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castmyshadows:

There is a price he pays for the magic he does, for what he summons and puts out into the world. There are always people that want his power, want his soul – wants to know what makes him tick, tick, tick. But they don’t find their answers. And over a hundred years? Tonight was the closest any being has come to almost getting what they desired. Alistair is a mess. The powerful warlock is shaking in his boots even if he looks just tired, just pained. If Remington is paying attention like he most usually does – he’d note how the wounds aren’t healing at all.

               Time passes and they stay open.                                         It is going to be much longer before he is alright.

The rifle nods, takes hold of him and begins to guide but it’s all too fast. A sharp breath is taken in and it feels like his ribs shift in their cracked stage. They probably do. Alistair fights the threatening noise rising in the back of his throat and shuffles along, leans his form around Remington. Allows the other to guide him on with the aid of the darkness wrapped up around his legs to keep them moving. “I migh’ need yeu tae do some stitch work…”

Alistair has been many things but Remington didn’t consider high maintenance to be one of them. Whatever it was that was fueling him seemed to keep him whole first and foremost. The rifle’s own bruises and scrapes still took time to mend when they happened but he’d yet to see a wound on the smaller man’s body that didn’t simply close or lighten. There is true damage and it makes Remington move slow, has him allowing Alistair to use him for support. Carrying him would be taking it too far, perhaps -- but the desire to do so was very much there. Shadows assist in the journey to the bedroom and again he nods, this time while trying to coax the warlock to lay down.             “If it comes to that.” Remington’s hopes are that some rest will be the ticket to Alistair’s regeneration kicking back in. Nothing in his knowledge is helpful when considering warlocks and the battles they might find. Who could match the smaller one -- so much that it seemed like they were close to a win? What magic was Alistair fighting off? How long would it last? Nothing gets asked at the moment but he knows that for the warlock and him to help one another, information would need to spill eventually. Just, later. Hopefully not too much so.

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castmyshadows ;; 

Of course he knows it but this is Alistair – it is very rare he admits to anything outright. Remington has been in the mix for very little time in order for the warlock to open up so freely. That is until the rifle is getting ready to let him leave the small area. Just let him walk off and sleep – to rest like he asked. Childish that he huffs lowly and wrings his fingers together with a frown on his lips. As if he never said a thing. They both know he isn’t fine but only Alistair knows he shouldn’t be left to his own devices. He won’t rest – not past the initial try.

                       “Come with me?”

The question is a whisper, distorted hues set on his shoes he briefly thinks about toeing off. But he doesn’t move – waits for some kind of answer. Feels so small, feels like shrinking back. Maybe he is, smokey shadows curling around his ankles to keep him from being too jittery.

The words come as a surprise but Remington ends up reminding himself that Alistair was very young-hearted, even with the years stacked onto his soul. Something was wrong. There was concern deep inside of the rifle’s core for the warlock, for the secrets the other kept cloaked around him -- but it wasn’t the right time. Whatever there was hidden away, the rifle would have to learn when it was safe to search. With Alistair so worn out, he finds himself only nodding.                                 The warlock needed to be at 100% again.  He doesn’t bother with anymore of his usual scolding, doesn’t try to make it seem like nothing is different between them. Something shifts and he steps forward and raises an arm to hook around arms and guide the shorter one closer to rest, 

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"Yeu keep callin' me 'kid' and 'brat' but I hope yeu realize - m'older than yeu are."

       “Sure as shit don’t act older.”

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           “A load of bull and you know it.” The eyes are a concern; Remington doesn’t know exactly how to gauge where Alistair is, physically. He knows that something is wrong, that the other is at least exhausted and at some sort of wit’s end. Emotionally there is a barrier, some kind of wall put up just because the warlock is trying to act tough. There is no point in digging, in continuing to press the other and that much is the only thing clear. A nod is offered, but he still looks very unhappy.            “Go and sleep. We’ll speak when you’re awake.”

"You should have taken me with you!"

He’s so goddamn tired. Doesn’t entirely want to hear what Remington is about to yell at him for – but that … was unexpected. Or maybe the air of concern was just something the shadows were making up and soon enough deafening his ears. Alistair can’t tell. He just wants to lay down and rest, to let himself heal. Right eye is stuck with black smoke, left eye burning a practically searing bright blue. He isn’t fine but he says it anyways –

                  “I handled it fine, Rem. I’m fine. I jus’ want tae sleep.”

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ernestouriasb:

Hey Brother - Avicii

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If the Lord don’t forgive me I’d still have my baby and my babe would have me When I was kissing on my baby And she put her love down soft and sweet In the lowland plot I was free Heaven and hell were words to me

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little weenie ;;

    He is still trying just to keep his eyes on papers and fingers writing away     with the pencil in hand. Goddamn Remington’s fucking abs are killing him.     One turn back and Alistair is seconds from losing it. He hasn’t had much     companionship for a reason. He’s busy. The warlock has shit he needs to     be doing and the rifle is just distraction. But Rem is his. No fucking way     he plans on letting the weapon just leave and wander about as he wishes.     Call is possessive issues – he’s got a couple lifetimes over to back it up.

                    “Oh yeu are so helpful there, Remy.”

    Blurted out as he does stand. He already knows the other is taller than he     is. That is obvious as Alistair keeps having to look up at him. And yes, he’s     thought about kicking Remington’s legs out from under him. Though, it is     not the way he’d like to get him on his knees… .–Alright maybe it is.

                   “Couple inches, definitely more built.” Head tilts as                     The Scotsman takes in a little too much than need                     be. “I’ll figure somethin’ out.”

The nickname has one of his snarls threatening to form but be manages to stifle it to only a deep frown. Standing before the warlock he is able to note their different heights as well as the clear difference in builds. To him it made all the sense in the world; he was a weapon and Alistar was the type to rely on weapons. The other was short but also looked frail -- almost as though his bones were made of twigs tied together with some of his dried out sage. There was more to both of them than what eyes could see alone.                     “Don’t make calling me that a habit.” Sized up properly, something seems to cross his mind and his head tips just slightly along with the rest of him.                      “Why can’t I come with? I could wear one of the                        rejected, itchy outfits for a bit if i means I have a                        choice in something.”

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smol warlock ;;

       Not entirely an inanimate object anymore. It has a soul to it – that is the low humming Alistair was feeling. Something lighter than what he is used to dealing with but a soul nonetheless. A fragile little thing in the palm of his hand. The Scotsman could just as easily cradle the rifle and place it down gently as he could snap the damn thing in half and leave it at that. Cursed – more than likely. Either in an object or to always be the object. He’s seen it before, even done it himself to others a couple times in his life.

                   “Finders keepers, sweet’eart. Unless yeu prefer th’dumpster                     I fished yeu out of. Or maybe yeu could end up a chew toy.                     Bet tha’ woul’ feel delightful, hm?”

Alistair is giving the rifle a hard time, of course. This has gotten more interesting now that he’s gotten the damn thing talking. And if the warlock lets his finger slide over the trigger again…well – it’s just to see if the other will get more riled up. “Cannae really do much now can yeu? Yeu’re th’cranky brat here.”

He’s worse for wear and he knows it, can actually feel it. The rust in metal is like something thick wedged in between teeth -- cavities that won’t go without taking more than enamel with it. There are cracks in the wood, scars that would appear on flesh should he be granted it again, things that throbbed and ached the more he was jostled around. Being uncleaned is more than the feeling of grime and burnt powder in his lungs, it is a soreness. Something that can’t be explained or likely understood.                   Especially not by the likes of who was doing all the jostling.           ‘ғɪɴᴅɪɴɢ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴇs ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀs. ɪ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢ ᴛᴏ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ.’ That seems to be one thing he really wants to get across -- anything else was going to be moot. An owner wasn’t something Rem had allowed in a very long time. And now it was something he wanted to avoid, to fight at all costs. But a finger on the trigger was a barrel of mixed emotions to a gun that actually had them, There is no denying the spark and the dread. It was personal, supposed to be a sign of true trust and reliance and yet some kid was just messing with him because he could.            ‘ǫᴜɪᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ᴅᴀᴍᴍɪᴛ! ɪ'ᴅ ʀɪsᴋ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴄʜᴇᴡᴛᴏʏ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʟᴀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀɴʏ ᴅᴀʏ.            ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴍᴇ, sᴏ ᴘᴜᴛ ᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛsɪᴅᴇ.’

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little warlock ;;

   Eyes do flicker up for a moment before they are back down, threatening    to roll from what Rem has to say. He doesn’t fucking get it – Alistair just    cannot seem to understand how he has managed to keep self control in    the mix. It is practically a miracle in and of itself. His fingers keep flexing    every few seconds until the rifle wanders off. Blue and green hues seem    to follow his backside. God – he looks so pretty.                        “Whate’er, tha’ sounds fine. Jus’ do nae make’a mess.”       He’s trying not to pay attention again, scribbling back into his journal to    pick up more sage. Seeing as how  he burned so much  of it to cleanse    his house after a bad spirit summoning the other week. Alistair does let    out a huff at a moment. “How even tall are yeu?” Shouted out to Rem in    the general direction he went. “Need some kind of measurement idea.”

