Cat Jones & Peter Brightman, PI, 2004ish
Apr. 12th, 2009 12:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
evilbeejSo much backstory. But this? Catastrophe Jones, you're in another universe. Again. This is not the familiar face you'd've expected.
Who the hell would hunt an angel?
All right, discounting the people who want to /see/ an angel because they're That Damned Pious, and the people who want to HAVE an angel because they're sick fucks, and the people who want to CATCH an angel and cut it into bits for whatever reasons, and even discounting the people who just want their bloody backache to stop and wouldn't that nice angel over there like to do something about it, there's a dear? -- right.
PUTTING ALL THAT ASIDE... here's a reason for you that no one'd ever expect. Revenge.
So what if she's not an angel, she's just a girl named for it? So what if she's not the *thing* itself; she's bleeding *close* isn't she? So what if it's not even the same /place/ and everything's different here, and it's the past, and-- and it happened in the past. And--
He saw her eyes, didn't he?
She had the eyes.
-----
Curly raven hair and bright, canny blue eyes, perfectly average build and a naturally fair complexion; funny accent. He *could* be, easily, one of the crow boys. Could be. Looks like one, talks like one, has the eerily perceptive gaze watching everything--
--flighty. A little nervous. Talks with his hands, which are the long, slender hands of an artist, but which are heavily callused, as those of a craftsman. Early twenties, tops. New in town. And he's been loitering, on and off but mostly on, in the new coffee place across the street from the old coffee place near Seravina's store. Right now? He's leaning against the wall of the building, drinking steaming coffee from a paper takeaway cup; he's dressed all in blacks, and warm for the winter.
It's just past dark and you can see your breath under the streetlights, but the air is still.
Stupid goddamn fucking portals crystals timewarp HATE HATE HATE --
She smokes, stalking around, cold and tired, and hoping to find something familiar. Shit, she doesn't even know what /state/ she's in yet. It's a college town in the northeast, New England, she knows that much. Otherwise, the weather would not be like this, no not at all.
Shivering, she hugs herself and looks for a place she can duck in, for awhile, to get rid of the winter chill. She'll have to find a salvation army somewhere and get a fucking coat. Son of a /bitch/. It was only *fall* when she got yoinked -- it's /dead winter/ here. This isn't fair. "Find me soon, Pryde," she whispers. "Find me soon, okay?"
There's no answer to the whisper; just the still and frigid air, laying like a blanket over the city. And the City herself?
She keeps her own counsel. Anything else hurts too much.
Someone else, though-- "Here, what's the matter with you, stumbling about with no coat?" comes a disapproving voice from over *there*. There in front of Der Klatsch, holding a cup of Kaffee, black gloves covering his hands - skinny black-haired guy dressed like he's freakin' Vertigo or something. But he's coming over, tone and stride matter-of-fact, offering the java over. "Hold this - and don't be stupid. I've got more meat on me than you, so you're *wearing* the damned coat and I don't want to hear any arguments..."
"Th/fuck/ryou ona bout?" Cat wonders, her eyes widening as she narrows her eyes and looks to him. "Wait... wait, ohgod, Pete? PETE!" she says, reaching out a hand, reaching out as though she might touch his face. "Is that you?" she wonders, her eyes hugely wide. Of all the luck. Maybe he won't know her. Maybe he'd sooner /shoot/ her, considering how paranoid he is, in perhaps any universe. She's all scarecrowthinshaking and won't not-accept the coat, mostly because she's bewildered. Is it really you? Can I be something like home?
There's a squinting on the young man's part, and it's an expression that begs a cigarette to filter itself from the world. But he doesn't even smell like smoke -- or rather, once the coat's on Cat and her boogers un-freeze enough that she /can/ smell, and smell the coat, the /coat/ doesn't smell of it.
Or like alcohol.
Or like Pete.
"Yes," he says, moving again and going about putting the coat on Cat properly. And then taking off his gloves, and doing an impressive amount of juggling to get them on her and not slosh the coffee. As he's busying himself, he gives her a searching look. "I know I know you. I remember you. But I haven't got any idea from where. So-- I'm sorry, but you're going to have to fill me in."
