think i need to feel the freedom

[abhorrently]

Who: Fever, Helena, and those threading with them
What:January non-event things.
When: All month.
Where: Across the isle.
Warning(s): To be noted in threads individually

Comments

12/31 - semi closed.

[abhorrently]

The last few days of the month are busy ones. And it's the last day of the year when Fever tugs Degas out of his own dwelling to follow her to Zivia's house, claiming he can help with something that she wants to remain frustratingly vague on. She's banking on being able to play upon his sympathies to get him there, and through trickery, flattery, and sheer stubbornness, the man does end up following her there.

What greets him when he arrives is a small gathering of friends, the house set up to accommodate them in comfort, and all of them wishing him a happy birthday. None of them need anything terribly fancy, but an effort has certainly been made to make it special. Those in his circle who cannot attend in person will have been invited to write messages for him for the upcoming year. There is a cake, among other refreshments, and there is a paper hat Fever will make pathetic eyes at Degas to wear, just so he can seem important. And there is love, love in abundance. The world might be gearing up to watch another year pass, but they have come together to remind him that the new year is one they wish to greet with him, and that he is not something to be sidelined.

Those that need to depart afterwards will be fully able to, but those that want to also bring in the new year will be invited to what comes after. Fever and Angel have plans to watch the first sunrise of the year, and if one wants to pull an all nighter, they'll be free to join.

[ooc: i'm taking a cue from midnight mass and creating a general onscreen place for attendance. if you guys want to thread further, feel free - i just didn't want to make anyone feel like they had to do anything formal. have fun!]

[preacher_in_reticence]

The old man's eyes are wet and stinging all night long, but he keeps himself from dissolving into a mist of tears like a squonk until most of the crowd has departed. He really did expect Fever to forget.

[abhorrently]

Not a chance. Not a wisp of a chance, particularly when she's practically been floating on clouds the last few days, and it means when she sees those tears, she has no hesitation to pull him into a hug. She'll never say it aloud, but she intends to do this next year, and the next. And so on. Really, it's easy to remember - the last day of the last month. Forgetting would be unpardonable.

[lovethyneighb_or]

Mulcahy comes, of course. He preludes this with warning Fever and Angel that he may have to depart early, to prepare things for the ongoing days of Christmas. Magnetized by the warmth and the love, however, he never quite goes. Even if he is quiet--that's alright, he always is.

Degas' gift is given in a box. There is a jar of fruit jam and a little thing of lotion inside. There is a note in Mulcahy's neat scrawl:

Degas,

You have been unfailingly kind and welcoming to all manner of strange faiths to this island. This is a kindness that I could never do enough to repay, especially when I had been denied this before. More than that, however, you have been a patient friend and a decent man. May the next year be as good to you as you have been to me.

- Mulcahy

Mulcahy is determined to see the sunrise with Fever and Angel. He doesn't quite make it there, dozing off on Angel a little before morning light.

[graveling]

Angel is content to be Mulcahy's pillow, a look of peace that transcends its usually-stony expression on its face. There might be a point when it gestures at Fever to request a snack or some water, because from the moment Mulcahy dozes off, it's not speaking a word.

[preacher_in_reticence]

About a week and some change into January, Degas invites Mulcahy over for tea, served with scones and that same jar of jam and some of Angel's honey. It all tastes better when shared.

[tehilim127_1]

Zivia is in her element hosting the little party. The cake is made with preserved cherries and flaked almonds, served with whipped cream on the side; there's crackers and sliced vegetables around a bowl of onion dip, and a bowl of salted mixed nuts; there's hot tea, and a chilled fruit-and-herb drink, and something cold and creamy that isn't quite standard eggnog but tastes good anyway.

At some point, she's going to get a conversation going about different birthday traditions in everybody's own world, as much or as little as they feel like sharing. She will not, however, insist on Degas being subjected to all of them.

She's also very much hoping to join the group staying up until sunrise, if she can manage it.

farmhouse.