It is unclear how much searching there is to be done, really. Rem doubts that the warlock owns anything he’d want -- especially if it was shoved somewhere dusty to mildew and go stale. It was a matter of busying himself and apparently motivating Alistar to do something necessary. The man had his plants and his little books to scribble in and that kept him quiet. Rem liked quiet, for the most part, but the idea of being up and about freely was very tempting as well. And that meant clothing. Good clothing. It meant blending in. Halfway there he ends up turning back around as something is called out to him, body pausing in the doorway before he moves and motions for the other to stand.            “Taller than you. That’s all I know.”

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fucking brat ;;

       Why Alistair is looking down at the damn item like it should have done something spectacular is beyond him. Yes there is some kind of power to it but it’s more like a gentle hum or light buzz pulsating through to the Scotsman’s fingertips. Not to mention this weapon doesn’t look like it has actually been cleaned in ages. Something Alistair keeps forgetting to do. He is a very busy man after all – he doesn’t have much time for cleaning guns with mystical what have you coming off of them unless it’s for his own personal gain. And right now? Not on his list of things he would like to be doing. 

Still, the curiosity got the better of him and soon enough his finger is off the trigger and – WHAT? There are so many things in the warlock’s life that are deemed more strange than this. Maybe it is the lack of anything happening in a good while – couple months. Everything has been quiet; normal in a way. But the rifle just spoke to him and … the damn thing meets the plush carpet below with a light thud to accompany. Well the object did say to put it down. Yes so Alistair dropped it and didn’t mean to, but still. He did what he was told.

Brow arches and he’s crouching slightly. “Well aren’ yeu an interestin’ li’l thing.” Of course the warlock doesn’t listen well for very long so he’s scooping up the weapon again. Turns it in his hands a couple times. “Bet yeu’re jus’ sensitive tae th’touch… Cranky.”

It is not surprising at all when he suddenly drops. Annoyance towards the situation only gets worse as he lays there. He’s had worse landings, been handled with less care sure. The problem was that he’d spoken too soon. This one had his weird habits, his writing and tinkering. He wasn’t like other humans, not at all. For one thing, he was taking everything well, considering.  Upon being lifted again there is a growl of frustration. The sound obviously comes from the gun, direction but something about it is still strange. A conversation like an inner monologue or a song stuck inside one’s head.            ‘sᴇɴsɪᴛɪᴠɪᴛʏ ʜᴀs ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴ’ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛ, ʙʀᴀᴛ.             ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴏᴡɴ ᴍᴇ ; ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴏ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ғɪʀᴇ ᴍᴇ.’ Cranky was actually very accurate. With reason, considering his predicament. Stuck in such a form and unable to disguise himself or protect himself. Being at the mercy of others ... that was something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

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castmyshadows:

            “…Actually tha’ would be kind’a amusin’ tae see.”

Still no eye  contact. Alistair is terrible with  human interactions, he thought he might be better with whatever the hell Remington is but – doesn’t help. He is built like a fucking tank sculpted by the gods themselves. Fucking beautiful prick.

            “There migh’ be somethin’ in th’hall closet. If nae,              got’a couple cloaks yeu can pick from tae cover              up until I can go out. Tha’ sound fair?”

Lips purse at the first comment ; why Alistar was troubling his own cause was beyond him. The warlock was distracted by whatever he was so engrossed with -- refusing to look at him yet complaining about what he looked like. It figured.              “I think the wrong questions are being asked, here. I’m               not bothered if I look like this. I’ll look through the closet               and try some things on and if I don’t find anything, I’ll               cover up until you get something better. Fair?” He’s already moving, keen on finding whatever he can for now. It is  puzzling to consider whatever Alistar was actually disturbed by, but the less bitching he has to deal with the better.

"There's this fabric tha' yeu put on tae cover up. Yeu shoul' try usin' it sometime." And if Alistair isn't making eye contact, well that isn't anything unusual at times like these.

      “I know what clothing is. You haven’t gotten anything comfortable – unless         you’d like to see my try to squeeze into your tiny outfits.”

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"There's this fabric tha' yeu put on tae cover up. Yeu shoul' try usin' it sometime." And if Alistair isn't making eye contact, well that isn't anything unusual at times like these.

      “I know what clothing is. You haven’t gotten anything comfortable -- unless         you’d like to see my try to squeeze into your tiny outfits.”