Capcael & Collegil

[7:34:53 PM] * Nitro A frozen waterway, so chilled and frosted as to mock the desperate, writhing struggle of living beings to remain living, was the scene Jack London opened his novel, White Fang, with. "It is not the way of the Wild to like movement," he said, and then with words brought the crippling chokehold of the North's winter to close around the reader. The very fog of a dog's moist pant drifted back on his fur and froze there, slowly and patiently rusting him with what ought to be a sign of life.

If Vergil slowed his breathing just so and clung to such a scene with all he was worth, he could remember the merciless, vicious wind and ice, and the crackle of fire in the hearth. Smores and hot chocolate offset the deceptively delicate veins of frost creeping across the glass. Maine winters were not the Wild, but the pleasantly cool breeze he shouldn't be able to hear (but nevertheless could) outside the library's doors couldn't hold a candle. Or perhaps couldn't blow one out. Yes, a far more appropriate metaphor.
[7:35:27 PM] Nitro: [so don't kill me but I am about to watch Psych with my mom...but I'll keep writing while I do anyway]
[7:40:21 PM] IBLiS: (vergil's putting to those writing skills to work apparently)
[7:44:42 PM] Nitro: [You wanted irony and book debate. 8y]
[7:45:02 PM] IBLiS: (the things he does when he isn't busy)
[7:45:48 PM] IBLiS: ((but is it wrong that i find it very cute that he misses his hick home state))
[7:48:10 PM] Nitro: [(no of course it's cute)]
[8:34:42 PM] * Nitro The breeze here was more of the Santa Clara Valley, just southeast of San Francisco -- the temperate warmth surrounding the villa with which White Fang's mirroring precursor, Call of the Wild. An aristocratic gentleman's home, with such leisures as hunting and swimming and stables -- but neither was this accurate to his situation, were he honest. And he could be, when he chose.
[8:38:14 PM] IBLiS: (wait you mean he's /not/ an aristocratic gentleman?)
[9:18:00 PM] * Nitro He was not a gentleman of leisure -- not even close, much as he clung to the idea. He was dirt poor, working as a lowly librarian at a college he could only scrape into. More fit to be in some slice of life novel than such an aristocratic setting.
[9:18:42 PM] Nitro: [oops Psych and deep fried Snickers and makeshift donuts are distracting]
[9:22:36 PM] Nitro: [Also deep fried pickles because my parents are nuts??]
[9:38:40 PM] IBLiS: (deep fried snickers)
[9:38:46 PM] IBLiS: (nitro did you tell them about my deep fried candybar)
[9:42:47 PM] * Nitro Not that he had anything /against/ being a librarian. Surrounded by books and finally able to enforce his cardinal law of silence. Or...near enough. Not that it kept him from hearing the little whispers in the far corners of the immense room, or the noise outside the building. He had occasionally gone so far as sternly quieting those lingering around outside the doors when they became so rowdy that he knew, /knew/, that it couldn't just be him.
[9:43:18 PM] IBLiS: (pokes head out door)
[9:43:22 PM] IBLiS: (YOU KIDS GET OFF MY CAMPUS)
[9:53:07 PM] * Nitro Because regardless of his circumstances, stuck in this too-warm place with little worth more than the umbrella hooked to his wrist (because Los Angeles winters offered rain, not snow), he would do his job. And he made an undeniably good librarian.
[3:23:34 PM] * Nitro But maybe he did too good of a job sometimes. It was far too quiet, and not merely because of the deafening radio silence in his head (for once). It was not his way to like noise, but the lack of interruption to his quiet and intentional self-imposed isolation in the fiction horror section was...disconcerting. There was always someone deciding they simply couldn't find a book or an author or they wanted to know just how many books were here or if he knew when some novel would be in or would he recommend this or that -- his daily unwanted dose of social interaction. And while he would happily go /without/...

He shook his head sharply. No, stupid, /enjoy/ the quiet while it lasts -- no one to test his patience or run up his blood pressure, in his head or out. When would he get a chance like /this/ again?

Stephen King and Peter Straub's newest novel, Black House -- just released in September! -- was waiting patiently to be read on the seat he'd vacated to stock recently returned books to their shelves. He'd been carrying his Christmas gift with him but had little time to read it -- now, when his duties were essentially complete and no one was keen to interrupt, was a far more ripe time than most. And unless someone called to say that his brother was slavering drunk, dead, or (God forbid) hospitalized, nothing would get between him and that book.

(Save possibly his job. Neither he nor his brother could afford him to lose it. But -- that doesn't count, okay?)
[8:16:16 PM] * IBLiS "Read it again."

".../Huh/."

