(no subject)
In which Caleb witnesses Alden and Finn being cute, goes flaily, and runs into David.
Caleb is feeling distinctly cheerful. His door is now a lovely glossy shade of black, thanks to Tasha’s help, and everything inside is delightfully organised except that both bedroom and half of the washroom are a sickly shade of green still. The other half of the washroom is a very nice shade of blue, in fact, but Caleb is beginning to feel a little loopy and even if he can do simple things like start fires in the palm of his hand and levitate objects, dispersing the paint smell is still somewhat beyond him.
With no real dejection, Caleb leaves his rooms. He’ll have to get someone to help him paint the bedroom, but-He’s visited Hayes, once, with some books, and they had a really fantastic afternoon, and then partway through Caleb remembered his conversation with Tasha very late one night, and Caleb found himself panicking and excusing himself, hopefully without drawing any untoward attention to himself, and with any luck Hayes has noticed nothing.
It does present a few problems about who to ask to help him paint, though.
Caleb sighs to himself and lets his feet wander. After some time, he finds himself walking out into what appears to be a very beautiful open-air garden. He blinks around in absolute delight.
He can hear voices somewhere in the middle of the garden. They sound familiar, so Caleb rather warily sets off towards them.
It is, he sees while he was still some distance away, Finn and Alden. Finn is pruning the roses and Alden is standing there rather awkwardly. To Caleb’s great surprise, he finds himself grinning in exasperated fondness, and sets off towards them with renewed speed.
Then he stops, very suddenly.
Their voices reach him, though from here he can only make out the tone of it. Finn’s voice and face are downcast, and after he cuts the next branch he stops, looking down at the dead limbs cluttering the ground.
Caleb knows he shouldn’t. Of course, he only knows this in a vague way, from the sorts of books that mention the wickedness of eavesdropping before the main character proceeds to quite wickedly eavesdrop and find out important plot points. Caleb also knows quite well how to listen in on a conversation, so he wanders vaguely closer until he is quite near and can see and hear them quite well while being effectively concealed by a very convenient sort of willow tree.
“-‘s just I don’t know if it ever will be over, Alden. Doesn’t seem like it right now. Or who’ll be left if we do manage to stop them.” Finn’s voice is quiet and rather sad.
“I know,” Alden murmurs, and gently takes the pruning shears from Finn’s unresisting hands. They simply vanish, though neither Finn or Alden seem to think this is cause for any sort of worry. “Listen, Finn,” Alden says gently, “it will be over soon enough. Mellie may not know it, but everyone’s right; she is our little general and she seems to be doing a bang-up job so far.” A pause. “I’m afraid I can’t promise what will come of it, though.”
“And how many will we lose?” Finn says bitterly. He reaches for Alden’s hand, and adds, “Sorry. It’s just…”
Alden takes Finn’s hand in both of his, and by the tree Caleb’s stomach gives an unpleasant little twist. He feels horribly as though he’s intruding on something that he should never be allowed to see.
“I know,” Alden is saying again. “It’s all right, Finn, I-I can’t say. I don’t know. But…” And he steps closer to Finn, slides his arms around Finn’s waist. “I’m here, at least. All we’ve got right now.”
Caleb swallows and takes a stumbling step backwards.
Finn buries one hand in Alden’s hair, the other twisted in his shirt. He does not seem inclined to do anything but hold on to Alden, his head resting on the other man’s chest. “I love you,” he says; quietly enough that Caleb hardly hears it. “Promise me when it does come to the fight you won’t be too reckless, Alden. It’s not worth taking them down if I have to lose you in the bargain.”
Alden swallows hard enough that Caleb can see it from where he stands. “I promise,” Alden says shakily, and kisses the top of Finn’s head. “Don’t you dare go round dying either.”
Caleb’s hands are clenched into tight fists, he realised, and he isn’t able to breathe properly. He feels horribly squirmy and embarrassed, and, far worse, he feels wrenchingly lonely.
“I don’t intend to,” Finn tells him, and hugs Alden hard, hiding his face against Alden’s neck.
