capeandcowllogs | and love is a word in the sand that a wave wipes away with her hand

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and love is a word in the sand that a wave wipes away with her hand

WHO: Max

hacktivist
WHERE: Max's place.
WHEN: Today, August 7th, 2012. The eve.
WARNINGS: Mush.
SUMMARY: Ghost comes clean. Even literally, he probably tried to shower for her.
FORMAT: ~~Purple~~ prose?

All luxuries were expensive. All comforts were shackles. The illusion of safety was herald to the slowing of reflexes, and left the cracks of rocks wide exposed for the first blow to cleave them true through to the flaws they followed. The true test of any man's nature was what he did with temptation - and the temptation Ghost felt now was the strongest he'd ever known.

He wanted to keep the pathway he had forged with her, while he recognized the danger of that mutual possession, and stood torn between his fear and his yearning. He had thought a full confession, a clean and logical break, would put the emotions to sleep, but if anything they paced in their cages more frenetic, bashed and beat themselves against the bars and kept an awful disquiet in his soul day and night. They roared, unslakeable, demanding a greater and greater crescendo of feeling
(of falling)
of joy and affection and tenderness and sacrifice. Things he had thought he had buried deep, rising to be risked anew.

And before he'd had a chance to notice, with the insidious creeping of the tides, he was faced with a choice he could not make. To keep her safe in ignorance would be to control her fate, and he could not abide the control of another being. It repelled him. But to tell her - this woman of iron and deft responsibility so far beyond her years, perhaps that edged towards self flagellation regarding uncontrollable events
(in so many ways they were alike / in so many ways she was beyond his understanding it made no sense how she could be this way unpredictable and reliable
paradoxical)
He spent the night thinking it over. He examined the situation from as many angles as he could turn it, brushing as much bias off it as possible.

Sitting up late, tapping his fingers against the off-white mask with the dead ruby eyes that looked up at him and demanded justice from the void at the expense of everything he had - his body and his mind and his soul, in exchange for retribution. The demand was overwhelming. Logic, his firmest ally, stood aloof and offered nothing but ice. Vulcanus was beyond dangerous. Max had been tortured before. He still was unsure if that event had been owed to ill fortune, or her association with him, or perhaps something else entirely. The Bilderbergs? Her own universe's enemies, of which there was no shortage? Tony Stark was sufficient clout to fight, he had self healing abilities. Max could fix broken things, she
(did not deserve to be)
could not risk being thrown into his war in any deeper capacity.

And the mask had watched him with curious intensity, the prosecution, the judge and jury - but not the executioner. Max could play that role, if he were wrong. Like Shana had. He would welcome it this time, with the experience that time and distance could do nothing but anesthetize. He didn't know people, not very well, though he made it his business to struggle with knowing what they desired and the evil that they could do, for protection, for manipulation. He could find no evil in Max, and he suspected that what she wanted, ultimately, was no different than what he wanted; justice and safety
(love)
for those pathways she called hers.

He made the decision before he'd known he'd made a decision, and an hour later he was washed, dressed, and rang her doorbell by passing his hand through it, with a harsh mechanical interference of static.

In the end, it was his faith in her
(devotion)
that had brought him here. Not his logic.

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She'd filed away the revelation that she liked it better here in the City for later evaluation, folded it down and tucked it away until she had time to take it out and assess what that meant. For now she was busy, work and Batwoman eating into her time, the rest of it spent with people who mattered.

She didn't want to think about Lachesis anyways, not about the power Lachesis had over her life. It was unsettling. She hated the lack of choice it gave her, the feeling of powerlessness.

There were other problems, of course, but she had more control over them. Vulcanus, however untouchable they might seem -- no organization made of people was flawless. (Untouchable she reserved for Lachesis, for cold cases whose investigator had left, for people she would never see again unless Lachesis grew kind.) And Vulcanus was her main concern these days, a problem that gnawed at her into restlessness.

She knew others were looking into it, others with far more resources and ability than her, but she couldn't just let it go.

But that was far from her mind today. Free time with no obligations was increasingly rare, and today she was spending it watching a TV show for no real reason other than that she could.

She padded to the door, checking through the peephole before she opened it with a smile. "Come on in." Stepping back to let him through, pleased. She'd been wondering what he was up to today, idly considering seeing if he was available to play chess or just do something. "I was thinking of calling you and seeing what you were doing."

The hit of her presence truer than any drug, he was conscious of the smile that his mask hid under its faintly inquisitive mold, his posture straightened. Waking like the flower (or would that be a weed, as tenacious and passed by) to her nonjudgmental sun - which gave of itself naturally to all who stood in her presence. He floundered in metaphor for a moment more, trying to catch the ethereal truth of her very being, as smokey in his hands as he could literally be when faced with threat, and then he came in and tried to ignore the singing of his heart.

"Stark advised a cooldown period that I might "lead you on" and enhance your interest in our relationship if you perceived me as temporarily untouchable."

This in a matter of fact way, not that Ghost had wondered if it had worked or not. He was sure Stark's advice was for ordinary women, and Max was anything but - he would indulge Stark because he had no other resource (and because Stark's results were impressive), but that didn't mean he couldn't seek a second opinion.

"Are you free? I must discuss something with you."

For a long moment she stood at the door, squinting in bemusement before she closed it and shrugged, moving back to flop down on the couch, legs over its back. Ghost's conversational starters were... unique.

"Stark has no concept of what tact is. And aren't you untouchable like 50 plus percent of the time anyways?"

But at the second bit she glanced up, curious. That had sounded like it had more weight to it, like there was something important there.

"Not busy at all, for once. Go ahead."

"Not to you." He floated over to sit down on the floor by the couch, all limbs and stoop, fingers pressed into her carpet, for a sense of literal grounding.

"I will be unavailable for a number of days - a situation that is unavoidable, and has nothing to do with an artificial emotional scarcity."

A hesitation.

"If I am caught there will be a high probability of death, and I did not think it fair that you should not be informed. Given... given the nature of our present association."

She grinned at that, pleased, and stayed upside down on the couch, tilting her head to look over at him.

But then he spoke again, and at first she just listened in faint concern until he mentioned death. She scrambled up, twisting around she was sitting on the couch, knees curled to her chest as she stared at him.

"What will you be doing?" Short, sharp, worried. Her face had closed off, her jaw clenched and eyes veiled. An almost automatic defense.

"Stark and I have advance notice of the early countries Vulcanus plans to convince or coerce into this coalition of import-bans."

He hesitates. His mask is cataloguing the motions of her face, trying to read it for him, no better at it than he is, usually. "We intend to provoke one of them."

"How?" Uncompromising. Her own eyes flicker over his mask briefly, but there's nothing to determine from it. For the moment, she just takes a step back into her head, figuring out how to break this down, what to do next.

"Provoke -- What are you hoping to gain by that?"

"Stark recovered data pertaining to Vulcanus's future conquests, some five months ago. The recent political atmosphere confirms the list as accurate."

A flicker of deeper red in his eyes, as he reaches into a pouch and draws out a usb, reaching out to offer it to her.

"A greater sense of their capabilities and intent. --This contains information on four of my current five safehouses. That way if I am killed, you can make use of my equipment, and if you are captured you will not need to concern yourself with betrayal." The thought lingered unspoken that she could be tortured over him, or vice versa. He was certain of his will, certain as much as a man could be that it would take years for him to bend at all.

She hesitates a long moment, stares at the USB like it might bite her, and then reaches out and takes it, fingers lingering in his just longer than necessary. Her concentration turns to it, turning it over and over in her hand like it'll answer any further questions she has.

"What are the odds of them capturing you?" She doesn't look up at him, doesn't put almost any inflection in the words. "Don't make them better than they are."

He values the touch, treasures each moment of her presence, before drawing back his hand--and holding it with the other hand, absolutely struck by how good the human connection is. How much better it feels when he's starved for it for a while.

"Difficult to gauge, with the lack of information I currently have, but based on Vulcanus's prior success in seamlessly kidnapping powered imPorts without any suspicion, and the knowledge that I am moving into a location they will have claimed..."--he's not going to bicker on semantics--"65% if they have also captured Stark. If there is no need for a rescue, I estimate only a 20% threshold of danger. It is not my intention to reveal my involvement unless my hand is forced, and-..."

The vocalizer trails away--he lifts his mask, rubbing a gloved hand over his face, the assurance in his shoulders fading slightly away before he leans up and--hesitantly--rests that hand on her knee.

"...if you ask me to, I will consider alternatives."

