too angered by the fact that he'd spilled his drink on them to comment, and surely they were preparing quite a mouthful to hurl at him, or getting ready to swing their fists in his direction - he did not, however, expect the response that he got. Most people won't eat garfish, you know. What? For a brief moment Lars wondered if he'd spilled his drink at all or if he'd simply imagined doing so, but as the stranger confirmed moments later, his hand was wet, evidence of his mistake. That meant that they'd simply spewed that random fact about garfish because... because. Because of some reason he was utterly unaware of. It showed on the passive's face; his expression went quickly from concerned to something else, something more akin to bewilderment as he listened to the stranger continue.

There was something off about them, he thought, and it wasn't just the helpful little garfish fact. Whether that was a bad thing or not, however, remained to be seen - Lars' head tilted slightly, the passive softening his expression into something less obvious. Did they not care that he'd just spilled his drink on them? It didn't matter because they were... undamaged? All the better for Lars, he supposed. He wasn't exactly in the mood to fight, nor did he feel at all prepared, despite the bloodied knife resting in his pocket.

He looked back to his hand, then, letting go of the glass now that he'd stood it up proper, though his gray gaze flicked upwards to the stranger's face again for a quick moment before he pulled it back down.

"Ah, yes, it is," he said first, debating whether he wanted to wipe his hand dry against the jacket he'd so recently acquired. In the end, Lars did so, patting his hand mostly dry against his other sleeve while he looked to the person sitting beside him once more. It was hard not to, he found, especially when they were looking at him, and the face was far from unpleasant.

"You're fine?" inquired the Hessean, sounding a little disbelieving, as he pulled the blazer closed around himself again and looked over their clothes, "are you... sure?"

Lars couldn't imagine anyone would want to sit in soaked clothes, especially when they'd surely stick to the skin soon enough, once they began to dry. He did not figure they claimed to be undamaged out of politeness; they were strangers after all, and despite the current environment being quite different to the other, dirtier establishments around, they were still in the Rose. He figured they could still attack him, if they felt the need, without too much issue, as he would have expected from anyone else he'd spilled a drink on.

This isn't someone we should bother any more. I don't like the feeling of it.

He tried to smile, his confusion still clearer on his features than he'd like it to be. If they weren't going to complain about it, then he wasn't going to make them. Lars believed, anyhow, that he could at least make it up to them - he could buy their next drink, or give him some money to get his clothes cleaned properly (gods, he hated the thought of giving away money like that, but there was still some in old Yulis' pockets), he could even clean the clothes himself if need be. He didn't think his hands could ever forget how.

"Can I make it up to you? I can get your drink," he offered, figuring that was a good enough place to start.

[Peregrine]

02 of Vortas, 2719 - Early Night
The Leviathan Public House, The Rose

Peregrine watched the stranger's expression shift and change after they spoke. Concerned at first, and Peregrine remembered, suddenly, sharply, that it was not normal to have drinks spilled on onesself. Certainly it didn't happen to them often. Less so in this face than other, smaller faces. Did they care? Peregrine rolled the thought around in their mind, sloshed together with the four drinks they'd had already that night. Should they care? They would dry. The body was undamaged. These were not their favorite clothes, not exactly. Or were they? Were they thinking of a different outfit, for a different face, that they had liked better?

Peregrine's face drew into a frown, an expression made more sinister by the shadows under their eyes and the way one hand chose this moment to spasm into a fist. Unclench. The hand did not listen. Peregrine's frown deepened. The hands normally listened. Usually they listened, when they were drinking.

Belatedly, Peregrine remembered they had a handkerchief in their pocket. They thought, that morning, that they might be the sort of man who carried a handkerchief. They didn't think so, after all, but they could be. If they really wanted. They could have offered the handkerchief, and that would have been something of a step towards being the sort of man who had one. Too late. Swam away. Peregrine took it out anyway, but just set it on the bar without looking at it or even truly indicating they had noticed.

