driftfleet | Mirtul 18 1370 dr

Entry tags:

Mirtul 18 1370 dr

Who: Syeira and YOU
Broadcast: Nope
Action: Varric's bar on the Iskaulit mostly
When: Directly after the shuffle.

She has been checking on the roster listing nearly compulsively lately. Things have just been rough for her. Losses upon losses. Regaining Anders, only for her friend to not know her. It piles up on top of everything else.

Everything else being Sam falling into a sleep only to wake and nearly do something horrible to Cas. And she got to take a lovely swim in Sam's blood for that, a delightful bonus to her kill deprived self. And then Sam is hurt, again, on her watch. Cas fell into a sleep immediately after. She's been ill from the planet nearly all the time. Coil had a melt down. Arthur turned into a tiny teenager. And of course, Robin revealed to her she not only had a Calibration, but when he was in it, he saw her murder her own mother.

She had asked Robin not to shut her out again. That was the mistake. She'd admitted her fragility out loud where Atroma could over hear it. She'd told him she couldn't stand to lose any more friends. And now he's just gone. Removed, like so many others. And she quite simply cannot take one more bit of horrible without doing something about it. But there's nothing to fight. She's not going to trash her room. The thing that's left is rather obvious.

She goes to the Iskaulit, to the tavern that feels like one from home. She has a small pouch full of credits. She managed to pull out enough that the pouch weighs at least five pound. There's a hefty amount of money in it. This she takes directly to whoever is tending the bar, places it purposefully down on the counter, and gives them a dead serious, almost empty look.

"I would like to drink, until I physically cannot anymore, or the money runs out. Whichever comes first." And by the look of things, the money won't be what runs out first. "If it's the former, please feel free to keep whatever is left over for your troubles." Because she imagines it will be annoying to shove her out into the hall when she's fall down drunk.

And with that, she will start drinking. There's dedication in it, because she wants to obliterate everything in her head. Blot it all out until all that's left is alcohol poisoning.

[ooc: Feel free to tag her at any time during this. And please note, she did not notice Zhas has returned to the fleet, and I request that no one tells her. Thank you!]

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It is a good metaphor and one he's probably used more than once before. Considering his relationship with alcohol, drowning himself is something he understands completely, the implications behind it as much as the addiction itself.

"Better question's when don't I drink." It especially doesn't help right now that Cas is down for the count and he's silently being torn up inside by it, terrified and paranoid and worried out of his skull. So bring on the booze, and bring it on pronto.

Cas being out has a lot to do with why she's in the place she is right now. It's not just that he's her friend and she's worried, but he's her crew. She's his captain, and responsible for his safety, and yet there's nothing she can do for him, except sit, wait, and worry. Coupled with all the other 9,000 things going wrong for her, could anyone really blame her for needing a bit of drowning?

"So we're in good company then. No judgements." No judgements, no worrisome looks or disappointed frowning. They can sit together and obliterate themselves one drink at a time. Misery loves company.

"Sure as hell won't be any when we can't see straight."

Because if there was one thing that did away with judgements, it was liquor. And perhaps Dean needed that more than anything, needed to forget the things he'd spoken with Cas about because now that they'd risen to the surface, he couldn't get them to go away. They were festering, sitting there, his broken apologies and miserable failures. His death, a thing he still had yet to face, and he was already reaching out for his own glass of what could only be said was nowhere near enough to get him plastered.

"And if there are, we won't be in any state to care." She lifts her cup, a toast of comradery to him.

She drinks, and sits for a few minutes. He's a nice kind of company for this sort of thing. They've both got their reasons to drink themselves stupid, and they aren't going to try and stop each other. Sometimes, you just need to get wasted.

"Have you checked on Cas today?" She's waded through several stupid questions before picking this one. Because asking if he's all right is dumb. Asking how he's settling in on the Red Fish is empty and also dumb. They're both worried about the same person, so might as well get to the root of it.

