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Entry tags:
(no subject)
Who: Rufus Kearney & Rory Fairfax.
When: 2018 to 2023.
Where: Around the station & Riftlands.
What: Backstory! Or: a possible explanation for why they are the way they are.
Warnings: Physical injury, discussions of redacted activities, old men thinking they're smooth when they're anything but.
NOTE! We started this before game open and took a lot of liberties with what Exploration missions are like. We didn't want to ask the mod 100 questions since it's only backstory flavour, so no descriptions of Exploration should be taken as game canon.
When: 2018 to 2023.
Where: Around the station & Riftlands.
What: Backstory! Or: a possible explanation for why they are the way they are.
Warnings: Physical injury, discussions of redacted activities, old men thinking they're smooth when they're anything but.
NOTE! We started this before game open and took a lot of liberties with what Exploration missions are like. We didn't want to ask the mod 100 questions since it's only backstory flavour, so no descriptions of Exploration should be taken as game canon.
late 2018 // enodia station
As he takes in the lobby of the Administration Building, Rory comes to understand that he's made A Mistake. He'd assumed only a couple people would be milling around, thus ensuring an easy start to his easy afternoon task, but there's at least a dozen. And somewhere in this haystack is the stranger he was sent to find. Which one? ... Fucked if he knows. He was too busy almost falling out of a spinny office chair in his rush to be free from Conference Room 4 to register the newbie's name.
He calls out "Kirby?" and while a few of the heads turn, no one jumps out with the type-A enthusiasm he's already dreading. Neat.
Some things can be worse than sitting in a meeting: like playing tour guide.
"Uh..." He digs into his short-term memory for some guidance, but even 10-Minutes-Ago Rory's apparently got it in for Present Rory. "Russell...?" Yeah, sure, probably sounds close enough. "Russell Kirby? Kirkby?"
Silence.
When Kirby shifts into Kirkby, there is a little movement from the corner of the room as one of the newcomers looks up from the station's self-published newsletter. Rufus is not any of the names the man seems to be struggling with, but the initials are right, so maybe he'll… get there eventually.
On the other hand, listening to this is painful, and the article about the station's newest coffee shop is very much not a gripping story. A brow inches up as the newsletter is lowered to his lap, and he finds his voice.
"Do you mean Kearney?"
Rory, who's possessed with exactly zero pride about the knowledge he's lacking, just shrugs and scans the crowd for the so-called Kearney. "Security transfer? From, uh–" Yeah, no, that didn't stick either. He shrugs again.
"Yes." Rufus is now looking at him so directly he could be accused of staring, as if to will him to remember his name. "Security transfer."
Oh. A sentiment which the Explorer voices when he goes: "Oh." And maybe he's feeling a little too perceived for his tastes—something tells himKir Kearney could stare down a linebacker, given the right motivation—but he reminds himself that most anything's better than being roped in to plan an office holiday party. "Southgate said to show you around but I can wait 'til you finish your literature if you'd prefer." (It's nearly a genuine offer too since he's confident the theme discussion upstairs will carry on for a while yet.)
“I’m finished. Apparently you’ve got good latte options here now.” Now he says, the implication being that the other stations, being more established, had maxed out on their offerings a while ago.
Rufus has almost missed that distinct new station smell.
“You certain Kearney’s the one you want?”
"No." Because if Rory's being honest, the one he wants is probably that nepo baby plastics surgeon on Grey's. Which this guy and his latte opinions doesn't need to know. "But somebody's getting a tour. Might as well be you."
“Might as well,” Rufus echoes, a smile pressing faintly across his lips. Security be damned, eh?
He gets the distinct feeling that trying to out-stare this man will mean sitting here for hours, and these chairs? Not the most comfortable. So up he gets, leaving the leaflet behind as he smoothes out invisible wrinkles from his jeans, and nods at Rory to indicate that he should lead on.
The first stop on their itinerary is Rory waving a lazy hand at the larger lobby as they head out. "Admin." He doesn't bother explaining it since every station has an Administration Building of its own.
... In fact, every station has every building Enodia has. Doesn't that mean that Rory barely has to do anything? He just needs to show this guy where everything is and call it a day? Easy!!!
Feeling an ounce lighter at the prospect of minimal accountability, he pushes his way through the outer doors and asks, "What about 'Russell' though?"
The punchline, of course, is that Rufus already has his ID card, which not only seems to be in excellent working order (confirmed as he experimentally taps it to open the next set of doors) but also has his name clearly printed on it.
“Always found it tricky to spell. Two Ss, two Rs. Who can remember?”
Determined not to show too much interest in new faces regardless of what substances their jawlines may or may not be able to cut, Rory grunts, because smirking at jokes counts as showing too much interest. "Med Building's at your 10, Roscoe."
Rufus isn’t going to rise to the bait. (Not yet.) “Seen a lot of footfall since you folks opened?” A loose wave of his hand to encompass, presumably, all of Enodia, and Burlington beyond it. “The forests out here are wild.”
Riley Kearney? Ramses Kearney. Refuse Reduce Reuse Recycle Kearney. Something knocks against the edge of Rory's consciousness, that split-second realization that you forgot something you didn't realize you'd known in the first place. What it's about, though, he hasn't a clue — and his frown takes a turn from neutral to genuine when he replies, preoccupied: "Sure."
This barely perceptible shift in expression goes unnoticed by the new arrival; Rufus is looking around, clocking what had to be the training building, and beyond that, the station's recreational center. All these stations are similar enough that an old timer like himself is pretty confident he could find his way around in an emergency; this isn't home, but it's definitely familiar.
"Residences are over that way?" They are, but he's trying to be polite, because his guide appears to have entirely checked out of this exercise.
"Uh." Rory blinks back to the present, no more elucidated on his new mystery than he'd been moments before and equally uninformed about which building-related noun had begun the other man's sentence. "Maybe?"
Maybe... it's time to give this man an easy way out. His eyes are very blue, Rufus notes, and have been peering into some vague, undefined mid-distance until just about now.
"I can take it from here. Housing officer wants an inventory check before the office shuts for the day, so I'd best get to it." An unfailingly polite smile, wider than anything Rufus would spontaneously wear and yet still coming across as (mostly) natural, appears as he sticks his hand out. "Thanks."
Rory prefers to take everything at face value. It's easier that way, not wrapping himself into anxious knots about what someone could mean instead of pleasantries. So he extends his own to shake and, to his credit, a twinge of guilt does creep in — the guidee's ending the tour early because the guide couldn't care enough to do a half-decent job. Feels kinda bad, man. "Sorry," he offers after a beat.
"Don't worry about it," Rufus offers. It's an easy enough allowance to offer. A beat later, he adds, "And it's Rufus. 'Cause it was really going to vex me if I just left you hanging."
Rufus Kearney. The long-forgotten Something nags at him again but this time he pushes it aside, at least for the next 10 seconds. "Rory." Wait. "Is me. That's not a– like, another name for you. Rufus." (Acknowledging that he paid attention this time? Wow!)
The newcomer stifles a chuckle (because for a split second there, he was almost convinced he'd have to go no, Rufus, concerned that the man was purposefully hazing him now). "Glad to meet you, Rory." Pause. "So, the residences? That way?"
Rory, a very cool person, snaps both hands so he can finger-guns RufusReduce Reuse Recycle down a street to their left. His discomfort may be palpable. It's hard to say what with how cool he is. "The one with all the balconies."
"I'll keep an eye out," says Rufus as he pulls away from his, ah, guide. "Thanks again." And with a nod, he turns to head off down the exuberantly indicated street.
He calls out "Kirby?" and while a few of the heads turn, no one jumps out with the type-A enthusiasm he's already dreading. Neat.
Some things can be worse than sitting in a meeting: like playing tour guide.
"Uh..." He digs into his short-term memory for some guidance, but even 10-Minutes-Ago Rory's apparently got it in for Present Rory. "Russell...?" Yeah, sure, probably sounds close enough. "Russell Kirby? Kirkby?"
Silence.
When Kirby shifts into Kirkby, there is a little movement from the corner of the room as one of the newcomers looks up from the station's self-published newsletter. Rufus is not any of the names the man seems to be struggling with, but the initials are right, so maybe he'll… get there eventually.
On the other hand, listening to this is painful, and the article about the station's newest coffee shop is very much not a gripping story. A brow inches up as the newsletter is lowered to his lap, and he finds his voice.
"Do you mean Kearney?"
Rory, who's possessed with exactly zero pride about the knowledge he's lacking, just shrugs and scans the crowd for the so-called Kearney. "Security transfer? From, uh–" Yeah, no, that didn't stick either. He shrugs again.
"Yes." Rufus is now looking at him so directly he could be accused of staring, as if to will him to remember his name. "Security transfer."
Oh. A sentiment which the Explorer voices when he goes: "Oh." And maybe he's feeling a little too perceived for his tastes—something tells him
“I’m finished. Apparently you’ve got good latte options here now.” Now he says, the implication being that the other stations, being more established, had maxed out on their offerings a while ago.
Rufus has almost missed that distinct new station smell.
“You certain Kearney’s the one you want?”
"No." Because if Rory's being honest, the one he wants is probably that nepo baby plastics surgeon on Grey's. Which this guy and his latte opinions doesn't need to know. "But somebody's getting a tour. Might as well be you."
“Might as well,” Rufus echoes, a smile pressing faintly across his lips. Security be damned, eh?
He gets the distinct feeling that trying to out-stare this man will mean sitting here for hours, and these chairs? Not the most comfortable. So up he gets, leaving the leaflet behind as he smoothes out invisible wrinkles from his jeans, and nods at Rory to indicate that he should lead on.
The first stop on their itinerary is Rory waving a lazy hand at the larger lobby as they head out. "Admin." He doesn't bother explaining it since every station has an Administration Building of its own.
... In fact, every station has every building Enodia has. Doesn't that mean that Rory barely has to do anything? He just needs to show this guy where everything is and call it a day? Easy!!!
Feeling an ounce lighter at the prospect of minimal accountability, he pushes his way through the outer doors and asks, "What about 'Russell' though?"
The punchline, of course, is that Rufus already has his ID card, which not only seems to be in excellent working order (confirmed as he experimentally taps it to open the next set of doors) but also has his name clearly printed on it.
“Always found it tricky to spell. Two Ss, two Rs. Who can remember?”
Determined not to show too much interest in new faces regardless of what substances their jawlines may or may not be able to cut, Rory grunts, because smirking at jokes counts as showing too much interest. "Med Building's at your 10, Roscoe."
Rufus isn’t going to rise to the bait. (Not yet.) “Seen a lot of footfall since you folks opened?” A loose wave of his hand to encompass, presumably, all of Enodia, and Burlington beyond it. “The forests out here are wild.”
Riley Kearney? Ramses Kearney. Refuse Reduce Reuse Recycle Kearney. Something knocks against the edge of Rory's consciousness, that split-second realization that you forgot something you didn't realize you'd known in the first place. What it's about, though, he hasn't a clue — and his frown takes a turn from neutral to genuine when he replies, preoccupied: "Sure."
This barely perceptible shift in expression goes unnoticed by the new arrival; Rufus is looking around, clocking what had to be the training building, and beyond that, the station's recreational center. All these stations are similar enough that an old timer like himself is pretty confident he could find his way around in an emergency; this isn't home, but it's definitely familiar.
"Residences are over that way?" They are, but he's trying to be polite, because his guide appears to have entirely checked out of this exercise.
"Uh." Rory blinks back to the present, no more elucidated on his new mystery than he'd been moments before and equally uninformed about which building-related noun had begun the other man's sentence. "Maybe?"
Maybe... it's time to give this man an easy way out. His eyes are very blue, Rufus notes, and have been peering into some vague, undefined mid-distance until just about now.
"I can take it from here. Housing officer wants an inventory check before the office shuts for the day, so I'd best get to it." An unfailingly polite smile, wider than anything Rufus would spontaneously wear and yet still coming across as (mostly) natural, appears as he sticks his hand out. "Thanks."
Rory prefers to take everything at face value. It's easier that way, not wrapping himself into anxious knots about what someone could mean instead of pleasantries. So he extends his own to shake and, to his credit, a twinge of guilt does creep in — the guidee's ending the tour early because the guide couldn't care enough to do a half-decent job. Feels kinda bad, man. "Sorry," he offers after a beat.
"Don't worry about it," Rufus offers. It's an easy enough allowance to offer. A beat later, he adds, "And it's Rufus. 'Cause it was really going to vex me if I just left you hanging."
Rufus Kearney. The long-forgotten Something nags at him again but this time he pushes it aside, at least for the next 10 seconds. "Rory." Wait. "Is me. That's not a– like, another name for you. Rufus." (Acknowledging that he paid attention this time? Wow!)
The newcomer stifles a chuckle (because for a split second there, he was almost convinced he'd have to go no, Rufus, concerned that the man was purposefully hazing him now). "Glad to meet you, Rory." Pause. "So, the residences? That way?"
Rory, a very cool person, snaps both hands so he can finger-guns Rufus
"I'll keep an eye out," says Rufus as he pulls away from his, ah, guide. "Thanks again." And with a nod, he turns to head off down the exuberantly indicated street.
later 2018 // the space between
Settling into a new place, no matter how many times he's done it before, always takes its toll on Rufus. Every station cultivates its own particular atmosphere (or "vibe", as someone at least fifteen years younger than him put it during that first day of orientation, as in welcome to Vermont, we're hoping to create a cottagecore vibe), and the process of figuring this one's out is quietly quite tiring. He's still working out names and faces, and the best route-time combination that will allow him to jog in the morning without bumping into the resident running club. And it looks like the station has not only worked out some good coffee options in its short months of life, but has also diversified its offerings for after-hours drinking.
Rufus had no idea that Vermont had a wine trail, which was the first thing the bartender told him when he rocked up on a Friday evening. It seemed right, then, to have a glass from a Burlington vineyard that simply no longer existed – and then another, because it was actually very good, which is how Rufus has ended up tucked up in a corner, flicking through a book as he nurses his second glass.
"Are you a private person?"
That's the opening line Rory lands on when he rolls up, beer in hand. It's also the only one he came up with — he's a couple drinks in himself and as such, he's already sacrificed the part of his brain that overthinks (or thinks at all) to the gods of whatever too-creative craft brew the bartender had pushed in his direction.
His reasoning is simple: he noticed the subject of a mystery that's been irritating him, and instead of squinting his confusion at the guy across the office(, boardroom, café, training facility, lake, cafeteria, library, gym–), he's going to solve everything. Once and for all. No more awkward stares, no more racking his brain. Just answers.
"Not so private that I'm drinking alone in my apartment on a Friday night."
Rufus voices his answer before actually looking up from the page, because he knows someone is walking purposefully towards him before the question even hits the air. It helps, too, that the voice is semi-familiar; he supposes they've spoken before.
Then he looks up. Ah – yes. They have spoken before. This is Rory, his reluctant tourguide.
"Why?"
Well... fair play. The explorer taps his fingers against his glass, only now becoming aware that, private or otherwise, he'd still tromped into Rufus's one-man book club. "Something about you's familiar and I've had a hell of a time figuring out what."
"Same bars in the distant pre-Liminal past?" Rufus is nowhere near intoxicated enough to hint that Rory is so easy on the eyes that he would have liked to progress past looking in this hypothetical shared past. He does, however, add, "Rodeo, maybe? You've got the look."
Rory drops onto the other side of the booth with neither permission nor ceremony. He gets to. "Shit. I spend two weeks wonderin' if it was an orgy or something when you might've got it on the first try." While his eyes narrow again, at least this time it's with more to work with, and some things begin to slot into place — how Rufus carries himself, the quiet manner he seems to carry along with him. Maybe they seemed familiar because they scratched that bit of his mind that waxed nostalgic about home.
"That was a couple lifetimes ago, though," he admits over a sip.
With a vague 'mm' of agreement, Rufus marks his place in his book with the neatly tanned and dyed scrap of leather that was sold to him as a grossly overpriced bookmark (worth it, though, as it keeps him from using scraps of paper, or – worse! – dog-earing his books), then sets the paperback aside, hopefully at a safe distance from beverages that can be knocked over, to then give Rory his full attention.
"I remember most of my orgies," he begins, far too serious to be, well, serious, and Rory's snort nearly turns into a spit take. What's next is more earnest: "I stopped ridin' in the rodeos in college, so you're not kidding about lifetimes. You a cowboy, once upon a time?"
"Wyoming," Rory confirms (once his sinuses are clear of beer). "At Meadowlark, out near Bighorn." They're names and landmarks he hasn't had a reason to give voice to in a few years, and doing so now is– disorienting, in some kind of way. "Didn't compete myself so I worked 'em, and I guess when I was a kid I'd tag along to watch my dad, but..." he trails off. They're close to Full History Talks but they're not there.
He flips a hand at Rufus as he gives the other man a once-over, which absolutely isn't self-serving at all. "I don't think I knew you? I reckon I'd remember."
What, biblically? I wager you would remember.
Rufus does not say this, either because it's early days, he (or they) has not gone through enough glasses of wine to justify such frank, open interest, or because he (likes to think he) knows better than to shit where he eats. Maybe all three. But it's there, lingering at the edge of what he wants to say.
"Wyoming?" A nod. "Montana, myself. Did some barrel racing and bronc riding back in the day, but." Like Rory, he stops himself from oversharing. "College. Then some stuff with the Rifts."
Rory raises a finger in lieu of his whole hand to confess: "I fell for a city boy and followed him home." And he stretches his legs out, rests his elbows on the table, makes himself comfortable — gives Rufus, likewise, his full attention with the ease that only the slightly-less-inhibited can. (At least when they're Rory.) He's getting more than he'd bargained for and he's surprised to find that he's not unhappy about it.
"Montana," he echoes once he's settled in, and something finally falls into place: New Yorkers have the Vanderbilts, New Englanders have the Kennedys, and Rocky Mountain ranchers, well... "Kearney like Kearney? Like Rawhide– shit, what was it–" (please hold while his poor old brain sifts through data it hasn't needed in a couple decades) "Rawhide River? Those guys?"
Mention of a boy makes Rufus smile, a wistful upturn of one corner of his mouth which he soon hides behind his glass as he takes another sip; he should have ordered the bottle, he thinks. Mention – or, more accurately, recognition – of Rawhide makes him cough, some air getting caught in his throat; he definitely should have ordered the bottle, and it's pure luck that he doesn't currently have any wine in his mouth as the old name seems to briefly choke him.
"Rawhide Creek." Beat. "Always thought River sounded better. But yeah, I was one of those Kearneys up until I decided ranching wasn't for me."
"No shit," Rory mutters after a low whistle. Twenty years ago he might've made some crack about how this felt like drinking with the big boss, but now he's older, marginally wiser, and not keen on sending Rufus down whatever road got that reaction. Bringing up old ghosts is one of the less fun ways to make a man choke. (And besides, he's usually on the receiving– You know what? Never mind.) "And now you've got super powers and live in a fancy research dome," is his attempt at correcting their course. "Kind of a dramatic alternative."
"The Rift works in mysterious ways," Rufus replies – again, far too seriously for this to be a truly solemn statement, truthful though it may be. "Less reasons to wear chaps to work, but I've still got my old hat."
Rory flicks the brim of his own (100% less cowboy, 100% more beat-to-hell trucker) hat. "Might be dress code compliant." Which sure is a mental image. Enough of one to prompt him to study his beer except that that's nearly empty, and the explorer's not sure if that's the universe trying to kick him back into politeness again. Something about monopolizing near-strangers' time.
He knocks back the rest and sets the glass on the table, nice and neat in its ring of condensation. "And speaking of mysteries, you solved mine."
"Yeah? I'm glad." Rufus studies the man for a second, then asks, "Want another?" And then: "Solve one for me?"
"I, um." His intention was to take his leave and let Rufus get back to his book. Because he'd interrupted. Because he was being rude. But an invitation was an invitation and it was the least he could do after their history deep dive. "Okay?"
Rufus is deadly serious now: "Do you like being a tour guide?"
Rufus had no idea that Vermont had a wine trail, which was the first thing the bartender told him when he rocked up on a Friday evening. It seemed right, then, to have a glass from a Burlington vineyard that simply no longer existed – and then another, because it was actually very good, which is how Rufus has ended up tucked up in a corner, flicking through a book as he nurses his second glass.
"Are you a private person?"
That's the opening line Rory lands on when he rolls up, beer in hand. It's also the only one he came up with — he's a couple drinks in himself and as such, he's already sacrificed the part of his brain that overthinks (or thinks at all) to the gods of whatever too-creative craft brew the bartender had pushed in his direction.
His reasoning is simple: he noticed the subject of a mystery that's been irritating him, and instead of squinting his confusion at the guy across the office(, boardroom, café, training facility, lake, cafeteria, library, gym–), he's going to solve everything. Once and for all. No more awkward stares, no more racking his brain. Just answers.
"Not so private that I'm drinking alone in my apartment on a Friday night."
Rufus voices his answer before actually looking up from the page, because he knows someone is walking purposefully towards him before the question even hits the air. It helps, too, that the voice is semi-familiar; he supposes they've spoken before.
Then he looks up. Ah – yes. They have spoken before. This is Rory, his reluctant tourguide.
"Why?"
Well... fair play. The explorer taps his fingers against his glass, only now becoming aware that, private or otherwise, he'd still tromped into Rufus's one-man book club. "Something about you's familiar and I've had a hell of a time figuring out what."
"Same bars in the distant pre-Liminal past?" Rufus is nowhere near intoxicated enough to hint that Rory is so easy on the eyes that he would have liked to progress past looking in this hypothetical shared past. He does, however, add, "Rodeo, maybe? You've got the look."
Rory drops onto the other side of the booth with neither permission nor ceremony. He gets to. "Shit. I spend two weeks wonderin' if it was an orgy or something when you might've got it on the first try." While his eyes narrow again, at least this time it's with more to work with, and some things begin to slot into place — how Rufus carries himself, the quiet manner he seems to carry along with him. Maybe they seemed familiar because they scratched that bit of his mind that waxed nostalgic about home.
"That was a couple lifetimes ago, though," he admits over a sip.
With a vague 'mm' of agreement, Rufus marks his place in his book with the neatly tanned and dyed scrap of leather that was sold to him as a grossly overpriced bookmark (worth it, though, as it keeps him from using scraps of paper, or – worse! – dog-earing his books), then sets the paperback aside, hopefully at a safe distance from beverages that can be knocked over, to then give Rory his full attention.
"I remember most of my orgies," he begins, far too serious to be, well, serious, and Rory's snort nearly turns into a spit take. What's next is more earnest: "I stopped ridin' in the rodeos in college, so you're not kidding about lifetimes. You a cowboy, once upon a time?"
"Wyoming," Rory confirms (once his sinuses are clear of beer). "At Meadowlark, out near Bighorn." They're names and landmarks he hasn't had a reason to give voice to in a few years, and doing so now is– disorienting, in some kind of way. "Didn't compete myself so I worked 'em, and I guess when I was a kid I'd tag along to watch my dad, but..." he trails off. They're close to Full History Talks but they're not there.
He flips a hand at Rufus as he gives the other man a once-over, which absolutely isn't self-serving at all. "I don't think I knew you? I reckon I'd remember."
What, biblically? I wager you would remember.
Rufus does not say this, either because it's early days, he (or they) has not gone through enough glasses of wine to justify such frank, open interest, or because he (likes to think he) knows better than to shit where he eats. Maybe all three. But it's there, lingering at the edge of what he wants to say.
"Wyoming?" A nod. "Montana, myself. Did some barrel racing and bronc riding back in the day, but." Like Rory, he stops himself from oversharing. "College. Then some stuff with the Rifts."
Rory raises a finger in lieu of his whole hand to confess: "I fell for a city boy and followed him home." And he stretches his legs out, rests his elbows on the table, makes himself comfortable — gives Rufus, likewise, his full attention with the ease that only the slightly-less-inhibited can. (At least when they're Rory.) He's getting more than he'd bargained for and he's surprised to find that he's not unhappy about it.
"Montana," he echoes once he's settled in, and something finally falls into place: New Yorkers have the Vanderbilts, New Englanders have the Kennedys, and Rocky Mountain ranchers, well... "Kearney like Kearney? Like Rawhide– shit, what was it–" (please hold while his poor old brain sifts through data it hasn't needed in a couple decades) "Rawhide River? Those guys?"
Mention of a boy makes Rufus smile, a wistful upturn of one corner of his mouth which he soon hides behind his glass as he takes another sip; he should have ordered the bottle, he thinks. Mention – or, more accurately, recognition – of Rawhide makes him cough, some air getting caught in his throat; he definitely should have ordered the bottle, and it's pure luck that he doesn't currently have any wine in his mouth as the old name seems to briefly choke him.
"Rawhide Creek." Beat. "Always thought River sounded better. But yeah, I was one of those Kearneys up until I decided ranching wasn't for me."
"No shit," Rory mutters after a low whistle. Twenty years ago he might've made some crack about how this felt like drinking with the big boss, but now he's older, marginally wiser, and not keen on sending Rufus down whatever road got that reaction. Bringing up old ghosts is one of the less fun ways to make a man choke. (And besides, he's usually on the receiving– You know what? Never mind.) "And now you've got super powers and live in a fancy research dome," is his attempt at correcting their course. "Kind of a dramatic alternative."
"The Rift works in mysterious ways," Rufus replies – again, far too seriously for this to be a truly solemn statement, truthful though it may be. "Less reasons to wear chaps to work, but I've still got my old hat."
Rory flicks the brim of his own (100% less cowboy, 100% more beat-to-hell trucker) hat. "Might be dress code compliant." Which sure is a mental image. Enough of one to prompt him to study his beer except that that's nearly empty, and the explorer's not sure if that's the universe trying to kick him back into politeness again. Something about monopolizing near-strangers' time.
He knocks back the rest and sets the glass on the table, nice and neat in its ring of condensation. "And speaking of mysteries, you solved mine."
"Yeah? I'm glad." Rufus studies the man for a second, then asks, "Want another?" And then: "Solve one for me?"
"I, um." His intention was to take his leave and let Rufus get back to his book. Because he'd interrupted. Because he was being rude. But an invitation was an invitation and it was the least he could do after their history deep dive. "Okay?"
Rufus is deadly serious now: "Do you like being a tour guide?"
2019 // the riftlands
Rory glances at his watch as he sidesteps a mailbox, its USPS blue obscured by the tangle of black vines that now call it home. An hour isn't much to locate A Specimen before they return to the rest of the unit but he doesn't voice that thought; Rufus probably already came to the same conclusion.
Rufus, his chaperone.
Because some folk are perfectly capable in a tense Riftlands situation, given their force fields and offensive specialties, while others' self-defense skills were mostly effective in mundane situations. Like Rory and his ability to handle firearms — as if a liminal creature's going to give a shit about his aim with a rifle when there's someone with literal fire-arms to tussle with.
"I set seven traps last time," he explains and kicks away the creeping edge of a vine like a paper napkin blown across his path. "So even the empty ones, if we can recover what we can, that'd be swell."
An open wince from Rufus as Rory's foot connects with the vine, and he shoots the man a look that blatantly asks could you not? as he moves around him. Being partnered (as opposed to 'chaperoning' him, a term which makes him think he's been relegated to the role of a school teacher supervising a middle school prom) with Rory isn't a new thing – they've been out a couple of times before – and his occasional disregard for the invasive, irradiated species of flora still sets his teeth on edge.
"Reuse, recycle," he remarks, tilting his head as his gaze moves on from Rory to their surroundings. He can't feel anything that could be classed specimen-sized in their immediate vicinity; for now, it's just them.
"This was the financial district once upon a time. More like good riddance 'n godspeed." Rory hands Rufus a small, folded map from the side of his bag — dots to indicate the traps overlay known Liminal phenomena overlay the few blocks' radius of Burlington-that-was that they're to search. He still can't bring himself to rely solely on his phone for navigation, no matter how fancy their little devices get.
"All right." The next closest one looks to be directly south-west from their current location, so Rufus turns in place and indicates with a nod that he's ready to go. It won't be a long walk, just as long as no vines decide to act up, and no liminal creature wants to make them its next meal. "Is Research looking for something in particular?"
There's a hum (don't panic, it came from Rory) while the Explorer makes sure Rufus can see how wide a berth he's given a new set of vines. It's only a tiny but petulant. "To prove me wrong," he replies, decides that's not fair to the rest of the nerds, and clarifies: "Jorgensborg. Specifically."
He sees and is satisfied; Rufus’s ‘ah’ is one of distinct amusement. “A grudge match for the ages.”
"A grudge? Me?" Rory's frown is anything but real. "I've got too many manners for that. Truckloads of 'em."
"You know." A careful step over a thick rope of black vine. "If it smells like shit, and sounds like shit…"
Rory levels a look at Rufus over his shoulder, daring him to continue, before he turns down the necessary alley and finishes with a sing-song cadence: "'Then you've found Colin Jorgensborg.' Sure, my mama taught me that same lullaby."
“Mhm.” A tilt of his head indicates Rufus might be listening (or more accurately, feeling) for something. “The lullaby of a grudge holder.”
Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Rory directs a flick at him through the air instead.
Things in the Riftlands had a way of disappearing on you, of getting caught among vines and slipping away in their wake — and sure, he'd left a trap here but whether it'd stayed put was filed under 'Yet to be determined.'
His bag drops to a flora-free wall and his body to hands and knees so he can snap a flashlight into the hole that'd seemed like such a good hunting spot last time. "Mind watching my back while you drag my name through the mud?"
If he's being honest, Rufus isn't crazy about having any companion of his on his hands and knees in the wilds of the Riftlands (especially this particular stretch of liminal-poisoned wilds), but hey, that's what he's here for, right? Chaperoning.
"Sure." Can he stop himself from looking? No. But he's quick about it, and turns a moment later. "Though I'm thinking it's Colin Jorgensborg's name being dragged through the mud."
"He coulda thought about that–" pause to cut away some black vines from the hole "–before he said–" another now to test-wiggle the trap for remaining restraints and to prepare a distinctly un-Rory-like, high-pitched imitation of the besmirched doctor: "–Mice don't look like that, Fairfax, even irradiated ones."
He punctuates the rant's end by yanking the trap free and out.
The empty trap.
It gets dropped in his pack with a huff.
It's nice to have it confirmed that the trap is empty – science expeditions be damned, Rufus is giving himself the luxury of acknowledging that he isn't really feeling up to potentially wrestling with a creature so irradiated that not even the brainy people in the station's labs know what they'll really be like.
So he breathes a quiet sigh of relief.
They'll move onto the next trap, hopefully with enough snark to share between the two of them.
"Sounds like he wronged you a little, Rory. Someone more nosy than me might begin to wonder how."
"It'd be none of their business," Rory replies without a glance at his chaperone, which could be telling in itself. "Now let's go find us some fuckin' spider-mice."
Rufus, his chaperone.
Because some folk are perfectly capable in a tense Riftlands situation, given their force fields and offensive specialties, while others' self-defense skills were mostly effective in mundane situations. Like Rory and his ability to handle firearms — as if a liminal creature's going to give a shit about his aim with a rifle when there's someone with literal fire-arms to tussle with.
"I set seven traps last time," he explains and kicks away the creeping edge of a vine like a paper napkin blown across his path. "So even the empty ones, if we can recover what we can, that'd be swell."
An open wince from Rufus as Rory's foot connects with the vine, and he shoots the man a look that blatantly asks could you not? as he moves around him. Being partnered (as opposed to 'chaperoning' him, a term which makes him think he's been relegated to the role of a school teacher supervising a middle school prom) with Rory isn't a new thing – they've been out a couple of times before – and his occasional disregard for the invasive, irradiated species of flora still sets his teeth on edge.
"Reuse, recycle," he remarks, tilting his head as his gaze moves on from Rory to their surroundings. He can't feel anything that could be classed specimen-sized in their immediate vicinity; for now, it's just them.
"This was the financial district once upon a time. More like good riddance 'n godspeed." Rory hands Rufus a small, folded map from the side of his bag — dots to indicate the traps overlay known Liminal phenomena overlay the few blocks' radius of Burlington-that-was that they're to search. He still can't bring himself to rely solely on his phone for navigation, no matter how fancy their little devices get.
"All right." The next closest one looks to be directly south-west from their current location, so Rufus turns in place and indicates with a nod that he's ready to go. It won't be a long walk, just as long as no vines decide to act up, and no liminal creature wants to make them its next meal. "Is Research looking for something in particular?"
There's a hum (don't panic, it came from Rory) while the Explorer makes sure Rufus can see how wide a berth he's given a new set of vines. It's only a tiny but petulant. "To prove me wrong," he replies, decides that's not fair to the rest of the nerds, and clarifies: "Jorgensborg. Specifically."
He sees and is satisfied; Rufus’s ‘ah’ is one of distinct amusement. “A grudge match for the ages.”
"A grudge? Me?" Rory's frown is anything but real. "I've got too many manners for that. Truckloads of 'em."
"You know." A careful step over a thick rope of black vine. "If it smells like shit, and sounds like shit…"
Rory levels a look at Rufus over his shoulder, daring him to continue, before he turns down the necessary alley and finishes with a sing-song cadence: "'Then you've found Colin Jorgensborg.' Sure, my mama taught me that same lullaby."
“Mhm.” A tilt of his head indicates Rufus might be listening (or more accurately, feeling) for something. “The lullaby of a grudge holder.”
Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Rory directs a flick at him through the air instead.
Things in the Riftlands had a way of disappearing on you, of getting caught among vines and slipping away in their wake — and sure, he'd left a trap here but whether it'd stayed put was filed under 'Yet to be determined.'
His bag drops to a flora-free wall and his body to hands and knees so he can snap a flashlight into the hole that'd seemed like such a good hunting spot last time. "Mind watching my back while you drag my name through the mud?"
If he's being honest, Rufus isn't crazy about having any companion of his on his hands and knees in the wilds of the Riftlands (especially this particular stretch of liminal-poisoned wilds), but hey, that's what he's here for, right? Chaperoning.
"Sure." Can he stop himself from looking? No. But he's quick about it, and turns a moment later. "Though I'm thinking it's Colin Jorgensborg's name being dragged through the mud."
"He coulda thought about that–" pause to cut away some black vines from the hole "–before he said–" another now to test-wiggle the trap for remaining restraints and to prepare a distinctly un-Rory-like, high-pitched imitation of the besmirched doctor: "–Mice don't look like that, Fairfax, even irradiated ones."
He punctuates the rant's end by yanking the trap free and out.
The empty trap.
It gets dropped in his pack with a huff.
It's nice to have it confirmed that the trap is empty – science expeditions be damned, Rufus is giving himself the luxury of acknowledging that he isn't really feeling up to potentially wrestling with a creature so irradiated that not even the brainy people in the station's labs know what they'll really be like.
So he breathes a quiet sigh of relief.
They'll move onto the next trap, hopefully with enough snark to share between the two of them.
"Sounds like he wronged you a little, Rory. Someone more nosy than me might begin to wonder how."
"It'd be none of their business," Rory replies without a glance at his chaperone, which could be telling in itself. "Now let's go find us some fuckin' spider-mice."
late 2019 // enodia station
Rory's not usually one to chase people down. If they ghost him they might get a polite text stating that he's actually decided he's not up to getting together after all—so everyone can go to sleep feeling less guilty—but knocking on doors?
Then again, Rufus isn't usually the ghosting type, either, and from what brief glimpse into the other man's day Rory got earlier... once in a while, he can knock on a door. Just in case.
(Which he does now, for the record.)
There are days, few and far between, when Rufus is genuinely tempted to let the powers take over. Surely there has to be a sunny upside to all of this – say, perhaps, remaining curled up where he is on the sofa, moving not a single muscle as he pries the door open from all the way on the other side of the room.
Laziness (if that's what it is) paves a short road to nothing good.
A minute or so later, rubbing fitful sleep from his eyes, he appears. Squints at Rory; he looks, quite frankly, like shit.
"Oh." Then, when he realizes he was late to something (for someone): "Goddamn. Sorry."
Give a guy enough years as a first responder and at the very least he'll come out with a decent poker face when someone seems like they've been through hell. Rory's a little out of practice, though — for a moment, his brows knitting together's the only indication that he's at all worried by the tableau on the other side of the door.
Rufus does indeed look, quite frankly, like shit. And Rory's not a fan; a thought he's chosen not to dwell on for the time being. "You good?" He asks, even though now he's got little intention of leaving Rufus be regardless of the answer.
A loose wave of Rufus's hand, as if to say sure. He even tries to pull himself up a little from this contorted slouch he's shown up to the door in, shoulders rounded over as he drums his fingers against the doorframe in a feeble attempt to convey all good, yup.
"Nothing a few hours can't fix." He really hopes that's true, because he's so tired. He should be on the sofa right now, and by god, no amount of Rory's staring at him is going to dissuade him from this path. "Got a little bruised up on a trip outside. If I can't sleep it off, I'll go to the infirmary tomorrow."
Rory Mm.s back, unconvinced and with mounting concern that's got nothing to do with his own experiences or emotions, yet willing to offer three (3) whole seconds of mercy by studying the fascinating spot where wall meets ceiling. Such craftsmanship.
When he opens his mouth to ask Anything I can get you? he pulls the wrong cue card, because what comes out is: "Did you know that the shit folks can't sleep off's better treated soon than late?" A very casual beard scratch. "I read that. In Hustler or something."
Rufus manages to summon up something of a smile, one that is only a little bit pained and a little less feeble than his failed attempt at posturing by the door. "Good thing it's not a sex injury or anything like."
"Heard you took a hit." Rory skates right over the joke (and the pictures it conjures up) and leans against the other side of the doorframe, hooks his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans — the universal sign of I ain't about to move.
Rufus's brows inch upward, and somehow it's the least painful thing accomplished in that moment. "Heard that, did you? Not from Jorgensborg, though, right? 'Cause I don't think he'll be in any rush to talk about how ill-suited he is as an Explorer." File that right under 'failed experiment' for the researcher who had absolutely insisted on going out this time, and somehow, had been given the authorisation to do so. Rufus had chaperoned many a city slicker back in his day as a park ranger, but this? Truly an example of a person who has no business going outside.
Anyway, it looks like Rory is making himself comfortable in his doorway, and once again Rufus is reminded that he is very, very tired.
"... look, what are they gonna do? X-ray a bruise and tell me I need bed rest? I'll save them the trouble of a consult."
"'Cause it's not like that's their job." Oh. Wait. "Look, Ru, from what Colin–" had reenacted while Rory waited at The Space Between for the oft-chaperone who wouldn't show. (Rory pauses here to bite his lip, keep from explaining any of this, because the whole thing had honestly been in poor-ass taste and is worthy of a formal complaint if he's feeling feisty enough tomorrow.)
Fine, a different approach.
"You 'n I both know that nobody who grew up riding broncs is letting a bruise keep 'em in bed." A beat, a pointed look. "Especially one stubborn as you."
"Me, stubborn?" Well, takes one to know one. And perhaps his so-called stubbornness has also taken enough of a beating that Rufus can admit that Rory has a point, because either he's well enough to skip the bed rest, or he really should be making a move for the medical center.
It's probably the latter option that will make Rory back down. So a second later, he mutters (and maybe it's a bit sullen, because a taste of his own medicine is humbling, though if it had to be served by anyone, he's glad it's Rory), "Fine, you got me there."
A set of keys float into his hands as he briefly considers grabbing his jacket, and just as quickly discards the thought, because honestly? to hell with moving his arms more than fifteen degrees away from his body.
Rory starts to back up into the hall — then hesitates. Whatever victory he should be feeling's overshadowed by that mild concern from earlier, which has grown into something more like worry. There's even a little side of guilt because although he knows logically that it's Rufus's own fault he didn't go straight to Medical, Rory's the reason for his going now, and so it's (in a roundabout way) Rory's fault that he's in pain now.
Just... go with it.
"There's a, uh–"
Some people talk about their abilities casually, some use their powers for mundane tasks. Some don't. He pops up his hat's brim so he can scratch at his forehead but weirdly it doesn't make better words happen. "Thing. If you want. That I could do. To... take a bit of the load off."
Rufus is aware. Rufus, having taken that first terse step into the hallway, is tempted, but the offer that's being extended is so pinned together by awkwardness that he has to hesitate before his nerves, a whole bunch of them howling yes, get the better of him.
"Sure," he begins, and tilts his head in the direction of his apartment. It's winter, and he's standing there in a t-shirt and sweats. "You could grab my coat?" Maybe that will ease some of the worry that's currently creased across Rory's expression.
Well, it doesn't!!! (He hands over the coat nonetheless.) But maybe information will help. Data, as the Research nerds always go on about. "How big was it? The thing's tail?" Knowing Colin Jorgensborg as Rory does—far too well—the account likely had its fair share of embellishments, making it hard to pick out which facts got Rufus to his current state.
"Tails," Rufus corrects in a deceptively mild tone, and lets the ambiguous imagery hang there as he maneuvers himself into the coat, letting the fabric settle over his shoulders like some operatic robe of yore. Then he pulls his door shut, turns back to Rory and starts walking.
"We found a nest that didn't want to be found." Or disturbed, let alone for science. "I could say Colin broke protocol –" he did; "but maybe I'm just getting old, 'cause I wasn't ready." Pause. "Like gettin' whipped by a jungle vine."
Rory's wince is either from the visual of multiple massive irradiated rodent tails or from noting how Rufus's signature swagger's been replaced with a stiff march that takes all the fun out of being second-in-line. It's probably both.
Sure, a blow to the midsection can be an easy recovery. But give someone the wrong force, the worst angle? Repetition? It can get nasty; he knows that better than most. And thinking about Rufus in such a state makes something churn in his stomach, deep and unpleasant.
When he realizes he's been at a standstill, paused with his hand hovering over the elevator button, he glances down the hallway—the stairwell's closer than 401 now—before looking back at the other man. "It'd be quick. You'd– It'll make for an easier walk."
It's an easy gaze to hold, but Rufus's own look is unreadable. "I'm gettin' the feeling that it's real important to you that I say yes."
Rufus deserves something at least explanation-adjacent given how Rory's asking to mess around with his insides. He licks his lips as he nods, slowly, accepting that... yep. That's not a lie. "Call it a trigger."
That… will need unpacking. Later. For now, Rufus will simply admit defeat to a more persistent man.
“Okay,” Rufus says. “Do you… need to hold my hand?”
Where Rufus's shoulders could be sagging under the pressure of injury, Rory's sink with relief. He can do a little something and then matters won't seem as bad. Now he's got a use. "It's easier if I can touch near the area you went 'n got fucked up or else I'll waste everything I've got fixin' all your issues." Maybe a dig, he still recalibrates toward the stairwell for more privacy than the hallway affords. (And even holds the door open: two uses!) "But whatever you're comfortable with."
Shuffling in, teeth gritted at the sudden change of course, Rufus attempts to laugh. Settles on a half grunt, half huff of amusement – leave something for my primary care physician to do he almost says, but now that Rory has convinced him to admit that this injury… really isn't comfortable, it's taking most of his concentration and energy just to pull himself into the stairwell.
The rest of it goes into rolling his coat from his shoulders and folding it neatly on the handrail, then slowly, carefully peeling off his t-shirt.
Which, goddamn, ages him by ten years.
The bruise is livid across his chest, placed almost exactly like a seatbelt if he'd been in an entirely different sort of accident. "I'm gonna guess a broken rib is under all of this," he says, so matter-of-fact that he could be remarking on the weather. Clearly not something he can sleep off, and he'll thank Rory not to bring that up. "I guess what I really want is to be able to take a deep breath."