[decrypter]

The conversation that's ahead of them is...daunting, to say the least. No matter how much Helena tries to talk herself down, how much she knows Phil is a kind man and supportive and everything that Darcy would look for in a parent, there's a part of her mind that screams they should have had this conversation first. She said yes too quickly, too afraid of losing her beloved again. There should have been more leadup to this.

In the end, she had simply insisted. What's done is done, but they can't hide the truth from him overly long, or it won't be fair.

So, here they are, and here she is, back at the familiar house. She's walked here so often she could do it half asleep. And dinner, this she can do, and she's somehow managing to remain normal about this. Mostly. Phil can probably already discern they have Something to bring up, given how well he knows his own kid and how Helena seems to be a tiny bit on edge.

At least it's impossible to choke on the food. It's too good to subject to that, and despite herself, Helena has a healthy appetite. Just...stay focused.

[saltwaterlungs]

Here's a few things that Phil will have noticed.

The first is that this dinner is a little bit last minute. Darcy's invited Helena over to eat a number of times before, but usually with more warning than this. Then there's how the pair of them act- it doesn't look like they've had a fight per se, but the usual ease of their connection while Darcy was helping to cook (nothing strenuous) very quickly quietens into something tense.

So something is up. And Darcy is looking into the venison stew in their bowl so intently that they may very well establish a psychic connection and remember a past life where they were a deer. It's not that they think Phil will take it badly, but they do remember the... 'pirate empress' conversation, and part of them is worried he won't approve. Think it's too rushed, or they're too young, or even worse- get stuck in his memories of Rita and get even more melancholy than he had been.

So it's a very very quiet and tense dinner table. Hope Phil enjoys that.

[goodweather]

All of it puts him back in mind of the ship, a little. A little more than a little. He hasn't been... the most well lately, and he can hardly be stopped from running the entire gamut of worried parents everywhere. Back then, this kind of tense atmosphere had a forecast: somewhere there's been the social equivalent of a bridge collapse, and he should brace himself for the news. Things are better here, but with these two, in this house of refugees, he just--he doesn't know. Obviously they didn't break up, at least not catastrophically, but he doesn't know.

So he putters around trying to help or busying himself with side chores until dinner is set, and then eats quietly, listening too closely, and just.

...

"Sso," he says, "what's new?"

december.

[abhorrently]

A call on the sending stone reaches Phil the day after Mourner's Night.

"Can I come and see you? Just for a little while."

It's possible to say it over the rock, Fever knows, but she needs to say it in person. Needs to look him in the eye and say it, so he knows that there isn't a single doubt. And it being an excuse to actually see him doesn't hurt at all.

[goodweather]

"Of course."

He sounds subdued--mostly the weather, as he's explained. Makes him melancholy. The winter was exciting for a while, but now that the novelty's worn off, his head's taken the opportunity to settle back into its old rhythms.

"Where should I meet you?"

[abhorrently]

"Just tell me where you are, and I'll come to you. Anywhere on the island, even if you're on the peak of Crane's Ridge."

The lightness in her heart asks her to move, to walk around and see the world with fresh eyes, and she gives it its space to be. There will be time to luxuriate in sleep later, all the time in the world. And given how Phil's feeling, bringing him good news for the future certainly does no harm.

early january.

[abhorrently]

It takes a few days. There's the news to share, and Degas's birthday to put together, and naps to take as her body continues to adjust to the world in its new fashion. But she comes to Artemy's clinic soon enough, seeking him out.

In contrast to her demeanor before, full of nerves and strain, she's almost serene. Braced for how this conversation may go, what she is setting at risk by discussing it at all, but steady. He is owed this. And after what she's been through, speaking it aloud doesn't scare her as much anymore. Now it can be said. Now it should be said. Now it will be said.

"Artemy? Are you busy?"

(but there's been a shift in the Lines, hasn't there. something drawn as taut as a dog's leash while the beast strains, desperate for release, has been cut. changed. redrawn.)

[medekh]

"Not particularly."

He's sitting at his desk in the clinic, filling out some paperwork on one of the locals that's been seeing him. Boring clinical work, but he's happy to do it. He finishes the sentence he's on so he doesn't lose his place before setting the paper down and looking up from his work.

She looks. Different. There's a brilliance to her that he finds it hard to describe. Fever almost looks, free? Less encumbered. And her lines. Or the ones coming off of her. They look different. There is one in particular that always seemed heaviest to Artemy that is simply gone now.

It's none of his business, but somehow, he almost gets a sense that it's about to be his business.

"Can I help you?" He asks, trying to keep his voice light.

baker ranch.

[abhorrently]

It's a good call to have magic lessons out at the ranch, with the amount of things to practice with in terms of making a mage hand do what you want to do. Hers is precise because she knows it well, and she has every confidence Radar can figure it out. And she's eager to get started with things, because why not? He's spent his entire life without magic in his hands, why make him wait any longer?

She's approached this place before with trepidation, with wariness, with stubborn determination, but today she feels merely content, wearing the hat Radar had given her a few weeks ago to ward off the chill. Fever hurries over when she catches sight of that familiar figure, curious as to what he's doing first and foremost before they immediately dive into learning.

"Hi, Radar. What are you doing?"

She's been in a better mood ever since Mourner's Night, and today is absolutely no exception.

[incomingchoppers]

"Fever! Hi!"

Pretty much the second he read the note that came with Fever's Givingstide gift, Radar leapt for his sending stone to holler YES I WANNA LEARN TEACH ME WHEN CAN WE START. And now the day's here! It's happening! He's gonna finally know how to do magic!!

...This did not stop him from occupying himself before Fever arrived, so she finds him by the chicken coop, balanced on a stepstool, hammering a couple thin planks over a spot on its roof. He waves so enthusiastically he almost loses his balance, and has to catch himself against the coop with a laugh. "I'm just fixing up a gap in the coop's roof. It ain't that big but it was letting the snow in. How's it going?"

The chickens clustered around the base of the coop, because they have no concept of loud noises now mean less cold air later, don't look nearly as chipper as Radar. A few of them let out perturbed clucks as they fluff up their feathers against the cold.

lessons.

[abhorrently]

This is not how she wanted this to go.

Learning new magic, feeling out the borders of what has occurred - why, it's fantastic, and she wants to throw herself into it with abandon. It's still so fragile, so newborn, and while certain muscles feel like they long since relaxed, others need to be stretched, and she feels like a plant that has needed to overwinter. Oh, spring, spring will be marvelous.

But trying to see where this path of change has been going, embracing and following it - well, if she'd known the results, would she have gone for it? Probably still. Yet, she would have preferred something...larger. More fearsome. Sleek and beautiful and deadly. Something more akin to a noble beast that can predate on what it pleases. Just because the root of violent compulsion has been removed doesn't change her likes and dislikes.

What exists instead is something small, with tiny claws, tiny teeth. Fur that seems constantly full of static, fluffy as her own hair. Large eyes, uncoordinated in working with four - five unfamiliar limbs, instead of the ones she's accustomed to. And truthfully, she has no idea when or how to turn back.

I thought I'd be bigger than this.

Send help.

[blindwatchersees]

“Ah! I was wondering when you’d take a form like this!” He appears as if bidden: the long-haired, silver-furred, vest-clad Skooma Cat, paws folded as he lounges in the grass, taking in the sight of his little thundercloud of a daughter.

december.

[abhorrently]

Mourner's Night has come and gone, and Valdis's sending stone hums with a message, one Fever's all too happy to send.

"Please tell me you're not trapped at work. I have to see you."

Even over the rock, there's a warmth in her voice, excitement peeking through. Sure, she could share her news like this, but she'd rather bring herself, and let Valdis perceive it. Like this, Fever feels like she could do anything, even glide through the space that the Enforcers use without a twinge of her nerves.

[redlightgreenlight]

No. Valdis isn't at work when Fever calls her over the sending stone, she's been at home, waiting for her partner to contact her for several agonizing hours. She felt every moment, and it took all her self control to not abandon what she was doing and hunt Fever and the others down. But she knew that if Fever had wanted her there, she would have asked.

She can feel, even now, that Fever is lighter, the sound of her voice, the feel of her soul, currently farther from her than she would like, but all points to good news. News that she should hear from Fever's own lips instead of assuming or trying to figure it out herself. Empathy can only get someone so far and she wants Fever to relate it all to her in her own words.

"I'm at home, been waiting for you."

february.

[abhorrently]

She hasn't asked what happened, after that band had started to play. Her perceptions had narrowed to a single task - get out of here - and it was by some miracle that she'd made it to her apartment without collapsing in the street. Away from that noise. Away from those people. Away from anyone seeing how she breaks apart, yet again regretting that she made enough room for feelings in her body.

When she'd finally peeled herself off the floor in her apartment, Fever'd simply crawled into bed in the dress, unable to find the internal strength to remove it. Time passes, and as daylight creeps into the world, so she manages to rise. Change her clothes, wash her face. A dull ache sits at the bottom of her heart, and she doesn't feel much like handling it.

At least it's quiet now. She knows she has to check in on people, has to make sure they're fine, has to attend to probably a dozen things at once to make sure the world still ticks on. Somehow. She'll find the strength. Somewhere.

[amourtician]

Anzu finds himself halfway down the hall to Fever's flat, and while he can remember how he got there — he'd set out first thing in the morning, after checking up on Lev and Qingqiu.

Fever had seemed ... not quite herself, at Merrymeet. And he'd asked, and received a promise of an answer later, and then the demons turned up, followed by.

Well. In the aftermath, he had decided that they must've been Capochin's nephews, for a vague definition of "nephew" that includes people who are, theoretically, a boyfriend's younger cousins or something.

And Fever had left. At least, he'd hoped she'd merely left, instead of being eaten by something. So he's here doing a wellness check. He's done them before. It was a good third of his job back home, checking in on people who might not be able to drag themselves to the hospital or to a physician's clinic.

He knocks, and then, immediately, calls out, "Fever, darling! It's me. I just wished to make sure thou'rt not no ghost this morning."

home.

[abhorrently]

Cleaning the apartment is a simple thing, if boring. Put things where they go, wipe away dust and dirt, make sure nothing's been tracked in. It should be an easy task to do, and there should be more time left in the day. But a headache's been growing on her since halfway through, and when done, lying down with her eyes closed feels like the only thing she can do.

Fever knows what it is, when she takes her medicine and waits for it to start working. It's everything, it's the dregs of nightmare and the pain that's a constant bruise and that horrible fucking music from Merrymeet, it's not having enough of other people's problems to solve, it's that same wild urge that she had around Artemy that if she cracked open her ribs, everything would make more sense.

Spring. Maybe things will be better when spring comes. She thinks about it - about new grass, warmer winds, caterpillars hatching from eggs, fueling themselves for what will come next. It's the one spot in her head that doesn't feel mixed up or too disjointed to sort out. If one could bottle this collection of feelings, it would be the best poison ever crafted.

It isn't spoken that she needs him, but it resonates, vibrations across a mycelium, asking even as she would chastise herself for being too much. Even just to talk to, even just to sit in the same room for a bit.

[blindwatchersees]

And sure enough, he’s there, slipping into her house in between the blinking of moments, seated as if he’s been settled there for an hour already, cross-legged and reclining, with his cane propped up beside him.

“Where do you want to start?” he asks. He doesn’t need an icebreaker- they’ve already been having this conversation wordlessly, between Fever and herself. That’s why he’s here.