Dean's not exactly good at drinking himself stupid with other people around - it's not like he knows how to try to be, either. He's good at doing it alone, at being alone, at not having to come up with the right things to say when he doesn't know what those right thing even are. But he does lift his cup in a cheers and drinks along merrily enough, diving into his booze in silence.

At least until her question, which lifts his gaze solemnly, a stubborn ache behind his eyes that he wouldn't be able to shake off if he tried. Because while he's good at repressing things, he's not good at repressing things involving Cas. Not when he's his only, his only person, the one being he is drawn to out of sheer necessity. And so to have him comatose, such a blinding example of the state Dean put him into back home, is something that feels like a punch to the gut at every moment. He can't fix it, doesn't know what to do about it, and can't even muster the nerve to sit and sob like he feels he should.

"First thing." It's entirely honest, because he has no reason not to be. But he doesn't look at her when he says it, swirls his glass around instead and worries.

She sees his pain, and understands it. The frustration of being unable to do anything about the situation -any of them that Atroma puts them through- is part of why she's here, doing this.

She nods, looking back at her own drink. "Me too." She worries, because this is what happened to Sam. When he woke up, he was half mad. Would that happen to Cas? Could she stop him in time before someone got hurt?

"I talk to him. I don't know if he can hear me, but if he can, I don't want him to feel like he's alone."

And to that, Dean has no idea what to say. It's not as if he's clueless to the fact that others are close to Cas, others have always been closer to Cas. He resonates with it, finds people easily and finds meaning with them. And so to know that someone else might be visiting with purposeful interest isn't altogether surprising.

He just doesn't know how to compare it to himself.

"I'm sure he appreciates it." Because what else is there? If he can hear, he would, it would go miles with meaning.

"How are you holding up?" This is technically her meltdown. It's about her needing to just not give so much of a damn, to not be so burdened by the problems of others, that she wants to help with, even if she can't. But she was raised a certain way; to put aside her needs for those of others. So she asks, and she means it. Cas is their friend, and it's hurting them both that they can't help him. But it hurts Dean more.

Syeira is apparently, like far too many people here, excellent at asking all the questions Dean doesn't want directed his way. It takes him off guard though, made obvious by the way Dean immediately glances sideways in some manner of surprise, not entirely sure how to go about lying about something that he's been caught off guard by. Lies are all about knowing what's coming your way. That wasn't supposed to be.

"I've seen Cas laid out before, i'm fine."

"Would you like a second chance at that lie?" Yep, she's calling him out on it. No sense in not. After all, he can't have expected her to not see right through it. Not when they're both sitting at a bar, feeling equally miserable, about more than either of them knows of the other. But as before, like recognizes like.

"You know, once more with feeling."

At that, Dean's expression flatlines uncomfortably. While he knew his response was hardly as optimistic as it needed to be, he didn't think it was an exceptionally bad lie. Apparently he'd thought wrong and now Dean has to come up with another response when he'd been hoping that his first was just, well, adequate. Combined with the fact that the truth is an unbearably hard thing to admit to, Dean's left staring back down at his drink looking twice as guilty.

"It's bullshit." That's likely not what she's looking for either but hell, he's trying. "He needs to wake up."

Correction: Dean needs him to wake up.

No this is what she meant. Deflecting is sort of ingrained in people who have to take responsibility. You deflect when someone asks you if you're okay, because you're the one who's supposed to be doing that. You're always supposed to be okay. But she's not okay, and she knows he's not either. But she can't stop herself from caring any more than she can wish Cas back to consciousness.

"He will." She's better at being believable. She's got both talent and formal training on her side. The key to a good lie, is to make it believable, even to yourself. So she pushes her doubts away, and determines that it's the only acceptable, plausible out come. "And we'll be there when he does."

Dean doesn't know if he can believe that or not.

It feels as if Cas has been asleep for forever now, endless weeks that he's lost track of. Dean scrubs at his face a bit, giving his head a small shake in complete disbelief. It's not his fault that he's become utterly pessimistic but maybe it is- he's not sure. All he knows is that he doesn't think Cas is going to spring to life anytime soon; it's not their luck for things to be simple in that.

