spelleton | IC INBOX

What was that look? Did he manage to get to him?

It couldn't be concern. Why would it be concern? There's nothing concerning about this at all! It's just banter! Nothing more, nothing less!

"Pffft... Efficiency. What's the point of it without a little fun? Try a little style and flair sometime! You know, as much effort as you put into those outfits of yours." And that was just fact.

Seriously. Anyone who didn't think the man dressed well was just plain wrong (nevermind that Avery himself had a similar fashion sense).

"Oh, I'm even getting compliments from you, now? Perhaps I need to get drunk more often, if this is how you're going to be about it." He props himself up on one arm slightly, mostly so he has room to gesture empathetically, which he does in his next few sentences.

"Besides, you have altogether too much fun between the two of us, so efficiency suits me just fine. You need...planning, and preparation, and long-term goals, so when you do something it goes flawlessly and nobody ever sees it coming. That's more fun. To me."

He sort of waves his hand around, here and there, like visual punctuation for his sentences.

"Though I suppose more flair's not so bad," he admits, after a moment.

So he requires long-term planning to rile up, eh? Isn't that just a boost the old ego?

"Well then... Maybe one day we'll flip the script. I'll give efficiency a shot and you go for something a little wilder. Seems fair enough, doesn't it?" Like Ekkehardt wouldn't enjoy it. Look at him now, gesturing about like that, smiling, posing. The old bonehead really did need to let loose once in awhile.

Poking and prodding at him is entertaining, certainly, but sometimes well-laid plans are worth the trouble, even if they do take time to pull off. It's worth it, spending the time to see the look on his face. (He doesn't examine that thought any further.)

"I can't imagine what that might look like," Ekkehardt says, half thoughtful and half in jest (though most of the things he says seem to be in jest, given his tendency to laugh and how he is right now). "But I can't say I wouldn't like to see you try my methods for once. I don't know how well they'd suit you. I don't know how well what you do would suit me, either, but I suppose there's time for a little variety now and then."

He adjusts his position again, head on his now-folded arms as he continues to watch Avery. His gaze hasn't wavered, which might be flattering or unsettling depending on how it's taken.

Truthfully, it's a little of both, and while Avery knows exactly why that is, he has no desire to delve too deeply into it. That he even feels this way at all is wholly unacceptable.

It'd be easier if Ekkehardt didn't know about his damn past. Easier to deal with, easier to fix. He could put things back to where they should be without Ekkehardt wearing sone dumb, smug (worried) look on his face.

At least Ekke's drunk now. Any misstep Avery makes can easily be blamed on alcohol-tinted memories.

"Of course there is! Makes things nice and interesting. Can't do the same thing all the time. It'd get boring."

He doesn't remember when it started, this attachment. (He doesn't name the feeling, out of some vague, superstitious thought; funny when he could be the stuff of superstition himself. But it's terribly obvious what it is, even to other people, and he'll probably be teased until the end of time for it.)

Maybe it was talking about the scarring, or maybe it was earlier than that, or later than that; he'd put up with the man for years already, after all. A constant thorn in his side, always a nuisance, an ever-present thought, someone he falls in step with unthinkingly now despite the distance between them that feels less and less like any distance at all.

"Ah, is that why you tolerate my company, then? For the difference I provide, rather than all the people you already know who will encourage you? I suppose that makes as much sense as any other impulsive thing you choose to do."

He looks surprised to hear himself say the words, but in his usual stubborn fashion, he doesn't take them back or excuse them. It's always been one of his defining traits, never to say anything he doesn't mean to say; he has lying by omission, that dance of technicalities in speech, refined to an art.

He doesn't know. He does know. It's both at the same time, and he hates it so, so much. He knows better. He learned better. So why can't he make it stop? The feelings, his actions, they all feel completely out of his control. He's falling deeper and deeper into a hole he can't get out of. A prison. A dungeon.

He'll never learn.

"I could say the same for you. No matter how deep I drive that thorn into your side, you keep coming back. Most people tend to walk away when someone drives a letter opener into their neck, you know."

(What do you want with me?)

That gets a little laugh, a slight huff of breath that he doesn't technically have, gentle rather than amused. "Do you think I worry about things like that? Does it bother you that I don't?"

His expression is soft and thoughtful, rather than calculating or analytical; for once, he's simply contemplating what he'd like to say next, without considering any angles.

If he wasn't drunk, he probably wouldn't feel like he wanted to say these things. Ekkehardt is taciturn and stoic, closemouthed, at the best of times; it makes him a useful person to be around when there's secrets to keep or things overheard that should be left unsaid, tucked away for another time.

When it comes to his own relationships, it's far less useful. He keeps things close to his chest and always has, and deals with them in private.

Alcohol loosens tongues. One of the first things he learned in his dealings as an assassin, a spy. It's a wonderfully useful tool, and a versatile one in the hands of someone who can functionally become invisible at the right moments without actually disappearing from sight.

His mind skips about so much, like this. It wanders, meanders, runs on with no real conclusion. Bringing his mind back to Avery is an anchor, of sorts, and he wonders when that happened.

"Because I'm not worried," he begins, watching him still, his expression unreadable for the first time since this conversation began. His fingers find interesting textures in the back of the chair, giving his hands something to do. "About this. Or you. Well, I'm worried about you, of course, but it's because you keep doing ridiculous things, not..."

He just waves a hand to sort of...vaguely indicate whatever it is he's trying to talk about, and then seems to feel that's not sufficient.

(He can't find the words, suddenly, he's at a loss. Is it the alcohol or just him? Should he have been more sober for this? Is this even the right time? He considers these questions briefly, but they don't seem very important, so he just lets them go.)

("You've always been a little bad at asking for what you want.")

"Not..this. Liking to be around you, wanting your company, coming back despite everything. Everything else that comes with that. That doesn't worry me at all. Except the part where you might not like it, but I can't...that's, well, it's your decision."

He likes Avery Atchison very, very much, in a way that runs differently from any fondness he has for other people he likes. He can't, won't, deny it.

As himself, he rarely says anything he doesn't intend to, or doesn't mean.

Edited (whoops fucked up an italics tag) 2020-01-15 16:32 (UTC)

What follows is silence, the longest, loudest silence Avery could ever call forth.

There's a few moments when he opens his mouth and shuts it again, grip on the arm of his office chair loose then white-knuckle tight.

He knows what all that means. He knows very well. Dread wells up in his chest. And something else. His face goes deep purple, all the way to the tips of his pointed ears.

He's not sure what he expected. To have more of a response, maybe; the silence is deafening, almost oppressive, in a way that he rarely feels. But then again, it's understandable; not a yes, not a no, not anything. He probably needs time to think about it.

Still. The filter between what he feels and what shows on his face is all but gone, and that inscrutable expression is mostly just sadness, in the end. It's not pity, though he has too much of an understanding about why this is happening to not feel some pity.

He doesn't know what it is he feels.

He uncurls himself from the chair, leaning on it as he pushes himself up to a standing position.

"Well, there we are," he says, and though the effects of being drunk haven't faded (he's too loose in his movements to not be) he sounds much more like his normal, stiff self. "I'll just see myself out, shall I?"

Something wraps around Ekkehardt's ankle, a bramble reaching up from the shadows, grip loose. If he looks down to inspect it, by the time he looks back up, Avery has shifted positions, his chin in his hand, fingers covering his face, head turned away and his glare fixed somewhere on the far wall.

Oh.

Well, that's...enough of an indicator, he supposes.

He sits back down, though he's too off-balance, even with alcohol in effect, to curl up like he was doing before. He uses the chair normally, though after a moment he finds it strange enough that he pulls one leg up to his chest, folding his arms over his knee and leaning forward a little.

He's silent for a little while, but he feels like he needs to do something to break it, given that Avery isn't.

He huffs, a little, though he can't keep that worry from his expression.

"Am I that terrible to look at?"

