open rp post

[wunderkind]

an open rp post
(it is what it says it is)

-1-
pick a character

-2-
leave me a comment. maybe a scenario, maybe an AU scenario, maybe a picture, maybe a word,
maybe a request to resume old game canon, maybe just a comment.
i don't care. do your worst.

-2a-
helpful note: i am currently obsessed with the Hunger Games and Christmas. can you combine those into one tag?

-3-
let's get it on



disclaimer: we probably won't get it on
+ there are no promises i will take this seriously

Comments

C: C: C: C: SAME....... same.

[doggedly]

Just out.

[They don't have long conversations and heart-to-hearts--not even close. They get on all right, for all that, and they work well together. Opposite temperaments in so many ways; opposite and complimentary skills. Just look at that stack of paperwork. Sirius would have shoved that away ages ago, half-arsed it at the last minute, if at all. Edgeworth is working diligently, his fingers stained with ink.

Sirius glances over his shoulder at him a moment, as he finishes doing up his coat.]

I'll get you a drink if you come with.

[It's a gesture of-- friendliness. Unremarkable.]

In my head I am constantly singing Christmas carols

[jurisimpudent]

[A few years ago, Edgeworth would have done everything in his power to avoid imbibing the least swallow of alcohol. Someone could have gotten him to come out for a drink only with threats and blackmail. Indeed, someone could have gotten him to come out at all only with threats and blackmail; he'd have done his utmost to avoid any social contact at all.

But he's changed since then, and more than that - his relationship with Sirius is not like his relationship with others. Whether they are friends or not, Edgeworth cannot say. But he can say that if Sirius Black asked him to lay down and die for him, he would, unhesitatingly, without question. Friendship is questionable, but trust, deep trust, is absolute.

Plus he's found that a drink now and then is nice. His hands are cramped and his eyes are tired. Even though he'll have to forge out into the holiday milieu, it's worth it to get a taciturn bit of relaxation with his partner.

He stands. And there's just a light hint of wryness - wryness that no one save Sirius sees at this time of year, with everyone else on the receiving end of his sour barking - when he says:]

If we go to the Crossed Arms, we could get a few cockroaches thrown in for free.

[And then, a slight pause as he reaches for his own coat - and he adds, trying hard not to sound too much like a fussbudget - ]

Wear a hat, too. It's quite cold out there.

but why just in your head THE BEST WAY TO SPREAD CHRISTMAS CHEER IS SINGING LOUD FOR ALL TO HEAR

[doggedly]

[Sirius snorts, first, at the joke that isn't really a joke. If Sirius and Edgeworth had a favourite terrible pub, it would be the Crossed Arms. It's called the Crossed Arms presumably because people go out of it in coffins, with their arms crossed. Whether it was Sirius or Edgeowrth that made that joke that isn't a joke first--well, the answer to that is lost to the ages. But now it's habitual, in a way, to talk about just how shit the place really is.]

Brilliant. I like my pints a bit crunchy.

[The hat comment just gets a look--yeah, right--and Sirius pointedly opens the door, entirely sans hat, and goes out into the corridor, leading the way out into the damp cold outdoors--where it is, actually, quite cold, but he's not going to admit that. He turns the collar up on his coat and shoves his hands in his pockets.]

You're nearly done with that stack. What are you going to do with yourself all weekend?

Also the best way to get committed

[jurisimpudent]

[Edgeworth tucks his hands into his pockets. He's hatless himself, but he at least has a thick scarf wrapped around his neck, and decent gloves - nothing stylish, just something practical - and solid boots. It's cold out here; the wind seems to pinch at his cheeks and nudge at the opening of his coat, and ice crunches underfoot when he steps too far to the edge of the sidewalk.]

I'd considered heading back into the office. The New Year is approaching quickly enough; we always fall behind on our documentation. A head start would be...auspicious.

[There's a family ahead of them; the little boy, bundled head to toe, so thickly his arms stand out from his body, charges forward. Edgeworth steps to the side to allow him to run between the two of them.]

So, in short: a new stack.

to christmastown? yes!

[doggedly]

[He smiles thinly at Edgeworth's ambition, and though he doesn't turn his head to watch the kid run past them, he tracks his progress with his eyes, until he's beyond Sirius' peripheral vision.]

Happy New Year, have a cramped hand.

[His gaze trails up to the sky, where the heavy cloud cover conceals any sight of daylight. It's disgusting, waxing nostalgic like this--or false nostalgic, really, as he doesn't have much to be nostalgic about, but.]

I always wanted to do fireworks, for the New Year. Isn't that what people usually do?

Oh my god I want to go to Christmastown :<

[jurisimpudent]

They do in the States.

[Edgeworth hates the whole thing - the whole Christmas season, November to January, every bit of it, top to bottom. But Sirius is...The loyalty Edgeworth owes Sirius is immense. It is stronger by far than the curmudgeonly dislike he has for the season. If Sirius were to express a desire for a Christmas tree, Edgeworth would agree; mere fireworks is of course permitted.

Edgeworth ducks to avoid a low tree branch, weighted with snow; it scrapes across his head, spreading a streak of white down his hair.]

I know in the Soviet Union, they exchange gifts and ignore Christmas Day altogether. So the tradition varies by locale.

well come on over to my house then that's where it is

[doggedly]

They exchange gifts on New Year's Day, you mean? Merlin, that seems depressing. Here's another new year, nothing's changed, I got you a pair of knobby socks.

[It's bleak, but he's mostly being sarcastic anyways, he doesn't actually mean it. And he's not going to say anything about Christmas trees, about lights and gifts and the lot of it, because-- it's an idiotic impulse.]

You didn't do fireworks, did you. But presents on Christmas, I s'ppose, right? Does anyone not do presents on Christmas?

Yes all right it better still be so in early January

[jurisimpudent]

[With admirable drollness:]

Non-Christians?

[There was a time, not long ago, when he'd have flinched and gone silent, sad, when asked that sort of thing. But now - or maybe it's but with Sirius - he's able to allow a little bit of sardonic humor.

Though he still appreciates that they get to the Crossed Arms at that moment, that he can take a moment to comport himself as he unwinds his scarf. So that he can answer casually, offhandedly.]

In any case. No, no fireworks, but yes, presents. Which, knowing you, is probably a disappointment. I know you'd be far keener on explosions than gifts.

[It's quite empty in the pub; it's quiet, too. He slides into a seat at a table, raises his eyes to the Christmasy tinsel, looks away again. He doesn't know whether it's safe to ask the return question regarding Sirius' family; he decides to listen, first, to try to gauge Sirius' attitude.]

come before january 6th and it will be!

[doggedly]

[He snorts, first, dryly amused at Edgeworth's non-Christians comment. It's not exactly funny but it sort of is. And then they're both undoing coats and taking off scarves (or Edgeworth is, at least, Sirius just shrugs out of his coat) and it's all just busy enough to give Sirius a minute to stop being a damp idiot about something like a holiday.

Or it ought to be. But there's Christmas decorations even in the pub, a few gestures of tinsel and holly that ought to be sad in the dim surroundings, but somehow manage still to possess some bit of cheer. Sirius glances at the tinsel as well, sparing it a moment.]

Well, if they were explosive presents...

[He shrugs a little, with a thin smile, as he slumps back against the booth.]

What d'you want? If I get us pints, are you going to complain?

I CAN'T I'LL BE IN THE SOUTHWEST UNTIL JANUARY 6TH

[jurisimpudent]

That's what I want. But I'll complain regardless. Happy holidays.

[And that's good. He's proud of that sardonic comment, that irreverence; being able to speak about Christmastime and the Christmas season irreverently is nice.

And yet a moment later there's a strange twist of something - guilt or sadness or something - and he looks away and gives a little shrug. And he suffers from some strange, inexplicable emotion when he says:]

And, ah...thanks. For buying.

[And it's said awkwardly, not thoughtlessly like it should be, and Edgeworth finds himself growing suddenly, intensely self-conscious in a way he does considerably less often of late.]

WELL I'M SORRY BUT THAT'S WHEN CHRISTMASTOWN GOES HOME

[doggedly]

[He's already shoving away from the table when Edgeworth gives that word of thanks--awkwardly, and it, in turn, makes him give an awkward shrug, looking away towards the bar.]

Yeah, it's so much money. I'll be right back.

[It's still a little strange that money is of consequence now, that he can't just-- do whatever he pleases with it. Not that he was ever particularly swayed by the thrill of wealth--it just sort of was, there was nothing really to it.

At the bar, he orders the two pints and hangs around while they get them together--then takes them back to Edgeworth, depositing one neatly on the table before him. Only a little sloshes over the glass.]

Cheers. Happy Christmas, which you hate, and a happy New Year. May it be full of paperwork.

WHY CAN'T IT STAY

[jurisimpudent]

Right.

[That comes out a little weak.]

Cheers.

[That one sounds a little better. But there's still a certain degree of discomfort as he takes the first sip - which, in spite of his complaints and mockery of this pub, is a good, fine brew, offered at very reasonable prices; the only issue is a certain lack of sanitation, true, but over the past few years they've both lost their more...finicky standards.

Things have a pleasant sort of equilibrium now. Being an Auror isn't like he thought it would be when he was younger; there's quite a bit more paperwork and methodical investigation than thrilling apprehension of evil Dark wizards through feats of derring-do. The most reckless, exciting, and dangerous moment happened when they were seventeen; there have been firefights since then, yes, but most of what Edgeworth does in a given day is sort through testimonies of suspected Death Eaters to determine who was under the Imperius curse and who is merely pretending. He's good at that; Sirius, whip-smart, is as well. They run good, solid interrogations. They bring in more culprits than nearly any other team.

Their work is good. In some strange, taciturn way, their lives are good, too. Or at least Edgeworth thinks they are. Sirius might see things differently, but...He'd grown up so isolated. To have someone to live with, to talk with, who is perhaps not precisely a friend (perhaps?) but who is there, and who is good, is more than he'd ever hoped for.

And yet. And yet Edgeworth can never help testing that equilibrium. He can never stop himself from reaching out and pressing at it, examining it.

He says, once he's swallowed his beer:]

I don't ever mean to prevent you from celebrating the holiday.

why hello

[doggedly]

[It would be nice, Sirius thinks, as he swallows his first mouthful of beer, to just drink in silence. Silence is something that Edgeworth generally values, and insists upon, which has occasionally caused some tension between them. Sirius, prone to fits of mania, chooses to embrace noise on occasion, even encourage it, create it, whatever. The same can be said in his deeper bouts of depression as well, though sometimes he prefers to sink into a dark silence then. It all depends.

Today, Sirius wishes for silence. Not because he's feeling particularly depressed--if anything, he feels a little numb and distant. He more wants silence because he doesn't really want to talk about holidays.

Or he does. Traitorous fucking thought.

Instead of answering, he shrugs, like it's nothing, and quickly takes another sip of beer to buy himself time.]

Well, you aren't. So.

[Good answer, Black. He pulls a little face at himself, staring down into his glass.]

I don't care, honestly.

why HELLO

[jurisimpudent]

[Edgeworth shoots Sirius A Look. It's less grim than the we're-on-the-wrong-track Look he can pass to the other man in interrogations, the Look instantly interpreted and understood; it's less exasperated than the can-I-have-a-bit-of-quiet-here-Black Look which is always understood and sometimes ignored; but it is a close cousin of them both. It is the bullshit Look, the glance taking the place of the profanity which will not - even after all these years - escape his lips.

That's all he gives Sirius. Just that look, as he sips his beer, and nothing else. To speak aloud would obligate Sirius to respond aloud; the Look allows a bit more leeway, the ability to pretend he hadn't seen - just in case the topic is too painful.]

ello guvna

[doggedly]

[He's seen a lot of Looks, from Edgeworth, over the course of their professional working relationship. For being rather opposite of one another, they communicate quite well without very many words, and this Look--

His eyes narrow a little. He takes another sip of beer, fortifying, and then sets the glass down, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back.]

Something wrong?

ello ello

[jurisimpudent]

[If he's willing to challenge him, that means it's fair to be spoken of. So Edgeworth sets down his own beer, and gives a small firm nod, and says:]

It is a matter of significance to you. The claim that you do not care is altogether false.

tuppence t'feed the birds guvna?

[doggedly]

[He stays where he is, installed in that lean, his arms still folded tightly and his jaw tight.]

And how d'you know that, exactly? Been reading my diary? It's a bloody holiday, Edgeworth. I'm not some girl, and I'm not a kid.

no get yourself away child i haven't time for you

[jurisimpudent]

[And this time, the glance is chiding.]

One needn't be either a child or female to attach emotional significance to something. And you attach emotional significance to Christmas. It's written on your face whenever you so much as glance at a Christmas tree.

aiight but you will be visited by 3 spirits jsyk

[doggedly]

[He stiffens a little under that glance--that's not a glance that he ever knows what to do with, because it's almost teacherly in its disapproval. And he's never dealt with disapproval very well. It makes him want to lash out, a little.

But Merlin, he's not some kid anymore. He can try and keep some dignity about this, at least, or else what is he?]

Is that right. And why are you watching me so bloody closely? What d'you care for? If you don't want to celebrate Christmas, yourself, then you ought to be pretty well pleased at the way that things have gone.

bourbon, vodka, and everclear

[jurisimpudent]

[And Edgeworth looks away. He can see Black's temper is rising, which is never productive; they are not (unsurprisingly, given that their relationship truly began with a battle both physical and magical) always at peace with one another, no matter the fruitfulness of their partnership, and fights cause a reduction in their efficiency. That's not for the best. But -

But depression also causes a drop in efficiency, doesn't it? And, well, completely aside from issues of work...Edgeworth cares about Sirius. Really a lot. If he has to engage fully in this argument, even at the cost of some harmony, then so be it.]

Of course. Because what is more pleasing than watching someone suppress their completely rational desires?

all of them are absinthe actually but good guesses

[doggedly]

[He snorts, as dismissively as he can manage, and slumps back again, his arms folded sullenly over his chest. It would be better to just push this off, right--because he doesn't want to get into this--not right now, especially not out in a pub. And he doesn't much feel up to arguing with Edgeworth. On some days, maybe it would be more appealing, at least a good form of stress relief, but--

Well, whatever. He's tired. He's irritated, still, and there's anger just under the surface of this, but he slumps back for now, his temper momentarily muted.]

So, what. Let's finish up these drinks and go out to get a Christmas tree, is that what you had in mind?

Ah, that makes my heart grow fonder

[jurisimpudent]

[Well, that's better than Edgeworth had anticipated. That, at least, is relatively polite. That, at least, is not Sirius scowling at him and marching out.

So he answers with a small shrug.]

If you'd like that.

ha ha ha you are so funny

[doggedly]

[Like Edgeworth will actually be all right with that, in the end. He doesn't like Christmas. He's made that quite clear. He greets all of it with a marked lack of amusement or cheer.

But he's started this, and Sirius isn't going to be the one to back down. So he lifts his chin, a little, stubbornly.]

Fine. Then let's go.

I know :')

[jurisimpudent]

[And Edgeworth sets his chin as well. He despises these holidays; trees and carols make him tense, unhappy; but somehow, he's brought himself into a game of chicken against Sirius. Almost entirely of his own doing.

So he drains most of the rest of his beer, nods shortly, stands up, throws a few pounds down on the table. (It's Christmas, after all, and the barman deserves a tip - and Edgeworth can't count on Sirius to tip at Muggle establishments; the man is altogether helpless with pounds and shillings.)]

There's a shop that sells trees two blocks from here.

[doggedly]

[He drains his beer completely--no sense in letting it go to waste--and is already heading for the door and tugging on his coat when Edgeworth gives that direction. Fine, two blocks from here--he shrugs, to show that he's heard--and ducks out the door.

Outside, the weather remains unchanged. Maybe a little colder, if he has to make any sort of judgement on it. He knows the direction that Edgeworth was indicating when he said two blocks; he's walked these streets often enough that he caught sight of the trees. Not like he was fogging up the window staring at them, just--he knew of them.]

And we're just carrying this home?

[A levitation charm isn't an option, after all. This is muggle London.]