fatespoken | ∞ [ action post ]

Of all things. Of all things

No.

But of course, the uninvited guest of the night would have to be Robert Chase. A rehash of the catalyst to this week's disaster. Had a bit too much to drink, collided into Peter and thus proceeded to let the lead drop and bludgeon the memories out of him with the slip of a tongue. Technically, the slip of tongue and some preternatural aid, but both were essentially mistakes.

A mistake he wouldn't risk making with Chase tonight.

He throws back the remaining swallow of Blue Moon, and then takes the decisive route to abstain from any sort of liquor tonight. Coke or water would do if he needed something. Besides, with a degree of sobriety on his side, perhaps he would manage to argue away the nuisance positioned in front of him. Or if that didn't do the trick, maybe a nice fist would wipe that damn grin off the Australian's face.

Resist, Amory. Resist.

"No. Not tonight, Chase. Get out," he sighs, a tired lean to his voice as he establishes the comment as an order with a harsh slam of bottle bottom against table. He's hardly up to playing along with curse-induced whims, considering that Amory's never been inclined to oblige to others' whims in the first place. Certainly not tonight, if one can trace the map of his features. Under his eyes rest those red-purple stains that often follow the way of sleepless hours, though that detail is a relative compliment to his haggard countenance. To put it frankly, Amory looks like shit. Two days ago, he had told Eden that it felt like he had been run over by two metaphorical trucks and half. Two days past, and a half still lingers.

Right now, Robert Chase is aiming to be the driver of that half of a truck.

Edited 2010-03-16 04:38 (UTC)

Of course Chase doesn't know the source of Amory's bile on this occasion, just that he never seems to need much of an excuse and that, as a routine, it's old. The smile does slip from his face, as hoped, in favour of a grimace as he shakes his head and protests, "No, no, we've done this before. Tonight why don't we try having the conversation first. Then you can tell me to piss off."

Not that he's ever taken orders from sullen boyband rejects (there's a thought-- no), but if the distraction works for a little while Chase can be gracious enough in departure. Sometimes talking to Amory turns out to be unexpectedly worth the fight with a brick wall it usually requires. Tonight needs to be a quicker fix than that, before his mind wanders in search of the next possibility, which a quick glance at the other patrons suggests could be a significantly worse prospect than snoring through some stock-in-trade teenage angst.

I've never started a barfight with a guy twice my size. Is that a hook?

He looks back at Amory before he can look too long elsewhere, making a study of the broken threadveins stark against sallow skin. Too little sleep and too much booze still not much out of the ordinary. Chase isn't in the mood for lectures, and they'd taste hypocritical against the bitterness of liquor on his teeth, so he pours himself a second shot, raises it.

"So what's your liver thanking you for today?"

His unexpected eagerness for interaction has Amory wondering just how many shots, glasses, or bottles have numbered Chase's night already. What an odd question for him to be asking, as if he could ever be considered a voice of temperance. Certainly, he could be at least be a voice of reason, since the words he's attempting to drill into the other's head, he decides, are very reasonable. Leave the gloom alone, Chase. Leave the sullen one to his shuffling of bottles and silent wallowing. Leave him to his, what is that word, could it possibly be, why yes it is— conscience.

Go and busy yourself in a barfight with a guy twice your size, Chase. Do it.

Or that's what Amory would say if he could read his mind, which sadly, is not found in his stock of peculiarities. Though, he probably wouldn't actually suggest something that hazardous if he knew that Chase was attached to the strings of a curse. Perhaps something involving dresses and clowns and a funny dance... but that's all besides the point. The point is that the last thing Amory needs around is a certain Australian doctor, and the expression on his face, the rolling of hazel eyes and that pronounced sigh that passes through his lips, are good descriptors for the words that follow

"The weather was cold today. Too windy. Windier than San Francisco. I hate the wind, don't you dislike the wind? It's supposed to be warmer tomorrow. That's good. There, conversation done. Now leave," he throws his words around fast enough that Chase possibly won't catch half of it. That's just fine with Amory, as perhaps the blond one will be one step closer to comprehending the message being slammed in his face.