Those were the last words Cael Cuchulainn was expecting when he proudly boasted that, yes, he had actually read the script this time. With matching highlights and memos, to boot! In /indigo/!

(It was the only highlighter he could find. Cut him some slack.)

It mostly a joke more than anything, really, though he really /had/ memorized the script last night. A high horsed but good natured pat on the back usually saved for things like running a thirty mile marathon or beating lung cancer... or managing to remember one's lines, of course. Why he decided to burn through the entire thing in one night was beyond him-- maybe because he couldn't sleep and there was nothing on and like /hell/ would he ever wake up his roommate for /moral/ /support/ and-- but at least he got it done. And it made for great material!

And so everyone laughed and laughed and /laughed... until the production manager herself stormed right up to him and told him, with a stone cold frown that proved that she was most certainly /not/ jesting in any kind of way, to read it again.

"You heard me. Don't stand there slackjawed like some heifer. Read it again." She said in her gargling smoker's tone, stabbing his chest with one of her terrifyingly sharp fake nails. They were the only bright thing about her, a painfully cheery candy red that made the eyes scream for mercy. Which was probably the point.

And just like that, he was alone. /Bastards/. Leaving him alone with /her/.

He wished he could blame them. Oh, how he wished.

"Well, I--" He started but, no, too late. That was all the words he was getting in edgewise with /her/.

"Listen." She snapped, eyes narrowing like a crocodile closing in on its prey. "For once in your bubble bimbo life, /listen/."

And so he did. Because he had no choice, and because she was usually right. Unfortunately.

"I like you, kid. I really do. You've got charm, wit, and balls of steel." She paused, as if taking a drag on some invisible fag, then added. "...And you're cute. Real cute."

/Uh/?

"You'll make it far in this business, real far, I can tell. I've got an eye for kids like you. But not if you don't read your fucking lines. You know what they call people who don't read their lines?"

Oh, don't pause for emphasis like that. He already knew. /Dead/. That's what they were. /Dead/.

"/Meat/."

Close enough.

"The old guy must've really liked you, 'cause he gave you a mile when he should've given you /squat/... but I ain't the old man. I'm /me/, and /me/ says that kids who don't bother memorizing their parts don't deserve to be here." Another pause. Another invisible drag. Was that the hint of a smile he saw on her face?

...Oh. Oh /no/. No no /no/, /please/, don't--

"So here's the deal. Opening night. I don't want to see a single cutesy ad lib out of you. Not one. You slip up even /once/? l cut you lose, send you back to Lucky Charms Isle. Done and done."
[8:16:25 PM] * IBLiS "Are we clear?"
[8:16:50 PM] * IBLiS Well, how could he say /no/?
[8:18:42 PM] * IBLiS It was either yes, or be tomorrow's daily omelette.
[8:21:09 PM] * IBLiS He didn't think he'd make a very tasty omelette.
[9:20:41 PM] * IBLiS And that's how he found himself here, trudging through the doors of the quietest place he knew, wondering why the hell he was doing it in the first place.

He didn't have to take this. He read the damn thing! He read it at all! And if he happened to make a mistake on stage, so what? Everyone made mistakes up there, even award winning hardened veterans. The stage is, and will always be, a cruel mistress. But to weigh his entire education on one possible little slip up? Who did she think she /was/?

...The person who could make or break him, of course, was the only answer he could afford. It didn't matter if it was right or fair, what mattered was that she could throw him right out of this school with a snap of those wretched harpy fingers if he so much as /breathed/ wrong. Then he'd have no choice but to go back home with the news that not only he had wasted the family's hard earned savings on a career like /acting/, but that he had failed to follow through on even that.

Some golden boy he was.

Which brought him back to this. He couldn't afford to coast through this one. His entire /life/ was banking on it. And without his usual moral support to turn to-- his boyfriend was all the way out on Alcatraz Island, no doubt grinding the tour guide's last nerve with his constant pestering about gHOSTS (!!!) and INDIAN BURIAL GROUNDS (DUDE!!!), and he had too much pride to waste his precious long distance calls to whine to his sister about how mean his icky teacher was-- there was only thing left to do.

Tear through it. Blaze through the entire thing like a shot of whisky until it was burned into the deepest recesses of his mind. Then it'd be fine and he could forget about it and. And it'd be fine. It'd be fine.

Hopefully.

