multiversallogs | Those very rare occasions don't let up, they keep on coming

Entry tags:

Those very rare occasions don't let up, they keep on coming

Who: Apollo and Cassandra
What: The inevitable awkward conversation following a drunken encounter
Where: The Valhalla Inn
When: The night after this
Notes: None
Warnings: Sexual tension and snippy, blunt honesty

The Valhalla Inn was starting to get claustrophobic. Cassandra felt trapped. It was ridiculous, of course. She wasn't a prisoner as she had been on the caravan, as she had been in Willaknapp. Nor was she, as far as she knew, under the sway of the natives of Baedal, as she had been in Rowan. Still, she was anxious to get out. The thought of having a place of her own was appealing, but Cassandra knew herself well enough to know that if she couldn't find someone to share a flat with, she would likely go off the deep end again. When she was alone all the time, she withdrew. She lived up to certain expectations. No, it was definitely better for her to find an anchor, someone she could trust to keep her sane.

For now, however, the only way to relieve the claustrophobia was to keep the door to her room propped open.

Cassandra lay on her stomach, across the foot of her bed, lazily scanning her CiD, examining various network posts. She was finally beginning to get a sense of some of these people, but so far, Ianto--and by default, Jack--were the only ones she felt comfortable telling about her visions. With the monster attacks so fresh in her mind, she felt no end to the frustration about the fact that her dire warnings had not yielded any kind of results. Then again, what could she do? Certainly, she couldn't tell the militia or these Hellsing people. Neither party had demonstrated much to give her any kind of faith. Of course, it would be easier to just try to live a normal life and pretend the visions didn't happen.

But that would be a lie.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Why would you do that?" he asked, rising to his own feet and crossing to join her, just as if she had invited him to do so.

"It would be a brilliant plan. I have a job, you know. Means to pay for a--flat, as you call it. You could have your bedroom, I could have mine. We could enjoy banter at the dinner table."

His hand crept onto her back, palm brushing across it ever-so-lightly. "Or do other things on the dinner table. I recall you enjoyed that."

She put her hands on his chest, pushing him back lightly. There was no way they were going to go down that road again. Especially not after what had happened last night. It was the type of thing she just wasn't prepared to deal with or even think about. Not right now, anyway. Which is probably why she had been harping on finding a room mate and getting out of the inn. It was something else to dwell upon.

"That was not on a dinner table," she said, lamely. Perhaps it wasn't the best response, but it was better than some of the other impulses running through her mind and body.

Like a frightened bird, Cassandra needed to move. She crossed over to her nightstand, pretending to be busy looking for something in the top drawer. "Congratulations on finding a job. What are you doing? I've been hired on as a seamstress at a shop called Davies & Nefer. They actually specialize in making clothing for the non-humans living here."

He stepped back, looking slightly amused. Oh yes. She was not quite immune to his charms just yet.

"I'm sure you'll be good at that," he said. "Women around here seem to like those trousers you're so fond of. And I'm working at the docks--not particularly glamorous, but it pays well, and I don't have to carry anything heavy. It's just paperwork--scheduling shipments and the like."

He paused, waiting for her reaction.

Cassandra paused, staring into the top drawer. She hadn't expected that. A music hall or a temple, maybe. Perhaps even a salon of some kind for society gatherings. But the docks? It just seemed so...menial. Even if he wasn't lifting and carrying things, Cassandra still couldn't imagine Apollo, the great and mighty Phoebus Apollo, stooping so low as to work on a dock like an ordinary mortal man.

And she didn't know how to respond to it.

"How did you come into that?" she asked, slowly closing the drawer. She turned around to face him, leaning the small of her back against the nightstand. It was, perhaps, not the best position to put herself into. She was cornered, really. Trapped. At least, she supposed, the door was still open. He wouldn't get too brazen in light of that.

Would he?

"First job I could get," he said with a shrug. "As it turns out, demands are not high for out-of-town deities. And it gives me some money and something to do with my time until something better comes along."

