what's mistaken for closeness is just a case for mitosis [closed]

[lottawork]

Waking is not, historically, what Rush would regard as a favored activity. He is where he always is after being unexpectedly beset upon by sleep's inevitable grasp. The floor is solid and bracing, forming an aching spandrel between that plane and the paralleled arch of shoulders and spine. His skull is no longer the fractured mess it was, in reality left smooth and whole.

The entirety of the Rift's irritating, interfering traversal through the less fondly remembered aspects of his own past is etched into the anterior of his mind, still frames printed behind closed lids. He grinds the heels of both palms into his eye sockets with a fierce, fervent energy, as if it would be possible to scrub away the echo of that experience through execution of pressure alone.

He wonders how much of the dream's content is plausibly dismissible, an idea whose own plausibility he dismisses. Asadi was always too smart for direct obfuscation; it was what he liked about her, what he has continued to appreciate and value about her, but intimacy with one's past as exposed by the Rift is the unfortunate lead-in to a conversation he is certain they will be required to have and would prefer not to have, with her or anyone.

He is also aware, however, that he has been left very little in the way of personal autonomy in relation to that choice. Particularly since his latest endeavor in becoming more deeply acquainted with neuroanatomy has ground to a lamentable standstill, and to best acquire a more extensive knowledge base he will have to be - considerably more hands-on.

Fuck.

The trip to Asadi's apartment passes in its own dull-edged, lateral blur, instructions snapped out briskly to an unlucky taxi driver until he arrives, disheveled and recently woken and completely uninvited. It does not occur to him until after he has rung for her repeatedly that this may be potentially construed as socially unnatural or unacceptable, but he has already set certain events in motion and must see them to their uncertain conclusion.

Comments

[lottawork]

His look intensifies, eyes narrowing more critically, the sole indication of his surprise. He continues to exert regular effort into detaching a particularly stubborn piece of equipment with automatic precision, his attention divided.

"I doubt there's much to go back to," he says, a dry lacquer over his own persistent sense of loss. "The point in space from which I departed very likely no longer exists."

As Destiny ceased to exist, so likely did his sole remaining avenue to the D-brane from which he personally originated.

"Assuming that offer is still open by that time," he continues, voice softening incrementally, "I would be amenable to that."

[etherthief]

Oh, well, that's even more complicated than interpersonal issues. Her expression twists briefly with surprise and pity, which she banishes as quickly as she can, he's like her and he'll detest pity.

"I don't want to rule out the possibility that we could set our own spatial endpoint," she says, forcing herself to sound reasonable. "I mean, I never got that far in my efforts, but it's not impossible, it was a goal I was working toward."

Of course, to do this, they'll need to make significantly more progress on her arm than she thinks they are capable of.

"Either way," she says. "Uh. Yeah. I can't imagine the offer will close."

Okay enough of that. She swipes the bottle back and drinks a little bit more than would qualify as a single swig, sets it back down heavily and immediately drops her head onto the table.

"Oh-kay," she says, the full effect encroaching in earnest. "Yup. All right. Are you done yet, jeez."

His forty minutes have not elapsed, but surely he has to be getting close.

[lottawork]

Rush finds himself equally eager to shift the conversation from the scope of their current topic, primarily for the sake of navigating to subject matter he feels more adequately informed in discussing. He eases out the latest in the long string of instruments freed from the complicated expanse and surveys the remaining constituents with a displeased scowl.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he says, compacting as much airy hauteur into his tone as possible. "I've been making considerable progress."

[etherthief]

"Make it fasterrrr," she whines, muffled into her arm. She peeks up at him. He actually is almost done. She's going to have to drink so much whiskey.

"We're gonna have to clean the thing out," she mumbles, "before we can put any new mechanisms in there. Mm-hm." She pushes the bottle back to him. "You should drink more or you're gonna kill me. Come on, be more Scottish."

[lottawork]

He completes his objective with several deft twists of the screwdriver, settling the last of the hand's internal instrumentations down with a quiet click.

