It could be that his head wasn't screwed on quite right; it could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight... But I think that the most likely reason of all may have been that his heart was two sizes too small.
There's no angle to you being a git on purpose. or Dr Seuss. The last time I saw you you were practically falling asleep after fending off a dragon monster demon. While it may be Christmas somewhere, the occasion is that we're alive. And that calls for at least a cigarette. One of yours specifically.
Very much. It's been alleged there's a place that 'sells' pie near the Gardens. I kept meaning to investigate before I get eaten by a manticore and look what almost happened. See you in a bit.
Fifteen minutes later, Severus Apparates near the gardens, in the general area he thinks he remembers seeing.. that pie thing. He vaguely remembers hearing about it, but the force of whimsy was so overwhelming it necessitated him blocking it out of his consciousness.
Charles has inevitably seen the medical bay as well (one would hope), indicated by the wound-closing staples making a crescent moon at his temple, the brace that's strapped around his right wrist. He's tidied enough to shovel himself into a fresh change of clothing and his hair is still damp from running a shower.
He can be found already seated, a few servings of pie already organised on the table. One leg flung over the other and head tilted back as if genuinely enjoying the simplicity of not running for his life.
The sound of Apparating is what has him looking up again, not quite at a startle; alert all at once, even if he doesn't shift out of lax slouch.
A smile, then. He decides not to make everything worse with a hug; he waves.
Severus has been to the medbay not to seek treatment, but to assist in treating others. Medical remains understaffed, and its primary workforce at the moment is composed of witches - something Severus has found he's fiercely (but quietly) proud of. He looks like he hasn't rested, but doesn't seem particularly tired nor is he visibly injured; Severus continues to exist stubbornly in the jaded realm of 'that sucked, but you'll have to try a lot harder, TQ.' When he's made his way to the table, he thunks down a box on the top of it. There's a soft glass-clink noise from within: several small vials with hand-written notes stuck to them. Salve for mending cut skin, painkiller, dreamless sleep.
Surprise followed by amusement writes across Charles' face before he pulls himself up to inspect box -- only after skating a plate of what seems to be apple pie towards the other man. "Didn't actually get you anything," he has to admit, sliding the box towards himself and diving a hand into it with ferrety fascination. "But now I know when your birthday is."
It takes only two inspections of vials and adjacent notes to work out exactly what it is and where it came from. Sharper, smirky amusement gentles into something else. Gratitude, probably. Sentiment, at worst. He sets the vial back inside, taking care with the couple of fingernails on the way to going black from the quick and up.
"Thank you, Severus. For this, and," a head tip, you know, "seeing me through the few rooms we were in."
"It passed." So there. No birthdays in space unless he's here for almost another year. (Bloody fucking Merlin, another year.) Anyway: "You seem to have come out of it all right."
Which is Snapeish for You're welcome, maybe. He's not good at that, or 'Thank you', either, which Charles has surely picked up on by now. He looks down at the pie slices, not sure if he finds it surreal or annoying. But not even he hates pie.
The box is slid aside for later poking around in, and Charles instead steals for himself a slice, something that smells like it has space cinnamon in it. There is cream.
He looks at Snape's looking, gesturing with a fork as he points out; "Not everyone is equipped to pass the time by cracking the mysteries of this place or setting sutures or manning the brig. For those that aren't, I'm glad a few've apparently devoted it to desserts."
"It actually feels more normal than the gardens," he observes, slightly surprised at his own observation. Just sitting in this place like a diner, vaguely reminiscent of dingy after-hours coffee shops and brighter, hipper teahouses, seems real in a way that endless hallways and worry over airlocking and jump drives can't. The gardens are fine, he supposes, but the permanent summery weather irks him. A fork happens. The pie is pretty good. Severus makes a 'hm' noise, which apparently means whomever bakes these may live.
Charles is slightly surprised by Severus' observation too, and wisely, doesn't call attention to that fact. A faint smile of agreement, is all, and a pause to gain verdict on pie, before he sets about forking into his own. Hm is echoed.
Content to just eat for a second in company, withdrawing into himself. Sugar and short pastry and fruit and dairy are all unlikely sensations, as is normalcy. There is the ghost of an instinct to fill the silence in talking shop, of the things he's seen and observed, but also just--
Diners are familiar, expansive gardens, less so. He sometimes wishes he could lose himself in the oxygen gardens but they never quite manage to fool him - they're nothing like what he can find in the UK, and certainly not the Forest.
Thinking about the Forbidden Forest means thinking about Hogwarts. Severus frowns sharply at his pie, but only briefly.
There's a neat half left of the cinnamon, and it's offered for Severus to try with a slight nudge of plate as Charles eyes another, unusually orange without being pumpkin. He claims it for himself.
"There's a rather lovely landscape I'd pull up for myself. A beach. The rocky sort, rather than sandy. Grey, and cold. Or looked it. Felt familiar, anyway. Small chance I won't be doing so again for some time."
Teeny tiny absolutely won't be chance. There's a raise of eyebrows in silent inquiry, either a and you? or why?
He'll try the cinnamon pie. Maybe there'll be a banana variation somewhere on the table. That would be great.
"Mm." Severus thinks about the implications of fake scenery vs the hallway rooms; he hadn't linked the two in his head before. Possibly because he hasn't spent more time in one other than to establish what they were and then write them off as uncomfortably unnatural.
"Someone mentioned them. Not sure I understand the appeal." He's not going to say Nathan wants him to go ... hiking in the Himalayas. Or whatever. He feels uncomfortable about people wanting to spend time with him still; Charles he's grown more or less accustomed to, grudgingly, but he can't help being suspicious and doubtful overall.
"I sort of relate it to being in a gallery, I suppose. Looking at paintings, being transported to somewhere or some time beautiful, if not very convincingly."
But what they'd been through had been convincing. Sand speckled on his hands, the frost creeping over window panes, the afternoon sunlight adrift through his sitting room curtains. "Take it for what it is. Why?"
He shrugs one shoulder, indicating nothing more curious than someone having mentioned it. But also: "It seems like we're aboard something brilliant that's been re-appropriated into something awful. The holdovers of innocence are disconcerting."
Thanks for tanking the mood, Severus. He eats more pie, and tries not to dwell on... anything. He was perhaps too invested in the recon missions; he's still pissed off. He will be for some time.
"I think that's exactly what it is," Charles agrees, gently. "And I take back what I said about it not being about survival, by the way."
Because fuck.
He is also unconvinced about pie with actual oranges in it, returning to cinnamon. The shiny black-bruise quality of his nails is inspected, briefly -- he barely even remembers doing that to himself -- before he says, "You don't drink. Hence the invitation of pie and a smoke. Speaking of--"
Cigarettes accepted with a 'cheers', Charles extracting one and leaving the rest, as is only polite with finite resources, sliding it back across. It is set filter-end between his teeth as he hunts a depleting matchbook out of his pocket.
He leaves it on the table; he'd offer a light, but he's got one hand flat against the table where he's leaning on his forearm, tucked near his chest, the other busy with a fork. And maybe he doesn't feel like bothering summoning a flame.
"It quoted the Aeneid." Smiley. 'Smiley', including quotes. Severus hates that stupid name. "I was always more about practice than history, and never managed to memorize the whole thing." A slight shrug, again. "But I remember highlights - the Trojan horse seems unkindly relevant."
(If he's going to tank the mood might as well do it in style.)
"There's a passage I could never forget. Aeneas's father speaks to him about prophecy, and of leaving the underworld. 'There are two gates of Sleep, one said to be of horn, whereby the true shades pass with ease. The other all white ivory agleam without flaw. And yet false dreams are sent through this one, by the ghosts to the upper world.'"
Matchbook discovered, flame summoned the old fashioned way. There's a slight crease around the nose as he judges the flavour and harshness of it, tentative on first breath, bolder on second as he flicks flame extinguished. Hopefully the Pie Hole is a smoking establishment, even when it's on a space ship.
He's listening, though, even if he is reeled only a little reluctantly into the conversation.
"The classics are devoted to debating what these stories were even for. Propaganda. Cautionary tales. How does it read to a wizard?"
There's nothing disparaging in that. It's a genuine curiousity, that they would have a different point of view, what with all things mythical apparently being real.
"Embellished history," is the simple answer. "Varying degrees of embellishment, anyway. The mysticism is usually pretty spot-on when it comes to ritual, it's the," Severus makes a vague hand gesture, "running about with spears and swords bits that tend to be inaccurate. Dealings with the underworld are debatable. Most ghosts haven't experienced the whole process so they can't report back about it."
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But I think that the most likely reason of all may have been that his heart was two sizes too small.
That or he's a git.
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What are you angling at?
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The last time I saw you you were practically falling asleep after fending off a dragon monster demon. While it may be Christmas somewhere, the occasion is that we're alive. And that calls for at least a cigarette.
One of yours specifically.
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It's been alleged there's a place that 'sells' pie near the Gardens. I kept meaning to investigate before I get eaten by a manticore and look what almost happened.
See you in a bit.
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Fifteen minutes later, Severus Apparates near the gardens, in the general area he thinks he remembers seeing.. that pie thing. He vaguely remembers hearing about it, but the force of whimsy was so overwhelming it necessitated him blocking it out of his consciousness.
(Imagine if it really was Christmas.)
He does find Charles, at least.
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Charles has inevitably seen the medical bay as well (one would hope), indicated by the wound-closing staples making a crescent moon at his temple, the brace that's strapped around his right wrist. He's tidied enough to shovel himself into a fresh change of clothing and his hair is still damp from running a shower.
He can be found already seated, a few servings of pie already organised on the table. One leg flung over the other and head tilted back as if genuinely enjoying the simplicity of not running for his life.
The sound of Apparating is what has him looking up again, not quite at a startle; alert all at once, even if he doesn't shift out of lax slouch.
A smile, then. He decides not to make everything worse with a hug; he waves.
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"Happy Christmas."
He sits down.
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It takes only two inspections of vials and adjacent notes to work out exactly what it is and where it came from. Sharper, smirky amusement gentles into something else. Gratitude, probably. Sentiment, at worst. He sets the vial back inside, taking care with the couple of fingernails on the way to going black from the quick and up.
"Thank you, Severus. For this, and," a head tip, you know, "seeing me through the few rooms we were in."
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Which is Snapeish for You're welcome, maybe. He's not good at that, or 'Thank you', either, which Charles has surely picked up on by now. He looks down at the pie slices, not sure if he finds it surreal or annoying. But not even he hates pie.
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The box is slid aside for later poking around in, and Charles instead steals for himself a slice, something that smells like it has space cinnamon in it. There is cream.
He looks at Snape's looking, gesturing with a fork as he points out; "Not everyone is equipped to pass the time by cracking the mysteries of this place or setting sutures or manning the brig. For those that aren't, I'm glad a few've apparently devoted it to desserts."
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Content to just eat for a second in company, withdrawing into himself. Sugar and short pastry and fruit and dairy are all unlikely sensations, as is normalcy. There is the ghost of an instinct to fill the silence in talking shop, of the things he's seen and observed, but also just--
--pie. Later, science-side-of-Xenogen.
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Thinking about the Forbidden Forest means thinking about Hogwarts. Severus frowns sharply at his pie, but only briefly.
Silence is tolerable.
"Have you ever used one of the holodecks?"
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There's a neat half left of the cinnamon, and it's offered for Severus to try with a slight nudge of plate as Charles eyes another, unusually orange without being pumpkin. He claims it for himself.
"There's a rather lovely landscape I'd pull up for myself. A beach. The rocky sort, rather than sandy. Grey, and cold. Or looked it. Felt familiar, anyway. Small chance I won't be doing so again for some time."
Teeny tiny absolutely won't be chance. There's a raise of eyebrows in silent inquiry, either a and you? or why?
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"Mm." Severus thinks about the implications of fake scenery vs the hallway rooms; he hadn't linked the two in his head before. Possibly because he hasn't spent more time in one other than to establish what they were and then write them off as uncomfortably unnatural.
"Someone mentioned them. Not sure I understand the appeal." He's not going to say Nathan wants him to go ... hiking in the Himalayas. Or whatever. He feels uncomfortable about people wanting to spend time with him still; Charles he's grown more or less accustomed to, grudgingly, but he can't help being suspicious and doubtful overall.
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But what they'd been through had been convincing. Sand speckled on his hands, the frost creeping over window panes, the afternoon sunlight adrift through his sitting room curtains. "Take it for what it is. Why?"
Charles prods at pie. Suspiciously citrusy.
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Thanks for tanking the mood, Severus. He eats more pie, and tries not to dwell on... anything. He was perhaps too invested in the recon missions; he's still pissed off. He will be for some time.
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Because fuck.
He is also unconvinced about pie with actual oranges in it, returning to cinnamon. The shiny black-bruise quality of his nails is inspected, briefly -- he barely even remembers doing that to himself -- before he says, "You don't drink. Hence the invitation of pie and a smoke. Speaking of--"
It's your fault for tanking the mood, Severus.
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"Do you read Latin at all?"
This is topical. Honest.
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"A little."
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"It quoted the Aeneid." Smiley. 'Smiley', including quotes. Severus hates that stupid name. "I was always more about practice than history, and never managed to memorize the whole thing." A slight shrug, again. "But I remember highlights - the Trojan horse seems unkindly relevant."
(If he's going to tank the mood might as well do it in style.)
"There's a passage I could never forget. Aeneas's father speaks to him about prophecy, and of leaving the underworld. 'There are two gates of Sleep, one said to be of horn, whereby the true shades pass with ease. The other all white ivory agleam without flaw. And yet false dreams are sent through this one, by the ghosts to the upper world.'"
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He's listening, though, even if he is reeled only a little reluctantly into the conversation.
"The classics are devoted to debating what these stories were even for. Propaganda. Cautionary tales. How does it read to a wizard?"
There's nothing disparaging in that. It's a genuine curiousity, that they would have a different point of view, what with all things mythical apparently being real.
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