He did, in fact, step in closer, though he kept his hands to himself for the time being. "Think less of me for it?"

She lifted her chin slightly, an old habit, one not easily broken. It was tempting to tell him that she really couldn't think less of him. Very tempting. Instead, however, she just shook her head slightly. "I'm surprised," she answered instead. "And curious." Of course, that was hardly something new. Cassandra was always curious. "What 'something better' do you think will come along?"

This time, he planted his hands on the nightstand around her--still careful not to touch her.

"Don't suppose they'll be hiring a prince of the city anytime soon?" he asked, offering her a dazzling smile. "I'd hold out for king, but I don't want to be presumptuous."

"You're being presumptuous right now," she said, her voice rising an octave or two higher than normal. Her eyes flicked to the open doorway. She was willing him to remember where they were. Somehow, she had the feeling he wouldn't really care. And after what had happened in the showers and on the balcony, that wasn't the most surprising thing in the world.

It had been her own fault, too.

"If you're interested in getting involved in city politics, I'm sure there are ways. But that doesn't strike me as your area of interest." Political games were meant for do-ers. Apollo was more of a watcher. Perhaps a leerer. Not a do-er.

"Didn't say anything about politics," he pointed out. "Just said I'd like to be in a position of power."

He remained as he was, casually leaning against her. Of course, he'd heard the rising volume in her tone, the glance at the open door, but she wasn't exactly pushing him away. And frankly, this was fun.

"Did you have any suggestions?"

With blinding clarity, Cassandra's epiphany from last night returned to the forefront of her mind. It had been painful, physically painful, to realize the reason she had been so angry at Apollo. She was looking for some sort of nobility in him, some spark of courage. She had been looking for traces of everything that Othryoneus had been. But Apollo was not Othryoneus. He could never be Othryoneus.

"It seems to me," she said, evening her voice, "that the only power you're looking for right now is power over me. After...what has it been for you? One hundred and twelve years? Something like that?"

Cassandra dared to look him in the eyes. That was always the hardest part for her. Apollo had entrancingly beautiful eyes. They were what she remembered most about the night they met and something about them always brought out that fourteen year old girl who just wanted to know things. "I would think, after all that time, you would know how I respond to being cornered."

"Oh, Cassandra," he cooed softly, leaning in closer, eyes on hers and smiling his charming smile.

He leaned closer, lips close to her ears.

"Don't flatter yourself."

Apollo pulled back, withdrawing his hands from around her. He was not in the mood for accusations right now, and she had a tendency to hurl them at him nonstop. Maybe coming in had been a poor choice after all.

Cassandra exhaled slowly, grateful that he had pulled away. The relief was quickly followed by a flash of anger. She knew that smile. She hated that smile. It was the smile of a smug, self-righteous immortal who just knew that he was charming and that being charming would get him everywhere in life. She had seen it more than she cared to for one lifetime and four different worlds.

She folded her arms, recollecting her composure. This was decidedly easier when Apollo was farther away, when she couldn't smell him. "Then I'm wrong?" she asked tartly. "Well, that wouldn't be the first time, would it?" She wasn't known for her clever judgment. At least not where men were concerned. "At any rate, if you want a position of power, I'm sure there are ways you can get one."

"I was mostly teasing," he said, walking back over to the window and peering out. Mostly as a method of distracting himself.

"I'm still planning to get home. I'm not going to spend too much time trying to integrate myself into this world. I doubt we'll be here long anyway."

He kept saying that, but the weeks kept on going by. Perhaps they weren't in Baedal forever, but Cassandra had spent over a year in Rowan. And in over a year, she had developed a life for herself, in spite of herself. It was impossible, she had learned, for a worldwalker to remain isolated. Not surrounded by nightmares and political intrigue and others just like her, some desperate to return home. But maybe the rules didn't apply to Apollo. He was an immortal and had made, as far as she could tell, no friends in Willaknapp. Perhaps he could do just fine on his own.

Cassandra, in spite of herself and the way she was presented to the world, needed people.