Tipping his chin up, Chase knocks back the shot and, yes, misses most of Amory's garbled attempts at an obliging dismissal in the slow burn of the liquor. There are echoes here he doesn't know about, not least in his face, a recognisable facsimile of the one Peter Pevensie will never officially grow into. Blue eyes one shade warmer, ocean not sky and bright from the liquor sting flick back from the wood-timbered rafters to the polish of the table and the sticky rings left on it by the small collection of bottles.

"Right. You're cold. You need a coat, not a beer." He may comprehend, but it's not yet making him compliant with the want to be rid of him. God knows why. Maybe he actually is more of a masochist than he thought, or maybe passing the time with people who pretend to barely tolerate him is second nature, now. It is pretence, he knows, because Amory too often proves bad at it.

"That was your half of the conversation. We haven't had my half, yet," Chase reasons, and rests his palm flat over the top of his glass, settling into deliberate contemplation. Silence, for a minute, and an array of exaggerated deep-thoughts are crowned with a lazy heave of his shoulders. "I don't mind the wind. Makes for good surf."

Chase has a face (an echo of a younger man's) that need never betray his intelligence unless he lets it, and he's happy to play up the careless ass when it goes some way to mask a less stable subconscious. The double-dog-dares forming part of his internal commentary are starting to make him feel crazy, and that's a state ever more unsettling in the city. He's vigilant for degeneration, though he's starting to question what couldn't be taken as a sign. His own prognosis sits level alongside the ones meted out to what might as well be imaginary friends -- he could tell Amory he's killing himself, but he knows he'd be wrong at least in the traditional sense. He could tell him that even if that's impossible, he spends a hell of a lot of time acting like he wants to. Despite himself, despite long experience with the impossibility of changing people, it's a performance Chase can't quite bring himself to ignore.

"Why are you here?" he asks, spreading his fingers and pouring between them into the glass. "Blue Light just reopened. Either you started feeling guilty for freeloading off your boss or you're avoiding someone."

The first thing Caspian did when he checked the Blue Light was to make sure no one saw his head duck through the doorway in search of Amory Felix. The less questions asked the better as there are no words to describe the feeling he has for having been lied to, especially having been lied to about this. After taking the quickest cursory look at other places the next establishment he comes to is the Coliseum, thumbed sign swinging overhead. A cut of brown eyes through the parting doors tells him this time he's on the mark. The young man he seeks is unmistakable, the one sitting next to him even more so. Caspian X would know that face anywhere although it would be a mistake to think he takes particularly sympathy for Robert Chase due to a likeness. At the moment it doesn't even cross his mind to feel anguish over the face that echoes another who has no recollection of his own. Instead, all he feels is anger.

Anyone who knows the Telmarine moderately well ought to be aware of his temper. Rarely has it ever reached a level only a handful of people have ever seen, his uncle the usurping murderer included. The tense posture he takes upon approaching the pair is aggressive, unstoppable. But at least he hasn't drawn a blade. Yet.

He would have had to been blind to miss that echo. There's a difference in height as much as there's a difference in demeanor, but incongruous details are nevertheless muted in light of association. Conditioning ingrained those features in direct relation to Chase, whether the distinct size of his ears or the structure of his face, such that an adult Peter Pevensie is Robert Chase to Amory. Well, physically speaking. This translates into a monthly habit of deepened scowls and curt remarks, which strangely enough, are irregularities in behavior that the High King must suffer. Or brush aside. Normal patterns reflect civility and mutual between Amory and Peter, sealed by the latter's history of leaving Amory be.

Or that's what used to be the case.

Recently, Pevensie had taken up the inclination to be a nag. Or rather, he simply expressed concern, and thus Amory's time-tailored reaction snapped into play. He seems to have skipped out on steps c and d taking a hop-skip-jump from civility to blowing out the fuse on Peter's recollection. To be perfectly honest, it is something he barely recalls, shades and sounds of that night a muddled tracing of memory. He remembers enough pieces though, the broken scenes reconstructed to root fault and cause and repercussions back to him.

Repercussions like Telmarine currently advancing toward them.

But Amory doesn't notice the approaching brunette, too preoccupied with figuring out what formation of words might offend Chase enough to inspire a departure. Months of knowing the doctor suggests his efforts are futile. They probably are, and so he settles with usual tactics.

"I didn't say I was cold. And if you manage to surf this time of year, I'll be vaguely surprised" there's a pause, nails digging against the table's wooden edge, "I never liked the ocean very much." Negatives, negatives, and negatives seem to be Amory's only vocabulary tonight. In terms of echos, perhaps it's a reflection of whatever is actually crossing that mind of his, subconsciously or consciously. A reflection of the scattered bottles before him, alcohol that, as Chase is well-aware of, routes a path to kill him.

"You said the weather was cold. Did you pick that up from hearsay?" Chase is anything but cold. He's also anything but drunk, the two shots having a warming effect that spreads from his centre out and loosens his muscles, but not being enough to impair his thinking, both the rational and the less so. Amory's avoiding his questions, which means he's right on one count. Possibly both, if Blue or the Pevensie kid have black marks on their cards. The Pevensie kid: a deliberate way of thinking, Amory being one of the very few who associates his adult form with Chase rather than vice-versa. Peter Pevensie has the seniority so far as time spent in the City is concerned as well as, overlooking the label of fiction, a longer history in his own world. It's the doctor whose features seem to have been inherited. Some incident in his ancestry involving unspeakable acts in a library seems as reasonable an explanation as any.

Concern could be a cardinal sin in Amory's personal bible. Both his for others and their returning interest. Chase gets that, to a degree. He can understand not wanting to reach for something that's bitten his hand before. Can understand not wanting to owe debts he never asked for. But Amory on his best day is reminiscent of Chase on his worst, and that's both impressive and wearying. If it's this tiring to watch, he can't help but think Amory must be exhausted just keeping the walls in place.

He's still watching his reluctant companion, hands forming a chinrest, one folded over the other, elbows digging against the table edge. Dubious and vaguely indulging, like a parent with a toddler at the 'NO' stage. "You never like anything very much. Surfing this time of year's just the difference between a suit and boardies. Have you ever--"

And that thought (probably a terrible suggestion, Chase is brimming with those tonight) is lost as he becomes aware of the presence encroaching on the table. It takes a stratospheric strength of feeling to overwhelm Amory's radiating displeasure, but Caspian achieves that with ease. One look at the Narnian's expression chokes back any greeting Chase might think of. He's suddenly alert, watchful, and perhaps leaning back from the table an imperceptible amount. Whatever this is, it's more than half a truck, and he's near enough certain it's not headed for him.

Chase is bright, one doesn't get to his status as a specialist of a dozen specialisms without being sharp in some area, whether that's book smarts, street smarts, holding the right cards, or just being plain intuitive. Whichever the case, he does the right (self-preserving) thing by leaning back.

"Amory," Caspian barks, hand pressing to their table with disregard for their drinks, with disregard for anything else for that matter, "you lied to me. You lied about Peter."

His hand does not reach for a weapon but who needs that when fingers will do just as well? His curl tightly into Amory Felix's collar to bring them face to face. Brown eyes cut the quickest look at Chase, a kind that speaks in a threat: Do not interfere.

This is a prime example of why evasion doesn't solve problems, only postponing them where many times they enlarge themselves tenfold past their original size. Of course, he had never thought- well, that's a lie. He's definitely pictured the possibility of being stormed by a mob of Pevensie's friends if the culprit was discovered. He had never thought Caspian would be the sole attacker, but the question most puzzling him as he feels the Telmarine's hand grab his collar— how did he ever find out? How could he ever have known?

