nysalogs | ( mostly closed )

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. ]

I'm afraid you're asking the wrong person. I know that it works and how to make it work, not why it works or the mechanisms behind it.

[ but despite the words, there's something softly pleased in his expression. thomas has always had a soft spot for those more scientifically-minded than he himself is. david, most notably — but also abdul and peter. ]

[ ah. John nods, expression briefly stumped and then smoothing out again.

understood or not, it does make him feel less separate from it all - takes the mystique out of it. that magic had physical repercussions to its users in Thomas' world isn't a good thing, exactly, but it does neutralise it. takes it out of the realm of fantasy, somehow. humanises it. ]

That's alright. This is the first time I've heard of it having consequences to the user. Medical consequences. It's— well, not good, obviously, just— real.

[ dragging himself to a halt, John shakes his head. casts Thomas a look, checking to make sure he hasn't offended. ]

[ thomas isn't offended. if anything, he is fondly amused. mostly, it shows in the warmth his expression carries. ]

You would like my apprentice. [ "if he wakes up" goes unspoken. ]

Apprentice. [ bland humour in the repeat. God. wonder if that's on the government's apprenticeship database? John sincerely doubts it. ] Your apprentice into the science of it, then?

There used to be a school for it, and apprenticeship would come only later, but yes.

[ there is that expression again. "used to". it's all a moot point now, anyway. ]

[ ah. oh, God, he really does keep managing to follow the sorts of lines that send Thomas off somewhere he'd rather not be.

John sits with it a second. then: ]

Thomas, look, I really -

[ saying any of the things that come to mind out loud would once again cross the lines of highlighting vulnerability, and defeat the object of speaking at all. jesus christ, he's no good at this. ]

... It's fine. If you want to talk about this. I'm happy to. But if it's a difficult topic, we can try it again another time.

[ he isn't here to upset him, but every new turn in the conversation seems to be fraught with potential mines and avoiding them is proving impossible. he is more than happy to talk, to listen, but if Thomas came here expecting a pleasant evening and what he's getting instead is the slow drag of retrospection— ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject