A Detour to Your New Life [Tuesday, February 25] [Closed]

[dead_black_eyes]

WHO: Lazarus Lawliet and Belle Goldman
WHEN: February 25, evening
WHERE: Belle's Apartment
WHAT: Echoes bringing back memories of a different life doesn't mean a person is free of the tendencies or demons in their current one.
WARNINGS: Mental illness, mentions of violence



The day had crawled by at a horrifically slow pace. From the very second his alarm clock had sounded, L had known that he wouldn't be able to make it to work; his mind had been moving too rapidly to sleep restfully, and he'd woken looking absolutely wretched. He'd managed to keep it together long enough to call Ray, report in sick, and fall asleep again with his ear against his police radio, hearing surreal strings of words in the empty static that influenced his dreams uneasily.

After waking up, he'd glanced at the network, and listened to music that actually made him feel something: deep, staggering depression. It was simultaneously exciting, for someone who had never felt anything on an emotional level while listening to music, and dismally unhelpful given his current state of mind. He suspected it was magical in nature, an ability echoed back to make the world just a touch more complicated than it had any right to be. Though Nathan's ice cane promised to be indispensible, should L ever need to fight someone, he found himself using it for the next several hours to coat his bed in a thin but solid layer of ice, waiting for his body heat to melt it through, and then re-freezing it to repeat the process. He only stopped when he was completely soaked in cold water, both of his numb ears ringing.

Pulling himself out of bed, he reached for the box he'd designated to contain the items he received back from his pulses.

A pair of handcuffs, connected by a six-foot chain.

A red cell phone from the early 2000s, with a charm that looked like a blonde, pigtailed voodoo doll, wiped clean of numbers.

A photograph of blood smeared on plaster, forming a hopeless suicide note in hiragana with the characters of one line spelling out "SHINIGAMI."

He knelt, scattering them in front of him to scrutinize for what felt like the thousandth time. They were so disparate. Nothing about them seemed to have anything to do with the other items, or the detective he supposedly had been.

Comments

[belphe]

In direct contrast to the turbulence going on in her spare bedroom, Belle had proceeded with life as normal, giving little more than passing thought to the memory she'd received on Valentines Day. One thing she WAS aware of, however, was that Lazarus had been a notably-lesser presence in the apartment ever since she had asked him if he had seen her cel phone and he had unquestioningly produced it for her from his pocket with a maddening nonchalance. Her temper had worn thin, and she had made a point of calling Russell, and having a lengthy conversation in the middle of the living room.

At the time, she had seen it as a forcible way of drawing a line in the sand, and establishing for Lazarus that, if he was to be living in her home, she was entitled to speak with whomever she saw fit with him in no position to prevent it. As the days had passed, however, guilt had begun to stir on the matter. In his own, strange way, she was sure, he had seen himself as protecting one of the few social ties he had by chasing off any competition for his therapist's attention in case he was in need of it.

When he had not responded to her text reminding him of his upcoming session, she had found herself at the spare room's door, knocking gently.

"L?"

[dead_black_eyes]

She had been completely right to draw a firm line in the sand; Lazarus had a tendency to take a mile when he'd been given an inch, and boundaries were important in any shared living arrangement. The fact that the two's cohabitation was a huge breach in just about every ethics code just made it even more important to retain that element of space.

However, predictably, he had not responded well to it, seeming to take "distance" to the extreme. The man frequently seemed to have no sense of moderation, and since Valentine's Day, he had kept his distance to the point of being practically invisible.

Her knock startled him out of a reverie; he'd been getting lost in that suicide note, but he was shaking his head, realizing he was still sopping wet and sitting in a puddle on the floor, and the bed behind him was, likewise, also impossibly wet.

He opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. Clearing the dust from his throat, he tried again.

"Yes? Uh... do you need something?"

He might have succeeded in keeping outright panic out of his tone, but it didn't take a perceptive listener to hear distress.

[belphe]

The distress, and strangled tone of his voice made her hesitate.

"...is it all right to come in?"

[dead_black_eyes]

"Yes... but it would be better if you didn't," he said, glancing at the huge wet spot on the floor that would probably leave water damage.

[belphe]

She stood a moment longer, weighing the possibilities of what he might mean and how much she might regret it if things happened to fall on the darker end of that spectrum.

At length, she turned the knob and opened the door.

"I finished updating my case studies, and I have some free time. Did you still want to learn to make stuffed toast?"

The wet spot was not immediately noticed as she had been expecting much worse.

[dead_black_eyes]

The wet spot was only the beginning; L himself, along with the bed, were sopping as well. But it was likely not as noticeable, considering that Belle had, likely, expected much worse from him.

"You mean you want to... cook?" he asked, completely bemused. He hadn't eaten all day, or the day before, for that matter. "Yeah. I mean, yes, we definitely could..."

He kept reminding himself that it was too much water to be urine, and that she couldn't possibly think that.

[belphe]

At first, she had thought that the sheen of his ratted hair was a result of not having washed it for a few days. It wasn't until she took a step closer that she realized it was soaking wet. As was the rest of him. And a good portion of the room.

"Wh--" she began, startled. "What happened in here...?"

[dead_black_eyes]

"It isn't urine," he said quickly, the first thing on his mind spurting out of his mouth. "It's just water. I was given something that makes ice, and I just... was thinking about a frog in the garden, and how it went to sleep when it got cooler. I wanted to be peaceful like that."

He stood, lowering his head, trying to skirt by Belle to go get a towel.

[belphe]

She moved at the same time that he did, for the same reason - to get multiple towels. For him, AND for the room. Instead, she succeeded in bumping into him and derailing the both of them from getting any closer to the linen cabinet.

"Is something keeping you from sleeping?" she asked, brow knitted. She would give him the benefit of the doubt first, before assuming anything more dire hidden in the implication of "peaceful". Though, his recent behavior HAD been worrying...

[dead_black_eyes]

"I've been getting a lot of pulses lately, is all. It's like they're on a hair trigger," he said distractedly, recoiling when she bumped into him and bumping, in turn, against the door frame. "Every time I think something is true about that person... it's just a contradiction. I thought he wasn't like me, I thought he was better but... I'm wet, and cold, excuse me..."

He succeeded in slipping past her, pulling down a large stack of fluffy clean towels and starting to wrap himself in approximately eight of them.

[belphe]

A hand partially extended to intervene with what she could see was going to be a mess, but then there were towels everywhere and he was cocooning himself in them...

Belle internalized a sigh, stepping forward.

"You should take a hot shower and change into some dry clothes." she offered, scooping up the towels he had not managed to be wearing.

[dead_black_eyes]

The suggestion triggered a flicker or something like embarrassment in L; really, it was an obvious course of action, one he should have pursued on his own without it being suggested by someone else. But he hadn't exactly been behaving rationally today.

Shedding and nudging aside the damp pile of towels, he rose and started stripping out of his wet clothing, leaving a trail as he made his way toward the bathroom and turned on the shower.

[belphe]

She gently closed the door after him, leaving him one of the less-damp towels to dry off with before grabbing up the damp garments he'd left on the floor to deposit them in the hamper. That done, she headed off to deal with the enormous of spill he'd left.

It was a worse than she'd thought, and took every towel she'd brought, plus the ones left behind in the cabinet to even begin sopping it up. When all was said and done, she'd sacrificed one of her winter blankets, opened the window, and placed a fan in it in hopes of air-drying everything to avoid mildew.

With that dealt with, she picket a set of clean clothes out of the dresser and left them for him outside of the bathroom door before heading back to the kitchen to get things situated.

It would be interesting, if nothing else...

[dead_black_eyes]

Since starting to live with Belle, L's eating, sleeping and bathing habits had started to change by necessity; she didn't stock his most comforting (read: damaging) articles, so he was forced to accommodate a more normal routine.

Some days, though...

He dug around under the sink until he found a can of Lysol, one of his oldest and strangest coping mechanisms. Breathing a sigh of relief, he uncapped it and turned on the shower, the itching sting of the antiseptic aerosol spray turning him the color of a strawberry as he imagined he could feel every trace of dirt on his body disintigrating. When he was finished, his skin below the neck burned, along with his eyes, nose and lungs, but his sense of panic was subsiding.

Lightheaded, but ultimately feeling better, he turned off the water and was surprised to see his bright-red toe nudge up against a set of fresh clothes in the hallway. He slipped into them, the soft slacks and button-up shirt sore against his sensitive, chemical-damaged skin. He swiftly towel-dried his hair before gingerly padding his way to the kitchen.

[belphe]

While the clothes mostly hid the damage he'd done to himself, his lobster-red feet and hands were garishly visible as she watched him emerge from the hallway. She was aware of his "lysol showers" having been a habit in his past, as they had come up in sessions on a couple of occasions.

As such, she had gone out of her way to relocate all of her cleaning supplies to a box on the shelf of her closet after he had made his intentions to stay clear. Seeing him now, pbviously she'd missed one somewhere and made a mental note to check over the bathroom later.

For now, though, distracting him from his disjointed mood to a place where he felt safe talking about what had been bothering him was her current plan of action.

The ingredients for the toast had been arranged on the counter and a skillet awaited use on the stove.

"The room is going to have to air out for awhile until some of that water dries." she told him. "...are you feeling better?"