"Lied about what? What are you talking about, Caspian?" he stays true to his previous farce, setting confusion in his tone as he stares wide-eyed at the Telmarine. Wide-eyed only because it makes him appear innocent, just as the inflection of his voice perfects the portrait. Admitting fault now would destroy any chance of leading Caspian astray with lies, and Amory's far too inclined to saving his hide to miss out on a chance to convince the King that he's mistaken.

Edited 2010-03-17 10:48 (UTC)

Turning tail would appear to give your problems a prime chance to bite you in the arse. Chase might be many things, and a coward, at times, is one of them, but he's learned to take what's coming to him when it's got him by the... well, collar. Even from his angled view he can tell Amory's played his hand wrong, that denial, scorn and anger in return would be his defence in innocence, which renders his innocence the lie. Caspian isn't the easy mark he sometimes plays. Not when he's pushed to this point, and Chase threads his hands back through his hair, looking around the bar for anyone else who might intervene before he has to.

He's heard a little about Peter's condition -- something he'd been meaning to look into when not overwhelmed with other work or cursed himself. Amnesia isn't exactly a freak diagnosis in this city. Painful to the forgotten, but for the patient? Ignorance is bliss. So something has been put on the backburner when he might have been a better friend, at least one more prepared, had he followed it up earlier.

He stands now, Caspian's unspoken warning not going unnoted - he's still out of the line of fire - and catches an empty bottle, setting it straight again before it can roll off the table. "Caspian," his hand raises in a gesture that smooths the air if no one's temper with it, "he's not going to talk to you when you've got him like that. Take a step back."

"You were the last one with him."

How does Caspian know this? Well he certainly doesn't feel any incentive to share it with either Amory or Chase. That would put Eden in a tough spot. So he argues in the face of wide-eyed innocence, feigned innocence. No, Caspian X isn't such an easy mark, even he knows when Amory means what he says in his own defense he is usually abrupt, stubborn, frustrated in return. Right now he is none of those things and that only infuriates the Telmarine.

"You--you did something to him," he says, full conviction behind his accusation. Days passed, he has considered other possibilities, that Peter was subjected to a curse (a long one) or Peter had left and returned a new slate as many others have before or that he might have been attacked by the White Witch who has not been heard from since Christopher and his friends stood against her. Persistence has paid off in revealing none of these to be true. It should be a relief for Caspian but it does nothing for him. Learning this happened at the hands of someone he considers almost a friend--someone Peter trusted--is still a severe blow, leaving only the question why which still matters very little when compared to how the magic will be reversed. Not if either, but when because Caspian will beat it out of Amory if he has to. His other hand clutches at Amory's collar too, both lifting as if he might drag the man across the table.

"No," he addresses Chase without looking at him, without looking at the echo of a face of someone who is at the center of this mess. Caspian doesn't even think about missed opportunities where the doctor might have been able to help Peter. With magic involved that would have been only headache and heartache. Similarly Caspian hasn't thought about asking for His help either. That he's gotten this far is no doubt partly due to faith, but he knows it's not his place to ask the lion to force change on human nature. Amory will do what Amory pleases because that's his way. How enraging. "He owes us" me "an answer," he speaks through clenching teeth, "and I will damn well get one from him."

Caspian almost never swears, never threatens, never comes close to causing fatal injury unless afflicted by some kind of injustice. Learning his uncle killed his father was one of those times. Burning away his friend's memory to the point where, as Edmund has emphasized, the High King of Narnia asks what's a Narnia falls in the same realm. Amory may as well have taken a pick-axe to his head. By now they've definitely caught the attention of a few patrons, but none willing to intervene yet.

Ignorance is Bliss.

Undoubtedly, it is painful to be forgotten, but to forget is more than ignorance, more than merely not knowing; the loss of memory is the subtraction of identity, unraveling the filament binding human form to self. Can two people, identical in composition but strangers in memory be considered the same person? Can the divided Peter Pevensie, unknowing of the heart of himself that is Narnia truly be the Peter Pevensie as others know him? As he once knew himself? It is a question that rests at the root of Amory's guilt, lidded and tempered with pride as its wax seal. The truth of what Amory Felix believes is that forgetting one's self is a step below death. Both involve negation, one leaves a husk— a paraphrase of what had been.