Were they sure? Quite sure? Peregrine was sure that they were fine, yes. But was Gideon? There was an idea. What did Gideon Carver think about wet clothes, stinking of alcohol? Clothes all became wet, at some point. So did flesh, usually, at least it should. Bathing. So on. Peregrine considered the question, and the offer of a drink, letting silence stretch out between the two of them. Perhaps it would have seemed like they were merely being standoffish and was giving the other man the cold shoulder, were it not for one small fact. One tiny fact. Peregrine was staring, forgetting to blink Gideon's eyes until they started to hurt. They did so, rapidly.

"Oes, fine," said Gideon now, slowly. He was not the petty sort, Peregrine decided. Gideon was not a man who would start a fight over an accident. Even if he was sure he could win. That was a funny thought. The last body had been small, slender--suited to books and their sale, but very little else. They had proven easily bested in the end. Although those fucking tallyboys what had racked the bookseller had been armed, and foolish Peregrine had not thought to arm themself. Lessons learned. They always had a knife, now. Weren't gonna make that mistake twice, nope.

Peregrine turned Gideon's body slightly, angled it just a little. Raised his eyebrows. The smaller man had smiled, so, they reasoned, Gideon should as well. "But I ent the type to turn down a drink."

Gideon smiled, and it was immediately apparent why most preferred he not do so. Maybe the smile would have been nice, if someone else had been behind it. Peregrine was right, and Gideon really did have very nice teeth after all, and a pleasing face. But when Peregrine-as-Gideon pulled that mouth into a smile, it was a hatcher's grin, a slash of a look that somehow split that handsome face too far apart, showed too many of those nice, nice teeth. The smile of a predator.

"I'll have whatever it is as I'm wearin'." Their voice was low and too, too smooth--a river rock, all the edges worn off by the ceaseless motions of water and time.

[Lars]

vortas 2, 2719
the leviathan in the early night

It didn't take much to put the passive on edge, and the stranger's sudden downturn of the mouth was quite enough to do just that. Their hand, too, pulled itself into a fist, and Lars had to quickly reconsider the idea that he was out of danger already. He leaned back, just a bit, away from the frowning human; he didn't move out of reach entirely, finding himself more curious about what they would do than he probably should've been. He should have gotten out of his seat as soon as he'd spilled the drink, he thought, should have turned around and left before anyone had the chance to say anything - but this was more interesting.

Mainly because they were still staring at him, unblinking, and it felt like they could see through him, see through everything. It felt like those dark eyes, made only darker by the shadows beneath them, could consume him in their stare. He didn't know what to do with it, didn't know how to react besides to stare right back. He noticed, idly, the stranger reach into their pocket and set something onto the bar, but he didn't look at it, not until they were blinking and it reminded Lars to make himself look away. Something about it all intrigued him, and made him wonder if he looked like that, too, when he was watching people, but he didn't think so.

They were speaking again, all low and slow, and Lars couldn't keep his eyes away for long, only resting on the handkerchief they'd produced for a short moment before he was looking back up to their face. It was different now, though, as they angled themselves a little towards him, mouth splitting into some sort of smile.

Lars smiled wider at the sight of it, at the words of confirmation that he could at least pay for a drink, even if it made him uneasy. It didn't look quite right, and he wondered if that's how he looked when he smiled, too, like the expression wasn't welcome on his face. No, he thought, he had practiced enough by now that he looked natural enough, whereas this smile before him did not. It made him want to move away, again, made him want to shrink back into himself and hide until it passed - but he didn't, leaning a little bit forward with a nod. He did not know what to make of it, either, just like he didn't know what to make of the staring. He thought that he shouldn't like it, not with the way it made him want to look away, but he couldn't say that he didn't like it, not for sure.

Because part of him did, he realized, while the other part did not.

"As you wish," the passive replied, turning his head a little though his pale eyes were delayed, following a moment later to look to the barmaid. She was already on her way over, fortunately, and Lars caught her attention with a little wave of his bruised, sticky hand (god, he hated that feeling). He reached into the pockets of Tricky Yulis' jacket as Sally approached, pulling out a few coins that likely should've been his in the first place, and handed over enough for three drinks.