"Mmm, you're not the right -- yeah, wait -- what? You /do/ know me?" she wonders, cocking her head to the side. "How do you know me?" she blurts. "You're not my Wisdom," she says. "I wonder whose you are," she sighs. She then realizes she's wearing the coat, and it bugs the crap out of her. "C'mon. back inside. I'll get a cup of coffee, you'll take your coat, I'll find a thrift store," she tells him. "Where do you /think/ you remember me from?" Please, no where freakish?
"...Wisdom? No - Bri-- OH!" The light dawns. Epiphany! The young man's hands are closed around his coffee, now, and he's not /completely/ shit out of luck because he /has/ got a suit jacket on, but the cold *is* making him clench his teeth when he's not minding them. "But that's impossible..." he trails off, voice turning inward and bright, sharp blue eyes turning toward Cat. Peeling her, but not visually, not physically. Only in his head, shucking off memory-filters like films over lights on Broadway. And then ending up with a look of wonder on his pale face, which drops *years* from his appearance. Makes him look even /more/ familiar. "You taught me how to play guitar. You let me stay, while Em was in hospital -- you kept me safe. You're Cat!"
*Delight*, now.
Bri-- Cat stares, obviously confounded, hopelessly bewildered as she cocks her head to the side. "Only kid I ever taught to play g---JESUSHOLYFUCKSHITFUCKINGFUCK!" she shrieks, those blue eyes HUGE. "BRIGHTMAN?" she wonders, reaching to grab his shoulders and give him a shake. "You're supposed... you're s'posed t'be like.. TWELVE!" she blurts, looking almost pained. The delight reflects in her eyes, even if she looks disturbed. "You're... holy... /wow/, this is *insane* at least you're a good guy," she whispers.
Brightman says, "HAHAHAHAHAHA"
Catastrophe says, "She nearly *exploded* in my head."
"Yes! Yes--" Shaken! Rattlerattle, and Peter's laughing, and to hell with this arm's length thing, he pulls her into a *bearhug*, tight and warm and solid, still laughing. "Rowan and Thorn, Cat, *I'm* supposed to be twelve? No, /you're/ supposed to be /old/! Now stop being an idiot about the coat. I'll get you coffee anyway-- you /are/ new here; you'll have to stay at my place--"
*squish!* Cat urk!s and briefly hugs back, gasping as she's let go. Phew. Rowan and Thorn. Bwuh? "You took a lot of that 'study the fae' to heart, huh?" she wonders. Eventually, Emily got out of the hospital. Eventually, it was time for school, and moving on, and life kept them separate, and then things went *crazy* and then eventually, Cat got dropped /here/. "Your place? Nyeah, I'm new here, but what's here and are /you/ new here, or are we... are you the you I knew, or some alternate you?" she wonders, rubbing her eyes. "And that's why you think I should be older, or what?" Oh, this is just /fucked up/. Kitty expected her Pete to be older. And dead, so. She wonders if either of them are here. My Kitty. My Pete. Where are you? She eyes Brightman and feels, at least for now, in a familiar place. "Coat. Coffee. Place to stay, and I s'pose I can't complain about /that/ at all," she chuffs in the cold air. "Make mine a mocha, and the day might even be considered /good/."
"'Course it's a good day," retorts Peter almost cheerfully, but mostly because he's doing a very bad job of pretending to be imperious. "I found you! Well, you found me, but -- la."
Holding the door open for Cat totally naturally, the -- hell, he looks, in general, somewhere around twenty-four -- crow-haired boy ushers her inside. "A really big mocha, Tombo, and a refill on mine!" he calls out, making sure the door shuts behind them.
Cat gets an odd look from 'Tombo', but it's quickly switched for 'knowing', and somewhat smug. "I'm more or less new here," Peter explains, bringing his takeaway cup up to the counter. "Been about a month. They get enough new people in from portals'v they got a system set up, and everything. I'm actually getting by damned well just busking, too. As far as the older goes, yeah. You look about as old as you were when I met you. Know you're none of the sort that doesn't age, though, so /that's/ all right."
So many questions just glossed right over, there.
Who the hell would hunt an angel?
All right, discounting the people who want to /see/ an angel because they're That Damned Pious, and the people who want to HAVE an angel because they're sick fucks, and the people who want to CATCH an angel and cut it into bits for whatever reasons, and even discounting the people who just want their bloody backache to stop and wouldn't that nice angel over there like to do something about it, there's a dear? -- right.
PUTTING ALL THAT ASIDE... here's a reason for you that no one'd ever expect. Revenge.
So what if she's not an angel, she's just a girl named for it? So what if she's not the *thing* itself; she's bleeding *close* isn't she? So what if it's not even the same /place/ and everything's different here, and it's the past, and-- and it happened in the past. And--
He saw her eyes, didn't he?
She had the eyes.
-----
Curly raven hair and bright, canny blue eyes, perfectly average build and a naturally fair complexion; funny accent. He *could* be, easily, one of the crow boys. Could be. Looks like one, talks like one, has the eerily perceptive gaze watching everything--
--flighty. A little nervous. Talks with his hands, which are the long, slender hands of an artist, but which are heavily callused, as those of a craftsman. Early twenties, tops. New in town. And he's been loitering, on and off but mostly on, in the new coffee place across the street from the old coffee place near Seravina's store. Right now? He's leaning against the wall of the building, drinking steaming coffee from a paper takeaway cup; he's dressed all in blacks, and warm for the winter.
It's just past dark and you can see your breath under the streetlights, but the air is still.
Stupid goddamn fucking portals crystals timewarp HATE HATE HATE --
She smokes, stalking around, cold and tired, and hoping to find something familiar. Shit, she doesn't even know what /state/ she's in yet. It's a college town in the northeast, New England, she knows that much. Otherwise, the weather would not be like this, no not at all.
Shivering, she hugs herself and looks for a place she can duck in, for awhile, to get rid of the winter chill. She'll have to find a salvation army somewhere and get a fucking coat. Son of a /bitch/. It was only *fall* when she got yoinked -- it's /dead winter/ here. This isn't fair. "Find me soon, Pryde," she whispers. "Find me soon, okay?"
There's no answer to the whisper; just the still and frigid air, laying like a blanket over the city. And the City herself?
She keeps her own counsel. Anything else hurts too much.
Someone else, though-- "Here, what's the matter with you, stumbling about with no coat?" comes a disapproving voice from over *there*. There in front of Der Klatsch, holding a cup of Kaffee, black gloves covering his hands - skinny black-haired guy dressed like he's freakin' Vertigo or something. But he's coming over, tone and stride matter-of-fact, offering the java over. "Hold this - and don't be stupid. I've got more meat on me than you, so you're *wearing* the damned coat and I don't want to hear any arguments..."
"Th/fuck/ryou ona bout?" Cat wonders, her eyes widening as she narrows her eyes and looks to him. "Wait... wait, ohgod, Pete? PETE!" she says, reaching out a hand, reaching out as though she might touch his face. "Is that you?" she wonders, her eyes hugely wide. Of all the luck. Maybe he won't know her. Maybe he'd sooner /shoot/ her, considering how paranoid he is, in perhaps any universe. She's all scarecrowthinshaking and won't not-accept the coat, mostly because she's bewildered. Is it really you? Can I be something like home?
There's a squinting on the young man's part, and it's an expression that begs a cigarette to filter itself from the world. But he doesn't even smell like smoke -- or rather, once the coat's on Cat and her boogers un-freeze enough that she /can/ smell, and smell the coat, the /coat/ doesn't smell of it.
Or like alcohol.
Or like Pete.
"Yes," he says, moving again and going about putting the coat on Cat properly. And then taking off his gloves, and doing an impressive amount of juggling to get them on her and not slosh the coffee. As he's busying himself, he gives her a searching look. "I know I know you. I remember you. But I haven't got any idea from where. So-- I'm sorry, but you're going to have to fill me in."
