open doors [(and yet) closed]
Who: Lust (sonvisage) & Lupin (lumenrelegandus)
When: Right after this.
Where: Their flat.
Format: Proseish.
What: Baggage trade. (His Broadcast Mind for her Memory Recorder.)
Warnings: Intro. reposted from tags: sultry = hers, wolfy = his.
Her gaze flickers over the door, doesn't stop, it's moving with the lamplight. Uncertain. But she moves toward the door, turns the knob and steps inside.
Opens her lips to speak but this is one of those moments when the correct words (or any words, really) are not present, and the only question she can think of to ask has already been answered.
She feels useless, hesitant. Inconvenienced. Something else. (Is this what it means to be human?) She is tired of considering his feelings but unable to do otherwise.
She's just in time to see him slam his forge with light from his wand. Not likely trying to problem solve yet. Just punishing it. (Or a voice he heard through it.)
Leaving the machine smoking in the middle of the floor, he sits on the edge of the bed, dropping his head into his hands. The tip of the wand continues to sputter and glow, on the edge of restraint.
He hadn't seemed to notice her enter, but from between his hands his voice comes flatly, "I meant it. I'd like to be alone please."
There's no response save the flash of a bladed finger against the forge - stopping just shy of piercing the screen. And suddenly it's in her hand, still smoking.
She pauses a moment, looking back at him - at the wand-glow ember (i suppose the fireflies do die, yes) and shutting the door behind her.
* * *
Sunrise arrives.
He doesn't imagine for a moment Io would be waiting for him. Perhaps, though, she's still in the apartment...
If so, through a corridor, behind a piece of furniture, or under a door, she may notice a blue-white glow approach. It's not in any way ominous. Somehow it's... heartening. Then through any obstacles, a beautiful spectre gently walks toward her. It's the size of a dog, but as it nears her it appears more like a doe. The creature of light stops in front of her and lowers its head in submission.
She is. Sitting in the chair she's come to regard as her own, watching the street through the window - and turning at the reflection of light.
Her mouth opens but she doesn't speak - and she isn't even sure what she'd meant to say because all the words are gone in the wake of this...
...living light?
As it bows its head she'll reach out, very slowly until she almost touches it - fingers fanning out illuminated from beneath.
It raises its head up into her fingertips. There is no sensation of contact. Only an intensification of the light, and the animal form dissolves. The silvery glow washes over the room, over Io, with a rush of serene euphoria. This light doesn't need sound to sing to her.
As it recedes, everything in the room seems more vivid and tangible in its wake. Every chink in the wall and stitch of furniture are so much more real than they seemed before. As does Lupin, wand now hidden in his folded arms, leaning against the doorjamb.
"I think," he says, voice so spent of emotion it's almost cheerful, "there's something you've been carrying around with you, too, this week. I showed you mine…?"
Entranced in the wake of its brightness, she rises from the chair, her lavender eyes following the recession of light. In its last flares her irises reflect near-red, and a sigh falls from her, registers in the minute droop of shoulders, the slight bow of her head.
There's something comforting in the absence of the light, as if it has left something of itself behind. It is because of this, perhaps, that her face does not immediately darken, and that she considers his words with the hint of a smile as she moves to him.
One hand lights on his shoulder (lights, yes, because it still feels as if) and the other holds his forge. The device no longer smokes, nor is marred by cracks in its screen.
"It's been repaired, but the broadcast was unable to be erased. Will it upset you again if I return it to you?"
The tilt of her head, considering. Considering. Practiced smile flashing easily as she teases with a glance, eyes running the length of him before she quirks a brow. There's apprehension beneath, but she forces it down, swallows and nods.
"Here? Right now?"
She supposes it's as good a time and place as any.
He puts his hand on the forge, touching hers, and doesn't take away either. "Thank you." He's not diverted; smiles anyway. "If you want to tell me about it."
When: Right after this.
Where: Their flat.
Format: Proseish.
What: Baggage trade. (His Broadcast Mind for her Memory Recorder.)
Warnings: Intro. reposted from tags: sultry = hers, wolfy = his.
Her gaze flickers over the door, doesn't stop, it's moving with the lamplight. Uncertain. But she moves toward the door, turns the knob and steps inside.
Opens her lips to speak but this is one of those moments when the correct words (or any words, really) are not present, and the only question she can think of to ask has already been answered.
She feels useless, hesitant. Inconvenienced. Something else. (Is this what it means to be human?) She is tired of considering his feelings but unable to do otherwise.
She's just in time to see him slam his forge with light from his wand. Not likely trying to problem solve yet. Just punishing it. (Or a voice he heard through it.)
Leaving the machine smoking in the middle of the floor, he sits on the edge of the bed, dropping his head into his hands. The tip of the wand continues to sputter and glow, on the edge of restraint.
He hadn't seemed to notice her enter, but from between his hands his voice comes flatly, "I meant it. I'd like to be alone please."
There's no response save the flash of a bladed finger against the forge - stopping just shy of piercing the screen. And suddenly it's in her hand, still smoking.
She pauses a moment, looking back at him - at the wand-glow ember (i suppose the fireflies do die, yes) and shutting the door behind her.
* * *
Sunrise arrives.
He doesn't imagine for a moment Io would be waiting for him. Perhaps, though, she's still in the apartment...
If so, through a corridor, behind a piece of furniture, or under a door, she may notice a blue-white glow approach. It's not in any way ominous. Somehow it's... heartening. Then through any obstacles, a beautiful spectre gently walks toward her. It's the size of a dog, but as it nears her it appears more like a doe. The creature of light stops in front of her and lowers its head in submission.
She is. Sitting in the chair she's come to regard as her own, watching the street through the window - and turning at the reflection of light.
Her mouth opens but she doesn't speak - and she isn't even sure what she'd meant to say because all the words are gone in the wake of this...
...living light?
As it bows its head she'll reach out, very slowly until she almost touches it - fingers fanning out illuminated from beneath.
It raises its head up into her fingertips. There is no sensation of contact. Only an intensification of the light, and the animal form dissolves. The silvery glow washes over the room, over Io, with a rush of serene euphoria. This light doesn't need sound to sing to her.
As it recedes, everything in the room seems more vivid and tangible in its wake. Every chink in the wall and stitch of furniture are so much more real than they seemed before. As does Lupin, wand now hidden in his folded arms, leaning against the doorjamb.
"I think," he says, voice so spent of emotion it's almost cheerful, "there's something you've been carrying around with you, too, this week. I showed you mine…?"
Entranced in the wake of its brightness, she rises from the chair, her lavender eyes following the recession of light. In its last flares her irises reflect near-red, and a sigh falls from her, registers in the minute droop of shoulders, the slight bow of her head.
There's something comforting in the absence of the light, as if it has left something of itself behind. It is because of this, perhaps, that her face does not immediately darken, and that she considers his words with the hint of a smile as she moves to him.
One hand lights on his shoulder (lights, yes, because it still feels as if) and the other holds his forge. The device no longer smokes, nor is marred by cracks in its screen.
"It's been repaired, but the broadcast was unable to be erased. Will it upset you again if I return it to you?"
The tilt of her head, considering. Considering. Practiced smile flashing easily as she teases with a glance, eyes running the length of him before she quirks a brow. There's apprehension beneath, but she forces it down, swallows and nods.
"Here? Right now?"
She supposes it's as good a time and place as any.
He puts his hand on the forge, touching hers, and doesn't take away either. "Thank you." He's not diverted; smiles anyway. "If you want to tell me about it."