nysalogs | ( mostly closed )

[ somehow, it's this that makes him nervous. like there's something more involved, dateish about sharing food than there is in making eyes across the table until you're ready to— until it's best you stop doing that for propriety's sake.

so he's stuck staring at Thomas for a second, jaw slightly slack as he makes the decision. I'm alright thanks would get him past this nervy hurdle without incident, but it's also ridiculous. you can't be a person who throws himself into hot pursuit of murderers and also a person who turns down a bite of food because the thought of it has his heartbeat in his throat.

come on, John, for God's sake.

it's only a couple of seconds pause. a quick pair of blinks denotes him coming out of it, and there's a small series of nods to try and cover for his momentary lapse of presence. John sets down his fork but doesn't let it go, not quite sure how they're progressing with this. ]

Yeah, sure.

[ thomas' demons are very different from john's. he's thrown himself into hot pursuit of murderers, yes, and many more things, but he has always done them in the knowledge of his powers and abilities, of his own skill. he has never been the kind of man to chase the thrill of it. the war still haunts him in a way that he cannot undo, ghosts that he cannot exorcise despite knowing how to exorcise actual ghosts in more ways than one.

but despite growing up in a day and age in which homosexuality has been not only a sin but also a criminal offence, he has never let himself be ashamed of his own desires, his urges, wanting men over women. (that is not entirely true; he has internalised some of the norms of his time, but he does not often let it to the surface.)

there is freedom here that lets him show affection and interest in men. he hadn't expected it to throw john off so obviously and he almost withdraws the offer before john is nodding, agreeing. perhaps he might have played with the thought of offering his fork to john food first, but now, he cuts off a bite of steak and hands his fork to john instead with the hilt of it first, letting john take it. ]

[ John accepts gladly, and perhaps there might've been a trace of gratitude given to Thomas if he hadn't reacted so smoothly that John remains unaware that his own hesitation had been noticed and adapted to: as it is, the gratitude is only for the food that he's offered, and his nerves settle considerably to find the fork handle in his own hand.

taking the bite off the fork, John catches Thomas' eye just as he does, and a complicated little ripple of something crosses his face as his eyes dart away so he can chew. he ducks his head too, a vague attempt to conceal the suddenly shy pull of a smile and the heat he can feel in his ears.

Jesus Christ, you're not fourteen.

the fork dangles between his fingers as he swallows, nodding out a verdict before he can add the words that burst out as soon as his throat's clear to let them. ]

—Yeah. That's good. Good choice.

[ the way their eyes meet before john's dart away make thomas' stomach tighten again — with anticipation but also with uncertainty, for a moment. there are moments when he isn't sure of john's interest. it's there, yes, of that he is sure — but whether or not john is willing to act on it, that he is not so certain of.

he knows all too well that there are reasons, sometimes, why what one wants cannot happen regardless. the world is not always or even often kind in that way.

but he pushes those thoughts away. there is no need to be fatalistic before the fact. so he smiles, instead, and holds his hand out for his fork. ]

Quite. And your pie? Satisfied with it?

[ it's taking him a while to restart, put himself properly back on the rails and get moving again. Thomas accepts back his fork and John laughs at the question he's asked - it isn't funny, and John realises that, but he's laughing anyway, just a quick burst of those quiet voiceless under-breath laughs. what he's laughing at is his own, giddy idiocy, and the doing of it does its job, hooks him back into the conversation, all raised eyebrows and smiling at who knows what (John does, but from the outside it must be relatively inexplicable). ]

Mmn. Thank you, it's good. [ this is where John ought to offer a bite in return, but it's instead where he takes a sip of wine: sharing food is what sent him spinning off on one, probably best he gives himself a second before he goes wandering down that path again.

wine swallowed and feeling considerably more collected than he did just a few seconds ago, John takes his already loaded fork in hand. ] Did you want some?

[ it's asked earnestly, not a product of perceived obligation (he really did just need a second to get himself together) - though it might come out sounding a bit throwaway. not his intention, just a result of a late recovery and trying to keep himself centred. ]

[ the laughter is nice, though it does seem a little inexplicable to thomas, a little odd. he doesn't think john is laughing at him, at least.

(it's odd, to be thinking about these things. to be wondering. he'd have thought that he is too old for it, but john proves him wrong on that count.) ]

If you wouldn't mind.

Not at all. Here.

[ John's careful to hand Thomas the fork that same way he'd handed over his: handle first, to be taken at will. let's not cause ourselves any more little fits this evening. ]

[ john follows thomas' example and so thomas' action mirrors john's from before: he takes the fork, tasting the pie, before handing it back. he doesn't try to hold john's gaze while he does it, though his eyes do linger on john's face for the most part.

he drops them to john's hands when handing over the fork. ]

I see what you mean about familiarity. [ the reminder of home. ]

[ John, for his part, watches Thomas taste the food, already reaching out to accept the fork back when it comes. at the comment, he smiles. nods.

yeah. ]

Close your eyes and you could almost be in a gastropub at home.

Quite.

[ thomas' smile is tinged with nostalgia, for a moment. but - ] I sampled most of the more traditional food not at pubs but in the Folly.

[ oh? John thinks back over previous conversations, but it doesn't strike him as familiar and in the time that he has he can't recall mention of that name. ]

The Folly?

Edited 2018-01-28 12:01 (UTC)

Ah.

[ thomas finds that he doesn't actually know how to describe the folly in few words. in the end, he doesn't try doing it in few and elaborates: ]

The Folly is both a building and an institution, if you will. My former place of employ and the seat of British wizardry. [ at least it was. ]

[ John blinks. magic has come into play before where Thomas is concerned, with regards to his age and the way it isn't reflected in his face, but somehow John hadn't— wizardry.

there's a moment of quiet from John, expression one of pause, suspended between not knowing and sudden realisation. then, without complaint, he nods. ]

Right. [ it's getting easier to accept things as they come. to be fascinated by them, instead of afraid. ] You're a wizard, then.

[ it's a question more than a statement, despite how it's intoned. an invitation to carry on talking about it. evidence that he wants to know more - but he won't push, if talking about home to any greater degree than that is too much. ]

Yes. Though that is not a job in and of itself for most people. I used to work for the Foreign Office, before the war, and became a police officer after.

[ "the war" of course meaning wwii. it's easy enough to talk about it when he doesn't let himself linger on the mention. ]

[ a nod from John. there's a lot about this that ought to take him out of his depth, and if he thinks about it all at once for too long perhaps it will. but if he's careful, takes things as they are when they're brought up and focuses on unpacking them with himself a piece at time, it ought to be fine.

Thomas has lived through a lot. not running away at the mere mention of it is the least he can do. ]

Magical police. [ a catch at the edge of his mouth, expression wry but not mocking. ] We could've done with you on a case or two.

Edited 2018-01-28 12:41 (UTC)

[ the reaction earns john another smile from thomas, not unamused. ]

Someone has to investigate magical breaches of the peace. [ but - ] What sort of cases?

One time Sherlock came home with a matchbox he said they found in the apartment of a French decathlete. Found him half-crazy, surrounded by a thousand or so other matchboxes, all empty except the one Sherlock brought back with him. When you opened it, there was just—

[ John flounders here, looking for a word... can't find one. inexplicable, Sherlock had called it, and he hadn't been wrong. ]

Light, I suppose. Anyway, they took it off our hands within a day. Whisked it away to some secret facility, no doubt. That or it's sitting in Mycroft's junk room. [ ah. ] —Was.

That doesn't sound familiar.

[ thomas spreads his hands a little, as though to say "wasn't me". it's the truth, too, but it makes him wonder how different his world and john's really were.

he thinks on it for a moment. ] Though I think I could manage making an object do that.

[ it's half a relief, half a deflation. on the one hand, John's alright not having to adjust his entire worldview to acknowledge that his own world might have been one of magic. on the other hand, that fucking matchbox.

except, hello. ]

Yeah? [ magic. right, Thomas can do magic. ] Is there a spell for that, or do you just...?

[ is there a spell for that. John coughs out another short laugh. ]

Sorry. Pop culture's all I've got to go on.

There are spells for most things.

[ but - ] Which isn't to say I know them all. Wizards used to specialise, for the most part. [ here, his gaze slides away from john again, back into the past.

some knowledge, he fears, may be lost forever now because of that. that which isn't written down, at least. that which cannot be learned by studying a written text. if thomas doesn't know it, there isn't anyone else. ]

[ used to. there's something very final about that. it might be that their worlds are all gone now, so the past is the past - but it also may not be.

a slight downward turn of his mouth. John sets his hand down on the table - doesn't reach all the way across, that's a bit too forward, not necessarily physically but in other ways. but he's there, closer than he was before, fingers laid palm-down at the midline where their halves would join if the table were in pieces. ]

Right. [ an acceptance of fact, even if he doesn't fully understand it.

he wants to know the right thing to say here. wants to know somehow, instinctively, when's the alright time to touch on something as gargantuan as the size of the loss sitting in each and every one of them.

he doesn't. so, instead, after a held breath waiting for words can't wait any longer, ] How did you specialise?

[ they each carry the loss of their worlds with them. thomas has been carrying the loss of most of his with him for a long time now, since the war, not just since the world actually ended. but that is not something he knows how to say, how to communicate.

for a moment, he stays silent, head tipped forward, then he straightens his shoulders and his spine again. ]

Not in only one thing, admittedly. I learned how to make staves - [ he lifts the walking stick he carries around with him everywhere he goes on this planet. it isn't a walking stick at all. ] and I am quite adept at combat magic.

[ that's an understatement. once, he was considered the strongest wizard in all of europe. then, he became one of the only ones. ]

[ it takes Thomas a second to come back, and John doesn't push him. waits quietly, without expectation, and sure enough in a moment or two his head lifts again and he continues on. John's careful this time not to let the softness of concern sit on his features— God knows he never needs reminding when he's vulnerable. instead, firm interest. the tight focus of someone keen to learn.

gaze darts to the walking stick when it's singled out, and remain there as Thomas continues. he hears the rest, but he's still picking apart the word staves, connecting it to the stick he's been shown, and— ]

That's your staff?

[ if some measure of his careful attempt to not seem like magic being real doesn't still regularly catch him for six falls suddenly and dramatically away at this latest discovery, it's only because Thomas caught him off guard. ]

[ john's lack of obvious concern is appreciated. he's right: thomas doesn't much like being reminded of the vulnerability, the pain that causes it. even if he's the one bringing up the topic now, the memories. he doesn't mind telling john, though. at least not this much. ]

Yes.

[ after a moment, he elaborates: ] Magic in my world comes with certain risks. Stroke, mainly, and various medical terms that I've failed to memorise. If one does too much magic at a time, one dies quite suddenly. Staves help alleviate the issue. They store magical energy, if you will.

[ now that's fascinating, something John can more easily latch onto. medical repercussions to magic usage? oh. ]

So magic's something— that exists outside of you? And channelling too much of it's the problem? Or is it in you as a - dormant energy or something, I don't know - and utilising it's what has the effect on the body?

[ whoops, sorry Thomas. suddenly a small glimmer of this is slightly comprehensible to him, and that's exciting in and of itself. ]

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