reticulata | ( private log | oxford&cambridge )

( private log | oxford&cambridge )

He doesn't know how long he's been pacing, but he can see a little light starting to filter in through the thin curtains in the living room. It's bright, harsh light, the sort that heralds a cloudless and clear day, the sort he used to appreciate, but today he would much rather retreat to the darkness. His lips purse into a thin line, jaw clenching in a customary, habitual display of emotion, and he turns very smartly, very sharply, on his heel, away from the morning, back into the colourless void that is his hallway. Oxford is a big man, both tall and broad, but his footsteps are silent, gentle pads across the smooth wooden floor despite the anger and frustration bubbling beneath his skin. He doesn't want to cause any disturbances, he doesn't want to wake the other man upstairs- disturbances. Everything has been about disturbances lately, hasn't it? An unfortunate, violent disturbances in otherwise peaceful lives, relatively speaking. His thoughts immediately drift back to blinding hospital lights and the smell of linoleum floods his senses, fingers clenching into fists at the very reminder. There have been few times that Oxford has had to travel the corridors of hospitals, but in these past few months there have been far too many instances for his liking.

My liking, he thinks, a soft huff of mirthless laughter escaping him. What a magnificent understatement.

There never seem to be enough words to describe how he has felt, recently. It's strange that for a man of literature, someone who has poured over every Shakespearean display of outrage, near to every classic scene of sheer despair, his very own moment for emotional outburst cannot be truly described, not by himself. His anguish eludes him except for in his own mind. The brutality of his feelings cannot slip from his lips as an explanation to anyone else, they twist and swirl like a vicious hurricane in his mind, refusing to untangle for long enough, so that he cannot catch their essence. Oxford's eyes, very briefly, look upon the stairs, in the direction of the bedroom. Not even Cambridge has had the uncomfortable pleasure of seeing the very extent of Oxford's... of what? Of his rage? His loathing for a certain monstrous creature roaming the streets? His sadness, for the colleagues and friends either lost or injured? His disappointment in the weight of apathy and ancient bitterness that is no longer deserved or valid? He doesn't know. He simply cannot say what it is that blisters his heart and reduces him to stalking his very own halls, like a trapped animal waiting for some chance to escape.

He has been holding a handgun for a long while, now, carefully and quietly removed earlier from the bottom drawer of his dresser. It's a simple model, compact and small, designed to do the job and nothing more. Stopping, for a moment, he looks down at it, laying it flat across his palm, weighing it in one hand. He has never quite grown accustomed to the feeling of a gun in his hands, though he's a fairly decent shot, but when given half a choice between a knife and a gun he would certainly choose the latter in all circumstances. He supposes it's something a little cowardly in him; he hardly enjoys the prospect of killing someone, but God knows he would prefer to do it from a distance rather than feel flesh fall away beneath your hand and be close enough to see the light drift away from someone's eyes. He wonders if that's the allure of stabbings to Cerbos; the power one feels, the actual sensation of having won this battle. Discomfort prickles the back of his neck, making his hairs stand on end. His fingers curl around the gun and his eyes close, scrunching up tightly. He hasn't had a great many occasions to cry in his life, though he feels that he has done a reasonable job of holding in his emotions since Cambridge practically started living with him (the strange and improbable things that happen in times of duress), but he isn't quite sure how much longer he can manage.

Oxford doesn't remember the last time that anything in his life had quite such an effect on him. His memories don't really allow him to much time to dwell on the matter, either. Whenever he tries, he can almost feel the coldness of Jules' skin under his fingertips, the limpness of her hand when he first curled his own around hers. It's enough to set a weakness in his knees, a heaviness upon his shoulder and an emptiness in his heart.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ In the silence, that awkward guilt steadily increases, and it makes Oxford bristle. He doesn't want to feel it, but it's thick and clogging up his chest as he hovers under Cambridge's gaze, and he's angrier with himself above all else for resenting that Cambridge makes him feel it, even when he should. All the same, he sighs quietly and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, his body language closing him off just that little bit more. Like a sullen child he searches for every excuse he can to be irritated with Cambridge, to condemn this strange living arrangment they've developed and blame all his frustrations on the man in front of him, but he forces himself to stop. Don't, he warns himself. Don't point fingers and start new fights.

With some amount of difficulty, he finally speaks again, painfully trying to keep his voice neutral and level. ]

Don't look at me like that. [ Unthinkingly, a helpless note enters his voice: ] I couldn't sleep.

[ Nothing new. When can he ever sleep, nowadays? He doesn't remember the last time he slept through the night without suddenly waking and spending hours staring into the darkness. ]

[ Cambridge might not be a telepath but you hardly need to be able to feel the mind of another person to know when it's in turmoil. He knows how little Oxford sleeps nowadays; he feels guilty for getting as many hours as he does, knowing that the other man might only have had half as many. At Oxford's request - no, order - he casts his gaze aside but for all intents and purposes remains exactly as he is, still sitting unabashedly half-naked on the older man's stairs. ]

So you're the one who's up early, not me.

Yes.

[ Oxford manages the reply through slightly gritted teeth, reluctantly shuffling forwards to stand right at the very bottom of the stops, leaning against the wall. He knows that the last thing Cambridge wants right now is for them to start bickering - or at least, he hopes so. He doesn't quite trust his judgement at the moment, and less so his telepathy. His grip on himself and his abilities has recently slackened, and it makes him quietly nervous on the inside, though that much is hard to tell from outward appearances.

In any case, he wants to keep the peace. Sadly, for the moment it means warbling out the most mundane and domestic little phrases. ]

I'm sorry if I woke you.

[ How could he have done so? He took every care to be silent, but it's a pathetic plank to bridge what would otherwise be an hopeless gap. ]

You didn't.

[ His words are simple and abrupt but softened with a half-shouldered shrug as he inspects an imaginary detail on one of his knees. There's a moment of silence before he gives up the pretense of trying to look nonchalant and raises his gaze again to fix Oxford with a hard look. ]

I bloody well wish you would, though.

[ There's an unspoken addendum that implies that of all the things in the world Cambridge would much rather be awake with Oxford than leave him alone. Not necessarily to do all the emotional touchy-feely hand-holdy stuff - as if Cambridge could ever bring himself to do that kind of thing - but just so that perhaps they could be themselves for a bit and not indulge in this fragile charade of giving each other 'space'. ]

[ If Oxford were a lesser man, he would probably flinch, or recoil, at the shift in Cambridge's manner. Being as he is, he only does so internally, blinking hard at the stairs before his eyes lift to meet with Cambridge's. His jaw immediately clenches, as if to keep his tongue suitably caged so he doesn't come up with some biting remark to respond with. He paces his answer instead, waiting for the irritation flaring up in his chest to subside. The problem is that in times like this, Oxford always believes that he operates better on his own, because company puts him on edge, but herein lies the problem; Cambridge isn't keen to let Oxford have his solitude.

It's simultaneously smart and intensely annoying of Cambridge; Oxford knows without a pair of eyes keeping watch over him, he would probably go out and do something stupid. With said pair of eyes, however, he becomes more snappish and defensive, because it feels like an intrusion. No one really wins, either way - but then it isn't really about winning. ]

I'm hardly stellar company at the moment. [ He exhales, huffily. ] You wouldn't get much sleep if I did.

Oxford, for the love of God...

[ Cambridge can only just resist rolling his eyes at that and instead settles for a long-suffering exhale that borders on the impatient. ]

Stop trying to save me from you.

[ He stands up, bare legs unfolding from beneath him and pale knees cracking stiffly as he hauls himself upwards with the aid of the bannister. He doesn't cut a particularly impressive figure, pale and cold in the grey morning light, but at least he's something familiar. Cambridge turns towards the shower but pauses long enough to quietly add: ]

I didn't come here so that I could be avoided.

What did you come here for, then?

[ Before Cambridge has time to go any further, Oxford moves up several steps. His tone isn't confrontational or accusatory, but it is questioning. He stops before he reaches the landing, hovering on the top step, his hand gripping the bannister. Something stops him from completely closing the gap between the two of them, a sudden fear that something might crumble under his fingerstips if he tries to touch it. ]

For me to try and pretend you're not here? Are you here to be treated unfairly because I'm too used to retreating into some lonely corner when I feel... like this. [ A little more earnestly than before: ] I'm sorry, Cambridge, I really am.

Don't apologise.

[ The words, short but lacking their usual firmness, come so quickly after Oxford's that they almost cut straight through them. There's a prickle of relief in the back of his conscience at the fact that Oxford has chosen to close the distance between them of his own volition but it only manages to manifest itself in a softening of his expression. He pauses, regarding Oxford with careful scrutiny, before slowly shaking his head. ]

I'm here to keep you alive and sane. Because your colleagues need you that way.

[ A simple enough explanation - and perfectly true. Cambridge's tone is low and sharp as he continues and he even goes so far as to shift a little closer and toes the edge of the landing in his bare feet as he looks down on Oxford (it's not often that he gets to enjoy being the taller of the pair). ]

And so do I.

[ Though he felt markedly frustrated with Cambridge's presence before, even ready to try and goad him into leaving with a few irritant, scathing remarks at this ungodly hour of the morning, he can't help the sudden shift in his mood. Now he feels ready to crumple on the spot, but he forces himself to remain upright, despite the weariness and weakness that have entered his knees.

He looks up at Cambridge tiredly, and his mind drifts back to the time they spent together after the incident in Paris. Once again, Cambridge gets to see Oxford at his most vulnerable, when he feels like only a quarter of the man he thinks he could be. Now he just feels wretched, and the guilt has overridden his other emotions. Just one allusion to being needed makes him think more broadly - he thinks of Darcy, and his eyes glaze.

He opens his mouth to speak- then closes it again, realising that he was about to apologise again. With a brisk movement he breaks away from Cambridge's gaze, hanging his head and shaking it lightly. ]

[ For all that Cambridge thinks he knows Oxford better than anyone else on earth there's no way he could possibly guess where Oxford's mind was drifting. But he sees the sad way Oxford's eyes glaze over and that defeated shake of his head and instinctively knows that this conversation is over.

For now, at least.

From the moment he had realised that Oxford was downstairs Cambridge had said to himself that he wouldn't be the one that brooked the distance between them but now he raises a hand, cold and not quite warmed up yet, and rests it carefully on Oxford's shoulder. Leaving the distance to be closed by Oxford wasn't apathy or coldness on his own part - quite the opposite. The last thing Cambridge wanted was to feel that he was pushing or prodding (or guilting, which would be the very worst and Cambridge already felt he was sailing dangerously close to the wind on that one) Oxford in to reconnecting with him. Let Oxford approach him in his own time, he had told himself, but with the pair of them only a small distance apart the gap was nearly all but closed. The hand remains for a moment longer before giving Oxford's shoulder a careful squeeze, fingers brushing the material of his shirt. ]

Chin up, darling. You can always fake the sane part.

[ Oxford reaches up to catch Cambridge's hand with his own, keeping it pressed against his shoulder for a moment before letting his own hand drop once again. He raises his head to look up at Cambridge once again, and try as he might inject a little humour into his voice, the smile on his face is strained, his eyes are lost and his tone isn't quite there, uncharacteristic, almost fragile sounding. ]

Hasn't been working so far, has it?