Maybe he's being dramatic. Maybe it's a matter of over-thinking, but as fingers grasp his collar, brown cutting hazel, he tells himself that Caspian has every reason to seek revenge, if revenge is what this is. Nevertheless, this revelation doesn't diminish the reflex of self-preservation, certainty not when it comes to Amory Felix, and in this position his mind yet compiles escape routes. Caspian may be something of a friend, a friend if truth was the only sound, but if he had to burn Caspian's hand to cinders to save his life, then he would. It's the honest truth.

It is because of these exits that he can look at Caspian without fear, even if the idea of him physically defending himself against the Telmarine is laughable. He's exhausted and sick, and top it all off, moderately inebriated. But he still locks eyes without the slightest waver of expression, flat-lining his lips as he lets lids fall to a half-set glare, "I had-- I have no reason, no motive to ever hurt Peter Pevensie. Don't be a fool," his tongue tries to trap the venom, but when did rationality ever proceed temper for Amory?

Edited 2010-03-18 07:40 (UTC)

There it is. The sharp edge to his tongue that hints at something else disguised in lamb's clothing. Not that Amory could be considered the proverbial wolf; the wording could have used some work but he's right in saying he has no motive to hurt anyone if his Garbo-esque mantra of wanting to be left alone is to believed. He spits out enough hostility but it's meant as a shield, not a weapon. There's a saying for it back home: 'all mouth and no trousers.' Amory has the sheer bad luck of being able to get himself in trouble with mouth alone and that slip of his tongue just now - I had - is enough to give Chase questions of his own.

If Peter was the one to feel guilt for then it would be Peter here with his fists balled in Amory's collar. It might be a simplistic view, but in medicine it's practiced often enough that what isn't known won't hurt. Peter doesn't know what he's lost. Caspian is all loss and fury, quite terrifying in it, and anyone should feel guilty for turning his benign days here on their head. He'll see enough of that.

Chase's instincts still tell him to keep his distance. Responsibility and the feeling that this isn't going to end right on either part see him levelling his shoulder somewhere near Amory's, his hand going to brace Caspian's arm. "Yeah, you're helping," he tells one and, to the other, "You can get your answers without choking him. One step back."

Don't be a...

What?

Split seconds pass to fill the space of silence that defines Caspian's complete surprise at Amory even suggesting it. He should expect it from this man's mouth, finds it not exactly out of character for Amory Felix, but to hear it leveled at him is another kind of experience entirely. More than this is a single word making all the difference.

Had.

If he had his sword, blood would have been drawn already. Because he doesn't and because his hands are already close to Amory's face, Caspian chooses to disregard Chase's interjection. Well, not completely. The arm he braces stays where it is, bending only to bring Amory closer against the table. His other hand curls into a fist whose knuckles cover the short distance to Amory's face. Caspian aims to hit him hard, not just once, not just twice, but repeatedly. It is brutish, it is far from noble, and he doesn't care. Amory is flippant and callous with his words, his mouth pays the price.

Don't be a fool.

The Telmarine thinks to himself he was a fool for giving Amory Felix his time, his friendship, and the benefit of the doubt.

This is hardly the first time Amory's had close contact with a fist. Would you expect less from someone with a mouth like his? He hasn't always been a bastard, but sarcasm and candor have always sat comfortable in his words, and he's definitely gotten equal due for it. Including one or two fists.

There are two options in this situation. Either he takes it like a man or finds some way to slither out of it. The latter would require some magic elbow grease, or in other words, perhaps some quick teleportation. However, last Sunday's encounter with Peter had taken enough out of him in terms of stamina and lashback, and he's not eager to add on an additional charge unless it's absolutely necessary. A deck, or two decks in the face won't kill him. Then, there's the option of evasion, which would actually make sense in this case. Whether he can dodge the blow in time is an uncertainty, but there's no time to think in a pas

Well, see.

There was no time to think as the fist of an angry Telmarine comes barreling into his eye. Stars and stripes of the non-patriotic kind explode on the right side of the canvas, and yet the strike has managed to set his reflexes on edge. Only thanks to said reflexes does the subsequent one-sixteenth of a second involve Amory's head snapping away to dodge.

Whether he's fast enough is the question.

Answered with a sickening thud, the clicking of knuckles, teeth and bone. Amory was quick enough, just, and it's Chase's jaw that takes the brunt, his own blood he can hear pounding in his ears as, balance and grip gone, he crashes elbow first against the table. Finally other people stand as glasses shatter and beer pools into new stains on the already tarnished carpet. Chase has gone down with the table, a staggered two part descent. He'll be more pissed off later, more that the knock took him by surprise and took him down than at Caspian's missed target.

Never been knocked out by an eighteen year old. Still not quite. Am I--

He is bleeding, the hand cupped around his jaw confirms. His own teeth have split his lip, but as he gingerly presses his tongue against his teeth none prove loose, just slick with copper and salt. He hisses, fingertips pressing over the connecting points of his jawbone. Dizziness and pain make his head swim, hard to focus on which of the two to glare at as he looks back up.

Amory's reaction doesn't still his fist. His flippant manner earlier had only stirred Caspian to action and his evasive manner now encourages him to give chase. One probably doesn't expect that to be quite literal in any sense but it very well is when his fist cracks against the blond man's jaw. This does stop the youngest of the three, it stops him immediately followed by a step back. What grip he had on Amory is released in a style similar to discarding that which shouldn't be touched in favor of hands falling open to his own sides, while he stares at the doctor who went down in disbelief. What is Caspian X, the King of Narnia, doing? The altercation has caught enough attention to render the Coliseum a little less loud than it was before he came in. Whether the talking and muttering going on from other patrons relates to how they might eject a troublemaker or how they ought to bet on a fight between two seemingly lightweight combatants is unknown to Caspian, but it doesn't matter to him either way.

Note he hasn't forgotten Amory's place in this, he is just remembering himself. Something Peter Pevensie can't do right now. He turns to Amory again.

"I wanted to believe you," he says to the other man, tone losing its sharpness, its edge, "do something if you ever cared at all." The Telmarine points at Amory before sending a glimpse of anger now mixed with hurt and question at Chase for the briefest moment: What else can I do? If it makes Chase feel any better, Caspian shakes his hand out, knuckles sore from impact.

It's a graceless fall to the floor, knees collapsing in contact with the ground, palms slapped against soiled carpet as Amory tries to balance himself. How pathetic to be prostrated before the Telmarine, and so it's in a second that he forces his legs beneath him, a jerky shift to a kneel. It's all too much movement for a head that's already swimming, thudding, shattering as though those brights have reversed themselves and now bore into his skull. But despite the haze, Amory knows what, who must have played cushion for that second impact by the sudden collapse and clatter of sound that follows. However, Amory doesn't feel bad for Chase. He doesn't hear the chorus of the jury around him. There's nothing to nothing to feel besides the resounding shudder of a throbbing eye and pounding head, along with the sickness sliding up his chest as he folds his head into his palms. Another pathetic position, Amory realizes, but at this very moment, regardless of the minutes before, he doesn't give a damn.

He knows he deserved it.

He deserved it and more because Amory is not blind to the way he is acting or to the anger belying Caspian's pain. One needs to be perceptive to be able to pull together facets of a character so as to ground a farce in reality, but even fine-tuned perception isn't necessary to sense something shadowing Caspian's rage. An emotion of a softer shade, inlaid in a voice losing its sharper edge. In a man who would raise his fists on behalf of another. On behalf of Peter Pevensie.

Amory's thoughts meet contradiction in silence, contradiction in the hollow of his chest, and the words of the King fall like dead weights.

∞ [ action post ]

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity