logsinthenight | O LIGHT THAT FOLLOWEST ALL MY WAY, I YIELD MY FLICKERING TORCH TO THEE;

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elektra natchios (carlee)

O LIGHT THAT FOLLOWEST ALL MY WAY, I YIELD MY FLICKERING TORCH TO THEE;

characters: matt, & other people
location: many places
date/time: first half of november
content: matt is doing things
warnings: i'm still hot garbage at this... and i'll add if anything comes up

see below for starters, or hit me with a wildcard! just some stuff to tag at during the event, feel free to pm me or hit me up at

meowed to chat about setting something up!

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Mhm... [It's a great deal of effort not to break composure for him, but she refrains. The gaze on him is heavy and deeply empathetic, and most frustratingly, a little lost itself. She's lost a grand total of one person that meant anything; her experience soothing anyone dealing with similar is woefully limited. She taps a bicep, not quite steering him, but certainly indicating direction.]

'Don't know' inside, then. Check in on Ivy quietly and sit a minute. Don't think anything'll make sense, this soon - you can ride out a little of it with company. [With a drink, even! Crowley offhandedly asked into wine once and she has since kept a bottle on hand for both hostessing and specifically denying Crowley at the next opportunity. This is a much more altruistic use.] You did plenty. It's this place, and not you.

( you'd think, after losing so much, after losing so many... he'd be better at it, when the next one rolled along. only he's not, he never is. every single one hurts just as bad, leaves him with an endless trail of could have, would have, should have — it's so easy to find all the ways being alone is his fault, in the end.

Matt is almost too tired to argue. the touch at his arm is spur enough to follow, wordlessly to a table he probably shouldn't know is there, to sit at a chair he shouldn't be able to drop into so easily. he's not so tired his senses aren't working, though he is tired enough he's not got it in him to put together a convincing facade. maybe the fact he's been over to Misty's for plenty of meals is a good enough excuse for how well he navigates. Matt isn't even thinking about it, for once. )

I don't want to wake it. ( that's barely an answer, to anything she said. whoops. he grimaces a little at the mention he did plenty. ) Plenty's not enough. Plenty didn't stop a good kid from dying. From... who knows what happens, to those who disappear and never come back.

[It's peculiar, perhaps enough she'll think more of it later, but in the moment she's too focused on assistance to pay mind to the odd details.] Not knowing anything means it's just as likely he went home or someplace better, you know. [Glass, wine, this is as she understands a thing people enjoy in his state.]

And by that logic, it's as much my fault as yours. Aziraphale's. The robot. Nobody can watch everybody, and it's unfair to expect it. [Especially of oneself. She pulls up a seat, determined to remain there until there has been some change, however incremental.]

How is that just as likely? ( if Grizz had somehow bounced from Beacon to someplace past the pearly gates, that'd be one thing. but what are really the chances of that? nobody had any clue what happened to the lost souls that stoped frequenting the familiar haunts of Beacon. and Matt is too much of a pessimist to think Grizz had disappeared to someplace better, at least, not without proof.

Aziraphale doesn't seem especially capable of noticing anything out of his narrow perspective, Matt is still sour on the angel after the ferry incident. still, he doesn't assign the blame to anyone else, because his responsibility is a little more personal. )

We had breakfast together. Nearly every day. He stopped showing up and it took days to decide that meant something. ( stupid, when Matt is more than aware of how dangerous Beacon is. he's been long enough to know. )

Not about to do math on it, Matt - the only options that matter, really, are 'better place' or 'worse place'. Those are fifty-fifty odds, and probably a lot better than what you're imagining. I haven't seen anything that'd prove Beacon is an intended resting place -- he could have gone to a real one. [Showing her hand, there.]

'Nearly' every day sounds like a reasonable gap to overlook. Specially in a place where there's lots of things he could be doing and people he could be doing them with.

I'm not going to argue that he'd deserve to go to a place better than this one. But last I checked, nobody knows where anybody goes when they disappear.

( Misty, do you understand how much this pains him. the aggressive catholic. Beacon used to feel like purgatory, a waiting place, a ground for proving and maybe eventual redemption. now he doesn't know what it is. it doesn't feel much like purgatory. usually it doesn't even feel much like hell, except for days teenagers disappear and there's not a goddamn thing he can do about it.

trying to talk him out of his guilt is a losing battle. don't argue with a lawyer, especially one so determined to blame himself. he makes an actual face at the idea not worrying sooner seemed reasonable. Matt clearly doesn't agree, he's not likely to. truthfully, he's said more than he really meant to — he's more like to let his guilt and anger fester than to admit it to someone. this entire conversation is probably more than he meant to say, more than he meant to show. whoops.

he pauses, apparently just realizing by smell alone that there's red wine at the table. apropos of nothing: ) I thought you didn't drink. ( if she was worried he didn't pay attention to things she's told him, well, there you go!!! proof he does listen at least some of the time. )

That's what I'm saying. Nobody's got proof of anything, good or bad. For all we know, it is just as likely he's in something like paradise.

[It's something she's given a great deal of thought, to a frustrating lack of real conclusion. Death is familiar, and every time she passes through that doorway she's been met with something different. Beacon, she feels in her bones, is likely no real resting place. Some bizarre anomaly. Bastardization of science or magic. Something, but nothing true or natural. The death that sent her means little, and the notion of leaving this plane as well...isn't quite as inherently terrifying as it could be. It's a neutral enough point to be detrimental to her someday.

In a not-small fashion, it is indeed nice to know he remembers. Most don't.] Other people do, and part of entertaining is anticipating that. And if Crowley's ever in here again, it'd be nice to not share.

Also good for sad neighbors, I figure, in moderation.

That's a little blindly optimistic considering the hellhole we're trapped in.

( if it isn't purgatory, then it's something else. what he's still not sure. maybe they really did get their souls trapped in a dying world on the very off chance they could possibly save it. maybe they're not dead after all, simply stuck in some bizarre plane of existence with too little answers and too little time. he doesn't know, but it doesn't bode a lot of confidence that anyone that disappeared got to go someplace better.

granted, maybe that's his negativity talking. he's pretty sure a kid is dead, in his defense, that's not when I do my most positive thinking, either.

Matt hates Crowley. apparently the idea of Misty keeping wine around just to create an opportunity to not give him any drags an ugly guff of a laugh from him. ) That's ... ridiculous. ( it is ridiculous, honestly, but he respects her game. and serious POINTS for getting a laugh when he's so moody in the first place. ) You'd have to let him in to be a horrible host, that's the biggest flaw in that plan.

( as far as giving to her sad neighbors, though, Matt does take the glass, even though he doesn't drink any. maybe because that's too close to admitting he's sad. )

I'd call it neutral. Not saying he definitely is, but I think it's a jump to say he definitely isn't.

[Asking not optimism of you, Matt, merely a little less cynicism. Enough to plod along until the worst of it is over. Little stock as she puts in any notion of a future, it's still a dangerous place to risk losing drive even temporarily.

The laugh is at least reassuring enough for her to smile back, however muted.]

Working the kinks out. Soldat and Aziraphale are both fond, and if I rock that boat it's going to be in a bigger way than not having him over in very short, controlled settings. I could take up pretend-drinking, throw a chair on his lawn.

( well right after getting back from searching for a probably dead kid, a little less cynicism is probably a tall order, too. he's willing enough to let that discussion die, avoid more exposure of feelings he'd rather pretend didn't exist. there's no helping what he did or didn't find. he's not giving up, far from it — but there's not really anything that is going to make him feel any better about Grizz being gone.

Matt grimaces and rubs his face, connecting dots he was not actually aware of. )

He's mixed in with those two? ( he doesn't know that much about Soldat, besides some blunt mentions of his brainwashing and taking note of how easily he takes suggestion. those two implies negative opinion of both, though really, it's just Crowley. he's not mad at Aziraphale, he's just disappointed he has the backbone of a creampuff. someone with a history of brainwashing and easily prone to suggestion having any relationship at all with Crowley sounds like a recipe for disaster.

it already was, turns out!

there's no opportunity to further gossip about the trio, however, as Matt straightens, suddenly, turning toward... well, it seems like nothing, until the practically silent pitter-patter of leafy feet finishes its approach and the spirit curls around his ankle. he feels both terrible to have woken the spirit, and at the same time, glad. he cares about Ivy a great deal, and while he wouldn't wake it just to comfort his demons. he puts his drink down to offer the spirit a hand and it climbs him like... well, for lack of a better word, a tree. from there it winds itself around his neck with quiet sounds of contentment. it's a practiced maneuver, clearly not the first cuddle Ivy has claimed.

he holds the spirit and rubs a hand over the especially tiny back, expression shifted into something less weary, less resigned, to something less raw. )

Thank you. For looking after Ivy. ( it's not the first time he's asked nor the first time he's been grateful, but especially now. when he realizes exactly how easy it is to lose something he cares about, to know that Ivy is in incredibly trustworthy hands means a lot. )

[She leans Sisyphean on her best day; there's little else to do but take her best swing and not feed what might contribute to a tailspin. He doesn't seem to be fast approaching the border of functional, but in an environment as stressful or outright hostile as their current one it feels well within normal levels of caution to worry about any extra nudge.]

He is. Really, Crowley's the only bad apple-- [She does in fact have time to say, as she couldn't hear such small feet. Hm. Hmm-mmm.

It is at least cute enough to prevent any mulling on that. Having had the benefit of their company long enough to discern the real priorities, Misty isn't too fussed about the waking - Ivy wants what Ivy wants, and Matt's return was to be basked in with as little delay as possible. She respects the independence. Smiles.]

It's nothing, really. Not an idea place to leave anybody alone, and they're...mostly a great house guest. Some missing knickknacks I'm a little worried about, but past that it's a pleasure.

( there's a saying about one bad apple spoiling the bunch, and considering neither Soldat nor Aziraphale seem capable or willing to tell Crowley to knock it the fuck off, so that phrase lends itself nicely to the situation. he doesn't have time to point it out this time, sadly, but it's fine, Matt can bitch about Crowley later. he apparently is ready to complain about him at any given opportunity.

he's not surprised by the spirit's quick fingers. it earns a barebones hint of a smile. )

Probably in the flower pot. I've found my sunglasses in there a few times.

( Ivy liked to keep trinkets, especially ones that belonged to people it liked. it was endearing, though it also meant occasionally having to dig up his sunglasses, which is about the only thing close to a trinket Matt has. well, that and the cane, but that one didn't easily fit in the flower pot, apparently. )

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O LIGHT THAT FOLLOWEST ALL MY WAY, I YIELD MY FLICKERING TORCH TO THEE;

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