Bring it up? Nah. Imply it—heavily—in the glance Rufus gets once Rory's finished examining the extent of the damage? Yooou betcha, and it's all wrapped up with other implications like Quit your stubborn-ass cowboy bullshit, You're doin' me a heckin' concern, and the classic I told you so.
And he's a professional so he's not distracted by the whole shirtless thing. At all. Or at least he's trying his best. The injury's kind of an attention hog... Damn that giant rat-or-whatever, his tiny spider-mice were so much cooler.
"It'll feel spicy for a sec," he warns, one hand's fingers waiting a couple inches from where the bruise reaches Rufus's stomach, and asks permission with a raised brow. "Like when you're real cold and you step into a hot bath. So try not to jump."
"At this point, spicy would be a treat." Rory's advice isn't so easily discarded, though, because Rufus has no idea what to expect; the fingers of his left hand curl tightly around the handrail as if to brace himself against whatever is going to happen. "Okay," he adds, catches Rory's gaze for a split second before his own skitters just past the other man's shoulder to fix on a vague point on the wall behind him. "Ready."
Rory closes his eyes with a nod, lays his fingers against skin and... tries. (He's never been great with words and figuring out how to describe something he usually avoids describing doesn't leave him with many options, alright?!)
He can feel energy—documented by IRIS Researchers as 'life-force' but that feels like Too Much Responsibility—pushing against the barrier between his hand and Rufus. He opens a channel, just a tiny one, and envisions tendrils driving through into the other man's chest. It's easier to be the conduit than the reservoir; instead of controlling two locks and a channel like a crossing guard of life and death, this time his effort's mainly focused on keeping his own energy at bay, not giving in to the impulse to just open the door and let everything through. Because while it'd solve Rufus's present problem, he'd suddenly find himself dealing with a fun new one called 'What do I do with this body?'
It's like fishing around in a dark backpack, one that might have open containers or hidden tears, to find the things that feel Wrong so he can let the reservoir's energy (today: his) flow in to fill the proverbial cracks and set crooked things straight.
Okay, maybe Rory should spend more time training. And/or thinking of stronger metaphors. Shut up.
When he pulls back—energy first, then closing the channel, then finally his actual hand—he's tired, and maybe his face could use more color, but he's smiling. A small one but it's real, without a hint of smugness to be found.
He busies himself by shaking out Rufus's t-shirt before he holds it out with the announcement: "Five broken ribs." Nothing punctured, nothing dire.
Does Rufus understand what has just happened? No. Hell, he barely understands half of what he does with his Rift-given powers, and right now, they're seeming exponentially less impactful than whatever Rory has just done to him. He can finally take a breath, a big, deep one, right to the base of his lungs, without there being such shocks of searing pain that he has to cut himself off with a shallow gasp.
Relief and not a little bit of gratitude washes over him, and he's returning Rory's (frankly luminous) smile with a small one of his own.
"As many as all that?" A shake of his head, and he pulls his shirt from the man's hands. "Damn. Guess you were right." And then: "Thanks."
"'Course I was. You're lucky it wasn't much worse," is Rory's socially acceptable response — and maybe a bit of a threat. He can feel the fatigue creeping up on himself now, but what does that make them except a matched pair? "We should have an easier go of getting you to the docs'."
Threat heard, and certainly understood. Rufus has the grace to look a little shamefaced as he gingerly pulls himself back into the t-shirt, some part of his brain, now unencumbered with the constant grating of bone-on-bone, now hyperfixating on the fact that he's standing shirtless in a stairwell in the middle of winter in front of Rory Fairfax.
The coat soon follows.
They're back in front of the elevator when Rufus finds his voice again. "What's the cost? To you?"
"Healing back whatever I lent you without the scrapes to show for it, so I reckon soon it'll feel like I ran a few miles on an empty stomach."
He's got one last awkward shuffle left as the already-low floor numbers get even lower and uses it to deliver a shoulder bump that he knows Rufus can handle, considering where he'd been only a few minutes prior. "I'd appreciate if you don't mention this outside Medical, though."
Rufus is nodding as the doors slide open. “Won’t breathe a word until you say so,” comes the promise. It’s the least he can do for the man who has gone through the effort of checking in on him, dragging him out for medical attention, and even administering some himself; if Rory wants discretion, then discretion is what he’ll get.
Still, Rufus is feeling oddly moved by all this.
“I’ll sort your stomach out once I’m cleared. Figure I at least owe you dinner, right?”
"Don't like it bein' a transaction," Rory replies, shrugging off the offer. "Especially not when I–" the word 'manipulated' comes to mind. Let's try something else. "–got all pushy. And it's a slippery slope besides. But I'd eat."
“Not a transaction.” They’re out of the elevator now, and Rufus is bracing himself for the bite of cold air that will greet them as they exit the building. “Just a guy recognising a stomach shouldn’t stay empty for long.”
"Owing me's a debt." Rory, a gentleman and a good citizen and all-around just a real helpful guy, holds open his second door of the night so he can continuebickering debating the finer points of what constitutes a transaction.
Which he resumes after taking his own big, deep, breath once they're outside — letting the chill wake him up. "Folks get to pay when I help them move, they lose a bet, or it's a date. Not for this."
Rufus, a stubborn man, is able to recognise when he’s met his match in a head-on collision of wills.
A sigh escapes him, soft, but less shallow, less pinched than it might have been, thanks to Rory.
He’ll just have to take a more lateral approach.
“I’ve no plans to move. So it’s option two or three. Three seems easiest.”
Rory, who was only trying to explain his boundaries, just raises an eyebrow.
“I bet you like Italian.”
"Those checkered tablecloths really do it for me."
Rufus has to stop himself from laughing, because it will still hurt, and he doesn’t want to entirely lose his newly found energy en route to the medical center, even if he is tickled that he’s won this bet.
“Good to know.”
The blue glow from the building in question's sign peeks around the corner. Which is a good thing; Rory knows this because of the whole Rufus-got-whammied-by-a-massive-rodent deal. He also knows that he wishes the walk was at least a few blocks longer, but that's life at Enodia for you. "Want me to wait up?" (Even though he figures he's about to get turned down.) "I could write Jorgensborg a cute li'l thank-you note from the waiting room."
“As much as I’d love to read that,” and here Rufus sends Rory a wry slant of a smile, “you don’t have to wait up for me. I feel like I’ve screwed enough with your night.”
"Hangin' out with you was my only plan anyways, so if you send me home it's almost like you're ghosting me–" He holds up two fingers and mouths as emphatically as he can: TWICE.
Twice, yes. An extraordinarily shitty thing to do. Let’s not do that, Rufus.
“See, if I didn’t know better.” Rufus slows his pace to carefully step onto the curb, eyes narrowing slightly against the medical building’s bright lights. “It’s almost like you want to see me with my shirt off. Twice in one day.”
Now it's both brows that climb, and Rory tilts his head back just enough to catch Rufus's gaze again. It's not an accusation, not exactly, or at least not of anything Rory seems to think's worth being apologetic for.
"Could be I just like your company. Could be I was gonna say hey, you broke five ribs, let's have a couple drinks 'n talk over a stupid movie. But you," (it's accusatory now and comes with a grin that says Rory can only be this amused by his own stupid joke — please hold) "hear one mention of fancy linens and you get all thirsty."
There are any number of quips Rufus can offer in reply to that, but he settles on a response that is ultimately more sincere, though he prefaces it with a dry, "Guilty as charged." Then comes: "I like your company too, you know. So if you want to… hang out later. And watch some dumb film while I suck on some painkillers, I'm up for that."
Smooth.
That's a new nickname is the line that Rory—by some grace of God—has the good sense to keep to himself when he forges ahead, powered by Validation.
"Text when you're done?" It's accompanied with a companionable (yet gentle!!) shoulder pat. And it definitely used up all of his good sense points because he has one last, casual note to tack on — as he sees it, there's certain things that are easier to be upfront about than admit that you enjoy another human's friendship. They're the other kind of Validation. "And if you wanna fuck sometime you can just say so."
Then again, Rufus isn't usually the ghosting type, either, and from what brief glimpse into the other man's day Rory got earlier... once in a while, he can knock on a door. Just in case.
(Which he does now, for the record.)
There are days, few and far between, when Rufus is genuinely tempted to let the powers take over. Surely there has to be a sunny upside to all of this – say, perhaps, remaining curled up where he is on the sofa, moving not a single muscle as he pries the door open from all the way on the other side of the room.
Laziness (if that's what it is) paves a short road to nothing good.
A minute or so later, rubbing fitful sleep from his eyes, he appears. Squints at Rory; he looks, quite frankly, like shit.
"Oh." Then, when he realizes he was late to something (for someone): "Goddamn. Sorry."
Give a guy enough years as a first responder and at the very least he'll come out with a decent poker face when someone seems like they've been through hell. Rory's a little out of practice, though — for a moment, his brows knitting together's the only indication that he's at all worried by the tableau on the other side of the door.
Rufus does indeed look, quite frankly, like shit. And Rory's not a fan; a thought he's chosen not to dwell on for the time being. "You good?" He asks, even though now he's got little intention of leaving Rufus be regardless of the answer.
A loose wave of Rufus's hand, as if to say sure. He even tries to pull himself up a little from this contorted slouch he's shown up to the door in, shoulders rounded over as he drums his fingers against the doorframe in a feeble attempt to convey all good, yup.
"Nothing a few hours can't fix." He really hopes that's true, because he's so tired. He should be on the sofa right now, and by god, no amount of Rory's staring at him is going to dissuade him from this path. "Got a little bruised up on a trip outside. If I can't sleep it off, I'll go to the infirmary tomorrow."
Rory Mm.s back, unconvinced and with mounting concern that's got nothing to do with his own experiences or emotions, yet willing to offer three (3) whole seconds of mercy by studying the fascinating spot where wall meets ceiling. Such craftsmanship.
When he opens his mouth to ask Anything I can get you? he pulls the wrong cue card, because what comes out is: "Did you know that the shit folks can't sleep off's better treated soon than late?" A very casual beard scratch. "I read that. In Hustler or something."
Rufus manages to summon up something of a smile, one that is only a little bit pained and a little less feeble than his failed attempt at posturing by the door. "Good thing it's not a sex injury or anything like."
"Heard you took a hit." Rory skates right over the joke (and the pictures it conjures up) and leans against the other side of the doorframe, hooks his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans — the universal sign of I ain't about to move.
Rufus's brows inch upward, and somehow it's the least painful thing accomplished in that moment. "Heard that, did you? Not from Jorgensborg, though, right? 'Cause I don't think he'll be in any rush to talk about how ill-suited he is as an Explorer." File that right under 'failed experiment' for the researcher who had absolutely insisted on going out this time, and somehow, had been given the authorisation to do so. Rufus had chaperoned many a city slicker back in his day as a park ranger, but this? Truly an example of a person who has no business going outside.
Anyway, it looks like Rory is making himself comfortable in his doorway, and once again Rufus is reminded that he is very, very tired.
"... look, what are they gonna do? X-ray a bruise and tell me I need bed rest? I'll save them the trouble of a consult."
"'Cause it's not like that's their job." Oh. Wait. "Look, Ru, from what Colin–" had reenacted while Rory waited at The Space Between for the oft-chaperone who wouldn't show. (Rory pauses here to bite his lip, keep from explaining any of this, because the whole thing had honestly been in poor-ass taste and is worthy of a formal complaint if he's feeling feisty enough tomorrow.)
Fine, a different approach.
"You 'n I both know that nobody who grew up riding broncs is letting a bruise keep 'em in bed." A beat, a pointed look. "Especially one stubborn as you."
"Me, stubborn?" Well, takes one to know one. And perhaps his so-called stubbornness has also taken enough of a beating that Rufus can admit that Rory has a point, because either he's well enough to skip the bed rest, or he really should be making a move for the medical center.
It's probably the latter option that will make Rory back down. So a second later, he mutters (and maybe it's a bit sullen, because a taste of his own medicine is humbling, though if it had to be served by anyone, he's glad it's Rory), "Fine, you got me there."
A set of keys float into his hands as he briefly considers grabbing his jacket, and just as quickly discards the thought, because honestly? to hell with moving his arms more than fifteen degrees away from his body.
Rory starts to back up into the hall — then hesitates. Whatever victory he should be feeling's overshadowed by that mild concern from earlier, which has grown into something more like worry. There's even a little side of guilt because although he knows logically that it's Rufus's own fault he didn't go straight to Medical, Rory's the reason for his going now, and so it's (in a roundabout way) Rory's fault that he's in pain now.
Just... go with it.
"There's a, uh–"
Some people talk about their abilities casually, some use their powers for mundane tasks. Some don't. He pops up his hat's brim so he can scratch at his forehead but weirdly it doesn't make better words happen. "Thing. If you want. That I could do. To... take a bit of the load off."
Rufus is aware. Rufus, having taken that first terse step into the hallway, is tempted, but the offer that's being extended is so pinned together by awkwardness that he has to hesitate before his nerves, a whole bunch of them howling yes, get the better of him.
"Sure," he begins, and tilts his head in the direction of his apartment. It's winter, and he's standing there in a t-shirt and sweats. "You could grab my coat?" Maybe that will ease some of the worry that's currently creased across Rory's expression.
Well, it doesn't!!! (He hands over the coat nonetheless.) But maybe information will help. Data, as the Research nerds always go on about. "How big was it? The thing's tail?" Knowing Colin Jorgensborg as Rory does—far too well—the account likely had its fair share of embellishments, making it hard to pick out which facts got Rufus to his current state.
"Tails," Rufus corrects in a deceptively mild tone, and lets the ambiguous imagery hang there as he maneuvers himself into the coat, letting the fabric settle over his shoulders like some operatic robe of yore. Then he pulls his door shut, turns back to Rory and starts walking.
"We found a nest that didn't want to be found." Or disturbed, let alone for science. "I could say Colin broke protocol –" he did; "but maybe I'm just getting old, 'cause I wasn't ready." Pause. "Like gettin' whipped by a jungle vine."
Rory's wince is either from the visual of multiple massive irradiated rodent tails or from noting how Rufus's signature swagger's been replaced with a stiff march that takes all the fun out of being second-in-line. It's probably both.
Sure, a blow to the midsection can be an easy recovery. But give someone the wrong force, the worst angle? Repetition? It can get nasty; he knows that better than most. And thinking about Rufus in such a state makes something churn in his stomach, deep and unpleasant.
