raisetheearth | Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory [OPEN]

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Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory [OPEN]

Who: Nathan, and OPEN
Where: Shepherd's Haven
What: Nathan relives a really bad memory
When: September 22
Warnings: Possible mentions of suicide.

Even amidst all that is happening, at least a semblance of a normal life goes on. It has to. Nathan's day revolves more around tending the plants than the animals. It's soothing work, in its own way, if messier than what he'd been used to before the invasion. There is a predictable pattern to it all that he finds comforting.

He is already kneeling when the feeling hits him, fortunately. Like everything around him has suddenly changed. Instinctively, he curls inward, wishing to make himself smaller. This isn't right. Isn't right at all. What is he doing in this room that he knows is from another life?

Anyone who passes by will notice him hunched there, almost eerily still, except for his quiet speech, uncaring in tone . . . that seems to be directed at no one. Any attempt to shake him out of it will result in no reaction. And then a pause, for a couple of moments, a stricken look passing over his face. More quiet talking, but more subdued in nature this time.

And then suddenly he's back. Back in Shepherd's Haven, not in that room. That room where . . . where . . . No no no no no no . . .

He lets out a gasp, but it doesn't stop there. His eyes are wide, terrified. He's shaking, breathing hard, trying desperately to get himself under control. All in an open field where anyone could see him.

[[OOC: If anyone might be in position close enough to hear Nathan's end of this, the recurrence starts halfway through page 7 to the end of page 12. (Content warning for suicide.)]]

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At least Nathan's breathing seems to be evening out. Lazarus notes that what he's doing seems to be helping, even if only minorly, and keeps rubbing his back gently. There's no rush, they're in no danger, just out here in a field where spring has demanded more time and effort.

He furrows his brow. Investigation team? Right, he realizes it must have been after L's death if Nathan's Other was in charge of one.

"I see... I think that anyone witnessing that would have a difficult time," he murmurs, thinking back to the time when he saw someone's brains blown out in front of him. Difficult, indeed. "Is it getting any better? Do you want more time? Take as much as you need, we're safe here."

Even with strange things like that happening, with no apparent trigger... what is going on, here?

He relaxes his fingers, finally. "It's . . . somewhat better. I just need a few more minutes."

Anyone would have a difficult time . . . That's right. Even Near, cold as he was, had been affected by this. He remembers it, the vaguely saddened tone where he'd normally been unemotional. The minutely trembling fingers as he'd moved to start rebuilding the city of dice in front of him. Even someone that cold had not been immune.

A sigh, letting go of the tension. He opens his eyes, finally looking up at Lazarus. And he blinks mildly at the uniform. "You had one as well."

He nods, averting his eyes and preparing to wait it out even if Nathan needs more than just a few minutes to pull himself back together.

"I did," he replies. "I remembered saving someone from being killed and my Other needing to wear this as a disguise. I guess I didn't want to change out of it before checking to make sure you were OK... my feeling is that this is happening to a lot of Numbered, with the same amount of variation we've all come to know and love."

His tone is dry and mildly sarcastic.

He reaches up to wind his fingers into his hair, uncaring of the dirt. It's a calming habit, and he needs that right now. Some small part of him feels a brief pang of bitterness; Lazarus gets to save someone in his while he has to witness half the people in the room with him drop dead. People he'd been responsible for.

But that feeling is gone as quickly as it comes. It isn't fair; they've both had plenty of awful ones. And they do not control what they get.

"And with no apparent trigger."

Nathan had not even been doing anything, had not encountered anything strange. This had simply come out of nowhere.

Lazarus' pleasant echoes are few and far between. He thinks that he deserves the ones like this which, which, while not necessarily gentle or reassuring, are at least fairly harmless.

"...for what it's worth... and I know this will in no way make you feel better... but when Moises was shot, the echo I got back was a lot like yours. I guess that Kira killed 12 FBI agents that L brought to Japan to investigate him, and he felt responsible for those lives."

Whether he felt genuinely bad isn't clear, but responsible, at least, seemed to have been the case.

"I think that our Others were only human. There was only so much death they could prevent when the stakes were that high."

He nods solemnly, but Lazarus is right: it doesn't make him feel any better. Knowing that these things can happen despite best efforts is not a comforting thing at all. His investigators died, Mello died . . . The only thing anyone can do when they happen is find some way to deal with it.

"There was . . . talk of kidnappers. My Other had suspected there to be a spy connected to them in the SPK. Theorized that one of the dead was the spy, killed so they could not be traced back."

That had been Near's plan, too, he remembers now. But this had happened before he'd gotten to it.

But now that he is more clearheaded, something about the phrasing that Near had used jumps out at him. "... He never said it was Kira. About the kidnappers: 'Now that they've got the notebook.' As if it had recently changed hands."

Reality, in all its harsh starkness, really is very seldom comforting. There are a few spots of it here and there, the kindness of a friend or the gladness of a symptom-free day, but their lives aren't easy by any standard, and their Others' weren't, either. That much is clear from all they've gotten back. And it demands strength that Nathan might not be ready to gather and expend to sustain it all.

"This was all after L's time," Lazarus says softly. "I... wish I had some context for it. I can only guess. It may have been Kira, it may not have been... but if it's a notebook, it makes sense that it could go between people, doesn't it? In fact I don't see how that could really be avoided. One person using it would get caught much faster."

The memories on their own are bad enough. But when they are mere recollections, they are easier to handle. This? This had been living it, and for someone who would wilt at a slap, witnessing so many people die is perhaps too awful for words. How many more like this is he going to suffer?

"If he thought it was, I don't think he would have had a problem saying it."

Meaning he had reason to believe otherwise. But what reason? That part is missing. He sighs, shakes his head. "I am unsure as to where these kidnappers fit into anything."

It just isn't tracking in his mind. The SPK had been created with the purpose of tracking a mass murderer; what did kidnappings have to do with that? Why would kidnappers have a spy in an organization that should not have been after them in the first place? If it were Kira . . . what use did they have for kidnapping? Nothing quite makes sense.

Lazarus blinks and stiffens. This time there was a trigger for the echo he got back, and it was discussion of the notebook's transferable abilities.

"Ah... so L thought so, too..." he murmurs, shaking his head in an effort to clear it as more of it is occupied with what his intimidating Other knew and was.

"You know how all this works. It'll reveal itself eventually, in all likelihood," Lazarus offers. "Are you... I don't suppose it's really something that makes a lot of sense to offer, but I wonder if you're hungry? You've been through something stressful and I'm not much of a cook but... I'm good at making hot cocoa. Misa likes it."

"I suppose it will."

There is a part of him eager for the knowledge, the understanding. He likes it when things make sense. And there is another part of him that shies away, what with how awful and painful this particular revelation has been. But ultimately he has no choice in the matter and he needs to accept that, deal with things as they come.

He blinks thoughtfully at the offer. Hungry? Now that he thinks about it, he sort of is. It generally isn't something it occurs to him on his own more than once a day unless someone else points it out to him. They're both rather bad at that, left to their own devices.

"I . . . think I would like something, yes."

"Even if we don't get a complete picture, ever, it's essentially guaranteed to be more complete, given time," he murmurs. He also likes it when things make sense, and ultimately appreciates it when he can at least fill in the blanks in a decently informed manner.

He offers a hand to help Nathan up after he stands himself.

"Come back to my house? I want to change out of this now that I know you're OK. As much as I want to help others, I don't think it really suits me."

He unwinds his fingers from his hair and takes the offered hand, pulls himself up. He's still a little shaky, but far, far better than when this had started.

"Alright." He follows, light steps as always. "No, it really does not."

The paramedic's outfit looks very strange, quite frankly. But then, Nathan had Echoed back a set of custom-fit riot gear during the invasion, so he hardly has any room to talk where being returned odd attire is concerned.