Caleb remembers himself enough to back away some more before wrenching his eyes away from Finn and Alden wrapped tight and desperate round each other. His eyes sting, and he shakes himself furiously as he stalks from the garden, no longer marvelling at the beautiful sunlit trees.
What the hell is wrong with him?
Productivity is an important quality. Keeping busy means David doesn't have to think about the world he left just the other day, or what it's done to him. And that's why he's been working on moving everything (except the furniture) out of the storage room and into the back bedroom of Tasha's apartment, instead, with his flute in its bag looped over his shoulder.
It's not particularly thought-provoking, but at least the music in his head is from one of his CDs instead of the melody of that dimension, and so he's smiling a little, humming along, as he makes his way down the halls again.
He isn't particularly expecting to be forcibly smashed into by a boy with brilliantly red hair who has been running in the opposite direction. The boy reels back from him, looking stunned, and gasps, "Sorry!"
David catches himself against the wall with one hand, trying to catch his breath, and smiles a little, crookedly, after a moment.
"It's," he tries, "it's okay, really. You okay?"
"Aside from the bruised shoulder?" the boy says, with a wild little gulp of a laugh. "Yeah. Great. Real excellent. Thanks."
In fact, the boy looks panicked and trapped, not particularly okay.
(shivery little off-key arpeggio)
"Easy," he says softly, straightening. "No harm done, right? Bruises heal quickly, for most people. I'm David, what's your name?"
The boy swallows hard. "Caleb. Nice to meet you."
He gives David a quick, fake little grin, and starts off down the corridor, then stops very suddenly. "Wait. David. Uh." He turns back. "David... Tasha mentioned?"
He smiles a little, giving Caleb a curious look. "Did he? I suppose he might've. It's a pleasure to meet you, then, if you know Tasha."
"Uh. Yeah." Caleb is still obviously quite panicked about something, but his shoulders relax a little. "He said you used to... work together. Uh. Sorry. Prolly pryin'. Do you anymore?"
"Hopefully," he says, fairly cheerfully. "I just got back, actually, so I don't think we'll be heading out anytime very soon. I'm in the middle of pulling stuff out of storage, actually. If you've nothing else to do, I'd love the help." And you can tell me why you're so upset, perhaps.
"Uh," Caleb says again, and swallows hard. "Well. D'you have any green paint?"
"Probably not, no, but... are you new, then? Nobody's shown you where to get paint? Admittedly Tasha's tastes run more to black, but... actually, hell, for that matter I might. Somewhere. I've not a clue what I put in storage, really."
"Sorta been... patchy findin' where stuff is," Caleb admits, cautiously falling into step with David. "I know where t' find the library an' the furniture exchange an' some paint an' the clothing store, but never found a place that's just paint."
"Where'd you find the paint you did find?" he asks, curiously.
"Furniture exchange," Caleb says promptly, and hunches his shoulders. "Look. Maybe I should just get back to my rooms."
David shakes his head. "Nonsense," he says, with a smile. "If you leave, I've got nothing to do but move boxes, and moreover you won't find out where to get your green paint."
A shaky smile flickers across Caleb's face. "Right. I got it. Blackmail." He scuffs his shoe on the floor. "Look. 'M sorry. You sorta caught me at a weird time."
David raises an eyebrow, stopping in the middle of the hallway and studying Caleb. "No," he says, quietly. "Not blackmail. But it's damn hard to find the hardware store, and I was going to show you. If you'd rather, I can show you some other time instead. I'm staying in Tasha's spare bedroom for now, if you know where his apartment is."
Caleb shakes his head, avoiding David's eyes. "Uh. Yeah, I've been there, Tasha helped me paint my door, but-uh. I. Really need to get back to my room. I could. Yeah. You around? An'. An' you can show me where to get green paint. Yeah."
"Let me guess, your door is black now?" He smiles again, a little, one hand absently tracing over the embroidery on his bag. "If you need to go, don't let me keep you, but if you're upset about something, I'm good at listening."
"Yeah." Caleb rubs his forehead. "Uh. If you really wanna know whatsa matter, just ask Tasha. I talked to him 'bout it. So." Caleb is looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Don't. Really wanna talk about it in the halls. Uh. Don't know you."
"Well, no, you don't know me," David says gently. "I've been gone for most of the last two years, after all. And while I could ask him, I won't, because I wouldn't expect him to tell me someone else's story."
"That's... decent of you." Caleb bites his lip. "Listen. Uh. David. Can... can you tell Tasha that it's sorta gotten worse? Bein' confused an' that? Cuz. He's good to talk to."
"He is, yes." He offers the boy a smile. "I'll let him know, although you could tell him yourself-he's in his living room watching something. I think. I'm all in-and-out, I'm not sure."
"Gods, no thanks," Caleb says in horror. "Can't talk right now. Too confusin'. An' he'd make things sound real simple. Makes it harder to think straight." He gives a wild laugh and looks even more horrified. "I really gotta go."
"Thinking straight's not always the best response," he says lightly, eyebrows still raised a bit. "If you really want to go, go ahead. Or if you'd just like some company that doesn't require you to talk, you can come with me and help me move boxes."
Caleb swallows hard. "Okay," he whispers. "Right. No talkin' or thinkin'. That sounds good."
"Of course, I suppose I could be terribly cruel and make you talk anyway, tell me a little bit about yourself other than that your name is Caleb, you know Tasha, and you're looking for green paint," David points out as they start down the hall again. "But I don't think I will. Yet, at least. So, as I said, I'm David, originally from Alaska, diplomat and bard." He pulls the bag forward, sliding the flute case out a little.
Caleb peers at it. "'S pretty," he says. "Does... does the bardin' help? I mean, with the diplomatic stuff an' that?" His shoulders are beginning to relax, very slightly.
"Thanks." David smiles. "Sometimes it can. Depends on the situation. I'm empathic, which is part of it. That's usually pretty useful."
"Empathic?" Caleb repeats in puzzlement. "I mean... 'm pretty well read. But. Is that a magic term or somethin'? Dunno much about that. Didn't have magic on the world 'm from."
"'s magic, yeah. So's the barding, for the most part." He chuckles. "I know the feeling, though. I mean, apparently there was magic where I was from, but I didn't have a teacher until I came here. Didn't have a clue why certain things would happen when I played, or why there was always music in my head, or why I could tell what people were feeling." He shrugs.
Caleb stops again suddenly, panicked. "You can tell what I'm feelin'?" he repeats in horror.
"Yes, but not why," he says quietly. "I know you're upset about something, and I suppose if I listened I could get more detail than that, but I don't know you well enough to know more than that yet." He shrugs again. "I don't pry, Caleb. And I don't know anything more than someone who'd been paying attention while talking to you could've picked up."
Caleb lets out a shaky breath. "Oh. Okay. Good. Yeah." He walks a little faster. "How much farther?"
"-- uh."
David stops, and spins on his heel looking back the way they'd come, before offering Caleb a sheepish grin. "We've overshot the mark a bit, actually. That hallway, then third door on the left."
"Brill'ant," Caleb mutters, and shoves his hands in his pockets, the perfect image of a sulking teenager. He follows David when David turns around and goes towards the indicated hallway, though.
"Sorry," he murmurs. "Got a bit distracted."
He unlocks the door quickly, and waves Caleb inside.
"Hey," Caleb says, sounding for the first time like a surprised young man happy to find something and less like a very wary spy, "paint!" He runs in. "Wow. Lots of green. Brilliant. Forest, teal, evergreen, emerald, seafoam..." He runs off among the cylinders of paint.
David laughs, shaking his head as he starts trying to read the labels on the side of various boxes again. There are cookbooks. Somewhere. He knows this. "I'd forgotten I had all those, honestly. Guess you don't need me showing you where the hardware store is after all."
"Yeah, this is real good." Caleb pops up again, holding what appears to be a can of a rather nice, delicate shade of light green. "Uh. Can I keep this one? An'-" He sees the cookbooks in the box David has just opened, and his eyes light. "Do you need all those? It's awful. Can't cook anything. I'd love one o' those."
"Of course you can. If I end up repainting, it'll probably be navy green before anything else, so." David grins. "And... hang on..." He fishes through the box, eventually pulling out a very large and bright yellow book called How to Cook Everything. "Try this, to start?"
"Everything's a good start," Caleb agrees with a cautious grin, and tucks it under his arm. "Hey. Uh. David. Thanks. I can see why Tasha likes you."
He raises an eyebrow, still smiling a little. "Why's that?"
"Didn't say. I mean. He just mentioned you. While we were paintin' my door an' that. Said he was glad you was back." Caleb backs towards the door. "Anyway. I got this room to paint. An' cookin' to learn." He pauses. "I don't suppose you got any books on magic that isn't just about music an'... an' em-whatsit an' that."
"Empathy?" His smile turns a bit rueful. "Afraid not, really. I've probably got a metric ton of sheet music, but I never learned magic from books. Had a teacher, when I got here."
"Can't read no music," Caleb says apologetically. "I like it, though. Classical stuff an' that."
"Ever heard any Celtic music?" he asks, curiously, wincing as he lifts the (very heavy) box of books, hauling it over to the door. A moment later he straightens, muttering curses under his breath as he rubs at his back absently with one hand, scanning box labels until he finds the one he apparently wants, ripping off the tape.
"Celtic?" Caleb repeats in puzzlement, standing in the doorway now; he's been drifting slowly backwards towards it. "Never heard of anything called Celtic. Don't think they've got it in the world I'm from."
David stares.
"... my word, young man. That is a tragedy, and it must be remedied. Right now. Here, take... these, I guess." He flips through the box quickly, pulling several CDs out and holding them out to Caleb.
"I-I don't have any sort of player," Caleb stammers. "I was thinking of getting a phonograph, but..."
"A phonograph?" He eyes Caleb. "You need a proper stereo system, is what you need. Look, are you actually busy this afternoon?"
"I... dunno." Caleb bites his lip again. "I think so, yeah."
"Oh." He deflates, a little. "Look, go ahead and take these anyway, I think there's a boombox around here somewhere, you can have it."
Caleb shakes his head. "No, it's okay, I mean, I'm only really busy paintin', Finn an' Alden already came by. Uh. If you like I guess you could come by." He's still looking rather as though he's about to flee.
David offers him a small tight smile. "I don't really think you want me to, although it's kind of you to offer. Here." He finds the CD player, tucked into a corner behind some of the boxes, and offers it and the CDs to Caleb. "I'll find you tomorrow, maybe, see if you need any more paint."
Caleb goes crimson. "Look," he mutters. "David. Uh. I don't. I ain't usually like this. I just. You caught me at a real bad time. An'. An' I'm sorry, you're real nice an' I don't wanna be havin' you think I'm just an awful kid or something. Look. I'm-it's not your only CD player, yeah? Cuz. I don't wanna take something of yours." He stares at his shoes. "Sorry. Honest."
He smiles again, a bit more easily. "No, it's fine. I don't, but Tasha has a very nice system, and I'm using it anyway. I wouldn't be using it if you didn't take it." He lowers the stereo, still holding out the CDs. "Please. If you like classical music, you might like this, and I'd like it if you'd at least listen to them. If you don't like them you can give them back."
A very peculiar expression comes across Caleb's face. "You shouldn't," he mumbles. "You really shouldn't. Ain't told you 'bout me. Wouldn't be so nice if you knew." All the same, he fumbles for a moment, taking both player and CDs into his hands. "Look. Just-ask Tasha 'bout it, okay? Tell him I told you to make him tell you. Cuz. You should know." He backs out the door into the corridor. "Thanks lots, David."
"You're welcome, Caleb," he calls, letting the boy leave.
There's not much point in saying that, whatever Caleb might have done or been before he came here, David knows that he's never hurt anyone here, and never wants to.
It would not be as reassuring as one might hope, after all, to say that that much is so easily read.
Caleb is feeling distinctly cheerful. His door is now a lovely glossy shade of black, thanks to Tasha’s help, and everything inside is delightfully organised except that both bedroom and half of the washroom are a sickly shade of green still. The other half of the washroom is a very nice shade of blue, in fact, but Caleb is beginning to feel a little loopy and even if he can do simple things like start fires in the palm of his hand and levitate objects, dispersing the paint smell is still somewhat beyond him.
With no real dejection, Caleb leaves his rooms. He’ll have to get someone to help him paint the bedroom, but-He’s visited Hayes, once, with some books, and they had a really fantastic afternoon, and then partway through Caleb remembered his conversation with Tasha very late one night, and Caleb found himself panicking and excusing himself, hopefully without drawing any untoward attention to himself, and with any luck Hayes has noticed nothing.
It does present a few problems about who to ask to help him paint, though.
Caleb sighs to himself and lets his feet wander. After some time, he finds himself walking out into what appears to be a very beautiful open-air garden. He blinks around in absolute delight.
He can hear voices somewhere in the middle of the garden. They sound familiar, so Caleb rather warily sets off towards them.
It is, he sees while he was still some distance away, Finn and Alden. Finn is pruning the roses and Alden is standing there rather awkwardly. To Caleb’s great surprise, he finds himself grinning in exasperated fondness, and sets off towards them with renewed speed.
Then he stops, very suddenly.
Their voices reach him, though from here he can only make out the tone of it. Finn’s voice and face are downcast, and after he cuts the next branch he stops, looking down at the dead limbs cluttering the ground.
Caleb knows he shouldn’t. Of course, he only knows this in a vague way, from the sorts of books that mention the wickedness of eavesdropping before the main character proceeds to quite wickedly eavesdrop and find out important plot points. Caleb also knows quite well how to listen in on a conversation, so he wanders vaguely closer until he is quite near and can see and hear them quite well while being effectively concealed by a very convenient sort of willow tree.
“-‘s just I don’t know if it ever will be over, Alden. Doesn’t seem like it right now. Or who’ll be left if we do manage to stop them.” Finn’s voice is quiet and rather sad.
“I know,” Alden murmurs, and gently takes the pruning shears from Finn’s unresisting hands. They simply vanish, though neither Finn or Alden seem to think this is cause for any sort of worry. “Listen, Finn,” Alden says gently, “it will be over soon enough. Mellie may not know it, but everyone’s right; she is our little general and she seems to be doing a bang-up job so far.” A pause. “I’m afraid I can’t promise what will come of it, though.”
“And how many will we lose?” Finn says bitterly. He reaches for Alden’s hand, and adds, “Sorry. It’s just…”
Alden takes Finn’s hand in both of his, and by the tree Caleb’s stomach gives an unpleasant little twist. He feels horribly as though he’s intruding on something that he should never be allowed to see.
“I know,” Alden is saying again. “It’s all right, Finn, I-I can’t say. I don’t know. But…” And he steps closer to Finn, slides his arms around Finn’s waist. “I’m here, at least. All we’ve got right now.”
Caleb swallows and takes a stumbling step backwards.
Finn buries one hand in Alden’s hair, the other twisted in his shirt. He does not seem inclined to do anything but hold on to Alden, his head resting on the other man’s chest. “I love you,” he says; quietly enough that Caleb hardly hears it. “Promise me when it does come to the fight you won’t be too reckless, Alden. It’s not worth taking them down if I have to lose you in the bargain.”
Alden swallows hard enough that Caleb can see it from where he stands. “I promise,” Alden says shakily, and kisses the top of Finn’s head. “Don’t you dare go round dying either.”
Caleb’s hands are clenched into tight fists, he realised, and he isn’t able to breathe properly. He feels horribly squirmy and embarrassed, and, far worse, he feels wrenchingly lonely.
“I don’t intend to,” Finn tells him, and hugs Alden hard, hiding his face against Alden’s neck.
Caleb remembers himself enough to back away some more before wrenching his eyes away from Finn and Alden wrapped tight and desperate round each other. His eyes sting, and he shakes himself furiously as he stalks from the garden, no longer marvelling at the beautiful sunlit trees.
What the hell is wrong with him?
Productivity is an important quality. Keeping busy means David doesn't have to think about the world he left just the other day, or what it's done to him. And that's why he's been working on moving everything (except the furniture) out of the storage room and into the back bedroom of Tasha's apartment, instead, with his flute in its bag looped over his shoulder.
It's not particularly thought-provoking, but at least the music in his head is from one of his CDs instead of the melody of that dimension, and so he's smiling a little, humming along, as he makes his way down the halls again.
He isn't particularly expecting to be forcibly smashed into by a boy with brilliantly red hair who has been running in the opposite direction. The boy reels back from him, looking stunned, and gasps, "Sorry!"
David catches himself against the wall with one hand, trying to catch his breath, and smiles a little, crookedly, after a moment.
"It's," he tries, "it's okay, really. You okay?"
"Aside from the bruised shoulder?" the boy says, with a wild little gulp of a laugh. "Yeah. Great. Real excellent. Thanks."
In fact, the boy looks panicked and trapped, not particularly okay.
(shivery little off-key arpeggio)
"Easy," he says softly, straightening. "No harm done, right? Bruises heal quickly, for most people. I'm David, what's your name?"
The boy swallows hard. "Caleb. Nice to meet you."
He gives David a quick, fake little grin, and starts off down the corridor, then stops very suddenly. "Wait. David. Uh." He turns back. "David... Tasha mentioned?"
He smiles a little, giving Caleb a curious look. "Did he? I suppose he might've. It's a pleasure to meet you, then, if you know Tasha."
"Uh. Yeah." Caleb is still obviously quite panicked about something, but his shoulders relax a little. "He said you used to... work together. Uh. Sorry. Prolly pryin'. Do you anymore?"
"Hopefully," he says, fairly cheerfully. "I just got back, actually, so I don't think we'll be heading out anytime very soon. I'm in the middle of pulling stuff out of storage, actually. If you've nothing else to do, I'd love the help." And you can tell me why you're so upset, perhaps.
"Uh," Caleb says again, and swallows hard. "Well. D'you have any green paint?"
"Probably not, no, but... are you new, then? Nobody's shown you where to get paint? Admittedly Tasha's tastes run more to black, but... actually, hell, for that matter I might. Somewhere. I've not a clue what I put in storage, really."
"Sorta been... patchy findin' where stuff is," Caleb admits, cautiously falling into step with David. "I know where t' find the library an' the furniture exchange an' some paint an' the clothing store, but never found a place that's just paint."
"Where'd you find the paint you did find?" he asks, curiously.
"Furniture exchange," Caleb says promptly, and hunches his shoulders. "Look. Maybe I should just get back to my rooms."
David shakes his head. "Nonsense," he says, with a smile. "If you leave, I've got nothing to do but move boxes, and moreover you won't find out where to get your green paint."
A shaky smile flickers across Caleb's face. "Right. I got it. Blackmail." He scuffs his shoe on the floor. "Look. 'M sorry. You sorta caught me at a weird time."
David raises an eyebrow, stopping in the middle of the hallway and studying Caleb. "No," he says, quietly. "Not blackmail. But it's damn hard to find the hardware store, and I was going to show you. If you'd rather, I can show you some other time instead. I'm staying in Tasha's spare bedroom for now, if you know where his apartment is."
Caleb shakes his head, avoiding David's eyes. "Uh. Yeah, I've been there, Tasha helped me paint my door, but-uh. I. Really need to get back to my room. I could. Yeah. You around? An'. An' you can show me where to get green paint. Yeah."
"Let me guess, your door is black now?" He smiles again, a little, one hand absently tracing over the embroidery on his bag. "If you need to go, don't let me keep you, but if you're upset about something, I'm good at listening."
"Yeah." Caleb rubs his forehead. "Uh. If you really wanna know whatsa matter, just ask Tasha. I talked to him 'bout it. So." Caleb is looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Don't. Really wanna talk about it in the halls. Uh. Don't know you."
"Well, no, you don't know me," David says gently. "I've been gone for most of the last two years, after all. And while I could ask him, I won't, because I wouldn't expect him to tell me someone else's story."
"That's... decent of you." Caleb bites his lip. "Listen. Uh. David. Can... can you tell Tasha that it's sorta gotten worse? Bein' confused an' that? Cuz. He's good to talk to."
"He is, yes." He offers the boy a smile. "I'll let him know, although you could tell him yourself-he's in his living room watching something. I think. I'm all in-and-out, I'm not sure."
"Gods, no thanks," Caleb says in horror. "Can't talk right now. Too confusin'. An' he'd make things sound real simple. Makes it harder to think straight." He gives a wild laugh and looks even more horrified. "I really gotta go."
"Thinking straight's not always the best response," he says lightly, eyebrows still raised a bit. "If you really want to go, go ahead. Or if you'd just like some company that doesn't require you to talk, you can come with me and help me move boxes."
Caleb swallows hard. "Okay," he whispers. "Right. No talkin' or thinkin'. That sounds good."
"Of course, I suppose I could be terribly cruel and make you talk anyway, tell me a little bit about yourself other than that your name is Caleb, you know Tasha, and you're looking for green paint," David points out as they start down the hall again. "But I don't think I will. Yet, at least. So, as I said, I'm David, originally from Alaska, diplomat and bard." He pulls the bag forward, sliding the flute case out a little.
Caleb peers at it. "'S pretty," he says. "Does... does the bardin' help? I mean, with the diplomatic stuff an' that?" His shoulders are beginning to relax, very slightly.
"Thanks." David smiles. "Sometimes it can. Depends on the situation. I'm empathic, which is part of it. That's usually pretty useful."
"Empathic?" Caleb repeats in puzzlement. "I mean... 'm pretty well read. But. Is that a magic term or somethin'? Dunno much about that. Didn't have magic on the world 'm from."
"'s magic, yeah. So's the barding, for the most part." He chuckles. "I know the feeling, though. I mean, apparently there was magic where I was from, but I didn't have a teacher until I came here. Didn't have a clue why certain things would happen when I played, or why there was always music in my head, or why I could tell what people were feeling." He shrugs.
Caleb stops again suddenly, panicked. "You can tell what I'm feelin'?" he repeats in horror.
"Yes, but not why," he says quietly. "I know you're upset about something, and I suppose if I listened I could get more detail than that, but I don't know you well enough to know more than that yet." He shrugs again. "I don't pry, Caleb. And I don't know anything more than someone who'd been paying attention while talking to you could've picked up."
Caleb lets out a shaky breath. "Oh. Okay. Good. Yeah." He walks a little faster. "How much farther?"
"-- uh."
David stops, and spins on his heel looking back the way they'd come, before offering Caleb a sheepish grin. "We've overshot the mark a bit, actually. That hallway, then third door on the left."
"Brill'ant," Caleb mutters, and shoves his hands in his pockets, the perfect image of a sulking teenager. He follows David when David turns around and goes towards the indicated hallway, though.
"Sorry," he murmurs. "Got a bit distracted."
He unlocks the door quickly, and waves Caleb inside.
"Hey," Caleb says, sounding for the first time like a surprised young man happy to find something and less like a very wary spy, "paint!" He runs in. "Wow. Lots of green. Brilliant. Forest, teal, evergreen, emerald, seafoam..." He runs off among the cylinders of paint.
David laughs, shaking his head as he starts trying to read the labels on the side of various boxes again. There are cookbooks. Somewhere. He knows this. "I'd forgotten I had all those, honestly. Guess you don't need me showing you where the hardware store is after all."
"Yeah, this is real good." Caleb pops up again, holding what appears to be a can of a rather nice, delicate shade of light green. "Uh. Can I keep this one? An'-" He sees the cookbooks in the box David has just opened, and his eyes light. "Do you need all those? It's awful. Can't cook anything. I'd love one o' those."