When he realizes he's been at a standstill, paused with his hand hovering over the elevator button, he glances down the hallway—the stairwell's closer than 401 now—before looking back at the other man. "It'd be quick. You'd– It'll make for an easier walk."
It's an easy gaze to hold, but Rufus's own look is unreadable. "I'm gettin' the feeling that it's real important to you that I say yes."
Rufus deserves something at least explanation-adjacent given how Rory's asking to mess around with his insides. He licks his lips as he nods, slowly, accepting that... yep. That's not a lie. "Call it a trigger."
That… will need unpacking. Later. For now, Rufus will simply admit defeat to a more persistent man.
“Okay,” Rufus says. “Do you… need to hold my hand?”
Where Rufus's shoulders could be sagging under the pressure of injury, Rory's sink with relief. He can do a little something and then matters won't seem as bad. Now he's got a use. "It's easier if I can touch near the area you went 'n got fucked up or else I'll waste everything I've got fixin' all your issues." Maybe a dig, he still recalibrates toward the stairwell for more privacy than the hallway affords. (And even holds the door open: two uses!) "But whatever you're comfortable with."
Shuffling in, teeth gritted at the sudden change of course, Rufus attempts to laugh. Settles on a half grunt, half huff of amusement – leave something for my primary care physician to do he almost says, but now that Rory has convinced him to admit that this injury… really isn't comfortable, it's taking most of his concentration and energy just to pull himself into the stairwell.
The rest of it goes into rolling his coat from his shoulders and folding it neatly on the handrail, then slowly, carefully peeling off his t-shirt.
Which, goddamn, ages him by ten years.
The bruise is livid across his chest, placed almost exactly like a seatbelt if he'd been in an entirely different sort of accident. "I'm gonna guess a broken rib is under all of this," he says, so matter-of-fact that he could be remarking on the weather. Clearly not something he can sleep off, and he'll thank Rory not to bring that up. "I guess what I really want is to be able to take a deep breath."
Bring it up? Nah. Imply it—heavily—in the glance Rufus gets once Rory's finished examining the extent of the damage? Yooou betcha, and it's all wrapped up with other implications like Quit your stubborn-ass cowboy bullshit, You're doin' me a heckin' concern, and the classic I told you so.
And he's a professional so he's not distracted by the whole shirtless thing. At all. Or at least he's trying his best. The injury's kind of an attention hog... Damn that giant rat-or-whatever, his tiny spider-mice were so much cooler.
"It'll feel spicy for a sec," he warns, one hand's fingers waiting a couple inches from where the bruise reaches Rufus's stomach, and asks permission with a raised brow. "Like when you're real cold and you step into a hot bath. So try not to jump."
"At this point, spicy would be a treat." Rory's advice isn't so easily discarded, though, because Rufus has no idea what to expect; the fingers of his left hand curl tightly around the handrail as if to brace himself against whatever is going to happen. "Okay," he adds, catches Rory's gaze for a split second before his own skitters just past the other man's shoulder to fix on a vague point on the wall behind him. "Ready."
Rory closes his eyes with a nod, lays his fingers against skin and... tries. (He's never been great with words and figuring out how to describe something he usually avoids describing doesn't leave him with many options, alright?!)
He can feel energy—documented by IRIS Researchers as 'life-force' but that feels like Too Much Responsibility—pushing against the barrier between his hand and Rufus. He opens a channel, just a tiny one, and envisions tendrils driving through into the other man's chest. It's easier to be the conduit than the reservoir; instead of controlling two locks and a channel like a crossing guard of life and death, this time his effort's mainly focused on keeping his own energy at bay, not giving in to the impulse to just open the door and let everything through. Because while it'd solve Rufus's present problem, he'd suddenly find himself dealing with a fun new one called 'What do I do with this body?'
It's like fishing around in a dark backpack, one that might have open containers or hidden tears, to find the things that feel Wrong so he can let the reservoir's energy (today: his) flow in to fill the proverbial cracks and set crooked things straight.
Okay, maybe Rory should spend more time training. And/or thinking of stronger metaphors. Shut up.
When he pulls back—energy first, then closing the channel, then finally his actual hand—he's tired, and maybe his face could use more color, but he's smiling. A small one but it's real, without a hint of smugness to be found.
He busies himself by shaking out Rufus's t-shirt before he holds it out with the announcement: "Five broken ribs." Nothing punctured, nothing dire.
Does Rufus understand what has just happened? No. Hell, he barely understands half of what he does with his Rift-given powers, and right now, they're seeming exponentially less impactful than whatever Rory has just done to him. He can finally take a breath, a big, deep one, right to the base of his lungs, without there being such shocks of searing pain that he has to cut himself off with a shallow gasp.
Relief and not a little bit of gratitude washes over him, and he's returning Rory's (frankly luminous) smile with a small one of his own.
"As many as all that?" A shake of his head, and he pulls his shirt from the man's hands. "Damn. Guess you were right." And then: "Thanks."
"'Course I was. You're lucky it wasn't much worse," is Rory's socially acceptable response — and maybe a bit of a threat. He can feel the fatigue creeping up on himself now, but what does that make them except a matched pair? "We should have an easier go of getting you to the docs'."
Threat heard, and certainly understood. Rufus has the grace to look a little shamefaced as he gingerly pulls himself back into the t-shirt, some part of his brain, now unencumbered with the constant grating of bone-on-bone, now hyperfixating on the fact that he's standing shirtless in a stairwell in the middle of winter in front of Rory Fairfax.
The coat soon follows.
They're back in front of the elevator when Rufus finds his voice again. "What's the cost? To you?"
"Healing back whatever I lent you without the scrapes to show for it, so I reckon soon it'll feel like I ran a few miles on an empty stomach."
He's got one last awkward shuffle left as the already-low floor numbers get even lower and uses it to deliver a shoulder bump that he knows Rufus can handle, considering where he'd been only a few minutes prior. "I'd appreciate if you don't mention this outside Medical, though."
Rufus is nodding as the doors slide open. “Won’t breathe a word until you say so,” comes the promise. It’s the least he can do for the man who has gone through the effort of checking in on him, dragging him out for medical attention, and even administering some himself; if Rory wants discretion, then discretion is what he’ll get.
Still, Rufus is feeling oddly moved by all this.
“I’ll sort your stomach out once I’m cleared. Figure I at least owe you dinner, right?”
"Don't like it bein' a transaction," Rory replies, shrugging off the offer. "Especially not when I–" the word 'manipulated' comes to mind. Let's try something else. "–got all pushy. And it's a slippery slope besides. But I'd eat."
“Not a transaction.” They’re out of the elevator now, and Rufus is bracing himself for the bite of cold air that will greet them as they exit the building. “Just a guy recognising a stomach shouldn’t stay empty for long.”
"Owing me's a debt." Rory, a gentleman and a good citizen and all-around just a real helpful guy, holds open his second door of the night so he can continue
Which he resumes after taking his own big, deep, breath once they're outside — letting the chill wake him up. "Folks get to pay when I help them move, they lose a bet, or it's a date. Not for this."
Rufus, a stubborn man, is able to recognise when he’s met his match in a head-on collision of wills.
A sigh escapes him, soft, but less shallow, less pinched than it might have been, thanks to Rory.
He’ll just have to take a more lateral approach.
“I’ve no plans to move. So it’s option two or three. Three seems easiest.”
Rory, who was only trying to explain his boundaries, just raises an eyebrow.
“I bet you like Italian.”
"Those checkered tablecloths really do it for me."
Rufus has to stop himself from laughing, because it will still hurt, and he doesn’t want to entirely lose his newly found energy en route to the medical center, even if he is tickled that he’s won this bet.
“Good to know.”
The blue glow from the building in question's sign peeks around the corner. Which is a good thing; Rory knows this because of the whole Rufus-got-whammied-by-a-massive-rodent deal. He also knows that he wishes the walk was at least a few blocks longer, but that's life at Enodia for you. "Want me to wait up?" (Even though he figures he's about to get turned down.) "I could write Jorgensborg a cute li'l thank-you note from the waiting room."
“As much as I’d love to read that,” and here Rufus sends Rory a wry slant of a smile, “you don’t have to wait up for me. I feel like I’ve screwed enough with your night.”
"Hangin' out with you was my only plan anyways, so if you send me home it's almost like you're ghosting me–" He holds up two fingers and mouths as emphatically as he can: TWICE.
Twice, yes. An extraordinarily shitty thing to do. Let’s not do that, Rufus.
“See, if I didn’t know better.” Rufus slows his pace to carefully step onto the curb, eyes narrowing slightly against the medical building’s bright lights. “It’s almost like you want to see me with my shirt off. Twice in one day.”
Now it's both brows that climb, and Rory tilts his head back just enough to catch Rufus's gaze again. It's not an accusation, not exactly, or at least not of anything Rory seems to think's worth being apologetic for.
"Could be I just like your company. Could be I was gonna say hey, you broke five ribs, let's have a couple drinks 'n talk over a stupid movie. But you," (it's accusatory now and comes with a grin that says Rory can only be this amused by his own stupid joke — please hold) "hear one mention of fancy linens and you get all thirsty."
There are any number of quips Rufus can offer in reply to that, but he settles on a response that is ultimately more sincere, though he prefaces it with a dry, "Guilty as charged." Then comes: "I like your company too, you know. So if you want to… hang out later. And watch some dumb film while I suck on some painkillers, I'm up for that."
Smooth.
That's a new nickname is the line that Rory—by some grace of God—has the good sense to keep to himself when he forges ahead, powered by Validation.
"Text when you're done?" It's accompanied with a companionable (yet gentle!!) shoulder pat. And it definitely used up all of his good sense points because he has one last, casual note to tack on — as he sees it, there's certain things that are easier to be upfront about than admit that you enjoy another human's friendship. They're the other kind of Validation. "And if you wanna fuck sometime you can just say so."
the next day // texts
rufus kearney
> Done and discharged.
> So, texting.
> Thank you for hauling my ass to medical.
rory fairfax
> brb
> gotta print that out 8' tall and frame it
rufus
> Like you're not on my level of stubborn!
rory
> sorry who hauled whose ass to where
> was it ms peacock with the candlestick in the library
> no
> no it was mr fairfax with your ass to medical
> anyways glad you're good. welcome back n all that
rufus
> Were you serious about the other thing?
> (Other being fucking.)
rory
> i'm always serious about the other thing
> it's cool if you're not into it though
> pretty sure i still know how to have buddies i'm not bendin over for
rufus
> Just checking that I wasn't hallucinating that part of the evening.
rory
> would it've been a daydream or one of those waking nightmares?
rufus
> Gonna keep that to myself.
> Anyway
> I'm down.
rory
> oh yeah i get it
> fantasies of me railed by a circus clown
> dw we've all been there
> anyways
> 💯👍💯👌💯
rufus
> When I can catch my full breath, just wait.
> I'll find something with checkered tablecloths that will really get you hot and flustered.
rory
> mamma mia 🥵
2020 // unit #401
"So, uh–" Pause to zip up his jeans, which for all intents and purposes means Rory's dressed — so long as he picks every other piece of last night's outfit up off Rufus's living room floor on his way out. And maybe the kitchen too, he can't recall. Or was it the balcony...?
This should leave him feeling satisfied. It doesn't.
He sits back down on the edge of the bed so he can busy himself with cuffing his pant leg, which he hopes will at least quiet the voice insisting he's about to do something he'll regret. (It doesn't.) "I've got a question. Before I split."
Thankfully, Rory isn't a telepath, which means he doesn't hear the very reflexive why split? that Rufus mentally bats away on the next breath.
Instead of voicing the very stupid question, he loosely threads his hands together over his belly and tries to look as if he hasn't been studying the man's every move from the comfort of his (side of the) bed (because even though this is meant to be a casual two-guys-fucking deal, somehow, over time, they've each gravitated to specific sides).
"Shoot."
Rory twists so he can steady a hand against the mattress on the other side of Rufus's hips, and so he can face a sight that makes the prospect of bailing on the rest of his morning plans seem pretty tempting. Too tempting. That's kind of the problem.
... Well, he supposes he can buy himself a little time since this signals his imminent departure anyway, no matter what the response'll be. "Straight-on or d'you like explanations first?"
A smile catches Rufus' mouth in a small slant. "Still working out which one I like when it's coming from you."
(Oh good, another reminder of how weak Rory can be. Thanks, buddy.) "I'll take that as a compliment 'til you decide. Anyways..." Here's where he's supposed to forge ahead, because that's what he'd decided was the best thing to do. Because he'd matured and learned and grown and all that bullshit that life experience was ostensibly for. Why bother going through it all if you weren't going to employ it once a decade? Especially when it's supposed to be in your best interests?
Probably because it doesn't mean getting everything you want. Compromises suck. At least he can compromise now, on his terms — let himself have something he wants (Rufus, whose side he lays his hand on simply because It's There, He Wants To, and It Makes Him Feel A Certain Way) while he begins the task he doesn't want to but knows he should: "I do this thing where I start seeing somebody, it gets kind of intense, then we have a shitty break up and pretty much never talk again. And I feel like we're nearing that first bit."
How can you brace yourself for a reaction you weren't planning on? Or at least, not yet, because rationally, Rufus knows there has to be a point where friends with benefits just doesn't work as a healthy setup between two people. That point wasn't supposed to be now.
The touch is an unfair maneuver, but he supposes he knows Rory well enough now to know that the man isn't above using little tricks to distract and get his way. He keeps his hands where they are, and they rise and passively fall with each breath he takes.
"Is that your question? Can I answer, or have you got more?"
"That was the storytime," replies Rory, as though dropping every other question mark down to a period isn't already his default speech pattern.
"All right." A small tilt of his chin indicates go on.
"I'd rather keep you as a friend than lose you as an ex so I wanted to make sure we're on the same page about staying easy. Casual. Given..." the fact that he's already comfortable enough to do things like brush his fingers along Rufus's ribs while thinking (which to his credit, he acknowledges in the moment and pulls his hand back) "the last li'l while." Nice save.
Good thing they're talking about this now, because Rufus definitely isn't on board with the regret that washes over him, brought on by the sudden lack of touch… and the ground rules being defined in stark black and white. It may be that his breathing goes slightly shallow as he turns Rory's words over in his head, only to come to the swift decision that Rory is right. A good friend is better than a lost, kind-of-intense ex.
He gives Rory what he hopes translates into a confident, yet easy-going grin. "This doesn't have to go anywhere but casual fuckin' when the mood strikes. I won't even get upset when some young buck distracts you from the fuckin' bit." A brow inches up. '"If that's what you're asking."
Maybe the relief's a delayed gratification deal and he'll feel it later — that's how Rory reasons away the little, nagging sore spot this conversation was meant to fix. "What else would I be asking for?" He replies, genuine and maaaybe a tad hopeful for something he can't place, mirroring the brow as he rests elbows on knees.
