[Urgency would be an understatement when it comes to the force of Mello's knock. After seeing and hearing what transpired on the network, he'd rushed over here as quickly as possible, other priorities be damned.]
I'm here for Linden.
[His voice is gruff; the blonde doesn't even know if anyone is close enough to the door to hear him, but it doesn't matter. He's wrapped in leather and his too-expensive coat, his mouth a grim line and a sharp sort of acuteness to his eyes that will show whoever answers that he's not here on a friendly social call.]
[Quite the opposite, actually.]
Open the fucking door.
[Not a request. If no one does? He'll just have to force his way in, won't he?]
Adeline had been several rooms away when the creeping uptick of dread began to crawl up her backbone― something chilly and tingling precluding the sound by several minutes, putting the first notes of trembling into her touch as she changes a bandage on the subject in question. And when the knock comes, forceful enough to rattle the doorjamb itself, the only thing that keeps her from jumping out of her skin entirely is the sleeping, wounded skull cradled in her hands.
Despite the rising heat coming to her features, Ada reserves the final notes of her fleeing tenderness for Linden as she replaces his head against the pillow, as she smooths stray locks away from clinging against his new bandage. Her task done, she huffs a breath― expelling softness, drawing in ire― and makes her way down the hall.
The door opens, albeit just enough to allow a golden eye to peer out. "I don't know who you think you are, but I wouldn't be inclined to attend your fine company even if Linden's condition weren't so delicate!"
And then she recalls― a distant dream, gunmetal without warrant― and closes the door rather sharply, making quick work of a lock and chain; she chooses instead to frown at him from a nearby window, having swept the curtain aside. Her ears are pinned to either side of her golden head frightfully, even amidst the toughness she does her best to muster.
[Oh, no no. Now is not the time. Mello's nerves are on edge; his anger is something that will quickly boil over if he doesn't gain entry. He recognizes the girl who answers the door — her voice — as the skittish thing he met in that dream that wasn't a dream at all.]
Look, bitch.
[He slams his fist against the door. Hard. There will be no diplomacy. No one has the right to keep him from L. It doesn't occur to Mello that his blatant near-rage at the situation isn't going to help him in; there's no time for formalities. L is in there and he's out here, and if he has to smash that fucking window — ]
I've no issue with you.
[Unless, of course, she fails to grant him admission.]
I know what happened. I need to see him. Don't make this worse than it already is.
[Because Mello? Will absolutely make it worse if he isn't allowed inside. They'll be speaking of him in whispers for years after; how he left a mark so prominent that his name will become synonymous with fear.]
I'm here for him, not you. Open the door. I don't care who you think you are to him.
[Actually, he does care. Who does she think she is?]
Adeline shrinks behind the sill all at once at the sudden, rattling wham! of the door in its frame; two ears the only thing left of her, piquing up nervously at the sound of his voice. There's a little nose, two-tone eyes, a furrowed brow amidst the fearful wideness of her eyes.
"―how dare you," She hisses, the downy fluff along her ears seeming to stand up in quivering (yet ever ladylike) anger. "you awful man, how dare you! I've have a mind to suspect your hand in this awful matter! You've done nothing to give me any notion to the contrary!"
Ada rises in the window, hands on the sill, almost seeming to swell in an attempt to make her unthreatening appearance more intimidating. Despite herself, her voice has risen in accordance with Mello's own. "If you knew what happened, you'd know there's no one here to see you! What is in this house is broken! It is lifeless! He hasn't woken in days, and I won't let you hurt him, especially while he is so helpless!"
There's more than anger― emotion, swelling up in tears, ears flat against her head. Her brow is tautly knit together, her lone golden eye winking luridly, equal parts fear and minor fury. The fear there is not for the man on her doorstep, but for the subject he searches for; buckling beneath what she pushes against, succumbing to the awful whim that he might never wake.
[There's something like a desperation akin to his own in her voice; her proclamation is raw and frantic: what's in this house is broken, and if the ire that constantly buzzes and brims beneath the delicate nerves of Mello's skin could shatter, it would. It would, but these fucking commoners have L all but entombed in glass behind a door that he knows if he breaks down will break more than just a structure. He'll become the threat she thinks he is, but oh, she's no idea of what her words have done, does she?]
[The blonde, demanding threat at the entrance goes silent, fists all but shaking at his sides. He lowers his head, bangs falling into his eyes as he takes a breath, two. Another; L was never helpless. Couldn't be. Almost fifteen and ready to burn the world at his feet, Mello has stood before an empty grave and screamed his frustration until his throat was raw — and L is here; L is alive, no matter his current state.]
[Breathe.]
Listen to me.
[His voice has gone low. He splays his hand flat against the door, lifts his chin enough to glance at the girl through the glass. Mello won't let on that her phrasing has damn-near broken him on the spot; she doesn't know what it was like back then for Mello. For the world. An idol lost, a hero reduced to dust. She does't understand a fucking thing about it.]
[If Mello were one to tear up, this would be the thing that did it. But he doesn't, so he fixes sharp eyes on the glass instead, softens his composure as much as he can manage (not much) before he speaks again.]
He came to me in the same forest where I met you; told me to find him. [A hard, dry swallow.] I found him. After five fucking years, I found him, and you've no right to keep him from me.
[So.]
I'm not your enemy. Or his.
[Quite the opposite.]
He was the only person in my world who meant a fucking thing, so if you have the heart that's bleeding enough to protect him: open the door. Please. [There. He said it.] I don't want this to get worse than it already is.
The only thing that could possibly give her pause when faced with this man is entreaty. It isn't what she expects— when he opens his mouth to speak, Adeline draws a breath sharply into her lungs, as if bracing for impact— left to hold it as he speaks, nigh-begging in what she can tell is the only way he possibly can, and for the first time they see eachother. Earnestly. In that moment, Adeline sees a little deeper than his appearance, than his actions.
Her rosy mouth hangs open ever so slightly, attempting to call on words that won't come, but she realizes then that she has no idea what this man could possibly feel, or how to express something like that. She wouldn't dare to patronize this person with platitudes. When she opens the door, she's forgotten politeness entirely, not even offering an invitation. After what he's said, she doesn't think she needs to bother with something so... contrived.
Adeline looks up at him, her ears low against her head. She's afraid to voice her apology, but it's worn on her face regardless— and when he steps over the threshold, she turns to lead him into the mouth of the bedroom that holds what he's searching for in its pathetic, undisturbed little bed.
[Apologies are worthless; Mello would neither offer nor accept one. What's important is that he's gained entry, and the look with which he regards her is both frustrated and impatient. He'll follow, because there's no threat here; from what he gleaned from the network and this girl's demeanor, no one here is out to harm L. Or so he wants to believe. Doesn't mean he won't be on guard, though.]
Don't ever attempt to come between us again, you understand?
[Muttered. He has no intention of attacking or causing an unnecessary scene. But his pride will always overwhelm all else.]
You've no idea what you're fucking with.
[A low level witch, but that's inconsequential to what Mello would do if someone attempted to keep him apart from his mentor. Dead and revived; what he sees before him is a stark imitation of the former. Immediately, he stops in his tracks, braces himself. But it's not enough — shouldn't he have prepared himself? — and his heart picks up in his chest quickly enough to cause the smallest of pangs beneath his ribs.]
[He throws a glance at Adeline; he's already said what needs to be said. And she doesn't need to witness what's about to happen. No one should be here, really.]
I need a moment.
[Because he's staring at death with a chest that rises and falls; and Mello's knees are less than a second away from buckling. She might pick up on the catch in his throat when he speaks; she might not. Doesn't matter.]
Adeline's gait slows as the man behind her speaks; she cuts her eyes to him with a huff, but she doesn't stop moving. "―oh, stop. Shouldn't that tell you all you need to know, ser? I don't know. I'm much too tired to be antagonized."
A child of a man― no, something fearful and feral, threatened even by open palms. Her heart tightens in her chest at the thought, the intense empathy, cursed to find likeness even in the most contrary of people. She wouldn't dare to stand in his way, if she could help it, but he seems to be the type to take nearness for hindrance.
She pauses, her hand on the doorframe, and looks up at him― an expression of warning on her features, something that fades into the distance as her gaze lands on the bed before the practically insignificant figure in it. Adeline takes her hand from the doorframe, and despite his attitude― perhaps because of his attitude, his strange relationship with what can't be anything other than grief― allows him to go before her, following in step. She stops at the threshold, at his words.
Unlike his manner, his brutish way of speaking, his uncouth wont to swear and bite-back before bitten― this feeling, that look― this she can understand. She slips just out of view, leaning just adjacent to the doorframe, two small, gloved hands folded over her apron.
"―they did all they could do, it seems," says the quiet voice from the hall. "now there's just the sleeping, until."
And even softer, hesitating. She knows nothing but this. "I'm so sorry."
[Sorry won't cut it, not when these people who claim to care so much allowed this to happen. Mello is convinced that had he been present, none of this would have come to pass. L would have been safe and anyone who would've seen otherwise would have death staring them down in the form of a skinny blonde thing with more ability to obliterate than his appearance suggests.]
[But he wasn't there, and now he's here, and L's skin is still warm to the touch — he's alive — when Mello tears a glove off with his teeth, wraps thin fingers around an equally thin wrist. L's pulse is even, his breath equally so. It does nothing to quell the tightness in his successor's chest, does nothing to prevent the grit of his teeth and the urge to just shake L until he awakens.]
[But things don't work that way; Mello knows better. He doesn't respond to Adeline; why should he? The only thing that kept him going when his world fell apart is laid out before him: useless and without the life Mello had witnessed only days before. If Adeline is still within earshot, she might hear a muttered prayer, a plea for L to wake up because God, there's so much magic in this world. L is powerful — has always been — why can't he just come out of it?]
[When he falls to his knees against the bedside, it's unintentional. His body failing him under the influence of a grief he's tucked away so securely that he thought he'd ensured he would never feel it again. His rosary does nothing to help — Mello knows this — but he grasps it with his free hand all the same, and the choked sound that bursts from his throat would be audible a mile away.]
This is fucking bullshit, [he finally exclaims aloud. He just got L back. After all of this time. After it being an utter impossibility, and now?]
[No. No one can witness this. He keeps that in mind as he begins to hyperventilate in something resembling an angry panic, and he doesn't have the fucking magic in him to fix this. Time passes — maybe a half hour, maybe a year — before he emerges, shaken up and broken, and turns his eyes to the only person in his sphere. His intensity shakes her up — he knows — but right now? Nothing matters. Only L.]
[His eyes are pink around the edges, mouth pulled into a line that denotes the clench of his jaw. His posture has lost all of its prideful gait; Mello is positively defeated in this moment. L is lying in that fucking bed and there's nothing he can do, and he feels like something is ripping at his stomach with the feral nature of something set to eat him alive.]
I'm not leaving.
[Oh, argue with him. Please do.]
Not until he wakes.
[And even then? It remains to be seen. His voice is barely above a whisper; the urge to scream like he did so long ago is pressing at him something awful. He won't. He can't.]
[As for Adeline:] Tell me why you're helping him. What are you to him?
[Like it matters. He's just trying to wipe the image that lies lifeless not feet away from him from his mind. He has to. If he dwells, if he lingers around L's body, he's going to break in a way that would decimate galaxies.]
As he exits, Adeline lifts her head to regard him― then turns her gaze away, expecting reproach― before being pulled back with words. She's much too exhausted by not only this encounter, but the handful of days that hadn't seemed to end; it makes it difficult to quell the flicker of protest that appears on her feature.
"―it should be made clear to you," Ada says, smoothing her voice even, despite the quirk of her brow. One of her eyes doesn't match the other. "that there's no telling as to when, ser. It might be weeks, it might be..."
She shakes her head, frowning at even the thought, feeling her blood pressure rise with it. His question is terribly rude, something you don't simply ask a lady, but given what she's seen of his nature, this man has no notion of propriety. Adeline turns her back to him, moving down the hall, leaving him no choice but to follow if he seeks an answer so badly.
"Might I offer you tea, if you insist on staying?" Were he anyone else she would attempt to pull from the exhausted well of her charm, but the platitudes only seem to aggravate his temper. It feels foreign in her mouth, but she is nothing it not adaptable. "Sit, ser."
Too tired for the affectations she's so used to― perhaps for once in her life― Adeline stokes the stove, sets out teacups, puts the kettle on. The smiling mask is set aside, if only for a moment, but the gears of the mind still turn.
Regardless of what Mello might like to think, this is her domain. He will respect that, or receive nothing.
[The look he shoots Adeline is enough to crumble mountains; Mello doesn't want to consider the possibility that this won't end in his — in L's — favor. He's already lost him once, when he was too young to understand the magnitude of loss. A second time? Not happening. But he follows, all the same. What else can he do? In an already solemn house, his expression is enough to darken the atmosphere. Heavy steps trail after his host, and he's too fucking defeated to argue against something as useless as tea when the only thing he's ever known to be true lies without life within the same structure.]
[His body is as heavy as the weight on his shoulders when he sinks into the chair — defeat isn't a good look on him, never was — and a cold forehead immediately falls into his bare palm. It doesn't matter that someone who is almost a complete stranger is witnessing him in this state — nothing matters — and when he speaks, his voice is utterly expressionless.]
No one's insisted I take tea since I left England.
[He doesn't know why he's telling her this, really. Anything to distract him from the situation at hand.]
Americans have no hospitality; they're all so self-absorbed.
[As though he isn't. When he finally does glance up at Adeline, his eyes are placid. Almost as lifeless as his mentor.]
Take it you don't have any true magic in you. You're tending house; is that all you're capable of?
[Oddly, he means no insult. Mello just needs the who and the how where it comes to resolving this situation.]
"You wouldn't know hospitality if it had fangs with which to bite you, ser." Though her back is to him, her tone leaves little to the imagination with regard to the cutting look in her rolled eye. She reserves it for the spout of the teapot, however, her little hand on the lid as she pours. "I am nobody's maid, regardless of my flatmates and their faculties at present."
Adeline turns with two teacups, one for each palm― just in time to meet that hollow gaze. Her patience wears thin, regardless of his grief, but such a look works to restore the draining well in her. She sets the cups down, his first in hostess-fashion, then her own; the space between them on the little table she fills with a dish of sugarcubes and a pot of honey. She sits, curling up on the chair in distant grace, a manner that would be icy if not for the rosy hue ever-present in her skin.
"My magic was taken from me when I entered this place, yes." Lifting her eyes to the little glowing chandelier above their heads, she bends at the waist a bit― a ruffle of skirts reveals a newfound flask, bound in leather, blanched and dyed rose. After undoing the cork, an amber-coloured liquid finds its way into her teacup seamlessly.
She considers offering, given she doesn't know him, but decides to take a liberty given the ache his attitude puts into her head. She replaces her flask beneath her skirts and begins to add ample amounts of both sugar and honey, her eyes meeting Mello's own. "And I'm to assume you're a witch, given your attitude, yes? Or shall I attribute it to something much more ungentlemanly?"
She smiles cattily across the table, her spoon making circles in her tea.
[For such a lady, Adeline has quite a mouth on her, doesn't she? If Mello weren't in such a state, he would find it admirable. A world away from the skittish thing he met in the forest. It's because they're currently in her domain, he knows. And his weakness upon seeing L has proven him to be no threat tonight. Right now, he's a broken thing; the cards are in her hands as far as their interaction is concerned.]
[Though she might not be quite the lady. Is that liquor she's slipping into her tea? Amusing. Mello can't afford to ask for some. He's never been much of a drinker, and he needs to be in a clear state when his mentor wakes.]
[Dulled eyes are staring down at the cup, now. He supposes he should be grateful for any hospitality at all, given the manner in which he showed up at their door. But Mello has never been a humble thing, and he doesn't intend on changing that any time soon. Instead of thanking her, he proceeds to sweeten his tea to near-unbearable levels (a trait he shares with L, she might notice) before taking the first, scalding sip.]
[It burns. Good. It should. Everything burns right now.]
[When he does lift his eyes, it's with a questioning glance.]
