imma be here more again so - starter call?
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He has one hand lifted still, fingers entangled within
his own hair in a lack of anything better to do with it.
Or in a lack of anything to do, really. His eyes don't
quite fit up to meet hers, and he just waits for her to
laugh and tell him how ridiculous such a statement
is. It wouldn't be the first time, thus why he usually
keeps this whole fate-talk to himself.
Had been hard enough to accept for himself, living
through all this all over again anyway.
"Oh, they? You don't do anything. Not anything you
wouldn't normally, that is. It's just like I'm forced to
tag along. Hard to explain. And it — I can get away.
Sometimes. If the pull is weak, I can move away,
but it's like... magnetic, you know? It doesn't matter
what I want to do, if it's too much, it takes control of
my actions. So it's better to play along and keep as
much master of my own actions as I can."
Not for the first time, he's doubting his own sanity. It's
sort of hard not to, not with all this, and how casual he
talks about it makes it just the worse.
"Not necessarily. Something's coming up. I don't know
what, but something thinks it's important for you to get
there. People like me are supposed to watch out and
aid; whatever it takes to do such. That can be anything,
from being a friend or saying something that's turning
out to be important up to the bitter end. Whatever's
necessary. I don't know."
His reply certainly wasn’t what she had been expecting.
She had been light hearted about it; completely under-
assuming when he said the reason for approaching her
in the first place would be hard to explain. After all, he
was a complete stranger, as was she. In this day & age
just about anything could be taken the wrong way no matter
how good the intentions behind them were.
She flashed him a glance out of the corner of her eyes at
the word important. The last time someone had told her
something of that nature the events that followed had been
complicated at best. But those people were gone. She’d
seen it with her own eyes. She’d done it with her own hands.
Door wasn’t sure she wanted to be considered important
again if that’s what it meant.
“ It uses you? You’ve got no say in it whatsoever?
What happens if you don’t want to? What happens
if they don’t want to? “
Now she could see why he’d had his fair share of odd looks.
Most people would have chocked him up to just being one
of those people and left him standing there. But something
kept her there. Sympathy? Curiosity? She wasn’t even sure.
“ Die? Wait – hang on. You die for them? Strangers?
You’re saying that’s going to happen with me?
Because of me? “
Not again.
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The words find him in surprise — and nearly as much as
shock, as he certainly did not notice anyone around. It's
partly still the aftermath of dying — never a pleasant thing,
and it always leaves him disorientated — and partly of his
faulty vision, and partly of the fact that a few years ago,
there was no need to pay attention to anyone other than
his small son sneaking up on him.
Not that she was sneaking. Same thing, though.
He blinks up, and he takes a couple of moments to reply,
mostly because he does not trust his voice to produce
anything but unusable noises. The burning of your throat
being cut — and, even worse, it healing in fast forward —
is no feeling he can recommend.
"I think I'm fine."
Words come, when they finally do, slowly, carefully
pronounced. He is. Physically, that is. His mind? Long
lost, probably.
He wants to go home. He wants to go back four years in
time and go home and curl up with a woman that's no
longer his wife and that does no longer allow him to see
his own son. Can't blame her.
"Thanks, I guess — I'll — I'll be fine."
It’s his uneasy steps towards the car that spur her
into action outside of simple observance, acting
under the assumption that he had seen her sitting
there. It wouldn’t be the first time she has been
seen on a stakeout; her hair does not lend itself
particularly well to camouflage. Such are the cons
of the bright color.
Hand still braced against the gun - careful to make
sure that she can draw it at a moment’s notice if
need be - she pushes open the door, climbing out
of the car with her eyes still fixed on the stranger.
He doesn’t look threatening, per say, but she’s
simply taking precautions to protect herself. It’s
foolish to trust anyone staggering about the roads
at night. Drunkenness turns far too many men
violent.
"Do you need help? I’m a medical doctor."
As much as she hates stakeouts, she has never gone
so far as to abandon her post. She hadn’t been raised
in a manner that encouraged shirking responsibilities
(such negligence was unheard of in the Navy-influenced
Scully household), but this is barely a responsibility.
There’s nothing hanging in the balance, a fact which
dampens both her guilt and sense of duty. She can
probably be of more help to this man than to the empty
apartment across the way.
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What did he thought, anyway? It's hard to tell,
even to himself at times — when everything's
a bit off and too much and the world moved on
with or without him again, when he lost days
over shattered bones repairing themselves of
a deadly impact — but those are things not for
now. Those are to worry about at another time
again.
"Just how it's a thing of almost tragedy how such
a nice lady's alone on such a day."
Well, it's worth a try.
❝—- you just thought?❞
Her smile shifted quite easily into a grin as she watched
him, dimples forming at the edges of mouth. Something
curious about him was now carefully behind the brunette’s
eyes. Her fingers tucking around the paper, lingering near
the other’s hand a bit as she speaks.
Trust me, good sir, she won’t find you insane.
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"So you're getting from one extreme to the other."
He does feel some sort of pity for the man.
Not too much — there sure are worse things
than not being allowed to pick your own
clothes — but a little bit.
❝ She hates the suits I normally
wear. Says they’re too formal. ❞
But a polo shirt and a sweater makes him look better? Not
really. Henri honestly thought that it made him look like a
tool, but he wasn’t going to rock the boat. Not this early
in the marriage, anyway.
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“It’s more of a bad-breakup sort of deal,
I fear. Sorry. My mood — isn’t the best
lately. I apologize.”
They crinkle their nose and smile. He’s got a fair point.
”You aren’t a holiday person, I take it by your tone.”
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"That's probably much more worrisome if you
heard what answer they've gotten."
It does not matter that much, does it? However long
it lasts this time — he is used by now to only ever
have weeks, maybe months until it happens just
again, and it's horrible, and he knows he shouldn't
be talking about it, probably some sort of law of the
universe, bad things always happen when he does
attempt telling others, or shortly afterwards — either
way, he hasn't got that long.
And she seemed genuinely surprised about him
talking to her, anyway.
Hair pushed back as Nathan shook his head, more
to cut the thoughts running than anything else. He
was a man of science, goddamn. Give him numbers
and laws of physic any day. Not that.
"The universe — or fate, or a god, or whatever you
want to call it — something thinks you're one of the
important ones. There are quite a few of those, you'd
be surprised — but anyway, there are people that
are apparently more important than others, so there
is someone like me who feels the — I call it the pull
in lack of a better word. It drags me to those people,
and it uses me to make sure they'll reach their goal,
whatever that is."
He already sounds ridiculous, and it will get worse.
"That means, I don't have a say. If the universe says
I die so they can live, I die. The problem's just that it
tends to go on. I've died a fair number of times now.
It'd be ridiculous to say a numberless amount; really,
even if it's not the first time, dying is sort of a very
memorable thing. So, yeah. It thinks you're one of
those. And I do know how this sounds to you now."
” Insane? Why? Look — I’ve seen people carry on full
conversations with adverts in these cars. You’re not
anywhere near that. “
Door simply wanted to know why — how. Normal, regular,
( boring ) people couldn’t see her without her making the
first move. If he had be able to just walk up and strike up
a conversation — whatever it could be that was so hard to
explain was at least worth a listen.
The car lurched forward again, the voice over the speaker
announcing the name of the stop. Door shifted to let a few
other passengers pass by, eyes still fixed on her mystery
man.
" Last chance. You coming? I’ll even trade you — one
hard to explain story for another. “
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"Seeing when people start with Halloween,
it's almost as if they forgot Valentine's."
Sarcasm thick running through his voice.
He's not so much a fan of it.
starter call | sxvixr
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"And have another one think I'm insane?"
It's said almost amused, as if this was nothing
but a joke, and he wished it was — too many
doubt his mind, including himself, and more
than once was he close to have himself
sectioned — but ah. It's not like he'd have to
spend forever with her. It's still early on and
the pull is weak; maybe weak enough. He
wouldn't know.
One hand comes to run through his hair, sigh
dying silently on his lips and eyes closed for
just a brief moment.
"I really doubt it makes any sense."
She can’t fault someone for wanting to be a good
samaritan — there seemed to be a shortage of them
these days as it was. But her brow slanted for a brief
moment at the notion that he didn’t seem to know what
had made him approach her either.
Door clicked her tongue before laughing out of sympathy
for the stranger.
" A magnet? That’s a new angle. No —- believe me
though, I’ve heard loads worse than that. Don’t be
sorry. I’m not offended. ”
It’s hard to explain was a worn out phrase in her own
vocabulary. She couldn’t even think how many times
those same words had trickled out of her mouth. Now
of course, she was curious. If anyone could understand
hard to explain, it would be her. Maybe that was the
magnet he was talking about.
" I was getting off at the next stop. How about you
come with me and try? “
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" — ah."
He's been a married man for long enough
to know one shouldn't disagree with the
wife in those terms — but that doesn't look
too... oh, well.
"Does she hate you?"
His grin never faltered, even kicking
up a notch at the skeptical expression.
He had never claimed to be fashion
forward, he usually had the same thing
in multiple colours.
But this shirt was special.
❝ My wife picked it out. ❞
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ever wasted a second thought on those
doomed background characters who’d
die just so you can enjoy a cool movie?
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When things first started their circle, the first time more an accident than anything else (wanting to drag a kid out of the way of an out of control car, and got crushed in between it and a wall himself), it did, in fact, end his life. Just not in the way one would think.
He finds himself awaking not much later, his bones are broken and setting themselves back together and it's the pain of that that woke him up. ( It's also only the wounds of his deaths that heal quickly. ) Not in a place he'd know — the same force that brings him back (and he doesn't know why or what it is) also changed his position, and when he stumped home hours later, of course his wife'd throw a fit where he'd been and where that blood comes from and not believe a word.
Things get worse, the thing he calls the pull forces him to seek the companion of certain people, and also forces him to act as some sort of shield for them. Not always in the literal way, but every side character that died from a blow that was intended for the main, or to give them the final motivation or any like this — all they are people like him (and mind you, there are more that suffer through the same thing).
His marriage doesn't deal well with it. Emily gets suspicious when he stays away longer, more often, comes home bloody and beaten up, and his thoughts and stories seem to get more frantic with the time. After a while, Emily is convinced her husband lost his mind, and retreats herself.
She gets away, and she takes their son, Matt, at the time six years, with her, threatening to have Nathan locked up in a psychic ward. She also makes sure he will not have a chance to get in contact with his own son.
So in some way, he died for the two people that are most important to him.
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"Wouldn't know."
He doesn't, for the people his inner compass leads
him to are all very different from each other, and
all special in another way. He never had any idea
what it'll be this time — all he does know is, each
of them is important in their own way, and what-
ever it is they must do, or will do by chance — a
thing, something one'd call fate or a god if they'd
believe in such, wants to happen and makes sure
they'll reach their goal. He's less aid than shield.
Not a fate he asked for, or would have chosen.
"It's hard to explain, and I'm not sure you'd
believe me. Let's say it's like you're a magnet
— or not, that sounds like I was creepily hitting
on you, and that wasn't my intent. Sorry."
Lost in a crowd. It’s one of her favorite things to be.
People walk by her without so much as a passing
glance — she’s a shadow to them, a haze just there
in the corner of their eyes.
Up here, there isn’t the familiarity of her face, or the
instant recognition of her name. Up here, she’s just
another passenger. Faceless. Nameless. Hidden.
There’s the expected squeal of breaks, the partially
robotic voice reminding those coming and going to
’mind the gap' while they pass as the car begins to
lurch slowly forwards. It’s all like clockwork, timed
and precise, something she’s reminded off as the
suited man standing across from her checks his
wrist for the tenth time.
What she didn’t expect was a new voice in her ear.
Door turned her head slightly, just enough to access
if the person could be trouble for her. People didn’t
usually approach her.
" Do I look that lost? " He didn’t look
familiar to her, but she would play
along. ” I thought I hid it a bit better
than that. “
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cxrrigan
At times, he got days in which everything is fine —
couple of weeks in which nothing happens at all, in
which he almost feels able to get back into a normal
life, forget everything that happened — and then
there are days where the pull draws from different
directions ono him, when there are so many that it
seems to rip him apart, and mostly ends in getting
a horrible headache.
His face comes to rest in his hands, and he stays like
this for a while — neverminding the crowd of people
passing by, as much as they didn't give the stranger
more than a quick glance. He'd bleed out here and
nobody'd care. He knows as much.
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It's only very slowly that he dares breathing — only
very slowly that air rushes over abused lips into a
screaming lung. What's it's been this time? Right.
His hands sink slowly, pressing up against his throat,
and for a moment, he almost thinks he can trace
the blade still in his skin.
Of course, that'd be ridiculous, but so is the thought
of dying over and over again just so another can live
— whoever the universe thought to be more important
than him. What's a teacher to fate, anyway?
Heavens, he loses his mind, slowly descending into
madness. Just like Emily said, nothing of this could
possibly really happen — and he's rational enough to
know this, and still feels the pain of shattered bones
often enough to be torn between two believes. Going
insane is just the only explanation that makes sense.
He takes in another couple of breaths, blinking around.
There's a black spot in his sight, always had been since
an accident in childhood, left eye leaving in seeing
nothing but darkness, and so he doesn't necessarily
notice her, just out of angle — but it wouldn't make much
of a difference, probably, still uneasy steps in the general
direction of the car. He has no idea where he is. Little
need to find it out. It's not like he can go home.
Dana’s feet are up on the dashboard of Mulder’s car
as she flips through the pages of a book, looking up
at the door across the street whenever she turns a
page. Thus far, the sakeout has been markedly un-
eventful, rendering one of her least favorite parts of
her job even more mind-numbingly trite. For all they
know, there might not even be anyone in the house
and they’re wasting their time. It certainly wouldn’t
be a first, but she and Mulder are seen as dispos-
able. When no one else wants to do a job and the
x-files agents find themselves in trouble, they get
it. It’s almost like being a trainee, except without
the ambitious hope of climbing the ladder - a quest
that renders even the brightest young individuals
insufferable kiss asses.
Scully has no such desire to enthusiastically pretend
to do this job well. No one’s watching her. No lives
hang in the balance. There’s nothing to be gained
from it. Hence the novel abd the bag of cookies (and
a notable amount of resentment towards Mulder for
claiming the earlier shift and leaving her the 2am
duty) stashed in the glove compartment.
But the next time she looks up, there’s a man stand-
ing in the middle of the street with his hands pressed
to his face. Unsure from where he came and what he
was doing, she slowly set the book down on the pas-
senger seat, straightening her posture and letting her
hand trace the grip of her gun.
Her eyes narrow as she watches him through the
grimy windshield, waiting to see if this is the owner
of the apartment in question. Most likely not.
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His own smile, mirroring the action of the woman
in front of him, is an almost weak one, thin like
paper and just as easy to shine through. Not that
he doesn't mean it, it's just a general feeling of
being tired that lingers in it.
"Oh, no. You're — welcome. Just thought — "
Shut up while you still seem just polite and not
insane, Nathan.
❝—- oh, uhm, thank you —❞
His voice sounded in her ears better than the chill of January
air as she pivoted to face him; mussed hair shifting in the
wind & over her shoulder. A slow tilt of a smile at honesty
he clearly had in that he returned something to her that could
have been just about anything —- & for all he knew did not
belong to her. An honesty that Raquel herself would never
attain or have within her heart.
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