"Permission to borrow one of my shirts since we left yours soaking in the kitchen last night without it being weird?" Really, Rufus should be receiving a prize for how light he's keeping his tone of voice.
Rory buries a smirk in his fist. "One of those henleys? I want to figure out which button undone gives it the max slut factor."
“You know,” Rufus begins as he decides to finally move, pulling himself upright, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to end up pulling Rory down for a kiss, and maybe more, “— so do I.”
"It's science I'll do as a public service. For you." Rory pairs this with a clap of Rufus's shin, the perfect/unholy marriage of buddy-buddy support and patronizing smugness."Reckon you need all the help you can get."
"This," Rufus mutters, "from the man who couldn't wait to get my shirt off in the first place."
This should leave him feeling satisfied. It doesn't.
He sits back down on the edge of the bed so he can busy himself with cuffing his pant leg, which he hopes will at least quiet the voice insisting he's about to do something he'll regret. (It doesn't.) "I've got a question. Before I split."
Thankfully, Rory isn't a telepath, which means he doesn't hear the very reflexive why split? that Rufus mentally bats away on the next breath.
Instead of voicing the very stupid question, he loosely threads his hands together over his belly and tries to look as if he hasn't been studying the man's every move from the comfort of his (side of the) bed (because even though this is meant to be a casual two-guys-fucking deal, somehow, over time, they've each gravitated to specific sides).
"Shoot."
Rory twists so he can steady a hand against the mattress on the other side of Rufus's hips, and so he can face a sight that makes the prospect of bailing on the rest of his morning plans seem pretty tempting. Too tempting. That's kind of the problem.
... Well, he supposes he can buy himself a little time since this signals his imminent departure anyway, no matter what the response'll be. "Straight-on or d'you like explanations first?"
A smile catches Rufus' mouth in a small slant. "Still working out which one I like when it's coming from you."
(Oh good, another reminder of how weak Rory can be. Thanks, buddy.) "I'll take that as a compliment 'til you decide. Anyways..." Here's where he's supposed to forge ahead, because that's what he'd decided was the best thing to do. Because he'd matured and learned and grown and all that bullshit that life experience was ostensibly for. Why bother going through it all if you weren't going to employ it once a decade? Especially when it's supposed to be in your best interests?
Probably because it doesn't mean getting everything you want. Compromises suck. At least he can compromise now, on his terms — let himself have something he wants (Rufus, whose side he lays his hand on simply because It's There, He Wants To, and It Makes Him Feel A Certain Way) while he begins the task he doesn't want to but knows he should: "I do this thing where I start seeing somebody, it gets kind of intense, then we have a shitty break up and pretty much never talk again. And I feel like we're nearing that first bit."
How can you brace yourself for a reaction you weren't planning on? Or at least, not yet, because rationally, Rufus knows there has to be a point where friends with benefits just doesn't work as a healthy setup between two people. That point wasn't supposed to be now.
The touch is an unfair maneuver, but he supposes he knows Rory well enough now to know that the man isn't above using little tricks to distract and get his way. He keeps his hands where they are, and they rise and passively fall with each breath he takes.
"Is that your question? Can I answer, or have you got more?"
"That was the storytime," replies Rory, as though dropping every other question mark down to a period isn't already his default speech pattern.
"All right." A small tilt of his chin indicates go on.
"I'd rather keep you as a friend than lose you as an ex so I wanted to make sure we're on the same page about staying easy. Casual. Given..." the fact that he's already comfortable enough to do things like brush his fingers along Rufus's ribs while thinking (which to his credit, he acknowledges in the moment and pulls his hand back) "the last li'l while." Nice save.
Good thing they're talking about this now, because Rufus definitely isn't on board with the regret that washes over him, brought on by the sudden lack of touch… and the ground rules being defined in stark black and white. It may be that his breathing goes slightly shallow as he turns Rory's words over in his head, only to come to the swift decision that Rory is right. A good friend is better than a lost, kind-of-intense ex.
He gives Rory what he hopes translates into a confident, yet easy-going grin. "This doesn't have to go anywhere but casual fuckin' when the mood strikes. I won't even get upset when some young buck distracts you from the fuckin' bit." A brow inches up. '"If that's what you're asking."
Maybe the relief's a delayed gratification deal and he'll feel it later — that's how Rory reasons away the little, nagging sore spot this conversation was meant to fix. "What else would I be asking for?" He replies, genuine and maaaybe a tad hopeful for something he can't place, mirroring the brow as he rests elbows on knees.
"Permission to borrow one of my shirts since we left yours soaking in the kitchen last night without it being weird?" Really, Rufus should be receiving a prize for how light he's keeping his tone of voice.
Rory buries a smirk in his fist. "One of those henleys? I want to figure out which button undone gives it the max slut factor."
“You know,” Rufus begins as he decides to finally move, pulling himself upright, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to end up pulling Rory down for a kiss, and maybe more, “— so do I.”
"It's science I'll do as a public service. For you." Rory pairs this with a clap of Rufus's shin, the perfect/unholy marriage of buddy-buddy support and patronizing smugness."Reckon you need all the help you can get."
"This," Rufus mutters, "from the man who couldn't wait to get my shirt off in the first place."
2021 // texts
rory fairfax
> what're you doing tomorrow at 8
> am
rufus kearney
> I'm glad that's a what, not a who.
> Yoga.
rory
> ain't none of my business
> is yoga'clock negotiable
rufus
> Maybe.
> Who's asking?
rory
> ???????????????????? ME
rufus
> What am I doing at 8 am tomorrow with you?
rory
> driving to colchester so at 9am we can flirt with farmers
rufus
> You're taking me to your farmers' market?
> Rory.
> I feel like I've leveled up!
rory
> don't make this weird
rufus
> Oh, I leveled down again ☹️
rory
> thin ice buddy
> i was even gonna take you another level deeper
> (like mines of moria level not nerd game level)
> but now idk if you can handle it
rufus
> I'll be on my best behavior
rory
> no scale that back a lil it's more than i signed on for
> if we leave at 7 we hit up this diner on the way where we get the latest lamba theta nu drama over breakfast
> we're talkin love hexagons, ru
> country club espionage
> there was witchcraft once
rufus
> Are we talking Charmed or the Craft level of witchcraft?
> Anyway, 7 is great
> I'll just sleep over
rory
> ask ramona tomorrow n judge for yourself
> talkin like you run the place
rufus
> I think it's called ruthless efficiency
> 1 alarm clock instead of 2
rory
> idk i think the market price for ruthless efficiency these days is pretty steep
rufus
> Ruthless efficiency on a microcosmic level
rory
> what
rufus
> Ruthless efficiency in your bedroom
rory
> i was just gonna ask to borrow a book and
> oh no
> the price just went up
> to a book and that
> (a lot of that)
> (come over early to tell me more about ☝️ that)
2022 // the riftlands
Under normal circumstances, a trip out into the wilderness was sure to cheer up a significant proportion of the Explorer contingent. Whether it was an expedition (formal), or a hike (fun), most people badged under that division enjoyed some aspect of getting beyond the confines of the station.
Rufus certainly considers himself part of that group. Today, however, he is anything but happy about being outside. The assignment is a pretty standard one – the ground in a certain sector seems to have split and shifted overnight: go assess it – and the Riftlands are behaving exactly as they're expected to: unexpectedly. He can't put his finger on it, but the air just feels off. He's perfectly aware of his companion's presence, and that of various other members of the team despite having paired off a while ago to cover more ground, and yet everything feels… blurred. Like up might be down. North is now south. Almost like his inner ear has taken a blow.
"Ror. Got your samples?"
"No." is all the information he gets back until Rory's pulled the straps tight around the– uh... the thing. It has a name. The Researcher who'd shown him how to work the doohickey had come up with some clever and science-y one that shortened to CLOCHE. Captive Liminal... O-something C-something H-word E-t cetera.
Whatever. It was a cloche.
He updates the report to a "Yeah." once said sample—rock, cool purple moss, jiggly vibrating spasms and all—is cloched up, strapped in, and stored away in his bag. "Feels like it's gonna rock right out of my pack but we should be good to go."
The vibrations are hitting on more than just a macroscopic level, and as with many things Liminal, feels odd. Not so odd that Rufus has to grit his teeth, but he's aware of it buzzing against the CLOCHE-thing, and wishes rather viciously that it would just stop.
"Great." He jerks his head to the side, indicating: "Let's go."
Guess who's oblivious to the Beach-Boys-unsanctioned vibrations? "Anything crawl up your ass?" Rory asks as he pulls himself up the first rock leading up out of the (neat!) new crevice. He pauses before he reaches up for the next, giving the lode in his backpack a moment to cool its proverbial tits so he doesn't lose balance.
The pause only seems to irritate the thing further.
And now Rufus does grit his teeth, because he can't do anything to chill it out, being under strict instructions not to interfere with anything they find out here.
"This thing, apparently," he mutters. "Look, maybe just stay put until it calms down."
Rory rests his arms against the rock wall, and while it doesn't help the Thing's mood, not yet, the cool surface is at least a nice surface to drum his fingers against. (To the beat of Shania Twain's classic That Don't Impress Me Much, if you were wondering). "I reckon it's got more to do with bein' trapped than wanting a smooth ride."
In agreement, the rock begins to slam itself against the inner surface of the cloche.
"Sure, but I'd prefer if it shared its feelings about the situation when you're not hanging vertically off a rock." Rufus is now crouched at the edge of the crevice, driving another anchor point into the cracked ground with more than just physical strength, then prepares to throw another rope down. "There's a clip to the end of this," he begins.
For all the aspects of Explorer life Rory may be ill-suited for, such as 'fighting stuff' and 'acting like a leader,' at least he excels at 'knots' and 'climbing the stuff he doesn't have to fight.' "It's expressing itself," Rory replies, tying himself in with the ease afforded by muscle memory. "And at least I'm proud of it for that."
The rock stills.
But only for a moment, before it seems to take an upward approach to breaking free.
It all happens so quickly that Rufus doesn't think, simply reacts. And his reaction is to completely ignore the rock in favor of reaching for Rory, who is, of course, still out of arm's reach. The rope, too, is superfluous, because the thing is now bouncing around so violently that it's a small miracle the receptacle hasn't yet shattered from the force that is surely going to throw the Explorer to and fro and clearly into harm's way.
So he simply, swiftly, suddenly pulls Rory up into the air and safely onto solid (well… ish) ground, and the Explorer rolls to a stop. (In a tumbling way, not a cool gymnast one.)
Rory blinks to help regain his bearings, which are currently 'staring up at the sky, so he could be literally anywhere in the world right now.' One moment he was tying in while a rock threw a tantrum on his back, and the next he was–
"The fuck just happened?"
Rufus' head pokes into view as he leans over him. "That was me," he explains, and has the grace to sound at least halfway apologetic. "Thought you were going to fall." He puts one hand on Rory's shoulder; the other hovers over the bag, which is lying next to them and bouncing around with barely contained rage. "... you all right?"
Wiggle some digits, then some limbs. Confirm you'll be alright. Then ignore the angry bag in favour of raising a brow at the figure above you, the one that knows perfectly well what you're capable of.
(This is what Rory does.)
He brings his hands up to his harness around his waist and, while making what may be the most deliberate eye contact of his life, yanks the rope. It stays secure.
And Rufus decides that this is the moment to hold a level of eye contact that others would find unsettling. So hold it he does, and whatever was apologetic before is now not. "I thought you were going to fall," he repeats, a stony firmness now underscoring the words.
Just as much a challenge: "You always say you don't want to use 'em when you don't got to."
"I do say that." Beside them, the bag stops its feverish oscillating on the ground, because Rufus has had enough now. (Technically, he's not interfering; just applying some pressure on the receptacle, more easily done now that it's not attached to Rory's back.) "I'm glad you've been listening."
"Sometimes," Rory lies, and holds his gaze for one beat more before he cranes his head around to peer at the bag. A rare rescue-by-magnetism when he would might otherwise have made it through unscathed is... Well.
Let's just say that it feels like a compliment of sorts.
"Kearney. Did you kill my sample."
"No." Rufus' gaze, thus released, now slides down, and so do his hands, carefully undoing Rory's harness. "It's still bouncing around in there. But this way I think I can keep it from throwing the damn car around."
Rory is a professional.
Rory Fairfax is a professional.
Rory B. Fairfax is a professional.
Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional.
Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional. Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional. Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional. Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional. Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional. Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional. Rory Beau Fairfax is rolling RIGHT away and standing the hELL back up as soon as he's free of that harness.
The middle of the Riftlands is not the place to get lost thinking about Rufus's fingers being absolutely anywhere near which points the safety equipment had met Rory's body. It's just not. Did we mention the moshing moss rock? No? Well, that's another reason not to get distracted. His heart's beating faster than it should. At least that means his blood's concentrated in the top half of his body — small blessings.
"Is keeping it–" hm, no, not 'up' "–together gonna cause you any problems?"
All this speedy movement is a good sign that the man's hasty exit from the newly created rift in the ground hasn't left any damage. That is what Rufus chooses to focus on as he blinks up at his companion, the ground beside him now empty save for the harness that's fallen sadly into the dirt.
"No," he finally says, a frown piercing his expression as his attention moves away from Rory and back to their sample. "Don't think so. If it decides to chill out, I might even drop the hold."
Rory places a hand on it and– yeah, okay. He can feel the thing trash around inside but it's dulled now, like a door closed on a nightclub. The pack gets an exploratory jostle and when no retaliation comes, he slings it over his shoulder messenger-style to keep within reach should a sample-subduing be needed.
Rufus using his powers so many times in a few minutes span is unusual, at least for him to notice. It helps drive home the fact that maybe he wasn't in as good a position down the crevice as he thought. Maybe a tiny bit of shame. "You're goin' all out today."
Will Rory buy any of his unsentimental tone? "You're no good to me at the bottom of a ravine, Fairfax." A beat later, with a jab of his finger in the direction of the pack: "And that's no good to us loose in the wild."
(No, but he'll ignore it 'til later in the name of not further complicating their mission because he's a professional.) "Maybe I could've been more appreciative."
With a shrug, Rufus begins to collect their various bits of abandoned bouldering equipment, wrapping rope into neat coils before shoving them into another pack. "That's why you bring me along on these little adventures," he says in a don't mention it tone.
"That 'n you complain the least when I sing on the trail. Still though, thanks for having my back." Rory does mention it as he hands over the harness.
That, too, gets dropped into the pack in an automatic movement that Rufus executes as he finds himself suddenly sending Rory an unguarded look. "I've al–"
He catches himself just in time: " – I'm fond of your back."
A current runs alongside Rory's pulse, trailing prickling little lines of warmth under his skin. It's the same sensation that's motivated such unforgettable restless impulses as 'Yes, you should stay over again!' and 'Yes, you should kiss him now!'. Right now, though, all it helps him do is return the gaze, offer a hand to help Rufus back to his feet, and reply: "I know."
Rufus certainly considers himself part of that group. Today, however, he is anything but happy about being outside. The assignment is a pretty standard one – the ground in a certain sector seems to have split and shifted overnight: go assess it – and the Riftlands are behaving exactly as they're expected to: unexpectedly. He can't put his finger on it, but the air just feels off. He's perfectly aware of his companion's presence, and that of various other members of the team despite having paired off a while ago to cover more ground, and yet everything feels… blurred. Like up might be down. North is now south. Almost like his inner ear has taken a blow.
"Ror. Got your samples?"
"No." is all the information he gets back until Rory's pulled the straps tight around the– uh... the thing. It has a name. The Researcher who'd shown him how to work the doohickey had come up with some clever and science-y one that shortened to CLOCHE. Captive Liminal... O-something C-something H-word E-t cetera.
Whatever. It was a cloche.
He updates the report to a "Yeah." once said sample—rock, cool purple moss, jiggly vibrating spasms and all—is cloched up, strapped in, and stored away in his bag. "Feels like it's gonna rock right out of my pack but we should be good to go."
The vibrations are hitting on more than just a macroscopic level, and as with many things Liminal, feels odd. Not so odd that Rufus has to grit his teeth, but he's aware of it buzzing against the CLOCHE-thing, and wishes rather viciously that it would just stop.
"Great." He jerks his head to the side, indicating: "Let's go."
Guess who's oblivious to the Beach-Boys-unsanctioned vibrations? "Anything crawl up your ass?" Rory asks as he pulls himself up the first rock leading up out of the (neat!) new crevice. He pauses before he reaches up for the next, giving the lode in his backpack a moment to cool its proverbial tits so he doesn't lose balance.
The pause only seems to irritate the thing further.
And now Rufus does grit his teeth, because he can't do anything to chill it out, being under strict instructions not to interfere with anything they find out here.
"This thing, apparently," he mutters. "Look, maybe just stay put until it calms down."
Rory rests his arms against the rock wall, and while it doesn't help the Thing's mood, not yet, the cool surface is at least a nice surface to drum his fingers against. (To the beat of Shania Twain's classic That Don't Impress Me Much, if you were wondering). "I reckon it's got more to do with bein' trapped than wanting a smooth ride."
In agreement, the rock begins to slam itself against the inner surface of the cloche.
"Sure, but I'd prefer if it shared its feelings about the situation when you're not hanging vertically off a rock." Rufus is now crouched at the edge of the crevice, driving another anchor point into the cracked ground with more than just physical strength, then prepares to throw another rope down. "There's a clip to the end of this," he begins.
For all the aspects of Explorer life Rory may be ill-suited for, such as 'fighting stuff' and 'acting like a leader,' at least he excels at 'knots' and 'climbing the stuff he doesn't have to fight.' "It's expressing itself," Rory replies, tying himself in with the ease afforded by muscle memory. "And at least I'm proud of it for that."
The rock stills.
But only for a moment, before it seems to take an upward approach to breaking free.
It all happens so quickly that Rufus doesn't think, simply reacts. And his reaction is to completely ignore the rock in favor of reaching for Rory, who is, of course, still out of arm's reach. The rope, too, is superfluous, because the thing is now bouncing around so violently that it's a small miracle the receptacle hasn't yet shattered from the force that is surely going to throw the Explorer to and fro and clearly into harm's way.
So he simply, swiftly, suddenly pulls Rory up into the air and safely onto solid (well… ish) ground, and the Explorer rolls to a stop. (In a tumbling way, not a cool gymnast one.)
Rory blinks to help regain his bearings, which are currently 'staring up at the sky, so he could be literally anywhere in the world right now.' One moment he was tying in while a rock threw a tantrum on his back, and the next he was–
"The fuck just happened?"
Rufus' head pokes into view as he leans over him. "That was me," he explains, and has the grace to sound at least halfway apologetic. "Thought you were going to fall." He puts one hand on Rory's shoulder; the other hovers over the bag, which is lying next to them and bouncing around with barely contained rage. "... you all right?"
Wiggle some digits, then some limbs. Confirm you'll be alright. Then ignore the angry bag in favour of raising a brow at the figure above you, the one that knows perfectly well what you're capable of.
(This is what Rory does.)
He brings his hands up to his harness around his waist and, while making what may be the most deliberate eye contact of his life, yanks the rope. It stays secure.
And Rufus decides that this is the moment to hold a level of eye contact that others would find unsettling. So hold it he does, and whatever was apologetic before is now not. "I thought you were going to fall," he repeats, a stony firmness now underscoring the words.
Just as much a challenge: "You always say you don't want to use 'em when you don't got to."
"I do say that." Beside them, the bag stops its feverish oscillating on the ground, because Rufus has had enough now. (Technically, he's not interfering; just applying some pressure on the receptacle, more easily done now that it's not attached to Rory's back.) "I'm glad you've been listening."
"Sometimes," Rory lies, and holds his gaze for one beat more before he cranes his head around to peer at the bag. A rare rescue-by-magnetism when he would might otherwise have made it through unscathed is... Well.
Let's just say that it feels like a compliment of sorts.
"Kearney. Did you kill my sample."
"No." Rufus' gaze, thus released, now slides down, and so do his hands, carefully undoing Rory's harness. "It's still bouncing around in there. But this way I think I can keep it from throwing the damn car around."
Rory is a professional.
Rory Fairfax is a professional.
Rory B. Fairfax is a professional.
Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional.
Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional. Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional. Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional. Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional. Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional. Rory Beau Fairfax is a professional. Rory Beau Fairfax is rolling RIGHT away and standing the hELL back up as soon as he's free of that harness.
The middle of the Riftlands is not the place to get lost thinking about Rufus's fingers being absolutely anywhere near which points the safety equipment had met Rory's body. It's just not. Did we mention the moshing moss rock? No? Well, that's another reason not to get distracted. His heart's beating faster than it should. At least that means his blood's concentrated in the top half of his body — small blessings.
"Is keeping it–" hm, no, not 'up' "–together gonna cause you any problems?"
All this speedy movement is a good sign that the man's hasty exit from the newly created rift in the ground hasn't left any damage. That is what Rufus chooses to focus on as he blinks up at his companion, the ground beside him now empty save for the harness that's fallen sadly into the dirt.
"No," he finally says, a frown piercing his expression as his attention moves away from Rory and back to their sample. "Don't think so. If it decides to chill out, I might even drop the hold."
Rory places a hand on it and– yeah, okay. He can feel the thing trash around inside but it's dulled now, like a door closed on a nightclub. The pack gets an exploratory jostle and when no retaliation comes, he slings it over his shoulder messenger-style to keep within reach should a sample-subduing be needed.
Rufus using his powers so many times in a few minutes span is unusual, at least for him to notice. It helps drive home the fact that maybe he wasn't in as good a position down the crevice as he thought. Maybe a tiny bit of shame. "You're goin' all out today."
Will Rory buy any of his unsentimental tone? "You're no good to me at the bottom of a ravine, Fairfax." A beat later, with a jab of his finger in the direction of the pack: "And that's no good to us loose in the wild."
(No, but he'll ignore it 'til later in the name of not further complicating their mission because he's a professional.) "Maybe I could've been more appreciative."
With a shrug, Rufus begins to collect their various bits of abandoned bouldering equipment, wrapping rope into neat coils before shoving them into another pack. "That's why you bring me along on these little adventures," he says in a don't mention it tone.
"That 'n you complain the least when I sing on the trail. Still though, thanks for having my back." Rory does mention it as he hands over the harness.
That, too, gets dropped into the pack in an automatic movement that Rufus executes as he finds himself suddenly sending Rory an unguarded look. "I've al–"
He catches himself just in time: " – I'm fond of your back."
A current runs alongside Rory's pulse, trailing prickling little lines of warmth under his skin. It's the same sensation that's motivated such unforgettable restless impulses as 'Yes, you should stay over again!' and 'Yes, you should kiss him now!'. Right now, though, all it helps him do is return the gaze, offer a hand to help Rufus back to his feet, and reply: "I know."
2022 // texts
rory fairfax
> wow security fuckin loves long meetings
> are y'all havin a nice time in there
> talkin about bolos and apbs and nbcs and whatever
rufus kearney
> Yeah it's a real alphabet soup in here.
> There's a new SOP they wanted to take us through.
> Surprise! It's not new. They fixed a typo, called a meeting.
rory
> i'm
> [screenshot attached; click for real page:]
rufus
> Open-mouthed.
rory
> oh my heavens what a coincidence
rufus
> I am agape.
rory
> oh my word what another coincidence
rufus
> Under a spell but PREFERABLY
> You
rory
> ok
> slick
> glad we're on the same page
> tell em your kitchen sink's possessed or something and bail
rufus
> On it, Fairfax.
rory
> hooked
> held
> caught up
> charmed
> gripped
> breathless
> bewitched
rufus
> … thanks for that actually, everyone believed it was urgent because of how much my phone was going off.
> I'm on my way
> I better be GRIPPED in the next 10
rory
> selling it 💅
> and shit yeah, you got it boss
rufus
> 🤝
may 21, 2023 ~2 a.m. // unit #304
Whatever doubts he's harboring (and, god, there are so many), one thing is certain: standing outside of Rory's apartment doesn't feel wrong.
Rufus can't bring himself to admit that it feels right, because these past three months have cast something of a pall over everything and everyone – and three months of the scantiest of exchanges of text does not build much confidence – but there's a part of him that's glad to be loitering in the hallway of 304 instead of aimlessly unpacking what's rest of his stuff.
He lets himself in, as ordered to only a few minutes ago.
"Ror?"
For a second Rory entertains the idea of not responding at all, as though it would make them even after all the one-sided conversations he'd spent the day inventing in his imagination. But that would be immature. And Rory's a 46-year-old man who's standing in his half-dusted kitchen at 2:30 a.m. wearing a hoodie and boxer briefs. Who's plating a breakfast sandwich (yes, he was serious about that) because he used Rufus' neglectful approach to nutrition as an excuse to see him as soon as the other man had reached out. Who's suddenly got no words when 20 minutes ago he'd been ready to send a novel's worth of texts.
In short, he's mature as hell.
So he does the next best thing: he calls back "Kitchen" to continue letting Rufus make the approach while he, a mature adult (see above for credentials), clears the counter to distract himself.
Rufus is feeling very much his age as he makes his way through the apartment, familiarity guiding him where confidence might otherwise falter and let him down. In pajama bottoms and his favorite robe — it’s checkered pattern and texture worn down by time — and his hair, slightly on the longer side and clearly uncombed, he looks like a man who’s just woken from sleep instead of having evaded it for hours.
He steps into the kitchen and pauses by the door, as if to memorize the sight there (just in case).
“You weren’t kidding about the sandwich.”
"Never joke about sandwiches," Rory replies with mock solemnity as he throws in the towel, both literally (onto the countertop) and figuratively (turning to face Rufus, because ignoring him won't do either of them any good and he's still not sure why he feels like he needs to in the first place even though he does).
... And he pauses.
There's a beard scratch. It's thoughtful. "Please..." It's also his attempt not to laugh at the idea of a disheveled and sleep-deprived Rufus billowing down public hallways like a ghost about to yell at some teens to get off his lawn. "Tell me you ran into everybody we know on your way down."
There’s a beat of confusion before one brow inches delicately up.
Because first, it’s just past two in the morning.
And second: “This from the man who thinks crocs count as shoes.”
"I'm living my truth, Kearney." Unashamed, Rory wiggles a house-croc'd foot at him. They can be slippers too!
At opposite ends of the kitchen and clad in various states of socially unacceptable dress, with neither seeming prepared to cross whatever imaginary line's been drawn between them over the past few months: it's definitely one of the more unique stand-offs he's been in. And it's uncomfortable. And hanging out with Rufus isn't supposed to be uncomfortable. And Rory's never had much tact. "I'd reckoned maybe you decided not to come back after all," he confesses — his clumsy attempt to fling himself over that hurdle. "What with your bike being gone and nobody home."
What can he say that he hasn’t already? That the motorcade back to Enodia was something Rufus desperately wanted to avoid, mainly because of the tedium of it; that there was still a sliver of doubt in his mind about his place here; that there was an even larger sliver (a shard) of doubt about whether he’d even see Rory again.
He settles on “I’m sorry about that,” and a look of shame does cross his face, because his communication could have been better.
But then, that also applies to Rory.
“I thought the same about you,” he adds. “You and the RV…” Why come back?
"Something to do when there's nowhere else to go. You don't have to apologize for anything, though. I'm trying to explain why I... shit, I dunno." It's Rory's turn to feel ashamed, and he tugs on his hood's drawstring while he tries to explain: "I assumed you'd done what anybody else would've so I got all worked up and I wanted to take it out on you but none of that's fair 'cause you ain't anybody else."
With a ‘huh’ in the back of his throat, Rufus moves further into the kitchen, pulling his hands from the robe’s pockets to run them latently on a spotless countertop. (What he wants, really, is to be pulling on Rory’s drawstrings, hoody or otherwise.) “Aren’t I?”
Rory, still (needlessly) riled up because of something for which he only has himself to blame, can hold in his knee-jerk response about as much as he can keep his eyes from following Rufus's fingers. Which is to say, not at all.
"They ate."
“Clearly.” He’s finally coming to a stop, and leans his hip against the edge of the counter as he tries to catch the other man’s gaze. “You got worked up, huh?”
And Rory relents, although he punctuates their eye contact with a stubborn shove of his own hands into his sweater's pocket as if to signal that no, Rufus can't have everything he's hunting for. Not yet. "I was looking forward to seein' you so you could rephrase what I say into questions."
“Well, you know.” Despite himself, a grin catches the corner of Rufus’ mouth. “Verified technique to keep me from saying shit I oughtn't half the time.”
Hm. He might've missed being the reason for that grin. Rory distracts himself by asking "Why not?" — which may not be an exact replica of Rufus's techniques thrown back at him, but it's close enough.
Why not? The question brings Rufus up short. The elation he feels when he sees Rory is, by now, innate – but it is also tempered by the curbs they've placed on themselves since the start, whether through choice or by unconscious determination to make their relationship harder than it needs to be.
I'd rather keep you as a friend than lose you as an ex so I wanted to make sure we're on the same page about staying easy. Those words still ring clearly in Rufus' mind. Casual. (He's really starting to hate that word.)