Being a witch hasn't changed who I am.
[And there's his answer. Mello is no gentleman. Or at least he's never attempted it. No point.]
You dislike me.
[The grin is half-genuine. Half-mocking.]
Yet you invite me to your table and prepare tea. You haven't protested me sticking around until this is resolved.
[The slightest arch of a pale brow beneath jagged bangs.]
"―you grieve for someone who isn't dead, but just as deeply," Adeline replies matter-of-factly, letting her eyes flutter shut as she savours the warmth pooling onto her tongue. She lifts her eyes, a bit pointed in doing so. "you care for him, in some capacity. Perhaps I find you― disagreeable, but I am far from being heartless."
"Besides, ser, you've proven easily provoked― why, provoked by nothing at all. Consider it the path of patience, and of least resistance, too. A stroke of luck, yes?" She leans forward, balancing her heart-shaped face on the back of a glove, peering back at him with equal curiosity. "I'm not obligated to withstand your... shall we say, quirks, and as such I choose to avoid them."
The roll of her eyes she gives him is less than polite, but it isn't antagonizing― just frank, even if it seems contrary to her appearance. She waves a palm.
"I've proven kinder to you than you consider warranted, yes?" Her grin is partly-catty, partly-earnest. "It isn't that I dislike you, ser, you've just no sense of awareness. Good on you to take me seriously, but I'm not often perceived as a threat so quickly."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
[Backdated to Oct 14; L's house]
Date: 2019-10-29 03:56 am (UTC)I'm here for Linden.
[His voice is gruff; the blonde doesn't even know if anyone is close enough to the door to hear him, but it doesn't matter. He's wrapped in leather and his too-expensive coat, his mouth a grim line and a sharp sort of acuteness to his eyes that will show whoever answers that he's not here on a friendly social call.]
[Quite the opposite, actually.]
Open the fucking door.
[Not a request. If no one does? He'll just have to force his way in, won't he?]
no subject
Date: 2019-10-29 03:47 pm (UTC)Despite the rising heat coming to her features, Ada reserves the final notes of her fleeing tenderness for Linden as she replaces his head against the pillow, as she smooths stray locks away from clinging against his new bandage. Her task done, she huffs a breath― expelling softness, drawing in ire― and makes her way down the hall.
The door opens, albeit just enough to allow a golden eye to peer out. "I don't know who you think you are, but I wouldn't be inclined to attend your fine company even if Linden's condition weren't so delicate!"
And then she recalls― a distant dream, gunmetal without warrant― and closes the door rather sharply, making quick work of a lock and chain; she chooses instead to frown at him from a nearby window, having swept the curtain aside. Her ears are pinned to either side of her golden head frightfully, even amidst the toughness she does her best to muster.
no subject
Date: 2019-10-29 08:25 pm (UTC)Look, bitch.
[He slams his fist against the door. Hard. There will be no diplomacy. No one has the right to keep him from L. It doesn't occur to Mello that his blatant near-rage at the situation isn't going to help him in; there's no time for formalities. L is in there and he's out here, and if he has to smash that fucking window — ]
I've no issue with you.
[Unless, of course, she fails to grant him admission.]
I know what happened. I need to see him. Don't make this worse than it already is.
[Because Mello? Will absolutely make it worse if he isn't allowed inside. They'll be speaking of him in whispers for years after; how he left a mark so prominent that his name will become synonymous with fear.]
I'm here for him, not you. Open the door. I don't care who you think you are to him.
[Actually, he does care. Who does she think she is?]
no subject
Date: 2019-10-30 01:06 am (UTC)Adeline shrinks behind the sill all at once at the sudden, rattling wham! of the door in its frame; two ears the only thing left of her, piquing up nervously at the sound of his voice. There's a little nose, two-tone eyes, a furrowed brow amidst the fearful wideness of her eyes.
"―how dare you," She hisses, the downy fluff along her ears seeming to stand up in quivering (yet ever ladylike) anger. "you awful man, how dare you! I've have a mind to suspect your hand in this awful matter! You've done nothing to give me any notion to the contrary!"
Ada rises in the window, hands on the sill, almost seeming to swell in an attempt to make her unthreatening appearance more intimidating. Despite herself, her voice has risen in accordance with Mello's own. "If you knew what happened, you'd know there's no one here to see you! What is in this house is broken! It is lifeless! He hasn't woken in days, and I won't let you hurt him, especially while he is so helpless!"
There's more than anger― emotion, swelling up in tears, ears flat against her head. Her brow is tautly knit together, her lone golden eye winking luridly, equal parts fear and minor fury. The fear there is not for the man on her doorstep, but for the subject he searches for; buckling beneath what she pushes against, succumbing to the awful whim that he might never wake.
no subject
Date: 2019-10-30 01:55 am (UTC)[There's something like a desperation akin to his own in her voice; her proclamation is raw and frantic: what's in this house is broken, and if the ire that constantly buzzes and brims beneath the delicate nerves of Mello's skin could shatter, it would. It would, but these fucking commoners have L all but entombed in glass behind a door that he knows if he breaks down will break more than just a structure. He'll become the threat she thinks he is, but oh, she's no idea of what her words have done, does she?]
[The blonde, demanding threat at the entrance goes silent, fists all but shaking at his sides. He lowers his head, bangs falling into his eyes as he takes a breath, two. Another; L was never helpless. Couldn't be. Almost fifteen and ready to burn the world at his feet, Mello has stood before an empty grave and screamed his frustration until his throat was raw — and L is here; L is alive, no matter his current state.]
[Breathe.]
Listen to me.
[His voice has gone low. He splays his hand flat against the door, lifts his chin enough to glance at the girl through the glass. Mello won't let on that her phrasing has damn-near broken him on the spot; she doesn't know what it was like back then for Mello. For the world. An idol lost, a hero reduced to dust. She does't understand a fucking thing about it.]
[If Mello were one to tear up, this would be the thing that did it. But he doesn't, so he fixes sharp eyes on the glass instead, softens his composure as much as he can manage (not much) before he speaks again.]
He came to me in the same forest where I met you; told me to find him. [A hard, dry swallow.] I found him. After five fucking years, I found him, and you've no right to keep him from me.
[So.]
I'm not your enemy. Or his.
[Quite the opposite.]
He was the only person in my world who meant a fucking thing, so if you have the heart that's bleeding enough to protect him: open the door. Please. [There. He said it.] I don't want this to get worse than it already is.
no subject
Date: 2019-10-30 02:11 am (UTC)Her rosy mouth hangs open ever so slightly, attempting to call on words that won't come, but she realizes then that she has no idea what this man could possibly feel, or how to express something like that. She wouldn't dare to patronize this person with platitudes. When she opens the door, she's forgotten politeness entirely, not even offering an invitation. After what he's said, she doesn't think she needs to bother with something so... contrived.
Adeline looks up at him, her ears low against her head. She's afraid to voice her apology, but it's worn on her face regardless— and when he steps over the threshold, she turns to lead him into the mouth of the bedroom that holds what he's searching for in its pathetic, undisturbed little bed.
no subject
Date: 2019-10-30 03:20 am (UTC)Don't ever attempt to come between us again, you understand?
[Muttered. He has no intention of attacking or causing an unnecessary scene. But his pride will always overwhelm all else.]
You've no idea what you're fucking with.
[A low level witch, but that's inconsequential to what Mello would do if someone attempted to keep him apart from his mentor. Dead and revived; what he sees before him is a stark imitation of the former. Immediately, he stops in his tracks, braces himself. But it's not enough — shouldn't he have prepared himself? — and his heart picks up in his chest quickly enough to cause the smallest of pangs beneath his ribs.]
[He throws a glance at Adeline; he's already said what needs to be said. And she doesn't need to witness what's about to happen. No one should be here, really.]
I need a moment.
[Because he's staring at death with a chest that rises and falls; and Mello's knees are less than a second away from buckling. She might pick up on the catch in his throat when he speaks; she might not. Doesn't matter.]
no subject
Date: 2019-10-30 03:48 am (UTC)A child of a man― no, something fearful and feral, threatened even by open palms. Her heart tightens in her chest at the thought, the intense empathy, cursed to find likeness even in the most contrary of people. She wouldn't dare to stand in his way, if she could help it, but he seems to be the type to take nearness for hindrance.
She pauses, her hand on the doorframe, and looks up at him― an expression of warning on her features, something that fades into the distance as her gaze lands on the bed before the practically insignificant figure in it. Adeline takes her hand from the doorframe, and despite his attitude― perhaps because of his attitude, his strange relationship with what can't be anything other than grief― allows him to go before her, following in step. She stops at the threshold, at his words.
Unlike his manner, his brutish way of speaking, his uncouth wont to swear and bite-back before bitten― this feeling, that look― this she can understand. She slips just out of view, leaning just adjacent to the doorframe, two small, gloved hands folded over her apron.
"―they did all they could do, it seems," says the quiet voice from the hall. "now there's just the sleeping, until."
And even softer, hesitating. She knows nothing but this. "I'm so sorry."
no subject
Date: 2019-10-30 05:01 am (UTC)[But he wasn't there, and now he's here, and L's skin is still warm to the touch — he's alive — when Mello tears a glove off with his teeth, wraps thin fingers around an equally thin wrist. L's pulse is even, his breath equally so. It does nothing to quell the tightness in his successor's chest, does nothing to prevent the grit of his teeth and the urge to just shake L until he awakens.]
[But things don't work that way; Mello knows better. He doesn't respond to Adeline; why should he? The only thing that kept him going when his world fell apart is laid out before him: useless and without the life Mello had witnessed only days before. If Adeline is still within earshot, she might hear a muttered prayer, a plea for L to wake up because God, there's so much magic in this world. L is powerful — has always been — why can't he just come out of it?]
[When he falls to his knees against the bedside, it's unintentional. His body failing him under the influence of a grief he's tucked away so securely that he thought he'd ensured he would never feel it again. His rosary does nothing to help — Mello knows this — but he grasps it with his free hand all the same, and the choked sound that bursts from his throat would be audible a mile away.]
This is fucking bullshit, [he finally exclaims aloud. He just got L back. After all of this time. After it being an utter impossibility, and now?]
[No. No one can witness this. He keeps that in mind as he begins to hyperventilate in something resembling an angry panic, and he doesn't have the fucking magic in him to fix this. Time passes — maybe a half hour, maybe a year — before he emerges, shaken up and broken, and turns his eyes to the only person in his sphere. His intensity shakes her up — he knows — but right now? Nothing matters. Only L.]
[His eyes are pink around the edges, mouth pulled into a line that denotes the clench of his jaw. His posture has lost all of its prideful gait; Mello is positively defeated in this moment. L is lying in that fucking bed and there's nothing he can do, and he feels like something is ripping at his stomach with the feral nature of something set to eat him alive.]
I'm not leaving.
[Oh, argue with him. Please do.]
Not until he wakes.
[And even then? It remains to be seen. His voice is barely above a whisper; the urge to scream like he did so long ago is pressing at him something awful. He won't. He can't.]
[As for Adeline:] Tell me why you're helping him. What are you to him?
[Like it matters. He's just trying to wipe the image that lies lifeless not feet away from him from his mind. He has to. If he dwells, if he lingers around L's body, he's going to break in a way that would decimate galaxies.]
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Date: 2019-10-30 05:20 am (UTC)"―it should be made clear to you," Ada says, smoothing her voice even, despite the quirk of her brow. One of her eyes doesn't match the other. "that there's no telling as to when, ser. It might be weeks, it might be..."
She shakes her head, frowning at even the thought, feeling her blood pressure rise with it. His question is terribly rude, something you don't simply ask a lady, but given what she's seen of his nature, this man has no notion of propriety. Adeline turns her back to him, moving down the hall, leaving him no choice but to follow if he seeks an answer so badly.
"Might I offer you tea, if you insist on staying?" Were he anyone else she would attempt to pull from the exhausted well of her charm, but the platitudes only seem to aggravate his temper. It feels foreign in her mouth, but she is nothing it not adaptable. "Sit, ser."
Too tired for the affectations she's so used to― perhaps for once in her life― Adeline stokes the stove, sets out teacups, puts the kettle on. The smiling mask is set aside, if only for a moment, but the gears of the mind still turn.
Regardless of what Mello might like to think, this is her domain. He will respect that, or receive nothing.
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Date: 2019-11-02 04:21 am (UTC)[His body is as heavy as the weight on his shoulders when he sinks into the chair — defeat isn't a good look on him, never was — and a cold forehead immediately falls into his bare palm. It doesn't matter that someone who is almost a complete stranger is witnessing him in this state — nothing matters — and when he speaks, his voice is utterly expressionless.]
No one's insisted I take tea since I left England.
[He doesn't know why he's telling her this, really. Anything to distract him from the situation at hand.]
Americans have no hospitality; they're all so self-absorbed.
[As though he isn't. When he finally does glance up at Adeline, his eyes are placid. Almost as lifeless as his mentor.]
Take it you don't have any true magic in you. You're tending house; is that all you're capable of?
[Oddly, he means no insult. Mello just needs the who and the how where it comes to resolving this situation.]
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Date: 2019-11-02 05:30 am (UTC)Adeline turns with two teacups, one for each palm― just in time to meet that hollow gaze. Her patience wears thin, regardless of his grief, but such a look works to restore the draining well in her. She sets the cups down, his first in hostess-fashion, then her own; the space between them on the little table she fills with a dish of sugarcubes and a pot of honey. She sits, curling up on the chair in distant grace, a manner that would be icy if not for the rosy hue ever-present in her skin.
"My magic was taken from me when I entered this place, yes." Lifting her eyes to the little glowing chandelier above their heads, she bends at the waist a bit― a ruffle of skirts reveals a newfound flask, bound in leather, blanched and dyed rose. After undoing the cork, an amber-coloured liquid finds its way into her teacup seamlessly.
She considers offering, given she doesn't know him, but decides to take a liberty given the ache his attitude puts into her head. She replaces her flask beneath her skirts and begins to add ample amounts of both sugar and honey, her eyes meeting Mello's own. "And I'm to assume you're a witch, given your attitude, yes? Or shall I attribute it to something much more ungentlemanly?"
She smiles cattily across the table, her spoon making circles in her tea.
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Date: 2019-11-04 04:31 am (UTC)[Though she might not be quite the lady. Is that liquor she's slipping into her tea? Amusing. Mello can't afford to ask for some. He's never been much of a drinker, and he needs to be in a clear state when his mentor wakes.]
[Dulled eyes are staring down at the cup, now. He supposes he should be grateful for any hospitality at all, given the manner in which he showed up at their door. But Mello has never been a humble thing, and he doesn't intend on changing that any time soon. Instead of thanking her, he proceeds to sweeten his tea to near-unbearable levels (a trait he shares with L, she might notice) before taking the first, scalding sip.]
[It burns. Good. It should. Everything burns right now.]
[When he does lift his eyes, it's with a questioning glance.]
Being a witch hasn't changed who I am.
[And there's his answer. Mello is no gentleman. Or at least he's never attempted it. No point.]
You dislike me.
[The grin is half-genuine. Half-mocking.]
Yet you invite me to your table and prepare tea. You haven't protested me sticking around until this is resolved.
[The slightest arch of a pale brow beneath jagged bangs.]
Why?
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Date: 2019-11-08 01:55 am (UTC)"Besides, ser, you've proven easily provoked― why, provoked by nothing at all. Consider it the path of patience, and of least resistance, too. A stroke of luck, yes?" She leans forward, balancing her heart-shaped face on the back of a glove, peering back at him with equal curiosity. "I'm not obligated to withstand your... shall we say, quirks, and as such I choose to avoid them."
The roll of her eyes she gives him is less than polite, but it isn't antagonizing― just frank, even if it seems contrary to her appearance. She waves a palm.
"I've proven kinder to you than you consider warranted, yes?" Her grin is partly-catty, partly-earnest. "It isn't that I dislike you, ser, you've just no sense of awareness. Good on you to take me seriously, but I'm not often perceived as a threat so quickly."