"Of course you can. If I end up repainting, it'll probably be navy green before anything else, so." David grins. "And... hang on..." He fishes through the box, eventually pulling out a very large and bright yellow book called How to Cook Everything. "Try this, to start?"
"Everything's a good start," Caleb agrees with a cautious grin, and tucks it under his arm. "Hey. Uh. David. Thanks. I can see why Tasha likes you."
He raises an eyebrow, still smiling a little. "Why's that?"
"Didn't say. I mean. He just mentioned you. While we were paintin' my door an' that. Said he was glad you was back." Caleb backs towards the door. "Anyway. I got this room to paint. An' cookin' to learn." He pauses. "I don't suppose you got any books on magic that isn't just about music an'... an' em-whatsit an' that."
"Empathy?" His smile turns a bit rueful. "Afraid not, really. I've probably got a metric ton of sheet music, but I never learned magic from books. Had a teacher, when I got here."
"Can't read no music," Caleb says apologetically. "I like it, though. Classical stuff an' that."
"Ever heard any Celtic music?" he asks, curiously, wincing as he lifts the (very heavy) box of books, hauling it over to the door. A moment later he straightens, muttering curses under his breath as he rubs at his back absently with one hand, scanning box labels until he finds the one he apparently wants, ripping off the tape.
"Celtic?" Caleb repeats in puzzlement, standing in the doorway now; he's been drifting slowly backwards towards it. "Never heard of anything called Celtic. Don't think they've got it in the world I'm from."
David stares.
"... my word, young man. That is a tragedy, and it must be remedied. Right now. Here, take... these, I guess." He flips through the box quickly, pulling several CDs out and holding them out to Caleb.
"I-I don't have any sort of player," Caleb stammers. "I was thinking of getting a phonograph, but..."
"A phonograph?" He eyes Caleb. "You need a proper stereo system, is what you need. Look, are you actually busy this afternoon?"
"I... dunno." Caleb bites his lip again. "I think so, yeah."
"Oh." He deflates, a little. "Look, go ahead and take these anyway, I think there's a boombox around here somewhere, you can have it."
Caleb shakes his head. "No, it's okay, I mean, I'm only really busy paintin', Finn an' Alden already came by. Uh. If you like I guess you could come by." He's still looking rather as though he's about to flee.
David offers him a small tight smile. "I don't really think you want me to, although it's kind of you to offer. Here." He finds the CD player, tucked into a corner behind some of the boxes, and offers it and the CDs to Caleb. "I'll find you tomorrow, maybe, see if you need any more paint."
Caleb goes crimson. "Look," he mutters. "David. Uh. I don't. I ain't usually like this. I just. You caught me at a real bad time. An'. An' I'm sorry, you're real nice an' I don't wanna be havin' you think I'm just an awful kid or something. Look. I'm-it's not your only CD player, yeah? Cuz. I don't wanna take something of yours." He stares at his shoes. "Sorry. Honest."
He smiles again, a bit more easily. "No, it's fine. I don't, but Tasha has a very nice system, and I'm using it anyway. I wouldn't be using it if you didn't take it." He lowers the stereo, still holding out the CDs. "Please. If you like classical music, you might like this, and I'd like it if you'd at least listen to them. If you don't like them you can give them back."
A very peculiar expression comes across Caleb's face. "You shouldn't," he mumbles. "You really shouldn't. Ain't told you 'bout me. Wouldn't be so nice if you knew." All the same, he fumbles for a moment, taking both player and CDs into his hands. "Look. Just-ask Tasha 'bout it, okay? Tell him I told you to make him tell you. Cuz. You should know." He backs out the door into the corridor. "Thanks lots, David."
"You're welcome, Caleb," he calls, letting the boy leave.
There's not much point in saying that, whatever Caleb might have done or been before he came here, David knows that he's never hurt anyone here, and never wants to.
It would not be as reassuring as one might hope, after all, to say that that much is so easily read.