[ Without directly wanting to, the emotion that's tumultuously pouring around Oxford's head seeps from him, enough to drift to Cambridge's mind. Though he reigns it back in quickly, his expression falters and his gaze drops once again, his jaw quickly tightening, habitually, at the telepathic slip. There's something pleading in there, a want to ask Cambridge for some kind of comfort without knowing how to. ]

Your poker face has never been terribly impressive--

[ The telepathic slip hits Cambridge in a heavy wave, drenching him with the surplus of Oxford's sadness and a hot roar of emotion that threatens to bring him down. It was only a momentary slip from Oxford's end - any longer and Cambridge would really be struggling - but it was enough to send the technopath temporarily reeling. He turns his head aside sharply - as if the power slip had hit him like a slap to the face - but the hand on Oxford's shoulder remains solid and unwavering. He winces, struggling to breathe through the unexpected onslaught of emotion, and there's a moment of silence as Cambridge carefully attempts to disentangle his own feelings from those of the telepath.

But it doesn't change anything. Steadfast, Cambridge pulls his gaze up again and the hand on his shoulder drifts sideways to brush along the underside of Oxford's chin (Cambridge had missed that characteristic moment of fleeting tension along Oxford's jaw but he didn't need to see it to know that it had happened). ]

Like I said - [ Cambridge's fingers pause, hesitating on the flank of Oxford's jaw as he ducks his head to place a brief, cool kiss to his lips. ] - Chin up.

[ As Cambridge leans forward, so does Oxford, just a little bit, his hands reaching up to very tentatively rest on the bare skin just above Cambridge's boxers. The movement of his body towards the other man is slight, but significant. He closes his eyes at the kiss, his brow furrowing deeply as he tries to keep himself in check. The telepathic leak appears to be an opening of floodgates; now that the emotion has wriggled its way out into the open, Oxford can't seem to stop it from sinking into the rest of him. Exhaling heavily, he can't help but drop his head yet again, keeping his eyes squeezed tightly shut. ]

I didn't mean for that to happen. [ There's a tightness in his voice, forced by the sudden lump in his throat. ] And I'm afraid I seem to have rather a heavy chin...

Edited 2012-04-01 23:45 (UTC)

[ As Oxford drops his head Cambridge's grip slackens if only to free up his hands to pull Oxford closer. He wraps his arms around the older man's neck - the height difference of one stair being just enough to make it comfortable - and folds him towards Cambridge's bare chest. Cambridge has never ordinarily been one for many public displays of affection but this is hardly public - nor is it really a particularly ordinary situation. There have been times - brief, infrequent times - when Cambridge has allowed himself to mellow in Oxford's company, to become a softer, more affectionate version of himself. This isn't quite the same as that - this isn't an affectionate embrace of someone trying to prove the point that they can, this is something more sad and pliant and compassionate than that. He merely rests his cheek quietly against Oxford's hair, unwilling to say anything just yet. ]

[ The sensation of being pulled closer and enveloped by Cambridge makes Oxford feel strangely safe for the first time in what seems like an eternity. The hands on Cambridge's hips move to let him curl his arms around him, splaying a warm hand across the still cool expanse of Cambridge's back. He presses his face to the crook of Cambridge's neck, lightly at first, then with a little less restraint, though still a little conscious of his bristly jaw potentially being a somewhat tickly irritant. The temporary quiet is something of a blessing, for the moment; it isn't weighed down by the heaviness of the discomfort they have been experiencing in each other's company recently, it feels more like it used to, albeit under very different circumstances. He remains quiet, eyes still tightly shut lest a little too much feeling starts to trickle down his cheeks. ]

[ They stand together for a while in silence but before long a little flame of awkwardness begins to take light somewhere in the depths of Cambridge's mind. A frown forms, quiet and barely perceptible against the strands of Oxford's hair, and then - as quickly as he had pulled Oxford in to the hug in the first place - he slackened his arms. The frown is gone by the time Cambridge is holding Oxford by the shoulders at arm's length and is replaced instead by a pensive look of scrutiny as he inspects Oxford's features. ]

Go and make us some tea, won't you?

[ Pro-activity is clearly the key here; none of this skulking around the shadows wallowing in one's own survivor's guilt. ]

I'll get dressed and then we can plan something for the rest of the day.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( private log | oxford&cambridge )

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

unf that icon is so good

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject