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Today I:
* Made appointments for my formal hairdo and trial run for the same.
* Finished Going Postal. The crackers! THE CRACKERS! Awesome. Pterry is my god.
* Finished Sandman 4. Gneil has also been granted godhood.
* Learned a new dance at street funk and filled my little body up with endorphins, and as a result am now bouncing on my computer chair and not feeling at all like going to sleep. I shall regret this tomorrow.
* Was overcome with a mad rush of envy for all those for whom Nanowrimo does not occur smack bang on top of final exams. I may cheat and do it in January, though it won't be the same without the support groups and waves of mass hysteria coming from around the globe.
* Did a minimum of actual work and wrote some more RP ficcage for Art, whose life must DIRECTLY clash with mine, as I can never find her online. Woe.
~
There is a sigh from behind him, resignation mixed with something else, and a soft English voice that isn’t quite sure what reaction it’s going to get.
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I wanted to,” Lucifer says, giving the original explanation, the only explanation that makes any sort of sense.
“Of course.” When Lucifer turns, it is to see dull grey eyes in a blank face. “Thank you for your gracious assistance, my lord Lucifer. I shan’t detain you.” Hob stands, holding himself steady, one hand on the back of the chair.
Lucifer leans forward and rests his chin on his hand, his voice mild. “You don’t have to leave. You don’t have to keep running away.”
“Running away?” Hob’s palm hits the table a bare foot from the Morningstar’s elbow, and Lucifer sees the sudden flare of fear that almost makes him pull it away. After a battle that lasts half a second, anger keeps it there. Hob sits. “Who ran away, my lord?” Oh, yes, Lucifer recognises this mood; too incensed to care about the danger, aware of it on one level and reveling in it, with the small dark corner of his soul that was awakened with a silver knife, on another.
The question is ignored.
“I suppose I should have expected something would be attempted. Your connection to me makes you vulnerable. People will try and use you against me.”
“But they can’t, can they? I can’t make you feel anything on my own, let alone when steered by another hand. They should know that. They should know that you will not interfere.” Hob’s voice is bitter, true, but there is no real anger in it. The resignation is numbing.
“Will I not?” Lucifer leans back, amused, and his hand drops to lie between them on the table. It’s almost startling, the speed with which Hob picks it up, presses it between his own and the whole done so absently that Lucifer isn’t even sure if the man is aware he did it at all. The pressure could almost be painful, to another being. He smiles. “Did I just leave you to the Lady? Did I stand by and watch? What do you call interfering?”
Hob stares at the table, his fingers pressing and caressing in a small slow universe of their own. “Then all you were doing is proving that I can be used against you.” The pressure increases, and grey eyes flash spite. “Is that logical? You are not the sort to make such a mistake. Does it amuse you so to see me mistreated by others?”
Lucifer reaches out with his free hand, not particularly gentle, and pulls Hob’s chin up, making expressionless eye contact. “You are mine, Robert Gadling. Your soul has been bought and paid for with a bargain and with blood and with the tears of your own free will. You cannot be used against me if I do not let it happen in the first place. The Lady has her warning, now.”
Hob stares, and stares. He sits perfectly still, holding Lucifer’s smooth brown hand between two pale ones, almost a prayer, almost a plea.
“You should not have,” he says eventually, something uncontrollable fighting to break the dullness in his voice. “You should not have shown her that, you should not have let it progress so far. You should not have shown that you cared at all.” And now the tears force their way through his words, clear and cold as a bell on a winter morning. His hands start to shake. “Do you know how much worse that makes it? Bad enough that I knew you could love and yet could never love me, but to be sent away and then shown the measure of your concern, no matter how small… Of course you know. You know how to hurt.” A sudden wild laugh, against the tears. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Lucifer sits in silence and watches Hob Gadling cry. No messy hysterics, no outbursts of emotion. No sobs, just the tracks of saltwater down a pale perfect face. Quiet and cold; and, he thinks, with a quick jolt of realisation, almost inhuman.
Is this what he is becoming?