But Syeira can believe for the both of them. "Last time he was laid up, he broke his foot."

That offering of background gets an immediate look full of concern, even though the event is clearly past. Cas walks fine, when he's awake and mostly sober.

"What happened?"

Dean just quirks an eyebrow, staring slightly sideways, intrigued by the concern coming about a year too late. They dealt with the situation the same way they always do and Dean doesn't look even remotely distressed. "Life happened."

Her expression goes flatter at the lack of answer, but not in a hostile way. He's got walls, that's evident enough. But she's got a skull made of mithril, and she can be very tenacious.

"Elaborate. I'm not from Earth, so I don't know what life is like there."

Except Dean still hasn't had to up the ante to anyone and so he's disinclined to start now. He, firstly, hasn't had nearly enough booze to start spilling the beans and secondly, hates doing it to begin with. Especially when there's a by far more interesting question to be found in her response, and something that implies that he'd have to go into a hell of a lot more detail than he wants to right now.

"Nobody's told you anything?"

"I know it's bad. Bad enough that an angel lost his powers, and buries his pain beneath alcohol, opiates, and sex. I know that you mean the world to him, and that Sam is not of the same reality, but is still held in high importance and affection."

She shrugs, takes a drink. "I think Cas knows more about me, than I do about him. But then, I talk a lot."

He breathes a noise that in another universe might have been something more like a laugh, but he's not entirely amused by this. It's more of a sad sound, something not even all that surprised as information can be given in all kinds of ways, because despite everything she's just said, it still sounds like she doesn't know the basics. Not even a little. And Dean... probably isn't going to be the one to give them.

"Somebody should." Talk. A lot, he means.

"All right, fine. Don't tell me. What will you talk about?" She's tenacious. He sat beside her, and she's not really very good with shared silence. Not unless it's an emergency, which, terrible as she's feeling, is not this situation.

Oh, it's not as if he's trying to keep entirely silent. And while he might not crack a grin at that, not even remotely, there's a slight internal one going on, and he drags his fingers through his hair quietly for a moment, as if he has to think really really hard on this before he can carry on.

"Not much." Well, at least he's honest. Sometimes. "What's it like where you're from?"

"Compared to here, dirty, rustic. Magic is as common places as any variety of monsters. It's both beautiful and occasionally terrifying." Ah, home. She actually sounds wistful. It's been a long time since she saw it.

"See that's how you do that. I gave you a basic, very generalized idea of my world, without throwing in gory details. Want to try?" She's gently wheedling, joking even while she's still in a terrible mood. Company apparently helps that though.

It's a good generalization, he appreciates it- he does. It doesn't lend itself very well to mental images, save for perhaps the rustic idea and he's left wondering if she means dungeons and dragons or the wild west. And maybe he'd ask that question were he able, but he isn't, and so he instead makes a noise that's almost a note of amusement.

He gets it, he is conversationally challenged. But he's worried that if he says one thing, it'll just lead to a barrage of further questions. Even so, he's not a tremendous asshole, so--

"It's a shitshow. Always has been, always will be." Is that good enough? Does he need to expound further than that? Honestly, he doesn't know, and while he's one hundred percent inclined to lie just to make it easier on himself, he's trying not to. "But you figure out how to get by. Make a home of it, wherever you can."

She wouldn't call him 'challenged'; more 'resistant'. He just needed to warm up to it, surely. After all, he asked to join her, not the other way around. It sort of speaks to at least some level of desire to connect.

"I really hope that's a euphemism, or your world is much more gross than I imagined."

Dean quirks an eyebrow at that, inwardly entertained (or horrified, perhaps) by the picture he'd managed to paint without meaning to. He has to remind himself that sometimes, really, going with the straight answer can at times really just simplify things, even when he attempts to harken back to the man he used to be.

"It's a saying. Think you've figured out what it means." Because really, who couldn't?

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Mirtul 18 1370 dr

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