multiversallogs | you're what happens when two substances collide

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you're what happens when two substances collide :: OPEN

Who: Sebastian LeMat and YOU.
What & Where: Various places about town: Nazca's boat, Hellsing's infirmary, etc.
When: Throughout the third week of Velldaren
Notes: If you want to set something up, let me know!

For the sake of safety and common sense Sebastian has been relatively quiet on the network, preferring to communicate via voice or text only, but that hasn't stopped him from making a few general appointments for others in his cohort and throughout the city. Most of his work for strangers has been in and around Sobek Croix, doing his part to keep Hellsing in the canton's good graces during the current blood shortage. At the guildhall itself, he's been working on getting the building ready for winter -- finishing windows, checking the roof for leaks (again), and making sure there will be enough room to dry their crop of tobacco.

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Back home, Lucius had started not going out too. So this excursion is relatively unusual, in any dimension.

When a war is over, people don't just forget. And strangely enough, not everyone sees honour in defecting, not on either side. With the wizard community's stifling smallness, the swamping rush of Muggle streets had offered some anonymity when he'd deigned to roam them, for all that Lucius had hated that as well -- being somewhere completely free of magic, for someone like him, felt like a tragic rainy afternoon no matter the actual weather, the air dead and the sounds loud and grating. Baedal is, reassuringly, not quite like this, some strange combination of the two, like that fresh hell notion of a world where Muggles and wizard kind combined.

Not the most striking thing approaching the tavern, considering Baedal, but Lucius doesn't completely blend in, either -- never mind the kicking his recent history has given him, fading into the woodwork is not a talent he possesses. He is tall, long-haired, carries around a cane and has adopted a sort of fuck off aura that has a more defense edge to the one of arrogance from before. His clothing is plain but well-made, rings on his fingers polished to a shine.

It will be late, by the time he gets back to the townhouse, but that's fine. The light of the Sobek Croix tavern reaches passed its own windows and doors in the dusky light, and Lucius doesn't yet sashay inside, contemplating whether he wants to.

Should he come inside, he's likely to spot a young man somewhere in his mid to late twenties, sitting at a small, well-lit side table reading a book. Spread out on the table in front of him, is a notebook, a mug of tea and teapot, and an empty plate. As much as he appreciates being able to live at the Hellsing Guild Hall, Sebastian has an almost physical need to get out into the city and be among other people. Ideally, among people who don't know him and won't interrupt him while he's reading. Reading remains slow, laborious task, and while silence might help some people, when it's too quiet, every little noise makes him jump and distracts him; it's only among the constant, low hum of conversation that he can really focus.

Faced with a particularly difficult passage in deMarcus' "An Introduction to Creative Cursebreaking," Sebastian removes his glasses for a moment, to pinch the bridge of his nose and scrub at his face, pushing aside a shock of messy black hair and revealing a faded scar.

There is really only so much debate to be had. Lucius can go inside or he can go home. Quotation marks.

He pushes through the doors, bringing in the cooler early evening air with him and the tinge of rain just prior. Lucius is not any kind of barfly, there are limits and standards and things, as well as fully stocked liquor cabinets, but he is not strictly out of place either, a hand dipping into his coat pocket for coinage-- charity-- as he meanders for the bar. He will go for something of small amount and high dosage, with the kind of shock of warm chemical that complements the sharply cold ice it douses. Whatever they have. Do they have firewhiskey.

Cane resting to hang from the hilt against bar edge, Lucius pushes the necessary money across the polished surface. The Boy That Lived goes unnoticed, even when chill grey eyes go to skim the room as he waits. And then a second time, as if the faint hint of subconscious memory--

Attention lingers uncomfortably and uncertain at that particular table.

This particular tavern does not have an overly varied selection, but they do have firewhiskey or at least recognize the term and can pour a suitable equivalent.

He's dressed in muggle clothing with a cane of his own leaning against his chair; it's a practical thing, used to offset a limp rather than hide a wand. Should Malfoy look closer, he'll be able to pick up other differences between this man and the boy he knew -- his right hand is missing the the top joints of his ring and pinkie finger, he doesn't appear to be carrying a wand, but that's not to say he isn't armed.

It could be a coincidence. After all, a stranger that bears an striking resemblance to Harry Potter is hardly the most unusual thing in Baedal. Still, when the dog stands and turns to face the bar, Sebastian looks to follow his line of sight and resolutely Does Not Startle upon seeing an older Malfoy. He calmly reaches down to pet Velcro before returning to his book and sending off a text message to (the usual) Lucius and Integra.

I'm sending someone anyway. If he so much as sneezes at you tell him I know his bloody wife.

The attention of his study breaks by the time the sound of a glass is being set down, with whatever amber fluid counts as hard liquor, the cracking of ice shards turning his head again. If Lucius understands the principle behind texting, being both a pureblooded wizard of old family bigotry inclinations, as well as from the 90s, then it isn't to a degree that the sight of it generates suspicion.

Which doesn't mean that by the time Sebastian is done, he isn't being honed in on. Lucius doesn't exactly invite himself, and isn't about to sit down, but by the time the text is away, the glass of whiskey is set down on the far side of the table.

If it's a coincidence, well, mistaking someone for someone else isn't the worst thing that can happen to him. He doesn't quite hold the same authority and entitlement as he did some several years ago in the bookstore, ticking icy stare over little Harry's legendary scar, but there is a probable amount of similarity in the way he now looks at where pieces are missing off the younger man's fingers.

Then goes the natural sweep up to more familiar injury.

"You're welcome to join me," he says quietly, moving to clear space at the table. Sebastian has made his call for support and its unlikely that Malfoy will kill him outright in public, so there's no point in being coy and pretending that they can't recognize each other. He doesn't bother to hide his injured hand. As with most of hexes and curses he'd been hit with late in the war, the injury to his hand wasn't properly healed. Although, his missing fingertips are due to a crushing wound instead of anything magical.

"I've been going by the name LeMat for a few years now." When he speaks, it's slowly, as if he has to force himself to take the time and think through his words. There's no anger to his words, but caution and some undefinable, but painful emotion connection to the capriciousness of time travel. What does it matter if Lucius has come from after the summer of '02? If he's been to Azkaban, that future is already too set to change.

The sound Lucius makes is arguably meant to be the beginnings of a laugh -- it doesn't really make it out of his chest, hitching partway and curling the corner of his mouth, and little more than that. Considering his own degrees of suppression and reserve, and to compare it towards that of more normal people, that must make this instance astoundingly funny.

"LeMat," he says, which signifies either testing this name for himself or implicit offer to pretend as well.

Still standing, too, despite the offer to join him -- although Lucius scopes over the table now, like a particularly overgrown and ill-content cat unsure of the offered accommodation. Eventually, he nudges back the nearest chair with the end of his cane, an eyebrow raising to himself in resign as he sits. "What on earth we'd have to discuss escapes me," he warns. But it's probably better than finding a separate table in the confines of the bar and pretending either of them aren't there until the other finishes his business.

And he was the one that wanted to see this up close for himself.

While not common knowledge, it's not so obscure as to be unknown: 'LeMat' is an old name for the Fool tarot card. In the earliest decks, Le Mat was a beggar, a madman, a divine fool, or sometimes referred to the final move of checkmate.

"We could complain about how self-aggrandizing deMarcus is," he says, gesturing to the book upon the table and the post-it notes attached to the page written in his nigh illegible scrawl (Irritating. Intentionally vague?). Sebastian looks Malfoy over, trying to place when and where in the timeline he might be from. His hair is still long, so that means he must be from no later than Christmas of '01.

Just shy a few years, even, and at some stage he started not aging as well as he was, so it's a difficult thing to determine, exactly, how old he might be, apart from any evidence of the war still being a thing freshly ended. Closed up like a clam right now, of course, pulling on his resources to withstand even polite study as he takes a sip of alcohol, swallowing down the burn of it and flicking a mildly confused glance towards the book lying at LeMat's elbow, before familiarity flickers. More than likely, he has a copy of his own in the manor's library.