"Two more, please," requested Lars, afterwards grabbing his mostly-empty glass and bringing it to his lips to down the rest of it. It was good, better than the shit they poured him at the Dove anyhow, and he would've been sadder for spilling most of it if he didn't know that he'd be drunk already if he hadn't. He could only hope that he didn't make a fool of himself as usual, after he'd already spilled one drink.

He looked back to the stranger beside him, watching them curiously and setting an elbow onto the bar, resting his chin in his palm. Lars knew better, yes, he knew better than to play with fire. He knew better than to continue conversation with this odd, unsettling figure. "What's your name?" he requested anyhow, blocking out the insistent little voice telling him to keep his mouth shut.

[Peregrine]

02 of Vortas, 2719 - Four Drinks In
The Leviathan Public House, The Rose

See! See. Some people appreciated Gideon's face properly. Maybe Peregrine wasn't so terrible at smiling after all. At least their new companion hadn't stopped smiling just 'cause Gideon had started. That was nice. A refreshing change of pace. He'd drawn back when Gideon's hand had decided to clench into a fist, but he leaned forward now. That was good. Peregrine was fairly certain that was good. Although, this was the Rose. Best to keep an eye open. Both of them, ideally. They didn't want to have to pick a new face too soon, and Peregrine didn't trust nobody as far as he could spit. Which weren't too far.

Had to remember about the blinking though. Other faces had done it more automatic-like; this one seemed to forget when Peregrine did. That did make Peregrine a little uneasy. It hadn't always been so hard to control the shapes they took. Had they waited too long, between the bookseller and Gideon? They knew it made them fair awful sick, staying outside too long. Hungry. Well. Moreso. They were always ravenous.

Gideon's smile had vanished as suddenly as it had come, Peregrine bored of the effort of holding it in place. The feeling lingered. Peregrine liked when folks thought to buy Gideon drinks. It happened, from time to time, even though they hadn't seemed to get expressions right in the face. Even if Gideon Carver made a fair few folk nervous to be around. That too seemed fair enough, even if nobody knew what they were looking at. Ha! As if they could. But sometimes folks thought to buy Gideon a drink, and Peregrine was happy to accept. They weren't picky.

Peregrine looked at the man at the bar next to him. Tracked with some interest the motion of his hand as he waved down Sally, asking for two more of whatever it was that was all over their clothes now. Peregrine did not smile at Sally; they had tried that once, and they distinctly remembered as she did not appreciate the smile. Then they were being looked back at, or Gideon was. Was there a difference? Of course there was a difference. Peregrine knew there was a difference, because Peregrine made the difference on purpose.

"Gideon," they said. There was a last name. What was it? They struggled to remember and gave it up as a lost cause. Four drinks was not too many drinks, not for Peregrine-as-Gideon, but it was still a fair bit. Made them all swimmy. Blink--this time Peregrine remembered. Then they remembered not to stare, so they looked away at their wet trousers. This may have been an outfit they liked, after all. Shit.

Sally returned with drinks, setting them in front of both of them. Peregrine nodded at her. Then they took the drink and knocked it back, swift and practiced. Not all of it, of course, that spoiled the fun of it. But a lot of it. It was hot in Gideon's throat, his jaw, the pit of his stomach. Yes, Peregrine liked this one. If they remembered, they would have to find out what it was.

"And you...?" Peregrine turned again, Gideon's face settling into some kind interest. This, they thought, was fun. Yes. Weren't as folks often chatted with them, really. Mostly this was good, on account of how it saved Peregrine of having to answer questions they didn't have a mind to. Sometimes, though, it was fun. Four-and-a-half-drinks-o'clock was the hour for fun.

[Lars]

vortas 2, 2719
the leviathan in the early night

Lars watched the way the stranger's face fell, not quite into a frown, but the smile certainly dropped itself quick. He wondered if he'd done something to cause that, if he'd somehow upset them suddenly, but didn't lend much to that theory. It seemed to him that they were simply done smiling, and he could appreciate the honesty of it. The smile dropped from Lars' face, too, but the intention behind it did not; he still found himself highly amused with the subject beside him, almost eagerly anticipating the next odd thing that came from their mouth. He had been quite restless, earlier, quite irritated and impatient to get his drinks and get to that state of unconsciousness as quickly as possible, but this was perhaps more interesting.

