When Ratonhnhaké:ton realises Jacob is no longer in the City, he doesn't immediately go to check up on Charles. He gives him some time, hoping that if he really felt the need for company, he would say so. Perhaps he would like some quiet for a while, some time to think. Not too long. Knowing him, he might also think that he has to be alone with this, that this is simply one more way that he is meant to suffer. So, not too long.
It's late that evening that Ratonhnhaké:ton makes his way to St. John's and knocks on Charles's door.
It was as it was for the Magistrate. All trace gone, not even a scent left behind. He'd known before it became clear, before Angel announced as much across the network, and at first it didn't seem real.
It settles in after a while, and he knows there are things to do in the wake of Jacob's disappearance. He can't let himself fall to grief. There are things to do and people to protect. For as long as he's allowed to, before the city snatches them away again and hurls them back home.
There's a cup of tea steaming on the counter that he hasn't touched. The bottle beside the couch, by comparison, is very near empty. But through the haze he hears the knock, draws himself upright, and makes his way to open the latch. Bloodshot eyes fall upon Connor for a moment or two before he steps back, in silent permission to enter.
If Charles has tried not to fall to grief, he has at least partly failed. It's clear in his posture, in his gaze, in the bottle by the couch and the untouched tea. Ratonhnhaké:ton enters without a word, but he puts a hand on Charles's shoulder in a gentle squeeze before he walks over to the counter to prepare a glass of water and grab the cup of tea.
But it isn't as bad as it could be. It's heartache, it's pain, it's loss and all of the things that come along with it, but it's still living. And that's the way it goes. Jaw working tightly he closes the door behind him and moves silently after him.
Does he say something? He's not sure, even if it weren't for the lump in his throat that seems to cut off anything he might have intended to give voice.
He holds the glass of water out, without demand or insistence.
"Anything I can do?"
There won't be much of anything, he knows. Nothing that would actually accomplish what he would like to do; fix this. But if there is anything Charles needs help with, something that might ease the pain, then he would like to help.
Is there anything? It hardly seems to matter. Perhaps tomorrow, he'll be gone. Or Angel. Cassandra. Everything here that he'd been building towards, none of it is guaranteed. It's as fragile an existence as the one he left behind.
People don't stay. No matter how they want to, no matter how you wish they would. That's the way it is.
Quietly, he takes the glass. Sets it down. Takes a breath, nostrils flaring...and he sits, hands folded, forehead resting against them. "I'll be fine," he murmurs at last, hollow as the words feel slipping past his lips.
Fine, in a manner of speaking. In the end, given enough time, people tend to be 'fine'. Now? There hasn't been time. The grief is new, the wound is fresh, and doubts and questions have resurfaced. Ratonhnhaké:ton knows how this works, intimately.
"But you are not."
He sits down too, and puts the cup of tea down, so that it's closer should Charles wish to drink it.
He feels that weight settle close to him, and it's some small comfort not being alone, at least for a time. Of course that's how it begins. The loneliness drives you towards people, you enjoy their company while it lasts, then terrible things occur and you find yourself alone again. It's a cycle he can see clearly, one he could break if he were stronger.
But he can't shut them out. He doesn't have the heart to, even now.
He lowers his hands, thumb tracing the bumps of a burn scar on the palm of his hand. "...he didn't want to go back," he murmurs, as the creases in his brow deepen.
It seems to happen often. Those who want to stay don't get to. Those who want to leave are kept put. Some disappear very quickly - that's nothing that's gone unnoticed - but the longer they stay here, the more common that pattern seems to become.
Those who want to stay don't get to.
That seems counterproductive. Does the City, or whoever is in charge, want them to struggle? Perhaps.
It's not impossible that Jacob will come back, but nothing is certain, so he doesn't voice the thought.
There's no doubt in his mind. Ratonhnhaké:ton has lost him, too. And Angel. And others, who cared for him very deeply. All of them would feel that absence in their lives, the sudden quiet where he used to be.
The silence is the worst part, he thinks. It's always so quiet, after they're gone. No more opportunity to say things that you might have meant to. Words he should have said sooner, and now would never have the chance to.
He falls silent, then. There isn't much that needs to be said, at least from his side. Jacob has become a dear brother to him, and he feels this loss, but undoubtedly not as painfully as Charles does.
If there is anything Charles wishes to say, he's here for him. If not ... then he will simply sit here, so that neither of them have to be alone.
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no subject
It's late that evening that Ratonhnhaké:ton makes his way to St. John's and knocks on Charles's door.
no subject
It settles in after a while, and he knows there are things to do in the wake of Jacob's disappearance. He can't let himself fall to grief. There are things to do and people to protect. For as long as he's allowed to, before the city snatches them away again and hurls them back home.
There's a cup of tea steaming on the counter that he hasn't touched. The bottle beside the couch, by comparison, is very near empty. But through the haze he hears the knock, draws himself upright, and makes his way to open the latch. Bloodshot eyes fall upon Connor for a moment or two before he steps back, in silent permission to enter.
no subject
no subject
...he knows.
But it isn't as bad as it could be. It's heartache, it's pain, it's loss and all of the things that come along with it, but it's still living. And that's the way it goes. Jaw working tightly he closes the door behind him and moves silently after him.
Does he say something? He's not sure, even if it weren't for the lump in his throat that seems to cut off anything he might have intended to give voice.
no subject
"Anything I can do?"
There won't be much of anything, he knows. Nothing that would actually accomplish what he would like to do; fix this. But if there is anything Charles needs help with, something that might ease the pain, then he would like to help.
no subject
People don't stay. No matter how they want to, no matter how you wish they would. That's the way it is.
Quietly, he takes the glass. Sets it down. Takes a breath, nostrils flaring...and he sits, hands folded, forehead resting against them. "I'll be fine," he murmurs at last, hollow as the words feel slipping past his lips.
no subject
Fine, in a manner of speaking. In the end, given enough time, people tend to be 'fine'. Now? There hasn't been time. The grief is new, the wound is fresh, and doubts and questions have resurfaced. Ratonhnhaké:ton knows how this works, intimately.
"But you are not."
He sits down too, and puts the cup of tea down, so that it's closer should Charles wish to drink it.
no subject
He feels that weight settle close to him, and it's some small comfort not being alone, at least for a time. Of course that's how it begins. The loneliness drives you towards people, you enjoy their company while it lasts, then terrible things occur and you find yourself alone again. It's a cycle he can see clearly, one he could break if he were stronger.
But he can't shut them out. He doesn't have the heart to, even now.
He lowers his hands, thumb tracing the bumps of a burn scar on the palm of his hand. "...he didn't want to go back," he murmurs, as the creases in his brow deepen.
no subject
It seems to happen often. Those who want to stay don't get to. Those who want to leave are kept put. Some disappear very quickly - that's nothing that's gone unnoticed - but the longer they stay here, the more common that pattern seems to become.
Those who want to stay don't get to.
That seems counterproductive. Does the City, or whoever is in charge, want them to struggle? Perhaps.
It's not impossible that Jacob will come back, but nothing is certain, so he doesn't voice the thought.
"I'm sorry."
no subject
There's no doubt in his mind. Ratonhnhaké:ton has lost him, too. And Angel. And others, who cared for him very deeply. All of them would feel that absence in their lives, the sudden quiet where he used to be.
The silence is the worst part, he thinks. It's always so quiet, after they're gone. No more opportunity to say things that you might have meant to. Words he should have said sooner, and now would never have the chance to.
no subject
If there is anything Charles wishes to say, he's here for him. If not ... then he will simply sit here, so that neither of them have to be alone.