Lazarus wasn't expecting Nathan to disagree about the outfit he's currently dressed in, but his shoulders still slope slightly more at the confirmation that they seem out of place on his body. The story of his life is sort of not belonging, no matter what environment he finds himself in. The closest he ever came was Willow Ridge, perhaps, but that almost feels like a lifetime ago now.

He pushes open his door when they arrive at the house, immediately putting a pot of milk to warm on the stove and heading back to the bathroom (where the mirror is still foggy from his shower) to get dressed the way he originally intended to.

"I'll be just a moment," he informs, leaving Nathan to wait in his very clean, strangely spartan cottage's kitchenette.

It's only a slight motion, that sloping of the shoulders, but it does not escape Nathan's notice.

"Though you're not alone in getting something so unsuitable. I hardly think that riot gear suits me or my Other."

A vague joke, perhaps? Even Nathan isn't quite sure; he simply wants to mitigate that reaction somehow. That story of not belonging is something they share, what had made Nathan instinctively approach Lazarus what is now a decade ago. They were different, strange in many of the same ways. He'd wanted to know what it was like to have that, back then, even if it only could have been brief. And it had turned out not to be brief after all.

The spartan quality to the kitchenette is nothing strange to him. His own is similar, which would surely surprise no one who knows the both of them. He takes a seat while he waits, watching the pot warm on the stove, using the moment to try and calm what agitation remains.

Lazarus has no delusions about being an attractive man, the type of person who would look good in that type of uniform, but it doesn't mean he's wholly happy with his appearance. Even though he does little to change it and has bizarrely good luck with attracting romantic partners, some days he would absolutely prefer to be the kind of strong, upright, healthy man who could lead a movement and reassuringly look the part.

It's actually highly impressive that he's earned so much faith and trust looking like he does, but he tends to overlook that.

"Riot gear?" he asks absently. "No, I... fully admit that was very strange to see..."

Near looks like he's made of glass. Riot gear could protect him, Lazarus supposes, if he could move while wearing it. And he can, of course, he's witnessed it, but that doesn't really make it easier to accept.

He returns shortly, hair still damp from the shower that his pulse had interrupted, wearing looser and more comfortable clothing than the dark, close-fitting pieces he usually steps out in. He will probably not leave his home again today, and his feet remain bare as he returns to the warming milk and arranges his ingredients. Most of them are close at hand; not surprisingly, this is pretty much the only thing Lazarus knows how to cook.

"It's a big deal that I'm good at this, you know. I don't think you'd remember Belle... she was before your time, but back when I lived with her, I tried to cook occasionally. I ruined a lot of food and appliances and still never really got the hang of it."

Edited 2015-10-15 05:12 (UTC)

There are times when Nathan wishes he could be different than what he is. Someone with more normal coloration so that he does not get wary glances or hear whispers from strangers. Someone taller and healthier-looking that does not get mistaken for thirteen when he's twenty. Usually, he doesn't think about it. But there is the occasional day.

Even stranger that the riot gear had fit him. It surely would have had to have been custom-made, as he cannot imagine that such a thing would be regularly made for someone his size. Near had apparently thought that he might need it at some point.

"No, her name is unfamiliar to me." He'd only checked backlogs up to a point. There is a line between being thorough and falling behind. "It can be a difficult thing to get the hang of, yes."

Nathan never quite ruined appliances, but he certainly has had his share of cooking failures. He can make a few things, but he is not what anyone would call a skilled cook.

Lazarus nods, having expected as much. "Belle Goldman. She was my therapist, and then we lived together, and then..." he coughs, trailing off. "She had endless patience. Back then I really needed it. Far more than lately, though maybe not as much as recently. She lost her Number and reconnected with an old flame, to the last of my knowledge, and I've stopped keeping tabs on her. It feels inappropriate, somehow."

For Lazarus to recognize that might actually be profound. He stirs the milk, scooping the wrinkled skin developing of the surface.

"It doesn't mean I don't ever wonder how things might have gone under different circumstances."

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Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory [OPEN]

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