Sacris Solemniis

[collector]

[Teapot before him, a plate of pastries beside it, Braxiatel sits at the kitchen table with Strindberg's Ett drömspel open in front of him. Braxiatel stirs sugar into his tea, and a faint smile crosses his face as his eyes flicker to something in the seat to his left.]

[He leans forwards and pours a second cup of tea, then lifts it up to hand it over, the smile widening.] I don't know what you mean by 'ulterior motives,' Comman—

[Braxiatel's fingers tighten on the cup before he can let it go. For a moment, it hangs there, hoping for a hand that cannot take it.]

Ah.

[It is a quiet realization.]

[Braxiatel sets the cup down, away from him. He leans back in his chair and picks up a scone to eat.]

Comments

[collector]

[quietly] I admit, I'm not the confessional sort.

[bodilesswarrior.livejournal.com]

Good thing I'm not a priest, then.

[collector]

[Braxiatel sets down his tea, leans back in his chair. He surveys her. As much as he wants to, he can't stand to dishonour Skutloid's memory by lying. So he presses his fingers together and talks to the air.]

I used to work as a professor of theatrology on a beautiful planet in this arm of the galaxy. I had an acquaintance—an old friend there. Commander Skutloid. One of the Ice Warriors I mentioned to you, if you recall? Of course you do. Eidetic memory. Anyway, Dellah—the planet—was . . . ruined. The details aren't important. Skutloid died fighting. It was an honourable death.

I used to ask him over to tea whenever I wanted something from him. And he knew it, of course. Always an ulterior motive.

[He picks up his tea again, hands steady, voice level.] And that's what I'm remembering. Sweet stories of dead friends. I suspect it will be a common affliction.

[bodilesswarrior.livejournal.com]

[Barbara listens, and no judgement hardens her expression; simple, genuine sympathy guides her gaze]

Thank you, Brax. Now I can mourn him a bit, too. Him, and Dellah. [raises her cup] To Commander Skutloid?

[collector]

[It always comes out through his hands, his manipulators, so he makes his face the right expression (a little sad, but smiling) and he controls his fingers so they don't hold on too tightly, so they can lift up the cup to mirror Barbara's gesture. The rituals that structure interaction.]

To Commander Skutloid.

[bodilesswarrior.livejournal.com]

[she sips, then, even as her gaze turns critical, just for an instant; then it's shifted back into wistfulness] It's...important, to remember. To honor. It's all we have. All we can do for them, because we couldn't... [sets the tea down, smiling down at it grimly]

[collector]

[quietly, not pressing] Your turn, I believe?

[bodilesswarrior.livejournal.com]

[softly, still staring into the depths of her teacup] Yes.

[when she looks up, her expression is a picture of worn grief and dull guilt]

The one I was chasing, when the plant caught me. His name was Jason. He was...he was an ally, in Gotham. Thirteen, when he started. [and, through the years of sorrow, she smiles] He was...so passionate. Reckless, sometimes. Cocky and brash and bold. [hard swallow] And sweet.

I was his tutor. He lived on the streets, before - he was adopted. He'd missed a lot. So I helped him out, and he could be a pain in my ass but he was one hell of a student when he tried.

And sometimes I'm studying with him, or I'm telling him stories about the old days, or teaching him new tricks for the field. And then he's... [she closes her eyes, then, as the autopsy report flashes before them]

A few weeks after I was shot, the same man who did it murdered him. Beat him half to death with a crowbar, and blew up the warehouse he was in. Jason was sixteen years old.

[collector]

[Braxiatel observes this a little removed, carefully so, to try to avoid stepping into her grief where he is not wanted.] I am sorry.

[And what? Nothing balances it. What more is there to be said?]

[bodilesswarrior.livejournal.com]

[looks up at him] Me too.

[again, she smiles, weary and sad instead of fond and wistful] I don't talk about him often. None of us do. It's...nice, to do it. Hurts like hell, but anything worthwhile probably will.

[collector]

You can always speak to me about him, if you like. I can't promise any comfort, but...

[bodilesswarrior.livejournal.com]

[the smile widens, just slightly] Thank you, Brax.

I'm not...that good at receiving it anyway, most of the time.

[collector]

I've encountered very few cultures that take loss easily.

[It is a very generalized way of saying what he means, but he still says it.]

[bodilesswarrior.livejournal.com]

Some people are better than others, though. [her smile turns wry] I don't think any of them live in Gotham.