completelycrazy | in the night: ic inbox

[Her eyes flick down for a moment, pretending to reread the text just so he has a moment to collect himself. It's too dark for her to see the tears, but his shifting is just as dead a giveaway.

Skype night, he says, and she wonders who he was calling. In some ways, it doesn't matter: the feeling is the same no matter the recipient. That awful, hot panic swaddled in a thick coat of shame and grief and regret, sitting so heavy in her stomach. Surely he's feeling that now. Surely he's ruminating on how he'll never again talk to them, nor see their faces, nor tell them how much he really loves them, even if it's hard to show, even if he doesn't always say it.

Of course he's blinking back tears.]

I've a few ideas for the next time we attempt it.

[She types it swiftly, sending it off even as she rises to her feet. Eyes cast downward, keeping out of sight of the window, she moves to carefully sit next to him.

She knows that grief. And when it was still raw, when her heart was bloody and aching, Riku had held her hand. His grip was steady, firm, something that pulled her up if not out of the raging sea of her grief. Javert had too, once. His grip was rougher, his hands worn for far longer than Riku's, and yet the gentle reverence with which he'd done it had soothed her so easily.

In the end, she can't. But she at least sets her hand down between them, and if he feels the need to set his down as well, until such time as he gets himself under control in one way if not another . . . she would not object.]

Edited 2020-01-25 07:03 (UTC)

[If she notices his little moment, she doesn't show it, and while he knows she obviously did, she's not stupid, he's gonna go ahead and accept the ruse as fact. Add that to the list of small-yet-weighty kindnesses she's done him today.

Oh, but then she's settling in next to him and of course he notices the hand, he's not stupid, either, but he's not sure what to make of it all. Ugh, this is exactly why being holed up in the Shatterdome for months on end did no one any favors.

There's a beat or two of hesitation—he hates this new habit of second-guessing his every instinct, but that's what happens when you accidentally murder yourself—and then he slips his hand into hers. It's easy, once he's there, past having to make the decision.

In part because god, he's missed human connection. He's missed being around people who even like him—and Rosalind has to like him, doesn't she? Of course she does. She's not the type of person to go through the motions just because they're stuck together. She'd tell him to pull up his pants and fuck right off with the self pity if that's how she felt about it.

One-handed, he futzes with his tablet for a moment before scooting in closer to her, close enough so that their legs are touching and he can prop up his tablet between them. On it, the town map, screenshotted and pulled into the tablet's drawing app.

In green, messy handwriting, he scrawls out:]

What else do you think we have here?

[He draws a little bowl of noodles between the bike shop and Bonfire Square, then writes RAMEN SHOP!!]

[He's not the only one who's missed human contact. Rosalind relaxes by degrees, tentatively trusting her weight against him slowly. His hand is warm against the slight chill her skin always carries, but that's no bad thing. It's still January, after all.

Despite herself, she scoffs out a laugh at that theory. Picks out another color (red, then, if he'll take her usual favorite) and draws a few swift lines near the armory. Oh, it's a needle and a spool of thread.]

Tailor.

[Do her eyes pointedly drag over his clothes? They do.]

[A tailor, oh my god, she's so very From The Past, but then she gives him that look and he throws up his free hand in overblown disbelief. How dare???

But sure, that'd probably be useful around here. Next to her tailor, he draws in... a house that says TATS on it because this is a hard thing to illustrate.]

Then I could finish my leg. 👍

[...]

Not run by spirits tho.

[She nods her head, a wry response that doesn't need to be typed. Although--]

How much of you is covered in tattoos?

[She's genuinely curious. But hm . . . ah, and this next drawing is a box with a circle attached.]

Sawmill.

[There, a proper answer.]

Edited 2020-01-25 08:09 (UTC)

[He gives her a smug grin and motions with his hand: arms, torso, entire left leg, and he does a little cut-off motion just above his knee to indicate that's where he stopped. Oh, and, afterthought: he sits forward a bit to point around to his back. So, like, most of him, to answer her question.]

Gotta take drastic measures when ur name's newton &

[He taps the side of his glasses, then just kind of... gestures to himself. Holds up a hand to indicate his short and spicy build. It's accompanied by a sort of helpless eyeroll. Like, what are you gonna do, right?

Oh, hey, speaking of nerds, his next doodle is a little castle.]

Hogwarts. I'd learn the shit out of some magic.

[She follows the motions of his hands, and yes, she understands what he means, glasses and shorter stature (although still taller than her, but isn't everyone?). And god knows tattoos on that much of his skin is drastic. But she doesn't know about got to.

Anyway.]

You're a scientist. Act like it.

[But UGH FINE. It takes more of an effort for her to be ~whimsical~, but if he insists . . .]

A sweets shop.

[There. Not, perhaps, a questionably ethical boarding school full of owls and wands, but at least something that isn't practical. Also: the sweets shop is a little box with one of those giant swirly lollipops on top, so. There's that.]

[He lets out a little laugh at her doodle, so yes, good work, Rosalind. But then she gets a really? look at the comment.]

Not JUST a sceintist.

[...Wait, shit. He crosses that out.]

scientist

English is a BS language jsyk. Figure your vowels out!

[Oh, hey, a night of firsts: Rosalind actually looks mildly baffled.]

Figure your own vowels out.

[She actually says that out loud, not really for him so much as her own incredulous response. And there's a lot of things she could type, but in the end, what she draws is this: a very crude rendition of an American flag, with an Eng and then N.G. next to it.]

Edited 2020-01-25 09:25 (UTC)

[He spots her saying something out of the corner of his eye, and he's way confused. The drawing doesn't answer any questions, either. What?? He's not American. Why does everyone always think he's American?

He shakes his head, crossing out the flag and replacing it with a German one. Then comes a very shitty, entirely green Union Jack with an arrow pointing to Rosalind. And then a question mark.]

[She hesitates, then nods. Yes, she's English, even if Columbia was its own nation. But oh, this is foolish, and she grabs her own tablet:]

Have you been forcing yourself to speak English this entire time? You can simply write and speak in German, if that's what you are.

[Whoop, now she looks mildly amused. Honestly, she deserves to be amused, typing one-handed as she is. Truly a feat.]

[.........................WHAT.

Forget the map! He needs a keyboard! And, oh! He's just realized they've been casually holding hands this whole time! A lot is happening for Newt in this moment.]

You speak German???

[Wait, no, wrong takeaway.]

You can understand this even though you don't speak German because idk magical afterlife universal translator shit?

[He wrote all that in German, so, time will tell.]

Yes.

What the hell I didn't know that was a thing why didn't you tell me!

[This is the coolest shit, but also, he's so incredulous that he is just now finding about this. He shakes his head at her in mock disappointment.]

I've been speaking English this whole time for the record. Still speaking it now. The translator thing is cool but ya boy dont need it.

But you really thought I was American this whole time?

[Ya boy, she mouths, but okay.]

You went to an American university. You live in Hong Kong, and presumably, whomever you skype with lives in State-side as well.

[So, like, yes? It's not honestly an unreasonable assumption to make-- it's not as if he ever reminisced about the good old days in the mountains (or whatever Germany has, it's not like she's ever really looked at the country in detail).

But this is getting a little uncomfortable, and anyway, it's been far too long-- so she pulls her hand back, fingers flexing, ignoring the loss of heat in favor of typing more quickly.

She doesn't pull away, though, legs and hips still pressed together.]

And you're speaking to someone with a mastery in French, so let's not get ahead of ourselves in the bragging game.

[He can't help the gentle dip of disappointment that comes with her pulling away, but he follows the logic. He waves off the disappointment as general moodiness. It's been a day.]

Right back at ya. I'm conversational in Japanese and Mandarin and uhhh okay I'm no poet in French but I can get by.

[But it's... mostly a joking brag, if only because he doesn't want her pulling further away. He feels like he's walking on thin ice there as it is.]