"Because then I run the risk of going hungry," is the lame ass reply he settles on, with a glance at the sandwich.
It's not the response Rory wanted but he nods in its direction anyways and doubles down on his insistence that Rufus EATS SOMETHING by turning his back on both man and meal — putting away clean dishes is enough of an excuse to look elsewhere. And maybe the familiar movements will loosen the knot his chest twisted itself into.
Three months is a long time to come up with an apology. Long enough to strip his monologue down to its barest elements, for Rory to wipe any confessions both from what he wants to say and from his system entirely. (Well. He hopes.) He doesn't speak again for a minute or two, and when he does, it's even shorter.
"I didn't mean to go without checking in," he starts, dropping cutlery in a drawer. "Evacuation was a lot 'n it just kind of happened, and I felt like shit when I realized. I'm sorry. But you're one of the most–" (Here he pauses, allegedly to chip grit from a bowl that was already in pristine condition.) "Of my closest friends. I promise I wouldn't leave for good without sayin' something." Or probably at all, if it's to somewhere Rufus isn't.
Having pulled the small plate with its offering of bread and bacon close, Rufus finds himself studying it as Rory says his piece. He catches the break and swift change in the other man’s reply — mainly because he’s done it so many times himself, it’s practically an art form that neither will acknowledge for all that they’ve perfected it — and slowly nods agreement with the conclusion. “Me neither,” he offers, because what a monumental waste of a man (and relationship, with all of its CASUAL benefits) if they just went their own separate ways. Just like that.
It’s a frightening thought.
He’s suddenly standing behind Rory. “You got a knife there?” he asks quietly, not needing a knife.
That's just one more event from the day that Rory can't make sense of but he pulls open the cutlery drawer nonetheless, even if he does so with a mumbled "It's finger food."
“Sure,” Rufus replies, oh so helpfully, and wraps his arms around Rory’s waist.
While three months was also a long time to go without this, there's nothing he can do about the exhale caught in the back of his throat—or how much he wants to sink back into his chest, or run his hands along the man's forearms—except try one more time. Because he'll be damned if he ignores Rufus, The Person He Cares About, in favour of fucking it out. "If you're not gonna say shit you oughtn't, can you at least tell me how you are? Or you've been?"
The idea of sharing his innermost thoughts and feelings still has the effect of sending a ripple of discomfort through Rufus… but this is Rory. And Rory is trying, which softens his resolve at least half as much as the present reality of getting to hold him again. "I wasn't in a good place," he says after a breath. "Thought I'd killed some kids, you know? And maybe going off on my own wasn't what I needed to do, but it half felt like it at the time."
No, Rory didn't know, at least not in the literal sense — but what he does know is the dread that eats away when it's always a possibility, especially when it's one that's happened before. He wouldn't even want an enemy to navigate that fallout alone, and the thought of Rufus going through it feels like a monumental failure on his part even though he hadn't been part of the conversation. He could have tried.
Even so, this isn't about Rory or what he could have or didn't do. It's about Rufus.
"Ru, fuck." Now he lets himself run his hands along Rufus's forearms, although it's to clasp them, firm, and pull him in for as close to an embrace as he can make it. "I'm sorry."
“You know what you can’t do about it?” Rufus’s tone is now one of mild bemusement; he pulls Rory a degree closer and sighs. “Yoga it out.”
Rory pauses, either because he's working out the mental image or because he's feeling a certain way about feeling a certain man's breath on his neck again. Who can say. "The whole time?"
“No,” Rufus replies. He’s running his thumbs in small circles over Rory’s hipbones. “Rode some horses. Drank too much wine.”
Rory closes his eyes with a sigh and leans into Rufus, lets his head roll onto back the other man's shoulder. He wants to say I missed this—his company, their banter (and/or bickering), how he knows to get Rory's attention with the slightest touch—but he's made enough admissions for one night. He's content to let Rufus change the topic. "Fell in love with a pretty cowboy, wrote a sad song when he left you for the trail."
This elicits a chuckle, which Rufus presses into Rory’s skin, lips glancing against that delicate spot on his neck just behind his ear. “Why, it’s like you were there…”
(Because Rory isn’t wildly off base here.)
"Teach it to me later," Rory replies once he's recovered, which took at least one more deep breath and whatever half-ounce of self-control he'd been clinging to. "'Cause I'm gonna need that mouth of yours for a while yet."
Rufus can't bring himself to admit that it feels right, because these past three months have cast something of a pall over everything and everyone – and three months of the scantiest of exchanges of text does not build much confidence – but there's a part of him that's glad to be loitering in the hallway of 304 instead of aimlessly unpacking what's rest of his stuff.
He lets himself in, as ordered to only a few minutes ago.
"Ror?"
For a second Rory entertains the idea of not responding at all, as though it would make them even after all the one-sided conversations he'd spent the day inventing in his imagination. But that would be immature. And Rory's a 46-year-old man who's standing in his half-dusted kitchen at 2:30 a.m. wearing a hoodie and boxer briefs. Who's plating a breakfast sandwich (yes, he was serious about that) because he used Rufus' neglectful approach to nutrition as an excuse to see him as soon as the other man had reached out. Who's suddenly got no words when 20 minutes ago he'd been ready to send a novel's worth of texts.
In short, he's mature as hell.
So he does the next best thing: he calls back "Kitchen" to continue letting Rufus make the approach while he, a mature adult (see above for credentials), clears the counter to distract himself.
Rufus is feeling very much his age as he makes his way through the apartment, familiarity guiding him where confidence might otherwise falter and let him down. In pajama bottoms and his favorite robe — it’s checkered pattern and texture worn down by time — and his hair, slightly on the longer side and clearly uncombed, he looks like a man who’s just woken from sleep instead of having evaded it for hours.
He steps into the kitchen and pauses by the door, as if to memorize the sight there (just in case).
“You weren’t kidding about the sandwich.”
"Never joke about sandwiches," Rory replies with mock solemnity as he throws in the towel, both literally (onto the countertop) and figuratively (turning to face Rufus, because ignoring him won't do either of them any good and he's still not sure why he feels like he needs to in the first place even though he does).
... And he pauses.
There's a beard scratch. It's thoughtful. "Please..." It's also his attempt not to laugh at the idea of a disheveled and sleep-deprived Rufus billowing down public hallways like a ghost about to yell at some teens to get off his lawn. "Tell me you ran into everybody we know on your way down."
There’s a beat of confusion before one brow inches delicately up.
Because first, it’s just past two in the morning.
And second: “This from the man who thinks crocs count as shoes.”
"I'm living my truth, Kearney." Unashamed, Rory wiggles a house-croc'd foot at him. They can be slippers too!
At opposite ends of the kitchen and clad in various states of socially unacceptable dress, with neither seeming prepared to cross whatever imaginary line's been drawn between them over the past few months: it's definitely one of the more unique stand-offs he's been in. And it's uncomfortable. And hanging out with Rufus isn't supposed to be uncomfortable. And Rory's never had much tact. "I'd reckoned maybe you decided not to come back after all," he confesses — his clumsy attempt to fling himself over that hurdle. "What with your bike being gone and nobody home."
What can he say that he hasn’t already? That the motorcade back to Enodia was something Rufus desperately wanted to avoid, mainly because of the tedium of it; that there was still a sliver of doubt in his mind about his place here; that there was an even larger sliver (a shard) of doubt about whether he’d even see Rory again.
He settles on “I’m sorry about that,” and a look of shame does cross his face, because his communication could have been better.
But then, that also applies to Rory.
“I thought the same about you,” he adds. “You and the RV…” Why come back?
"Something to do when there's nowhere else to go. You don't have to apologize for anything, though. I'm trying to explain why I... shit, I dunno." It's Rory's turn to feel ashamed, and he tugs on his hood's drawstring while he tries to explain: "I assumed you'd done what anybody else would've so I got all worked up and I wanted to take it out on you but none of that's fair 'cause you ain't anybody else."
With a ‘huh’ in the back of his throat, Rufus moves further into the kitchen, pulling his hands from the robe’s pockets to run them latently on a spotless countertop. (What he wants, really, is to be pulling on Rory’s drawstrings, hoody or otherwise.) “Aren’t I?”
Rory, still (needlessly) riled up because of something for which he only has himself to blame, can hold in his knee-jerk response about as much as he can keep his eyes from following Rufus's fingers. Which is to say, not at all.
"They ate."
“Clearly.” He’s finally coming to a stop, and leans his hip against the edge of the counter as he tries to catch the other man’s gaze. “You got worked up, huh?”
And Rory relents, although he punctuates their eye contact with a stubborn shove of his own hands into his sweater's pocket as if to signal that no, Rufus can't have everything he's hunting for. Not yet. "I was looking forward to seein' you so you could rephrase what I say into questions."
“Well, you know.” Despite himself, a grin catches the corner of Rufus’ mouth. “Verified technique to keep me from saying shit I oughtn't half the time.”
Hm. He might've missed being the reason for that grin. Rory distracts himself by asking "Why not?" — which may not be an exact replica of Rufus's techniques thrown back at him, but it's close enough.
Why not? The question brings Rufus up short. The elation he feels when he sees Rory is, by now, innate – but it is also tempered by the curbs they've placed on themselves since the start, whether through choice or by unconscious determination to make their relationship harder than it needs to be.
I'd rather keep you as a friend than lose you as an ex so I wanted to make sure we're on the same page about staying easy. Those words still ring clearly in Rufus' mind. Casual. (He's really starting to hate that word.)
"Because then I run the risk of going hungry," is the lame ass reply he settles on, with a glance at the sandwich.
It's not the response Rory wanted but he nods in its direction anyways and doubles down on his insistence that Rufus EATS SOMETHING by turning his back on both man and meal — putting away clean dishes is enough of an excuse to look elsewhere. And maybe the familiar movements will loosen the knot his chest twisted itself into.
Three months is a long time to come up with an apology. Long enough to strip his monologue down to its barest elements, for Rory to wipe any confessions both from what he wants to say and from his system entirely. (Well. He hopes.) He doesn't speak again for a minute or two, and when he does, it's even shorter.
"I didn't mean to go without checking in," he starts, dropping cutlery in a drawer. "Evacuation was a lot 'n it just kind of happened, and I felt like shit when I realized. I'm sorry. But you're one of the most–" (Here he pauses, allegedly to chip grit from a bowl that was already in pristine condition.) "Of my closest friends. I promise I wouldn't leave for good without sayin' something." Or probably at all, if it's to somewhere Rufus isn't.
Having pulled the small plate with its offering of bread and bacon close, Rufus finds himself studying it as Rory says his piece. He catches the break and swift change in the other man’s reply — mainly because he’s done it so many times himself, it’s practically an art form that neither will acknowledge for all that they’ve perfected it — and slowly nods agreement with the conclusion. “Me neither,” he offers, because what a monumental waste of a man (and relationship, with all of its CASUAL benefits) if they just went their own separate ways. Just like that.
It’s a frightening thought.
He’s suddenly standing behind Rory. “You got a knife there?” he asks quietly, not needing a knife.
That's just one more event from the day that Rory can't make sense of but he pulls open the cutlery drawer nonetheless, even if he does so with a mumbled "It's finger food."
“Sure,” Rufus replies, oh so helpfully, and wraps his arms around Rory’s waist.
While three months was also a long time to go without this, there's nothing he can do about the exhale caught in the back of his throat—or how much he wants to sink back into his chest, or run his hands along the man's forearms—except try one more time. Because he'll be damned if he ignores Rufus, The Person He Cares About, in favour of fucking it out. "If you're not gonna say shit you oughtn't, can you at least tell me how you are? Or you've been?"
The idea of sharing his innermost thoughts and feelings still has the effect of sending a ripple of discomfort through Rufus… but this is Rory. And Rory is trying, which softens his resolve at least half as much as the present reality of getting to hold him again. "I wasn't in a good place," he says after a breath. "Thought I'd killed some kids, you know? And maybe going off on my own wasn't what I needed to do, but it half felt like it at the time."
No, Rory didn't know, at least not in the literal sense — but what he does know is the dread that eats away when it's always a possibility, especially when it's one that's happened before. He wouldn't even want an enemy to navigate that fallout alone, and the thought of Rufus going through it feels like a monumental failure on his part even though he hadn't been part of the conversation. He could have tried.
Even so, this isn't about Rory or what he could have or didn't do. It's about Rufus.
"Ru, fuck." Now he lets himself run his hands along Rufus's forearms, although it's to clasp them, firm, and pull him in for as close to an embrace as he can make it. "I'm sorry."
“You know what you can’t do about it?” Rufus’s tone is now one of mild bemusement; he pulls Rory a degree closer and sighs. “Yoga it out.”
Rory pauses, either because he's working out the mental image or because he's feeling a certain way about feeling a certain man's breath on his neck again. Who can say. "The whole time?"
“No,” Rufus replies. He’s running his thumbs in small circles over Rory’s hipbones. “Rode some horses. Drank too much wine.”
Rory closes his eyes with a sigh and leans into Rufus, lets his head roll onto back the other man's shoulder. He wants to say I missed this—his company, their banter (and/or bickering), how he knows to get Rory's attention with the slightest touch—but he's made enough admissions for one night. He's content to let Rufus change the topic. "Fell in love with a pretty cowboy, wrote a sad song when he left you for the trail."
This elicits a chuckle, which Rufus presses into Rory’s skin, lips glancing against that delicate spot on his neck just behind his ear. “Why, it’s like you were there…”
(Because Rory isn’t wildly off base here.)
"Teach it to me later," Rory replies once he's recovered, which took at least one more deep breath and whatever half-ounce of self-control he'd been clinging to. "'Cause I'm gonna need that mouth of yours for a while yet."
later that morning // texts
rufus kearney
> Have to say that breakfast sandwich rivals a pizza the morning after.
> Cold and delicious.
rory fairfax
> it's even better the day of
> y'know, before you let yourself starve
rufus
> This is dramatic, Ror.
rory
> ever sucked a dick when the stomach above it's rumbling???
> it's so distracting
> not that that happened but it COULD'VE
rufus
> Unsure
> Usually more focused on the dick in question
> Just saying.
rory
> 🙄
rufus
> Anyway, good sandwich
> Good dick
> Sad I couldn't tell you to your face.
rory
> 💅💅💅 thanks for coming over n not wasting food (the earth says thx too)
> sorry though
> i had to go throw a bunch of foster kitties into a truck
rufus
× I like ki
× 'Sorry th
> It's fine.
> I'll see you around.
rory
× ok bud
× glad you're back
× seein you was
> ok bud
> cheers
no subject