multiversallogs | seems I was born for this.

Entry tags:

seems I was born for this.

Who: OPEN
What: Rodolphus goes to Hellsing to get reinstated and lurk around because he has no life. He could be accosted there or on the way.
Where: Sobek Croix
When: the morning after his return
Notes: Though he is obviously not a social butterfly, Rodolphus would probably make a point of seeking out anybody at Hellsing he knew from before and at least nodding at them to indicate he's back (excluded: Integra, who he'd assume was informed by Nuala, and Alucard, because really who the hell seeks out Alucard of their own accord also why would Alucard care). This does not HAVE to happen and can totally be handwaved, but he'd make an effort to do so, jsyk.
Warnings: nothin, he's on his best behavior.

Commuting is not an issue for wizards, and Rodolphus is usually so indifferent to his surroundings that he might easily stay at the Valhalla indefinitely. He had in fact told Lucius otherwise, but that was the kind of answer he was expected to give. Still, there is something comforting about Sobek Croix. He is inclined to look for another cottage there. Before that can happen, however, he wishes to have his badge and paperwork in order.

It is early when he comes to the Hellsing guild hall, a book in hand in case he has to wait in the lobby; Nuala may have left notice with the desk sergeant, or not, or his CiD may not be sufficient identification. It's not a big deal to him.

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Regulus got himself settled in Sobek Croix soon after the initial transition period of arriving in Baedal, but he seems to spend more time at the Hellsing guild hall than he does at home, anyway, so who knows why he bothered.

He's just about to leave, actually, passing through the lobby, when he spots Rodolphus and stills, briefly, when he recognizes him. A part of him reels back, inwardly and instinctively, but he reins it in before it shows on his face. He'd been told that Rodolphus was in the city before, but somehow hadn't exactly thought he'd return. He's pretty sure he actually replaced Rodolphus when he left, too.

Now that he's seen him and, presumably, been seen, Regulus moves over toward him fluidly, older than he should be but still largely the same as he ever was.

He smiles, thinly. "Rodolphus."

He's just glad that neither of them are inclined toward being particularly verbose, especially at one another.

Though he had not seemed to glance up from the book he's reading (something bound in dark green leather with no visible title), Rodolphus had indeed spotted and recognized Regulus. He uses the moment before Regulus approaches to consider a few things, such as that Lucius hadn't warned him. That he cannot remember how old Regulus is supposed to be, and is that a function of his own aging, or his time at Azkaban? But is he older? Aren't they all older...? (Except Lucius, of course.)

It is not necessarily of consequence. Rodolphus lowers the book and looks up at Regulus with his characteristic lack of meaningful reaction. A more sociable person might stand and offer his hand, and if he didn't know Regulus, and Regulus didn't know him, he might. As it is, he is silent just a beat too long, unblinking, stoic. Thoughtful.

"Regulus." Then, with the minimal fulfillment of politeness he feels family requires— "You look well."

You know. For someone who disappeared years ago.

Picturesque as Sobek Croix is, a cemetery is still - even in the cool light of early morning - a cemetery, imposing and quiet and a little depressing. It's why she likes to visit in the mornings, early enough that she can see the sun still rising while she's there; it feels a little less oppressive.

Sometimes, sitting by Boromir's grave, she wonders if she has one, somewhere. Did they bury her, after she died? Did they burn her body, let her ashes scatter? She could ask Sonja- she never does, though, just wonders, now and then. Curls her fingernails against her palms and wonders what that means, really; this is her body, but it can't be the one she left behind, can it? And then if it isn't, is she herself? Or an echo - a copy. A copy of a copy of a mistake.

She wonders what Isobel thought, looking into her own face mirrored younger on Ilde.

Sometimes she just wonders what other people are thinking, when they're there. Catching sight of Rodolphus as she steps out of the gate, she wonders what happened to his family, and what he would think if he were--

Hang on. Wait.

“Rodolphus Lestrange?”

He's not thinking about it today, but in the past, he has quietly reflected that he might only 'have' Bellatrix when she's dead. If she had a grave, he might visit it, and she would always be there. He might talk to it, if he were so inclined, and she would not be able to give him a look of impatience or ignore him. No more would he listen to spitting angry rants about the questionable loyalty of other Death Eaters or whatever made her angry, as he was, at least, a good listener even if he was an unsatisfactory husband. Yes, he's reflected in the past, this is one of the most pathetic thoughts I've ever had.

But this morning, he is not thinking it, since it is a very old thought. He is thinking of Hellsing and work, of the books he will start collecting again, when Ilde's voice startles him like a touch of guilt. Books would have led him to thoughts of her eventually, but now it's like he thought books and immediately fell down a steep hillside into Ilde. Rodolphus halts and studies her, aware he is only reinforcing the association, but not wholly opposed to it.

Part of him had hoped she'd be gone.

"You look well," he says, a polite remark which for him could be construed as almost forward.

Ilde makes a pointless sort of gesture with her sunglasses, mainly to buy herself a little time to catch up, mentally - he'd been gone for, she isn't sure for how long. For long enough that she's got to readjust to his not being gone- and then she beams, because inevitably catching up to it means being pleased. She'd missed him, abstractly; she'd kept thinking to share things she read, and having to find someone else to bother with it.

