sing it with me one more time: i am feeling fine [closed]

[ceciiil]

True to his texted word, inasmuch as any of his texting had contained actual words, Cecil determines to visit the TARDIS. Instincts are telling him that despite her words, a distraction in the form of a social call might prove useful. Plus, he really does owe her. What better way to show gratitude?

It's a matter of a few minutes to find out the address of the nearest butcher's shop that carries what he's looking for, and a matter of quite a few more to visit it. Of course he's told that the best they can manage on short notice is a pint, frozen, but Cecil supposes that's urban life for you. There's probably a delivery service cornering the market. Maybe he should try Amazon next time?

The little bucket of blood is still icy when he arrives at the TARDIS, even with the detour for roast beef sandwiches. He sets his burden down and considers how best to go about this; surprisingly, he's never attempted to ward anything outright trans-dimensional before. Do you just start with the outside? Are the outside and the inside considered the same, from a ritualistic standpoint? He shrugs and sets to smearing blood on the lintel, scooping around the frozen chunks.

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[theoldgirl]

She sits down across from him and eyes his elaborate food unwrapping while considering his answer. It doesn't really sound like he can do what she'd need - she isn't looking for some nebulous general warding, she needs the assurance that she would have reliable additional protection against Gabriel if necessary. And Cecil seems to have finally picked up on that part.

"I don't want to target him," she objects unhappily, gaze cast down at her folded hands. "I... we were very close. But now... I simply don't know what to expect of him." He'd said he didn't want them to be enemies, but how much can she really trust him anymore? He feels threatened so easily, and he was only civil to the Doctor for her sake, so what happens if he changes his mind? These thoughts alone are making her miserable, darkening the mist outside the window.

[ceciiil]

Ah. One of those. He'd been right to come, and doubly right to bring sandwiches. And blood. He only regrets that he hadn't brought milkshakes. "Yeah, breakups are the worst. Especially with your more...unpredictable beings." Not that an ex has to be an unpredictable supernatural entity to get drunk and smash your car windows. Night Vale might be a small and tight-knit community, but sometimes that just makes the drama more virulent. Cecil's hardly a stranger. He pushes food in her direction solicitously.

"Well, I don't really know you, and of course I don't know your non-existent angel. So I don't want to presume." That cat is preposterously out of the bag long ago, but Cecil is belatedly trying to avoid seeming meddlesome. "But if you were that close and then had a falling out, taking some precaution doesn't seem like a bad idea." He hesitates, trying to be a delicate as possible, "Do you have anything of his? That would make things a lot easier."

[theoldgirl]

She'd hardly use something as simple and mundane as a 'breakup' to refer to the end of her relationship with Gabriel, but she doesn't have the will to correct Cecil. And as he goes on, she finds herself a little comforted by how delicate and understanding he's trying to be, even if he was awfully pushy about the blood earlier. It's enough to make her pick up a single curly fry and give it a thoughtful bite while considering his suggestion.

Even now she's reluctant to give up anything Gabriel feels protective of. A part of her still doesn't want him to get hurt by her or anyone else, but she morosely reminds herself that he no longer deserves her protection. "He gave me a feather from his wings," she admits hesitantly, recalling that it had been a show of trust. "What would you do with it?"

[ceciiil]

Good, if she's accepting curly fries then she has to be on the emotional mend. "Just use it to tailor the warding to him specifically. But with a thaumaturgic link that strong that's pretty much a guarantee. I mean a feather is basically equivalent to hair or fingernails, when you think about it, so it's a step up from just a hoodie or whatever. And it's definitely a lot better than just having his name to work with. Especially in this case." It's funny, because, y'know, Erika. But now probably isn't the time for humour; what a social misstep that had almost been. "How're the fries?"

[theoldgirl]

It doesn't sound like Cecil would need to destroy the feather or intends to use it for anything else than what she's requesting, so that at least is a relief. She kind of doubts the existence of a 'thaumaturgic' link, but a genetic link would certainly make sense. And there's that name thing again, like she'd suspected, though her train of thought is momentarily derailed by his irrelevant question.

"Good, I suppose," she answers distractedly and with little conviction. She might enjoy the fries quite a bit, if thoughts of Gabriel weren't weighing so heavily on her. "What do you mean, in this case?"

[ceciiil]

Cecil greets her lackluster endorsement of curly fries with a moue of disappointment. Maybe not as on the emotional mend as he had hoped. Perhaps he should have sprung for milkshakes after all, but in the face of being told the grasshopper shake wasn't made with real grasshoppers, it hadn't felt worth it.

"Wellllll, you know." He isn't eager to answer her question, either. It's just kind of embarrassing? When you say something that's a little bit funny, but not funny enough to stand up to an explanation if someone doesn't get it the first time around. Awwwwkwaaaard. He's really having some trouble not being wrong-footed with this entity. "Angels. Not the best with individuality, right? Not that there's anything wrong with being called Erika. There were quite a few Erikas in my town." He feels fine saying that, even though the wards aren't finished. How quickly some habits fade.