She absorbs the numbers without a word, biting her lip without even realizing it. She's at least able to keep that personal and entirely stupid grudge about Stark's tact to herself enough to acknowledge that he's good, that he may well be one of the best people to have Ghost's back. It's a good thing to know.

It's not enough. People leaving - of all things, that she should be prepared for. They do it all the time here. (They do it all the time always.) But this is different, this is dangerous and unsure.

But she's too proud to ask him to stay for her, and too unwilling to use the influence she does have to try to make him do anything, so she stops letting numbers run like a train track through her brain and straightens up, covering his hand with hers.

"You know how to do this better than I do."

It burns in him to keep her safe, to keep up a shield between her and an increasingly hostile world, with dangers around every corner--a desire he feels is only logical, in light of how important she has become. But as the metaphorical floor disappears, the doors lock and the options dwindle, he wonders how long he can keep this up for.

"Max. If--" No he has to admit this. "If I cannot return, I have always felt the deepest of ...affections, that-..."

Ah fuck it.

He leans up from his position on the floor in a bid to press his lips against hers.

She bites back the instinctive need to tell him that he's coming back, he is coming back, and she only barely realizes what he's doing until his lips touch hers.

There's a second when she makes a faint noise of startled surprise, and then quietly she slides her hand around the back of his neck and kisses him. Just for a moment, hesitant and wondering.

"You come back." She whispers it, leaning her forehead against his. "Do you hear me? You come back."

"I will." He keeps his eyes open, watching her with uncertain eyes, so different from the stern red glow of his mask, thinking over potentials. He'll take risks. He'll take insane risks, now he knows Vulcanus has pos. I.D. technology.

He suspects that's dawned on her, too. She knows him - he's not safe as a mystery anymore, she knows so much, she can anticipate...

"I do not feel that losing you will be acceptable," It's a whisper in the room, so close to her face, shifting his balance as he uncertainly, clumsily opens up his arms, not quite hugging but asking for the hug the way an alley dog asks for food. "Ever."

She can't think about it. Doesn't want to, is refusing to. Whatever it is, she can't fully process the implications of everything involved in this mission of his right now, her mind caught in a whirlwind of half realized connections. Her own eyes are closed for a long moment, her body still rigid.

With a faint sigh she slides down off the couch, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his shoulder.

"I just need you to --" not go. "To be safe."

He gathers her close to him, a strength suddenly manifesting itself, surprising, from his wasted frame, slightly underneath the physical. Like a vein of iron ore bound deep within crumbling silicate.

"Max," And he says her name with quiet devotion, a wealth of meaning in the syllable. He suspects, strongly, that she might just need him as much as he needs her--and his next sentence is precise. "Max, may I just... stay here... for a short time? Please?"

She laughs just a little bit at that, because how could that even be a request? Her answer feels so completely obvious to her.

"Of course you can." For a little while, at least, she's just going to pretend he's not throwing himself into danger, because she thinks that's a pretty good coping mechanism. "I'd like that."

"Thank you."

It's quiet and subdued, and for a moment he just sits right where he is and focuses on the tangible aspect of holding her, of her potential reality and great value to him. Of how warm she feels.

Of how safe this is, and how pleasant, and of the creeping feeling that he hasn't yet earned the feeling of safety. That this is a payment in advance he'll be owing with interest.

She wants to tell him that a thank you is unnecessary, that she wants to be here at least as much as he does. That she'd rather he didn't go.

But she's never been the greatest at expressing her own personal feelings, so she just leans further into him and sighs, listening for the beating of his heart. That will do for now.

His fingers bunched gently into the fabric of her shirt, his breathing slowing, and his eyes closed. He didn't know what to call it, that peculiar exorcism of terror that she performed just by existing and being near.

Of course the ghosts returned to haunt their grounds eventually, but it just made the brief respites that much nicer.

"...Taking all due caution has become more important than ever before." This careful, so careful. The fact that Vulcanus could ID imports was suddenly weighing on his mind.

She shifted a little, made a noise of slight irritation. That wasn't important right now. She didn't want to think about any of that right now. (But it was important, it did matter. She couldn't just shut out the world.)

"They're making their move, aren't they?" It tastes bad in her mouth, sour and difficult. Vulcanus making their move - it's going to be nothing but bad, she's sure of that.

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and love is a word in the sand that a wave wipes away with her hand

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