"Mmm, you're not the right -- yeah, wait -- what? You /do/ know me?" she wonders, cocking her head to the side. "How do you know me?" she blurts. "You're not my Wisdom," she says. "I wonder whose you are," she sighs. She then realizes she's wearing the coat, and it bugs the crap out of her. "C'mon. back inside. I'll get a cup of coffee, you'll take your coat, I'll find a thrift store," she tells him. "Where do you /think/ you remember me from?" Please, no where freakish?
"...Wisdom? No - Bri-- OH!" The light dawns. Epiphany! The young man's hands are closed around his coffee, now, and he's not /completely/ shit out of luck because he /has/ got a suit jacket on, but the cold *is* making him clench his teeth when he's not minding them. "But that's impossible..." he trails off, voice turning inward and bright, sharp blue eyes turning toward Cat. Peeling her, but not visually, not physically. Only in his head, shucking off memory-filters like films over lights on Broadway. And then ending up with a look of wonder on his pale face, which drops *years* from his appearance. Makes him look even /more/ familiar. "You taught me how to play guitar. You let me stay, while Em was in hospital -- you kept me safe. You're Cat!"
*Delight*, now.
Bri-- Cat stares, obviously confounded, hopelessly bewildered as she cocks her head to the side. "Only kid I ever taught to play g---JESUSHOLYFUCKSHITFUCKINGFUCK!" she shrieks, those blue eyes HUGE. "BRIGHTMAN?" she wonders, reaching to grab his shoulders and give him a shake. "You're supposed... you're s'posed t'be like.. TWELVE!" she blurts, looking almost pained. The delight reflects in her eyes, even if she looks disturbed. "You're... holy... /wow/, this is *insane* at least you're a good guy," she whispers.
"Yes! Yes--" Shaken! Rattlerattle, and Peter's laughing, and to hell with this arm's length thing, he pulls her into a *bearhug*, tight and warm and solid, still laughing. "Rowan and Thorn, Cat, *I'm* supposed to be twelve? No, /you're/ supposed to be /old/! Now stop being an idiot about the coat. I'll get you coffee anyway-- you /are/ new here; you'll have to stay at my place--"
*squish!* Cat urk!s and briefly hugs back, gasping as she's let go. Phew. Rowan and Thorn. Bwuh? "You took a lot of that 'study the fae' to heart, huh?" she wonders. Eventually, Emily got out of the hospital. Eventually, it was time for school, and moving on, and life kept them separate, and then things went *crazy* and then eventually, Cat got dropped /here/. "Your place? Nyeah, I'm new here, but what's here and are /you/ new here, or are we... are you the you I knew, or some alternate you?" she wonders, rubbing her eyes. "And that's why you think I should be older, or what?" Oh, this is just /fucked up/. Kitty expected her Pete to be older. And dead, so. She wonders if either of them are here. My Kitty. My Pete. Where are you? She eyes Brightman and feels, at least for now, in a familiar place. "Coat. Coffee. Place to stay, and I s'pose I can't complain about /that/ at all," she chuffs in the cold air. "Make mine a mocha, and the day might even be considered /good/."
"'Course it's a good day," retorts Peter almost cheerfully, but mostly because he's doing a very bad job of pretending to be imperious. "I found you! Well, you found me, but -- la."
Holding the door open for Cat totally naturally, the -- hell, he looks, in general, somewhere around twenty-four -- crow-haired boy ushers her inside. "A really big mocha, Tombo, and a refill on mine!" he calls out, making sure the door shuts behind them.
Cat gets an odd look from 'Tombo', but it's quickly switched for 'knowing', and somewhat smug. "I'm more or less new here," Peter explains, bringing his takeaway cup up to the counter. "Been about a month. They get enough new people in from portals'v they got a system set up, and everything. I'm actually getting by damned well just busking, too. As far as the older goes, yeah. You look about as old as you were when I met you. Know you're none of the sort that doesn't age, though, so /that's/ all right."
So many questions just glossed right over, there.