"You might be able to afford something bigger with a room mate," she said absently, knowing full well that he wouldn't listen to her. "And if there's another attack, perhaps you'd have someone to protect you."

Or someone to protect, which, in Cassandra's opinion, would remarkably improve Apollo's compassion. But she wasn't about to say that one out loud.

"I was serious about living together," he commented, still living outside. Now, the edge of danger seemed to be gone from his voice. If anything, he seemed suddenly tired. He felt tired. The last few days seemed to catch up with him just then, standing in Cassandra's room.

This, he told himself for the hundredth time since their arrival, is not my life.

"I would keep my hands to myself. And frankly, in spite of everything that's passed, I think you know that I'm done trying to hurt you."

Cassandra had to suppress a sigh. This was something she hated, not quite as fiercely as his charm, but just as confusingly. Just when she was certain that she was seeing Apollo for what he was, deep down underneath it all, this other Apollo would emerge. The one that seemed more mortal and human. The one that she had allowed to kiss her on the caravan. She wished she could understand it all, but it was all so beyond her ken right now. And that was saying something, after three world hops, twelve years of visions, and the war to end all wars.

"I do think that you're done trying to hurt me," she finally said, slowly walking over to him. "And to tell you the truth, I think that's the only thing I know with any certainty right now."

He heard her approaching and considered turning to look at her.

Probably best not to. If he looked at her face, she'd probably bare her teeth at him and dive under her bed. She had a history of over reacting to him when he was in close proximity.

"You're still nervous around me."

"Yes," she replied. No sense in dissembling on that account. They both knew it was true, despite brave faces and fierce words. "Don't forget, for me, it wasn't too long ago that you showed up in my bedroom and taunted me about the fact that Hector was going to die and there was absolutely nothing I could do to change it." Aside from sleep with him, of course. "I haven't had a hundred years, yet."

She could have twisted a metaphorical knife, listing the many grievances she still had, but that wouldn't be getting them anywhere. The past was of great interest to her, but not Troy. Not now, anyway. She was much more concerned with the recent past, the past that was still vibrating on her skin.

"Apollo, what happened during the battle?" she asked him, stopping a few paces away, watching his back.

"Which battle?" he asked.

He knew, of course. It was unlikely she was going to be bringing up anything from Troy right now and taking arms against the ghost turkeys was probably worthy of their time right now. It had hardly been the stuff legends were made of.

Still. He didn't know that he wanted to talk about it.

And it was that very human question, in a very human moment, that steeled Cassandra's resolve enough to reach out and put a hand on his arm. This was the person she could talk to, this was the person she could actually trust. He would probably vanish like smoke in an instant, but for one moment, she could remember why she had felt so passionately for Apollo.

"Why were you holed up in a tavern?" she asked.

What was the worst that could happen?

Apollo looked down at her hand on his arm. Couldn't snap at her, not when she was making an effort. He turned to cast a weary look at her face.

"Why do you think?" he responded.

She hesitated a moment. But deep down, she had a pretty good idea of what he was looking for her to say. It was what he couldn't say, either because of pride or ego or something more human, like a sense of spiraling out of control.

"You were scared."

Apollo nodded slightly and turned back to the window. He couldn't really say anything more about that. His pride wouldn't allow it.

"And why did you run away?"

Fair was fair, Cassandra supposed. Still, she hesitated for a moment. She didn't like saying things that she knew were hurtful. But she had to tell the truth, whatever the cost. People just didn't understand that about her, which probably explained why she wasn't always the most popular person, the most beloved of worldwalkers. But, she supposed, Apollo, of all people, had the most potential to grasp it.

Maybe.

"I was disappointed," she said evenly. "I expected you to be heroic and you weren't. I realized I was looking for qualities in you that are not there and that bothered me."

"Well, I asked."

He leaned his forearm against the wall beside the window, sighing softly. No, he wasn't heroic. He was handsome and charming and intelligent and had great stamina, yes, but not heroic.

"I'm not your dead betrothed. I will never be like him. Is that what's stopping you?"

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject