faderift | fast enough to get in trouble and not fast enough to get away

WHO: Mobius, whoever has business with him
WHAT: open-y log for mobi during fantasy september (and like late fantasy august too if need be), for various catchup purposes
WHEN: both pre- and post-arlathan forest
WHERE: [makes a general motion to kirkwall] Around
NOTES: warnings will be in subject lines if/when need be!

Before the mission to the forest, Mobius still has plenty to deal with. After the Conclave, the 'secret' of his life being a(n ex-)Templar does not stay quiet for long. It isn't something he ever addresses publicly; he's not taken to speaking on rumors just because they exist. But if someone comes to find him about it directly, he might actually be willing to talk to them about it.

So long as it isn't someone interrogating him under some ridiculous pretense of the good of Riftwatch.

But that isn't the only thing to deal with. Sylvie and Loki are both gone, wherever and however Rifters go. Sylvie takes a little more time to notice, but given her absence on the training grounds and around her usual library haunts where she, catlike, likes to cause him some trouble, it doesn't take too long. Loki--of course he noticed Loki being gone right away. Given they had finally started to see each other, at least sexually, and Mobius trying to get used to the idea of sleeping with someone and staying, in their bed, together, instead of leaving immediately after. Not every night; he was hardly about to move into Loki's-which-was-Alexandrie's place. But often enough.

So when he awoke in Loki's bed one morning to the conspicuous absence of Loki, well. That took a much shorter amount of time to figure out.

It stings.

After the mission to the forest, Mobius returns worse for wear. Like a lot of other people, in fact. He is in various states of burnt and bruised and battered. He'll heal as surely as anything else, with time and patience. But.

He has very apparently lost some kind of use of his hands.

The fingers still bend and curl. His fists can still form. Can still point, can still count on them, or give a thumbs up. But on the training grounds, his sword has a habit of slipping from his grip as though there's no grip at all. When jotting notes down, he's snapped more than a few quills and has taken to putting up with writing with the nubs where the tip remains. Meals have become fraught affairs, where he is slow and careful with utensils--and finger foods don't always fare much better. He can be seen, when not spilling half of a meal, grabbing at bowls or cups that he is warned are too hot to the touch and not minding at all. There's not much yet that seems too cold, but no temperature seems to bother his hands at all.

He tries to eat during off hours, or to take things somewhere a little more private. His training sessions have shifted to earlier in the morning (which, given the habits of nightmares, is not much of an inconvenience) when there are even fewer people. But it isn't as though he can hide the way he sometimes grips things too tight, or too loose to drop. He hasn't yet taken to wearing gloves, so one might be able to catch nicks and cuts and scrapes and a few angry red marks.

He's fine, basically. Definitely fine. Others have had it worse.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Mobius only grunts to let it be known Jude is heard, at first. Marcus might very well be a hurt man; he's someone who's survived the uprising and being hunted, turned on the hunters it seems. That's fine. Everyone's done the things they've had to to survive. And mages most certainly got the brunt of the hurt.

But also: fuck that guy, perhaps.

He gives up on food for a moment just to give his hand and arm a rest. Sure, he can't feel the end of it, but he can feel his wrist, his elbow, the tendons and muscles up the arm. He is perhaps more conscious of these things in a way he hasn't been since he first was training with his weapons of choice.

Drinking is sometimes easier, even if he has to use two hands. Most mugs and tankards are sturdy enough that he's not going to do any damage if he presses a little hard. Glasses are going to be a trip. Best avoid them for now, he thinks, as he takes a long drink.

He's heard whispers about Something Happened, sounds like some kind of abomination busting through the walls. That they let someone in they thought they could trust.

If he sets the container down a little hard, obviously it's because of the hand thing.

"That's the thing about trust. It's a bladed weapon. Do you just stop trusting everyone ever involved with the Chantry over it? Do you start watching the chantries in the city, keeping an eye on potential saboteurs? Where does that go, and where does it end? I'm sorry it backfired, sorry about the damage done to life and property, sorry the trust swung around and cut them. I don't know that it calls for paranoia."

Jude listens, his eyes deep and dark and without tension as Mobius works out his own. He can feel it, like an itch under his skin, a pulse, and he revels in it. That faint shadow of a breath.

He can feel it.

"You're right," he says bluntly. "It doesn't."

Jude taps his finger lightly against the side of his knee, letting that hang in the air for a moment. But.

"He's the captain of the guard. Who recently survived an attack he didn't see coming. And now, he's got someone who hasn't said where he's from, who hid his ties to the Chantry, who's walking around with access to a lot of vulnerable people he's responsible for.

"Somebody who he doesn't have the measure of. Who can interrupt magic at will, and make all of those very hurt people all but defenseless. The same way they were hurt before."

Jude's eyes soften.

"He wasn't being paranoid. He was making sure he had the measure of you."

And apparently, Mobius passed.

He does not feel like he passed. He feels like there's a target sitting right between his shoulderblades. But apparently where dealing with him would've been easy in the depths of an ancient elven ruin, Marcus wisely chose not to do so. A bit outmatched, certainly, but still.

"I don't answer to the Captain of the Guard," Mobius says succinctly.

"Though I guess whatever rock bottom opinion he had of me before is burrowing under the dirt after the ass I made of myself on the mission. So it doesn't matter so much in the end. I don't have to impress him. Or anyone. I just have to not get kicked out."

Prove his worth. After relearning how to use his hands.

"You won't be kicked out."

Jude is sure of that. And Mobius did make a little bit of an ass of himself, by his own admission, so Jude won't get into that.

But his voice does soften. It pains him, seeing Mobius at odds with others, with people who should be allies. So many things of worth can be tossed aside when people bury themselves in their hurts.

Patience.

"But demonstrating some of the same care you showed me could go a long way."

Mobius purses his lips and keeps an unkind comment locked behind them. He does not, as well, repeat the phrasing that he does not answer to the likes of the captain.

Eventually, he unlocks his mouth again. "Well, I'm not going to start petting him. Pretty sure he might actually remove my hands if I ruffled his hair."

It's not what Jude means, of course, but nothing wrong with a bit of levity.

No, nothing wrong with a bit of levity. But he can sense what's beneath the upset, more from the look on Mobius' face than anything, and the distinct sense that he would've said what he was thinking had he loved Jude less.

Jude flattens his hand against Mobius's back, and leans in to touch his forehead to Mobius's shoulder, a promise to stop pushing him. He's made his point.

"Shame. He looks like he could use a good petting."

Jude has his reasons for being extremely casual and constant with his touches, be they a lay of hands or this, too. But this feels like a little more. Maybe because Mobius was the first to greet him after falling out of a rift. Maybe they've always had something of a connection ever since that.

He lifts a hand and--thinks better of putting it on the back of Jude's head. He'd never feel it. So his arm goes a little further, wrist feeling the warm skin of Jude's neck, arm resting across his shoulders.

"I'll leave that job to someone else. I'll pet you instead. Seems a fair trade to me."

It's good, a warm and comforting weight. Mobius's fingers don't have the same grip he's used to, they're loose with the lack of tactile feedback. But Jude brushes his cheek against his arm, leans in closer to wrap his own around his waist.

"Is that a trade?"

A gentle tease before he bumps his nose against his hair. Closer than he usually gets, thoughtful.

"Whatever else you think," he says slowly, "You have made a world of difference for me."

It's...close. It's closer than he tends to get to people that aren't partners. Even with Jude. It's warm and protective. Feels like--lovely morning with Loki, curled together and not wanting to get out of bed. Hot, non-Gallows breakfast. Idle but never dull chat over tea.

Hurts for a moment. But he smiles through it, closes his eyes, lets himself feel this, this moment with Jude. No one else.

Easy to make a joke. Doesn't. He thinks on it, lets it sit there, contemplating it. But doesn't reach for it. "I'm glad for it." He thinks anyone else would have. But maybe not. And it wasn't anyone else; it was him. Maybe it's pack bonding, maybe it's something more. But whatever happens, they're apparently in it together.

"Thank you."

The seriousness settles them both. It's okay to need, okay to accept comfort. Bittersweet, with old hurts catching in the seams.

"You're welcome," Jude says quietly, and he means it. Not just a response to "thank you", but really, you're welcome.

"There's more than Marcus and the mission outcome on your mind, though."

Opening that door directly; there's no demand behind it, just stating a fact. If he's not ready to talk, Jude will back off easily, but he's not one for beating around the bush.

fast enough to get in trouble and not fast enough to get away

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