[dead_black_eyes]

L hadn't been raised the way some children were, with ingredients lined up on the counter for the promise of a delicious meal. Walter had been more for microwaving his food, or ordering out, and frequently the two of them would sit in separate chairs, each holding a take-out carton and a pair of chopsticks while something inane blared on television and Lazarus' chess set had beckoned quietly from the corner.

"Better," he confirmed, tugging at the strands of straw-stiff hair on the back of his neck as he approached, bringing with him a strong antiseptic odor. It was hardly appetizing, but the rangy, pale young man looked famished.

[belphe]

The fumes were bad enough that her eyes were beginning to burn. Nonetheless, she attempted to go about the business of teaching Lazarus how to cook something for himself.

"All right...so," she gestured to a foil wrapped block of cream cheese and a small measurement of sugar sitting in the bottom of a measuring cup. "This is where you'll start...you're going to want to let the cream cheese assume room temperature so it's easy to spread....I've let this soften for about forty-five minutes. This and the sugar...about three tablespoons...are going to be your toast filling once you've combined them. I usually use a whisk, but you will probably want to use the hand mixer on a low setting."

She gestured at the small electric beater on the counter.

"Would you like to familiarize yourself with it?" Unfortunately, she lacked the gadgetry that his employer had provided, but the device was fairly light...

[dead_black_eyes]

Forty five minutes? L blinked, surprise by the foresight. If he was hungry, his tendency was to want it immediately; the idea that a meal could be planned for before the process of cooking even technically began was staggering to him.

At her invitation, he picked up the hand mixer, hooking his index finger under it and curiously pressing the button with the thumb of his other hand. The sudden sound and movement startled him and caused him to drop it, the whisks coming unattached and rolling away as the plastic appliance hit the floor.

[belphe]

If it had just been her, it would have been acceptable to rinse the beaters, put them back in the appliance, and use them anyway as she kept a clean house. But since this was Lazarus, and he'd been stretched thin enough as it was...

"It's fine..." she said, gathering them up from where one had rolled under the table and the other had come to rest near the fridge, placing both in the dishwasher before getting another set of them out of the cupboard to replace them. These were not quite meant for whisking, but they would do.

She started the mixer up on its lowest setting, producing a low, humming whir of the blades.

"Here." she said, adjusting her hold so that he could take the handle for himself. "The dial on the side adjusts the speed and the strength. This should work for what we'll be doing with it."

[dead_black_eyes]

Clumsy and anxious were a terrible combination. L watched Belle pick up everything, replace the mixers, and start the appliance running at its slowest, softest, most manageable speed.

Using both hands to hold it, he made sure to keep his atrophied fingers away from the whirring blades.

[belphe]

She kept hold of the mixer as he took it, making sure that he would be able to support it before letting it go so that he could hold it fully.

When he seemed to be able to manage it, damaged hands and all, she moved to unwrap the cream cheese, dropping it into a mixing bowl and adding the sugar in with it.

"These just need to be beaten together until they're combined and smooth. So..." she reached out to turn off the mixer as he held it. "...you will want to make sure it's in the bowl first before you turn it on, and then move it slowly around the edges."

As she said so, she kept her hands on the bowl's sides, knowing there was a good chance of it being spun right off of the countertop otherwise.

[dead_black_eyes]

It was an odd, delicate little balancing act, but he managed to maintain his hold on the mixer as she gingerly subtracted her hands from the awkward equation.

He held it, watching the blades twirl as she prepared what he'd be mixing. He listened to her instructions, catching himself before sticking the mixer in while the beaters were still in motion.

He followed her instructions painfully literally, sticking the beaters in the bowl, turning them on, and mechanically moving them around the outside of the bowl with little regard for what he was mixing and how it was behaving. Ultimately, the sugar was collecting lumpily in the middle.

[belphe]

Yeaaaah, so she noticed.

"You're doing well, but bring it to the center now and then to get what's clumping up. When it looks like frosting and tastes sweet, you'll know it's done."

Sadly...this was probably the easiest part of the preparation, too.

[dead_black_eyes]

He wondered how much of the compliment was meant to humor him, how much was meant to fill an awkward silence, and how much of it was actually honest. Equal parts seemed like it would be optimistic; he opted to just focus on making sure it didn't clump up, applying the same meticulous effort to the center of the cream cheese glob.

[belphe]

Eventually, it began to smooth out. The process was far more slow-going than it would have been if she'd done it herself...but the goal was not to have the toast made as quickly and easily as she went about it. The goal was to have him do as much as possible.

"That should be fine." she said after a few moments. "We'll move on to the bread now."

On the counter she had a loaf of brioche, waiting to be cut into.