Wondering at the strangeness of such a scene, Lucifer curves his hand around one of Hob’s and holds on, not saying a word. Perhaps it will make it worse. He’s not so interested in prediction at this stage. And although Lucifer Morningstar has never been one for overindulgence in fatalism… it will play out as it will.
Hob lifts their hands towards his face, slowly, but halfway there he seems to awaken to what he is doing. Lucifer’s hand is released with a quick rush of violent fear and Hob stands once more in the same moment, eyes wide and appalled.
“I’m sorry – I’m sorry – I’ll leave – I’m sorry –”
He turns swiftly with every impression of haste but none of speed, and Lucifer reads him as easily as ever. It’s something of a relief to find the ability unimpaired, to know the safety line that Hob is reaching out for with his eyes closed against disappointment.
“To err is human.” There’s wickedness in his eyes and just enough in his voice to tease, an opening if Hob will choose to take it…
Hob turns back to face him, and does not have to be prompted to meet his eyes.
“You are my divine,” he says. Simply, hopelessly, stripped of the games. And there you have me, everything about him says. What shall you do with me now?
~
Hob uses far too many italics, my dear.
Gacked from all over t'place, most recently spotted over at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
villainny's:
1. Tell me one thing you love about me.
2. Tell me two things you love about yourself. This one I'm particularly interested in, so make it good. I mean it. No self-deprecation allowed!
3. Look through the comments ~ when you see someone you know, tell them three things you love about them.
4. Do this in your journal so I can tell you what I love about YOU - and if you've already done it, tell me so, so that I can go back and give you some love. (Optional, of course.)
* Made appointments for my formal hairdo and trial run for the same.
* Finished Going Postal. The crackers! THE CRACKERS! Awesome. Pterry is my god.
* Finished Sandman 4. Gneil has also been granted godhood.
* Learned a new dance at street funk and filled my little body up with endorphins, and as a result am now bouncing on my computer chair and not feeling at all like going to sleep. I shall regret this tomorrow.
* Was overcome with a mad rush of envy for all those for whom Nanowrimo does not occur smack bang on top of final exams. I may cheat and do it in January, though it won't be the same without the support groups and waves of mass hysteria coming from around the globe.
* Did a minimum of actual work and wrote some more RP ficcage for Art, whose life must DIRECTLY clash with mine, as I can never find her online. Woe.
~
There is a sigh from behind him, resignation mixed with something else, and a soft English voice that isn’t quite sure what reaction it’s going to get.
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I wanted to,” Lucifer says, giving the original explanation, the only explanation that makes any sort of sense.
“Of course.” When Lucifer turns, it is to see dull grey eyes in a blank face. “Thank you for your gracious assistance, my lord Lucifer. I shan’t detain you.” Hob stands, holding himself steady, one hand on the back of the chair.
Lucifer leans forward and rests his chin on his hand, his voice mild. “You don’t have to leave. You don’t have to keep running away.”
“Running away?” Hob’s palm hits the table a bare foot from the Morningstar’s elbow, and Lucifer sees the sudden flare of fear that almost makes him pull it away. After a battle that lasts half a second, anger keeps it there. Hob sits. “Who ran away, my lord?” Oh, yes, Lucifer recognises this mood; too incensed to care about the danger, aware of it on one level and reveling in it, with the small dark corner of his soul that was awakened with a silver knife, on another.
The question is ignored.
“I suppose I should have expected something would be attempted. Your connection to me makes you vulnerable. People will try and use you against me.”
“But they can’t, can they? I can’t make you feel anything on my own, let alone when steered by another hand. They should know that. They should know that you will not interfere.” Hob’s voice is bitter, true, but there is no real anger in it. The resignation is numbing.
“Will I not?” Lucifer leans back, amused, and his hand drops to lie between them on the table. It’s almost startling, the speed with which Hob picks it up, presses it between his own and the whole done so absently that Lucifer isn’t even sure if the man is aware he did it at all. The pressure could almost be painful, to another being. He smiles. “Did I just leave you to the Lady? Did I stand by and watch? What do you call interfering?”
Hob stares at the table, his fingers pressing and caressing in a small slow universe of their own. “Then all you were doing is proving that I can be used against you.” The pressure increases, and grey eyes flash spite. “Is that logical? You are not the sort to make such a mistake. Does it amuse you so to see me mistreated by others?”