"As if nationality were measurable by a gradable scale," he scoffs, retrieving the bottle and partaking in a prolonged swallow. The glass impacts the surface of the table with a pronounced snap as his expression twists into a vicious, one-sided smile, victory carved into the bright slash of teeth.

"Go'n tan yersel'," he says, deliberately stretching the vowels, the consonants rolling smoothly off his tongue.

[etherthief]

She giggles (actually giggles) and makes a couple swipes at the bottle, testing it. There's still a good deal left, this'll lay her out for the rest of the day, but there's more in the cabinet for him to enjoy, so he can spend the next hour playing catch-up.

"To the victor the spoils," she says, and knocks it back.

She can't chug like she used to - it takes a few attempts to finish the whole thing - but she does it and slams the bottle back down.

"YEAH," she says, louder than necessary, then slumps down in a happy puddle, pointing vaguely at the kitchen. "All right. Gooooget yerslf s'more. I'm not gon' be this drunk by mySELF."

[lottawork]

He looks at her skeptically. "I'm sure."

Rush stands, scraping the chair back across the floor, and locates a second bottle about three-quarters full of some American-brand whiskey of dubious quality. A desultory scan of the other bottles in abundance reveals very little by the way of any alcohol-based products he recognizes. He returns, bottle in hand, and removes the cap with a deft twist of one hand.

"You're challenging a northerner, I feel you should be made aware," he says with artless indolence, retaking his seat. "An' next time y'can invest in some bloody Scotch."

[etherthief]

"Next time I will," she says decisively, leaning back and propping herself up. Well, she isn't going to just watch him drink, fun as that might be. She has to engage herself so she doesn't fall asleep. After a moment's consideration she digs her phone out somewhat awkwardly and begins dutifully texting.

[lottawork]

The bottle's contents have been dwindling, for a certain definition of the term, in the time elapsed since that pronouncement, though he's currently hard-pressed to discover the specifics, exactly.

"Wha's so interesting, then?" he murmurs, his diction significantly more slurred but his facial muscles no less precise, eyes narrowing slightly in the direction of Asadi and her phone.

[etherthief]

"Greta," says Iman a little too dreamily, then looks up sharply, eyes narrowed. "I still haven't told her. Cause I can't yet. It's terrible. Don't fuckin lecture me. I'm just saying." She looks back at her phone, fiddling with it without typing in more texts, then offers it to him. "You wanna say hi?"

[lottawork]

"Mm," he says, accepting the device and turning it over and over in his hands in a thoughtful, continuous revolution. With exceptional focus and care, he presses out a message and sends it.

"I don't lecture," he says, finding his tone, to his annoyance, to be lacking any sort of earnest scorn whatsoever.

[etherthief]

"Do too," she says, not at all petulantly. "Just the other day you were all-" here she makes the questionable executive decision to do a vague and fairly unflattering impression of his accent and voice, "-THE FOOKING SYMMETRIC PROPERTY, bleepity bleep blorp. Like me an' Greta are just a, a fuckin math problem." She slumps back down, resting her chin thoughtfully on her arm. "I mean I get what you were tryina say and, and yeah, just. Uh-uh." She shakes her head very seriously.

[lottawork]

"I do not beep," he says, relieved to be sounding appropriately indignant if also somewhat confused as to Asadi's particular word choice. "And tha' accent is deplorable. Y'nae idea wha' a fuckin' Scottish accent sounds like?"

He considers the bottle and its contents before deciding against committing his liver to further unrest, making a semi-successful attempt to sharpen his consonants. "When it comes down tae it, everythin' is a math problem."

[etherthief]

"I have plenty of idea," she says, matching his indignation and gesticulating expressively at him. "I just can't do it right. Cause I ain't fuckin Scottish am I. Tha's yer job."

She snorts at his second comment. "Well yeah, I guess you could argue that," she says. "But the variables get absurd when you're dealing with people, you can't make fuckin' proofs for 'em. What're you saying to her?" The question is tacked on seamlessly as she notes that he's actually answering responses and suffers a belated burst of alarm that he might say something stupid.

What is she thinking, it's RUSH. He's definitely saying something stupid. She holds her hand back out. "Gimme."

[lottawork]

"Fuck off," he says without any of his typical ire, painstakingly delineating another message with each careful depression of a button. "We're having a conversation. Donnae interrupt."

[etherthief]

"About whaaat?" she presses, definitely petulantly. "You better not be talking about ME."

A vain suspicion, perhaps, but what else do they have to talk about? Is Rush going to be asking her for baking tips? "C'mon lemme see," she says, grasping again.

[lottawork]

He shifts purposefully away, fending off the encroaching invasion with a flap of his hand. Dividing his attention while drunk is not terribly wise from several select standpoints, but being drunk is not unlike being dehydrated and he has ample experience on both fronts.

"I am fucking commandeering your fucking phone," he says, the words devoid of bite. "Go fucking find another."

[etherthief]

"You better be being nice," she pouts, giving up for now and watching him reproachfully. It takes a few more moments of watching him struggle with the device before she softens, realizing he really is having a conversation with Greta. She's never seen much of the two of them interacting without her being the center of focus (a memory which makes her cringe slightly). She has no idea how they actually get on without her.

"You like her?" she asks after a decent bout of silence.

[lottawork]

"Of course I like her," he snaps, attempting to fix Asadi with a look of utter disdain but not quite managing it. He's fairly certain his expression falls in the range of something vaguely aggrieved. "She's consistently resourceful."

It occurs to him that he has failed to elucidate this properly over text, though he's doubtless managed to communicate the sentiment regardless, if certainly less eloquently.

[etherthief]

"All right," she says, her hand raised in defense. "I'm just askin'."

She smiles to herself in spite of his surliness. There's something uniquely charming about Rush being nice to Greta, nice about her.

She reaches over to lift her dead arm up, closing it up delicately. It's a little lighter now, all scraped out like that; small favors. She drags it off the table and slides down from her chair, padding over to the kitchen to pour herself some water, moving a little unsteadily.

"Fuck me," she remarks. "It's not even noon."

[lottawork]

"Donnae fash yersel'," he says vaguely. "I'm sure we c'n do much worse."

He sets the phone atop the table surface and leans back, eyes shut as he tries to evaluate his current ratio of alcohol to alcohol dehydrogenase.

He has significant difficulty pursuing that line of thought.

One eye cracks open as he watches Asadi move with a certain level of imbalance befitting one as obviously intoxicated as she.

"You," he murmurs, diction becoming progressively more slurred, "'re pure dead fucking brilliant. Not sure if anyone's told you. I'm telling you now." His eyes close again. "Don' say I said it."

[etherthief]

She turns slowly when he addresses her, and blinks at him for several moments, trying to parse what he's saying. Not because it's difficult to understand, but because he's saying it.

"Buh?" she says eventually, sliding the water pitcher back into the fridge. She stays put for now, standing there and sipping. "I mean I - yeah, people've told me that. You told me that, I ... I think." Didn't he? She frowns thoughtfully and waves it off, smiling sheepishly into her water. "You're pretty great. I mean. Smart." She takes a full drink of water to tide herself over the awkwardness of paying him an earnest compliment, then ends up raising her glass slightly as if in toast. "Pure dead fuckin' brilliant."

[lottawork]

Rush snorts and drags the bottle back to him with a prolonged rasp over wood.

"Aye," he says, raising it in toast. "Bang t'rights."

He is certain he will regret the entire sequence of events he has since set in motion as well as the result of them as it will be, inevitably, the sort of headache reminiscent of having one's brain pressurized and driven unremittingly into the back of one's own skull.

Intoxication allows the luxury of freely dismissing logic, so he throws the bottle back and drinks.