( private log | oxford&cambridge )

[romanticism]

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.

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[sexting]

[ There's a creak of wood above Oxford - someone upstairs has just swung his legs out of bed and planted his feet against the cool floor panelling. Cambridge sits quietly, chilly and naked except for the tail end of a sheet draped across his lap, and listens.

He knows Oxford hasn't left the house, and he knows this for several reasons... most importantly of which was the fact that Cambridge had made Oxford promise not to leave the house without at least warning him. It wasn't that Cambridge wanted to cage Oxford, to keep him locked up and close by - he knew that wouldn't work. Oxford didn't have the kind of rage that could just be suffocated out of existence just by Cambridge smothering it in and holding it close. It wasn't like Cambridge had made Oxford promise not to leave, not exactly. He just wanted to know when Oxford felt he had to leave, when it was getting too much and he felt like something had to be done... then Cambridge could talk it out with him, attempt to make him see sense, to quell whatever angry force it was with logic and reason. If Oxford felt like he had to go, Cambridge thought, let him at least tell Cambridge so that he might have a chance of setting the man straight with a plan. Overactive hearts and minds didn't often come up with the most sensible tactics. Chances were, when Cambridge had listened, he could often pinpoint something terribly important that Oxford might have conveniently forgotten. The most frequent of these was invariably but you're no good to anyone - not Jules, not the Order and certainly not your country if the fucker stabs you as well. Britain needs its telepath and without St. David's you are pretty bloody important, darling.

So he sits and listens, quietly wondering whereabouts in the house Oxford was. He trusts him not to have disappeared in to the night but the stone cold stretch of mattress beside the warm spot he's just vacated suggests to Cambridge that Oxford has been out of bed for a while now. Before the sun had begin to rise, he guesses.

He's careful not to let his thoughts wander too far, lest Oxford be wrestling with his demons close by. Whilst Cambridge is perfectly prepared to suffer any accidental outpouring of projected thoughts from Oxford in the middle of a fit of a rage he doesn't exactly want to put himself in the firing line unnecessarily. It was too early for that.

But after a while he stands, stretching out to hook up a discarded set of underwear with an index finger as he goes. Were he at home he would instinctively be reaching for his packet of Benson and Hedges in the same movement but he refrains. The underwear is pulled on briskly but he makes a great deal of fuss in the way he moves out from the bedroom on to the landing and the top of the stairs; he wants Oxford to know that he's coming, to give him a chance to do whatever he wants to do before he has to deal with Cambridge being awake and wanting to know what his plans are for the day.

He sits at the top of the stairs, naked except for his boxers, elbows on his knees and quietly waiting for Oxford to reveal himself from wherever in the house he was lurking. ]