Back home. "You should try Kozlow. He reads less like pontification and doesn't use the word 'creative' in his titles. Where did you get such a thing?"

Lucius hasn't seen any artifacts of his world, here, but then again, he also probably isn't looking hard enough. Interest not in the book but in that potential tie back to the world he knows shows in the crack his aloofness takes, and that probably is a clue at least to how long he's been here.

Not very.

"The university here has an extensive library, but since the books arrive into the city in much the same way as people, there's never any guarantee. And, yes, Kozlow was next on the list," he says with a hint of something that could be considered a smile. "But I was told that I needed to endure this work in order to get the theoretical foundation and common language necessary to continue."

At this point in his life, it's all, quite literally, an academic pursuit for Sebastian.

There is room for amusement, and it shows, briefly, as fleetingly visible as a fish beneath the water. Cane set down against the edge of the table allows Lucius to put his hands out and take the book for himself, a small sneer for the mass of illegible annotations and appreciating more simply holding the item and flicking it open to familiar looking pages and type. His circumstances, of course, give him pause.

He doesn't look up when he observes, primly, "That sounds like me."

"Your alternate, yes. We spent time in Bete Noire together, and then, in between cities he and Mrs Malfoy were brought to London." Whereupon Sebastian made sure to keep all of them well away from any wizarding authorities until they could get away from Britain and into hiding on the continent. Of course, this is not the behaviour of friends, merely two gentlemen possessed of enlightened self-interest.

"He's diligently working to try and correct the, well, frankly embarrassing gaps in my knowledge."

Because you were too busy indirectly ruining my life while you were at school isn't something Lucius would have a problem with saying normally, if maybe in better words, but he hasn't finished his drink enough to be that transparent, and weirdly, this adult creature sitting across from him fails to inspire the same kin of twisting malice and resentment evoked by his younger analogue.

Or, well. No. But not as much.

So here's to hoping that this sentiment can be read in the slight tip of Lucius' head and an eyebrow raise. The book shuts with the close of one hand, a punctuating fwip, before he hands it back in a lax grip. "The eternally forgiving nature of a war hero," he comments, that hand going back to his whiskey, and the other once again stealing close his cane to lean against his thigh, hand spidered over silver hilt.

"You must the one who's told them everything."

As he accepts the book, Sebastian's laugh is short and not entirely unpleasant, "I can't imagine what his face would look like if you called him a war hero; although I suspect Mrs Malfoy would clip the ear of any man who tried."

"And, yes, I did. I would have him go back to his own time well-armed with all the knowledge that was kept hidden from him and others." There's a quiet, steady confidence to his voice that has taken years to develop. For a moment, it is easy to see how he could inspire and lead an untrained group of children in war. "Gateshead should never, ever be allowed to happen."

Not exactly what Lucius meant, but while his younger self may be inclined to make corrections, the older one is more intent on sipping his whiskey and scanning a look about the tavern in-- misplaced social anxiety. This would never happen, obviously, but more than that, the opportunity to socialise without it being a foolhardy thing to do is a few years expired, and new habits can die as hard as the old ones.

"You would never once suspect that they would use this knowledge to ensure the victory of the side he is already Marked with? Or has no one expressed to you the promises the Dark Lord liked to colour to the edges?"

He rolls the whiskey around in its container, idly clicking ice as he meets LeMat's less assuming stare with a harder one in return. "Presuming, of course, that it is even possible to affect change in that manner. But I don't know what you mean by Gateshead -- you're older than I know you to be." He assumes, naturally, that this is reference to some other terribleness that has not yet come to pass for him.

"Not even the Sundering of Gateshead then? You are young." Having expected a man from further down the timeline, Sebastian had been considerably more candid with this Malfoy. "With the war barely started and you're here."