“I was, um- I didn't know you were in the city, again.” It's almost a question in the way she lilts on the last word - not still, no, she didn't get that wrong? He was gone? No, of course he was; she couldn't have imagined that. A moment later, “Thank you.” She feels better than she had last month, although the nausea is still lingering longer than it might have. “I mean- hello, again,” almost rueful, holding the edge of her hat. “Hello. It's good to see you.”

While not entirely insensate to the delicate uncertainty of the comma again, his response falls in line with rote politeness. Dogged obedience to conventional conversation might very well be his saving grace. He knows exactly how to bore people into leaving him alone, though he would never attempt it for real on Ilde. What if it worked? (A damning thought, if he knew he was thinking it.)

"I returned yesterday." After a moment's pause, Rodolphus steps forward to offer his hand, the same old antiquated formality, the same old self-conscious dignity. Then, because this is their usual line of conversation: "They have likely sold my books."

He does not sound particularly distressed, but mentioning it at all will pass as an indication of slight exasperation.

In the midst of trying to shake his hand, Ilde fumbles slightly on the mention of his books and the look she aims up at him is slightly abashed and feline in its absurdity - I meant to do that, you didn't see anything. “Um,” she says, eloquently. Then, “Well, I didn't know what you'd like to be done with them, but I didn't think your brother-in-law had much appreciation for poetry, so I-- well, I mean, I knew how to get into your house--”

What she's trying to say is she totally stole his books.

Just a beat of non-reaction, and then he smiles — a genuine smile, if one which may be unsettling nonetheless.

"So they are in good hands," Rodolphus says, casual and diffident, yet unmistakably pleased. Perhaps it's a bit of a morbid pleasure, to enjoy that the right person would be in possession of the few things left he himself enjoyed, but then, Rodolphus. He would have left them to her had he had the opportunity anyway.

Her answering smile is equally sincere and genuinely a little bit relieved - you never know quite how someone's going to react when you tell them you broke into their unoccupied home to take their treasured belongings, it had seemed like a good idea then but she couldn't be sure he'd agree with that assessment now - and she tucks her hands behind her back, rocking up on the balls of her feet for a moment, pleased with herself.

“I'll give them back,” she says, as if it occurred to her slightly belatedly. “I didn't take all of them, but most, I think, and I know which ones all they were.”

Later it will occur to him that she must have seen the sad, strange spectacle of his living space, but it could hardly have come as a surprise to her.

He shrugs at her offer. "I've read them." Not all of them, but most, and besides, he can't recall at the moment which were unfinished.

Then the thought of his journals hits him, but he's not going to ask if she took those. He'll just hope Lucius burned them or something.

Took but did not read; wasn't sure what to do with, wanted to read, correctly anticipated that keeping would eventually lead to reading, finally boxed and tied and hid them so no one else would read them, either. This is also something it would be polite to mention, but she isn't sure how to bring that up without it being awkward. (Which is sort of a funny concern, with Rodolphus Lestrange, but Ilde has a higher threshold than some and a tendency to blitheness, so there's that.)

So she doesn't. Maybe it'll come up later, more naturally, or maybe it won't, or maybe Rodolphus will find them himself and realize, or- well, she tilts her hat so she can see him properly and says, “Then we should find you new books,” as though it's the natural continuation of her keeping his old ones.

He inclines his head as agreement. "Perhaps once I've taken a few jobs."

There's a certain passive-aggressive satisfaction in acknowledging the simple reality of a paycheck, where once he (and others of his circle) might have found the idea galling. But that would have been many, many years ago, even if he is not so different. Azkaban embittered Sirius; it distilled Rodolphus.

“I'll find you something to start you off again,” she says, a decision made on split-second impulse, like far too many that she makes. “Welcome back gift.” People do things like that, don't they? Presents for literally every occasion isn't just a bad habit of her extended family? As eccentricities go, it's probably a mild one, she has to think.

"If you wish." He sounds only a little bemused because he sees it the same way Ilde does: people do things like that. It's a thing that happens, though usually to other people, and he always appreciate gifts of books. Probably even if they're about dicks.

“Well, I always do what I wish,” she says, blithely, well aware it isn't true and - enjoying the idea for a moment that it could be. She is, in fairness, willful enough right up until the point where someone actually pushes back, something that happens more rarely than it likely should.

Though she's trying, lately. Thinking ahead. Checking herself against people whose judgement she trusts more. Writing things down and then looking at them later, instead of leaving them aside. Thinking about things that people do, and making more of an effort to find out why, exactly. So there's that.

“Are you going back to Hellsing?”

It's funny, how the sentiment is Bellatrix-esque, just more blithely stated (and presumably more well-meaning... in comparison, at least). The nod he gives in response is as much acknowledgment/agreement of the first statement as it is answer to the question. Perhaps it's not true if considered baldly as fact, but it is true to something in her, he thinks, just like it was true to something in Bellatrix, and that's something he hadn't known explicitly about Ilde, therefore interesting.

"So I must take my leave. But I'm pleased to have seen you."

“So am I. Pleased to see you, I mean, not--”

...herself. Yes. You know what, he probably knew that.

“I'll call you, when I find a book,” she says, sliding her sunglasses back on and half-turning - the walk to the nearest train station will be good for her. “Good luck with Hellsing- take care of yourself.”

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seems I was born for this.

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