They gave him a name, then - Gideon. He didn't know if it fit them, that name, but then he supposed his names didn't always fit him either, and it wasn't necessary that they did. Gideon. Gideon... he pushed his emptied glass to the side, grabbing the fresh one that Sally had just set down and thankfully not spilling it, this time around. He saw Gideon down a fair amount of the drink, out of the corner of his eye (stop looking over), and Lars did the same with his own.

It made his eyebrows raise, involuntarily, drawing together as his face protested against the drink. That had been a little much for him, he knew, and certainly enough to get him far along in his way to sleep, but maybe he could handle it. At least a little longer, he hoped. He liked the oddness of it all.

Lars kept his glass in his hand, his other arm drawn across his waist, and finally let himself look back to Gideon when asked for his name. Ah, right. He hadn't even thought to return it, hadn't thought it too important when there were other things to think about, to focus on, like Gideon's strange, dark eyes - stop looking at them, leave it alone - he blinked, taking another (much smaller) sip before he bothered to respond.

"Cailan," offered the passive, though he had debated giving out the truth for a moment. It wasn't as if it mattered much, so far from Brunnhold and anyone else that would know his name, but it had become habit to add the little lie into his daily interactions. It made it easier to work, too, when he didn't have to deal with hearing his real name, it made him feel less attached to it all, like it was someone else doing it.

"Someone e-" Lars shook his head, quick, cutting off the words before they'd made it all the way out. No, he wanted to sit here and drink with Gideon, so long as they let him, and he didn't want himself ruining that. There were plenty of interesting folks in the harbor, yes, but not so many as unsettling and uneasily pretty as -

"Gideon," he addressed, picking up his head again to turn it towards them, sounding only a little strained. He curved the corners of his mouth into a smile, again, a little less wide, a little more out of place. His eyes looked over them again, over the soaked clothes, and it curved downwards subtly. "You must be uncomfortable," commented Lars, even if he didn't sound quite as apologetic as he had before, when he had first spilled the drink over Gideon, "do you have drinks spilled on you often, or is this a new thing for you?"

Or maybe they were drunk to the point of not caring. Still, he was curious about them - about if they visited this place often, alone (maybe that wasn't the best way to put it) but he couldn't imagine many people willingly remaining here beside them, what with the way people liked their sensible conversations and corresponding reactions.

"I've never seen you before," no, he would have remembered seeing them, considering the way it seemed impossible to do anything but see them. It only occurred to him then what an unfortunate thing that was, to be so distracted in an unfamiliar bar, but if Gideon hadn't have been there, the drinks would have done the same soon enough.

[Peregrine]

02 of Vortas, 2719- Nearly Five-Drinks-O'Clock
The Leviathan Public House, The Rose

Their companion mirrored their action with the drink, taking a generous swig of it. He, Peregrine noticed, didn't seem as he was so fond of the stuff as Peregrine was. Maybe just a poor drinker. Weren't no matter, not to Peregrine. Weak drinker, strong drinker--they'd been both, in their time. Sometimes one or the other would surprise a body, starting one type and turning into the other if the night was right. Peregrine wanted to laugh, but found as the mechanism to do so skittered away out of their grasp.

Peregrine turned the name over in their mind. Cailan. Rolled the syllables around, stretched out the consonants. Was that better than Gideon? Seemed to fit his face well enough--Cailan's, not Gideon's. Gideon was a Gideon, and that was why Peregrine had picked the name. Peregrine was good at picking names, they thought. That was one of the best parts of a new face, trying to pick a name to go with it. Much easier than the other way 'round. Peregrine nodded to themself, approving of both names.

For a moment, Peregrine swiveled their heavy gaze to Cailan when he spoke, choking the words back down. Peregrine did that, soemtimes, when they got confused and forgot which face it was they were wearing. That was the problem with making up someone new to go with each one, they mourned--hard to keep track as to which one they was wearing at the time. From time to time. Cailan smiled again, turning his head towards them, but Peregrine did not. The once was enough, they thought. They had confirmed that some did not mind when this face smiled. Were they uncomfortable? Was Gideon? They considered this.

"Ent much as is new to me," they offered. "But ent as I can say this is common, neither." They thought again, flicking their eyes up and away, towards the ceiling. "Not comfortable." A flat admission of fact. They were undamaged, of course, but discomfort was setting in. Even more than four-and-a-half-drinks-o'clock could soften. Peregrine took a contemplative sip of the rest of their drink, tracing the path the liquor made as it burned its way through Gideon's breast and into the pit of his stomach. Nearly five-drinks-o'clock. Even better time than four-and-a-half-drinks-o'clock.

"I've been away from the Rose. A long time." Peregrine looked to their pale companion. Looked awfully young for all that gray, leastaways as far as Peregrine could tell. They had never been good with ages, even in the Before. Or were they? Peregrine frowned and tried to remember. Had they been good with ages? "Fourty years, give or take a decade or so." Usually most folks took this as a joke. Peregrine liked to say these things, because nobody really listened. Peregrine took another swig of their drink, finishing it neat and quick-like. Five. They would catch the girl's eyes again. Later.

"Were you expectin' to?" Peregrine frowned, eyes sharp suddenly. Of course he'd never seen them before--Peregrine didn't like as to think that anyone would have seen Gideon Carver and his handsome broken-glass face before. That was the whole point of coming to the Rose. For all that Peregrine had reminded themselves to blink, not to stare, they had done it again. There was nothing in their stare now, just flat darkness. They could be looking at Cailan, or through him, or to the other side of the world.

[Lars]

vortas 2, 2719
the leviathan in the early night

Gideon looked away from him, up to the ceiling. Lars didn't know what could've been of interest up there, save for an excuse to look away, so he looked away too. With most people he met, it was difficult to tell what they wanted - not that Gideon here seemed all that easy to figure out, but they were different, for sure. It felt like they were looking at things for a reason, because they wanted to, not just to be polite. That was easier to manage, easier to mirror. Lars always felt lost if he didn't have enough to mirror; it felt like being tossed out into the sea without anything to pull himself back to shore. Gideon, though, Gideon seemed just as strange, and for all the unease a part of him felt around them, there was a comfort to it.

Not comfortable, they said, and Lars' fingers tapped against his glass. He didn't feel bad for causing it, not really. He wondered if Gideon even cared. Probably not, considering the nonchalant way they'd said it, the way they'd barely reacted to having a drink spilled on them at all. Even now, they were just sitting there, sipping at their drink, like they weren't sitting in soaked clothes. He didn't know if he could do that, not without a fair amount of snarky remarks to whoever spilled it on him.

Gideon was speaking up again, mentioning that they'd been away from the Rose for a while, and Lars looked over to them, curious. He wasn't sure what kind of environment he could see Gideon thriving in, but it wasn't anywhere else in Anaxas. Even for the harbor, they were strange. They gave him a number, then, and the passive's confusion was clear on his face. Forty years? Gideon didn't even look as old as Lars, and he was still a little more than a decade off of forty - oh, but - they were joking, weren't they. It hadn't sounded like a joke, but obviously they weren't that old, so it must have been. He told himself to laugh; it came out as more of a huff.

Lars took another sip of his drink, and it went down a little easier again, now that he wasn't trying to down half the damned thing at once. He could feel it, too, making his limbs a little heavier, a little more awkward, and he took a deep breath, eyes flicking over to Gideon's face again as they spoke. What? They looked a little... scary, like that. Frowning. He liked it better when they smiled (though he still couldn't say that he disliked the frown), but he didn't know which was more unsettling.

"Expecting to see you?" he repeated, just to clarify, before shaking his head, and taking another good sip of his drink - almost gone, now.

"No. I've only been here for a few months, myself. I wouldn't say that I know many people here, or their habits, just yet," Lars supposed he was well on his way to learning, but Gideon could've told him anything and he wouldn't have known the difference. Whether they were a Rose regular or just a visitor, he didn't know. It wasn't much in his business to know, but he liked knowing. He liked learning about other people, liked knowing them, knowing what made them work. It was worse, now, when he was starting to feel a little thrown off by the alcohol, because at least when he was sober, he could keep questions to himself.

He turned a little more towards Gideon, and finished off the rest of his drink before he spoke, a little more bleary-eyed than before. "Where are you from, then?" he questioned, his arms wrapping around his own waist again as he leaned against the back of the chair, "and what are you doing here?"

This probably wasn't smart. Asking strangers questions was never smart, not here, and especially not when you were getting yourself drunk.

"We shouldn't have anymore," he warned himself, though he was still looking at Gideon, "we should go. We've already made a mess."

"Would you like another?" Lars tipped his head towards their empty glasses, "I don't mind paying if you don't mind the company."

[Peregrine]

02 of Vortas, 2719 - Five Drinks In
The Leviathan Public House, The Rose

Where were they from, Cailan had wanted to know. They didn't like the question. Weren't like they didn't have an answer, no--they had come up with an answer, but that had been many drinks ago, days ago even, and they didn't know the answer now. Their mind reached back trying to find the truth instead of the act, and they couldn't find it. There was an answer, where was the answer? They wanted to know. Instead of a place or a time there was only a hole. Moth-eaten. Worm-eaten, like their first face, the Before face, under the ground. Nothing but bones and dirt, and that's what Peregrine should be, but they weren't, see? They'd escaped and they would never--they didn't want to--

"No." Peregrine hissed, turning to their companion, to Cailan. If they had seemed to loom before, by circumstance more than intent, they filled the space up now. Peregrine leaned a little forward. They didn't like being asked the question, didn't like how they didn't have an answer now. Cailan was small, delicate; Gideon was not. It would be easy, Peregrine thought, to reach out, to smother the question. All questions. Gideon's hand curled tight around the now-empty glass. Peregrine's lips pulled back from Gideon's teeth in something like a snarl.

Shit. Shit. This wasn't--they shouldn't do this. This face wasn't--they liked this bar. They wanted to come back. Needed to stop, had to be careful. They forced the hand that clenched the glass to relax, and this time the hand listened. Good. Peregrine didn't move their body, but they relaxed the hard line of their shoulders.

"Don't, ah, like to talk 'bout that much," they muttered. That would have to do. "Ent say as I do much of anything. Not at present. Work the docks." Peregrine felt a little unbalanced. Five drinks was catching up to them; drinks always did, in the end. The floor felt closer than it had before. They weren't so keen to end up on it, tonight. Last time the owner had been annoyed. Peregrine knew he'd been, couldn't remember how they knew but they did. They felt warm again, now. Five was a good number of drinks. They wanted to lay down on the counter, to keep as from falling to the floor.

"We shouldn't?" Peregrine furrowed their brow, confused. Even more confused when that was followed up by an offer to buy them another drink. That was fine--they weren't so used to company, but they liked company. Peregrine didn't like questions, but as long as there weren't so much of that, Cailan was fine company. Didn't know what mess was meant, other than the one they were wearing, but they were having trouble keeping on slippery swimmy thoughts.

"Wouldn't mind either." Peregrine set a hand on the counter, long fingers starting to tap out a rhythm that jerked strange across the surface. Fingers like-- like-- like water striders. Yes. That was it, that was what fingers were like. Wouldn't know to look at a water strider, but they were predators. Wouldn't know to look at a Gideon neither. Ha! But they were safe, everyone in the Leviathan, because Peregrine liked this face and wanted to keep it a while yet. Window shopping only.

"What do you do, then?" Seemed as if that was the sort of question one asked back, when talking to folks. Peregrine wasn't sure, not no more, but their bones were loose in their skin and they felt languid enough to ask.