"He may go to Voldemort with what I've told him, he may choose to say nothing and hide the knowledge, but you can move the world if you've the right size lever, well..." He trails off for a moment, looking down to Velcro before readdressing Malfoy. "Well, it serves both our purposes: a shorter war, with fewer dead and Draco, relieved of a great deal of suffering, given the chance to have a voice in the rebuilding of wizarding society."

There's a divide, here. Another one. And he gets the privilege of seeing it first.

Not that he is desperately wishing for a conversation with the Harry bloody Potter from his own world, but the vastness at which the universe can apparently stretch is enough to put anyone in a mood. There's that old flinch, slow and subtle, at the mention of that name, no matter how dead he may be, and a defensive sink to his posture as he listens.

He finishes his whiskey, and sets it down, not looking at LeMat. His words come simple and curt. "The war is ended. I don't die in it. I defect."

As Sebastian pales and goes silent and still, Velcro wuffs once and leans against his owner's legs. During periods of high stress, PTSD dogs are trained to provide constant, subtle physical pressure against their companions to help keep them centred in the moment.

"I was right. It does hinge on your choice." There's no pleasure to be had from this knowledge and it shows in the hollow tone of his voice. "You didn't defect in my world and war went on and on until there was no one left to fight it."

It was hardly his choice. Mostly swept up in the white water current that is Narcissa Malfoy taking the lead. And that isn't something he'd say out loud to her, let alone Potter.

So.

Lucius glances down dogwards, but. He doesn't mind dogs. Rapturously obedient animals are quite good to have around, he's always thought -- if Muggles were the same way, there would be a lot less trouble for them all. "It isn't quite so simple," he states, voice rough, although mostly from his drink of choice. "Likely one of many differences, don't you agree?"

"Yes," he says almost absently before shaking off whatever ideas were crowding him and fully returning his attention to the conversation at hand. Rationally, Sebastian knows he ought to be relieved that there are worlds out there where the war doesn't go as poorly as it did in his own; however, he's often found that rationality provides only cold comfort. "Yes, you're quite right."

Lucius can probably sympathise -- he should hope that his younger self can rectify his own mistakes a damn sight sooner than he ever did, but it's a bleak acknowledgment of a thing that pertains to him not at all. Sympathy isn't exactly compassion, however, and the half-smile that comes of it has that curve of a sneer that is just a natural part of his face after long years of being something of a bastard.

"Interesting, that the Boy Who Lived should really well be called the Boy Who Merely Survived. And look, you're still fighting, in your way."

There is a whip-quick instant where Sebastian is tempted to tell him that he didn't survive the war at all and that he's only here and able to talk through darkest necromancy or some such nonsense. It's a terrible idea, but one that does cheer him up a little.

"What else could I do? Painting walls and fixing windows doesn't fill all my hours and, well, with a marble knee I didn't think to take up jogging."

"Quite the hobby you've chosen for yourself, then. Do as you like, LeMat."

Grey eyes flick on over towards LeMat's own more pragmatic cane, and doesn't ask -- he hardly need to. There are weirder ailments, in the wizarding world. "I approve more of the books." Lucius has yet to find much else to do, but attempting to redirect a timeline in which he is no longer a part is low on his list of priorities. Becoming acquainted with his newest universe is enough, for the time being.

"And you as well." Odd as it is, he seems genuinely pleased by Malfoy's approval of his reading material. He stops again, weighing his words before continuing, "I'll tell you what I've told your alternate: for me, the war is over and I will not let that horror taint us more than it already does. In the last world we went to, there were other British wizards, and the Malfoys were the only sane, kind people among them. I don't expect us to become allies, but in this place I have no complaint or issue with you."

Sebastian wrinkles his nose and briefly looks as young as he really is, "That was a bit rubbish and speechy, but I thought I ought to make sure you know."

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amourpropre - 2011-09-25 02:02 (UTC) - Expand

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heardmermaids.livejournal.com - 2011-09-25 02:07 (UTC) - Expand

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you're what happens when two substances collide :: OPEN

let me know if this setting doesn't work!

Perfect, bb.

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