Lucifer reaches out with his free hand, not particularly gentle, and pulls Hob’s chin up, making expressionless eye contact. “You are mine, Robert Gadling. Your soul has been bought and paid for with a bargain and with blood and with the tears of your own free will. You cannot be used against me if I do not let it happen in the first place. The Lady has her warning, now.”
Hob stares, and stares. He sits perfectly still, holding Lucifer’s smooth brown hand between two pale ones, almost a prayer, almost a plea.
“You should not have,” he says eventually, something uncontrollable fighting to break the dullness in his voice. “You should not have shown her that, you should not have let it progress so far. You should not have shown that you cared at all.” And now the tears force their way through his words, clear and cold as a bell on a winter morning. His hands start to shake. “Do you know how much worse that makes it? Bad enough that I knew you could love and yet could never love me, but to be sent away and then shown the measure of your concern, no matter how small… Of course you know. You know how to hurt.” A sudden wild laugh, against the tears. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Lucifer sits in silence and watches Hob Gadling cry. No messy hysterics, no outbursts of emotion. No sobs, just the tracks of saltwater down a pale perfect face. Quiet and cold; and, he thinks, with a quick jolt of realisation, almost inhuman.
Is this what he is becoming?
Wondering at the strangeness of such a scene, Lucifer curves his hand around one of Hob’s and holds on, not saying a word. Perhaps it will make it worse. He’s not so interested in prediction at this stage. And although Lucifer Morningstar has never been one for overindulgence in fatalism… it will play out as it will.
Hob lifts their hands towards his face, slowly, but halfway there he seems to awaken to what he is doing. Lucifer’s hand is released with a quick rush of violent fear and Hob stands once more in the same moment, eyes wide and appalled.
“I’m sorry – I’m sorry – I’ll leave – I’m sorry –”
He turns swiftly with every impression of haste but none of speed, and Lucifer reads him as easily as ever. It’s something of a relief to find the ability unimpaired, to know the safety line that Hob is reaching out for with his eyes closed against disappointment.
“To err is human.” There’s wickedness in his eyes and just enough in his voice to tease, an opening if Hob will choose to take it…
Hob turns back to face him, and does not have to be prompted to meet his eyes.
“You are my divine,” he says. Simply, hopelessly, stripped of the games. And there you have me, everything about him says. What shall you do with me now?
~
Hob uses far too many italics, my dear.
Gacked from all over t'place, most recently spotted over at
villainny's:1. Tell me one thing you love about me.
2. Tell me two things you love about yourself. This one I'm particularly interested in, so make it good. I mean it. No self-deprecation allowed!
3. Look through the comments ~ when you see someone you know, tell them three things you love about them.
4. Do this in your journal so I can tell you what I love about YOU - and if you've already done it, tell me so, so that I can go back and give you some love. (Optional, of course.)
no subject
I like the way I can sustain conversational tangents for far too long, and I like my boobs. *g*
no subject
(_v_) <---- gratuitous cleavage emoticon for you
no subject
2. I love my eyebrow-raising talent. They can do the wave! That is...quite possibly scary and more than you wanted to know. And I love my colored contacts; people say: Oh, wow, I love your eyes! And then I say: Thank you, I bought them. (I wish I could take credit for that line, but someone my aunt pestered about her eyes told it to her. Alas.)
no subject
2) Despite not having studied classical violin for four years, I can still play the first movement of Mozart's 4th violin concerto by memory. I admit to also being rather fond of my ability to learn foreign languages.
I was totally going to take a nap and get up at like 2am to talk to you, but I ended up not waking up till seven. Maybe tonight?
I like it when you write Hob. It's interesting.
no subject
1) You don't have lined ring binder paper over there? O.O
Also - *headdesk* I keep getting told I am aloof, pretentious, standoffish, etc. I am torn between massive feelings of guilt and exceedingly British satisfaction. Arg.
2) Yes, yes, you are genius on many levels. I love you for it, though :)
Everything else:
Um. Interesting? *gets rather paranoid* Gods, have I done something terribly terribly out of character?