It's an easy out, a half-hearted attempt to slip back into bantering as they normally do. Though he doubts anything will feel normal after this, he feels the need to try regardless, to give him a way of escaping. He's always been accommodating, that way.

It takes a moment or two, but finally he manages to drag an answer out of himself. "Just your dumb, drunk face," he grumbles out eloquently.

At least Avery glances his way, only to look away again just as quickly.

(Almost shy?)

He laughs, at that. He can't help it. It's such a ridiculous thing to hear.

"Ah, you're so harsh! It's not as if my face is any different from when I'm sober." The only real indicator is a slight flush, though it's been more pronounced for some time, for some strange reason.

"You're not fooling me by not looking at me, you know," he adds after a moment, leaning forward. "Though I have to say, purple really does suit you far better than I thought."

He is definitely just no-filtering through this entire conversation but he's just...committing to it. Can't back out now.

Avery freezes in place, goes the approximate shade of a plum, and does the only thing he can think to do: pick up the mostly eaten carton of rice from his take out and chuck it at Ekkehardt's head.

"Shut up!"

All these stupid compliments were making his stomach hurt!

Ekkehardt is too off-balance to be in any state to dodge that carton, but it hitting him in the face only causes him to laugh harder than before.

He mercifully manages to grab it before it can spill everywhere, setting it down on the table out of immediate reach, but now he's unbalanced and he looks like he's about to slide off his chair. One good push would probably destabilize him completely.

And push he does, reaching out with a foot to nudge him over completely: the vengeance that Avery deserves to take.

"Jackass."

He doesn't have any wind to get knocked out and his concern for his dignity is nonexistent at this time, or he'd be more distressed about ending up on the ground. As it is, his laughter peters out eventually when he's sent sprawling, but he doesn't seem inclined to fix the problem.

"Every time I give you a compliment, you're even harsher than usual," he says at last, from his position on the floor. His lax tone suggests he's fine with how things are unfolding currently.

"You really are something else, aren't you?"

He sounds vaguely fond. Terrible.

"So are you," he growls back. But for all the annoyance there's almost something else there. Something small. Maybe.

"Let me guess: you want to call this a win?"

He doesn't feel particularly inclined to get back on the chair, so he rests his arms on the seat instead.

That gets another laugh, the mention of a win. His smile is teasing and lazy, what counts as lazy for him.

"Of course. Just because I'm drunk doesn't mean our little contest stops." He traces a pattern on the chair's surface, hand idly roaming. "But if it takes being drunk on my part to get the upper hand, clearly I need to try harder."

He should leave, really. He's said more than he needs to say, though he's said nothing that he didn't want to say. But it's nice. This feels nice in a way he can't articulate and isn't committed to examining right now. He wonders how he never really noticed how comfortable this routine was.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever..." He's drunk. Probably a flirty one. He loves everyone. It's not like he can take all of this seriously or anything.

But that doesn't make Ekkehardt any less likely to get a throw pillow tossed at his head. And then another one just to make sure. It's nothing like the carton from earlier, meant more to be an annoyance than anything else. "Just try not to half-ass it. I don't need to be coddled."

"Oh, you wound me. When have I ever coddled you for anything? I don't even do it when I'm healing you."

He snatches one of the throw pillows out of the air and gets hit by the other one. It doesn't seem to bother him any, given he's hurling it right back with a surprisingly accurate aim for someone intoxicated.

"Besides, you wouldn't find it fun if I didn't give you a hard time."

It hits him, and he's quick to counterattack. "Hey! I will have you know that I've spent a considerable amount of time not in the infirmary, thank you!" And really. Attacking him with his own pillow in his own home!

Nevermind that Avery threw it first. He didn't start this whole mess!

Whose fault it really is sounds like an argument for a lawyer, which he is not. Little questions like 'should i actually have come here, was this a good idea' are just really not bothering him right now.

Is this how Jailbreak feels all the time?

"Do you want a sticker?" Flinging the pillow right back. "Or a medal? Not that I'm unhappy you're not ending up in the infirmary every month, but you'll forgive me for not being too impressed."

Avery grins. "Yes and yes."

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