I grew up in Berlin and moved to Cambridge when I was 14. Then I signed up with PPDC, did like a year of academy in Alaska, can't remember the town, then I was in Tokyo for a while until that Shatterdome shut down. Got reassigned to Hong Kong like 4-5 years back.

[There's a pause as he chews on his lip. He could easily get away with letting that topic roll past, but...]

I skype with my dad and my uncle. They're back in Berlin.

[Oh. Perhaps she would have chased that other topic, and they would have grown lighthearted and a little distant again, but not after that.]

What do you discuss?

[Present tense, she notes carefully.]

[He shrugs.]

It's just catching up. I tell them what I can about the work I'm doing and they tell me what's up back home. My dad's the kind of guy who can turn anything into a story, yknow? He used to send me these novel length emails just narrating his day like buying eggs carries the same epic quality as storming Troy.

[Or whatever the ... Romans ??? were getting up to. He's a genius in some fields, not all.]

Illia's an engineer so we talk shop a lot. He likes to ask me for advice on projects and then tell me it's cute that I think that's the fix but actually back in the 1800s we'd hand machine some nonsense part that uncle I promise you can just buy the same thing at the hardware store you're fixing the neighbor kid's RC car again not sending a man to space.

And then I'll say that and next time we talk he'll be like did you get the blueprints I emailed you, I'm building a goddamn rocket now, take that.

I've been told this is the usual parent shit but not with the usual parent topics.

[Her mouth twitches, biting back a smile as he writes about Illia. It's sweet, but not saccharine. Simply . . . pleasant, in a way she isn't used to hearing about when it comes to any kind of parent (look at her examples, after all, her own, yes, but Booker and Comstock too, god).]

And what are the usual parent topics when you're from?

Oh hell if I know. I'm not a good barometer for "usual" where I come from.

[It's not even a "RIP other biologists but I'm different" sort of statement, either. He's spent his life bouncing from one highly specific bubble to another. Who knows what the rest of the world is getting up to?]

More crap like what my dad sends me I guess. Don't get me wrong I read every word of his stupid tangents and like he's an incredibly smart guy, he just never had the education to back it.

Whatever, what I'm saying is pretty much nobody has an uncle that builds a rocket just to lovingly give them the finger. My dad does that crap too but with him it's more like, he'll send me YET ANOTHER article on how the Mothman is totally real and at this point I can't tell if he really buys into it or if he's just doing it to fuck with me, because it's SO specifically, like, where the hell did he find out about the goddamn Mothman of all things? Where'd that come from?

He has like the thinnest grasp on what's up in America.

[It helps, talking about them, but he's still grateful for the necessary silence. It's a comforting cushion between them.]

Lucky him.

[Take that, America. Rosalind reaches over him, tapping at his map, pushing it out of the way for the moment. And rather than bother to type out the question, she holds both hands around the vicinity of her eyes, miming taking a picture. Do people in the future have photos of their families on their phones? Let's find out!]

[He snorts at the mimed question. How whimsical, playing charades. It's a good look on her.

He tabs over to the tablet's photo gallery, where he does indeed have some pictures from his life. Quite a few, it seems. He scrolls past the dozens of dumb instagram pics of him dicking around in the lab or elsewhere in the Shatterdome and eventually lands on a small collection of photos from a couple of years back, when his dad and uncle were able to visit him in Hong Kong. There's a selfie of the three of them huddled together in a ramen shop, a shot of his dad's awe in seeing the Pacific Ocean for the first time, a stealth selfie of Newt looking exasperated with Illia in the background taking apart some piece of lab equipment in the K-Science lab...

Newt passes his tablet off to Rosalind. He's not in the mood to look through these, though it's not painful enough to make a big thing out of changing the subject.

He does take a moment to indicate which man is which, though it's not difficult to guess which is his father. It's not that Newt is a clone of his father so much as the finer details, their expressions... Rosalind herself has witnessed the same energy in Newt that Jacob has in seeing the ocean for the first time. It's that sort of fascination that takes over, blocks out all the shitty stuff going on in the world to instead focus on how awesome life is.

Illia, on the other hand, is the quiet one of the group. He's stockier and taller than his brother and nephew, hovering behind them on their adventures, always keeping an eye out. There's clearly just as much passion in each of the Geiszler men, though, as in all the candid shots, Illia can be spotted inspecting one thing or another, prodding at this and that, wherever his curiosity leads him.

...And then, if Rosalind keeps scrolling, the pictures abruptly shift back to dumb instragram posts about pranking Hermann and raving about a fresh shipment of Kaiju viscera.]

[They're fascinating to look at, honestly: not just for the glimpse of the future (although that, too), but the glimpse into Newt's life. Her eyes flick through the selfies, drinking in the details after the broad strokes. She can see Newt in both men, honestly: in the lines of Jacob's face, yes, the awe in his expression, but in Illia, too: nosing around the lab, prodding not out of ignorance but rather a deep-seated curiosity, equal parts educated and fascinated. Newt's done that: looking at her experiments, asking questions, getting into things he oughtn't-- and yet she can't be too upset, because he's so clever about it.

She shifts away from Newt as she looks, aware of what started this conversation, aware that he might not want to see his uncle and father right now. The result is a slight gap between them, a rush of chilly air that she dislikes. But there's nothing for it.

She's nosy, going from his family to his . . . hm. Colleague? Is this Dr. Gottlieb? She'd imagined him a lot differently, honestly, and she sort of hates that what Newt describes as grandpa sweaters seems to her to be a rather well put together outfit, if not a little dark. But oh, but the quality of these movies: she watches a little loop of Newt's eyes gleaming as he watches Dr. Gottlieb go for a cup of coffee, tainted with something or another; a small video of him mouthing along to whatever Hermann is ranting about; a video of something pulsating bright blue--]

Oh--

[Oh, holy fuck, that's a kaiju specimen, and she can't even pretend not to be fascinated by it.

In an instant she's back at Newt's side, bodies pressed up together, with no real room between them even to slip their hands. Their shoulders jostle together, a little uncomfortable, but it really doesn't matter, not at all, and anyway it's warmer like this-- whatever! The point is: a little frantically she points at the video: hello, explain, please, she wants to know literally everything.]

[Newt starts as Rosalind bonks into him, pleasantly surprised as she hones in on the kaiju, and on impulse, he loops his arm around her. It's mostly just that it seems the thing to do—it's cold, this is more comfortable, she held his hand that one time ten minutes ago so she's probably cool with it—but he also just wanted the excuse, he supposes. The casual contact feels nice and both of them could probably use it.

He reaches to scroll through his tablet's gallery again until he's found a screencap of Mutavore from the news. He pulls it into the drawing app so he can fill in some specs on it: height, tonnage, a brief rundown on the Category system, and so on. He rattles it all off from memory, and then makes her bear with him a moment while he doodles a stylized MUTAVORE!!! at the top of the pic. Ta da!

He taps Mutavore's head, and then points at his temple and mimes an explosion. This is the one that killed him. Though, he doesn't seem particularly bothered by that fact, at least not in this moment. He laughs it off, and brings up a folder of Mutavore brain pics... with a couple of selfies snuck in, because like, it's a kaiju brain, c'mon.]

[She's stiff under his arm for just a moment, unsure if that's something she wants to encourage or not. But it's not untoward, not really-- and it is cold, which means that after a certain point any kind of warmth will do.

His explanation is fascinating, though, and she soon finds herself enmeshed within it. It's even worth that stylized little name, though she rolls her eyes lightly when he glances her way. The pictures are even better, and she spends ages studying them, memorizing what questions she wants to ask when they can hear one another again.

Time passes, and the thump of the band doesn't lessen any. They futz with the map a bit more, suggesting improvements here and there, as she relaxes beneath his arm. But that grows dull quickly, and so soon Rosalind flicks at his screen, moving it over to the painting program.

She's not going to move away to look at him, but it's fine. She can draw him either way. And she'll start small: a little stick figure with enormous glasses and some truly wild hair. Maybe he'll get a better portrait in a moment.]

in the night: ic inbox

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