 For now, though, he'd put on a brave face and cash in all his chips on 'hopefully.' Because what else did he have? Not much. Not much at all.
[9:20:47 PM] IBLiS: (oh oops)
[10:07:49 PM] IBLiS: (why am i so proud of INDIAN BURIAL GROUNDS (DUDE!!!) )
[10:07:56 PM] IBLiS: (it cracks me up every time i see it and i don't know why)
[10:09:55 PM] Nitro: [Because it's highly amusing, naturally.]
[10:10:17 PM] IBLiS: (it's an accurate representation of what is probably happening on that island right now)
[11:14:48 PM] * IBLiS He drifted through the lobby, unnerved but completely unsurprised that the place was a ghost town. Most people would rather saw off all their limbs then deal with the sleeping tyrant that lurked here. But Cael wasn't afraid of him, /hardly/. Who could be afraid of a cute little poofter like him? The way he puffed up like some self-important stuffy owl was /adorable/. If he was lucky, they might even cross paths. That would more than make up for the rest of this cruddy morning, spotting the rare and elusive bird that was Vergil Redgrave.

But, ah, better not to keep his hopes up. A unicorn wouldn't be as mystical and awe-inspiring if it were seen every day, now would it?

He made a beeline for the coffee machine first. The consequences of burning the midnight oil all night long were starting to seep into his joints, and the last thing he needed was getting caught nodding off in the library. He'd probably get thrown right out. /Literally/. And he wouldn't even get to say hi!

He got the same as always; decaf with enough hazelnut creamer to fuel a whole milk bar. No sugar. No sugar /ever/. He valued his pearly whites, after all, unlike /some/ people. Stupid creamer pump was jammed again though. /God/. What-- /uGH/-- was wrong-- /UGH/-- wITH THIS STUPID THING--
[3:44:12 PM] * Nitro He was somewhere between various documentation of the United States history and the encyclopedias when the door opened. Oh.

Well, it wouldn't be a big deal anyway. It wasn't as if every individual who darkened the doorway was a clueless freshman whose hand effectively needed holding throughout the entirety of their initial foray into the grown up world, and quite possibly into a library as well. Their utter ignorance as to how to navigate a logical system of organization continued to baffle but no longer surprised him.

No, he decided, this could just as easily -- and more likely -- be a student who'd grown familiar with the layout and had no desire whatsoever to approach him for assistance. They usually didn't after their first few encounters.

Heh. Convenient. He didn't even have to go out of his w--

...

.../Of/ /all/ /the/ --

It was just perfect, wasn't it? Vergil could practically /smell/ him pouting. /Indignant/, he'd most likely prefer -- but it was pouting and no one was fooled. And if he was /here/ and he was /pouting/, then he would no doubt latch onto the first distraction that came along. Namely, as no one else was here, Vergil.

And thusly did Vergil curse his fate and wish that the bookcase housing the Encyclopedia Britannica, among other various but similar texts, would fall on him. (This was not the first time this had happened, nor would it be the last. He frequently contemplated just how heavy the entire bookcase had to be, altogether. And...occasionally calculated it by an approximation of the number of books times the average weight of each book.)

...but he did seem very agitated, didn't he? He sounded right vicious, grappling with one of the more stubborn mechanisms on the dearly beloved coffee machine. Ordinarily it was little more than a mild annoyance, and Vergil would've been very grateful that there was something to occupy him, but...there was something more to that agitation. And Dante wasn't here to tease him until he relaxed a little.

He wanted to go back to his chair and forget about it and let Cael do whatever he was here for. He really did. But Dante didn't need to have a pile of miserable Cael-mush to bring him down when he got home, and Vergil didn't need a broken coffee maker on his hands. (There was a trick to it and it wasn't that hard; why couldn't people just figure it out themselves?)

That, and it was strange. Carefree and laid-back as the theatricist tried to paint himself to be (and was, ordinarily!), he did seem fascinatingly wound-up now. It was quite...curious.

(...okay, yes, fine -- /he/ was quite curious. Does that /satisfy/ you?)

.../Hrf/. Mournfully, Vergil bade Mr. King a fond farewell for now. Until Cael had his coffee to placate whatever frustration he was experiencing, and no longer.

He wondered just how distracted Cael was. Enough that he wouldn't notice Vergil very quietly (but casually) creeping up behind him? He wasn't looking, in all likelihood. Really, Cael, one would think you'd have learned by now -- always look over your shoulder.

"Your row is disturbing the other occupants." Stern, yet still in his library voice. /Obviously/ he was not (never was) amused.

(Of course, there were no other occupants, and he knew that Cael ought to know that. But then, one must question -- was that a...joke...? In truth, it's...really rather difficult to say.)
[1:14:13 AM] * IBLiS Jesus H. Christ, what was /wrong/ with this thing? Every time he came, /every /single/ /time/, it flipped out. It was a miracle it didn't just conk out and shut down on him, like last time. Did it hate him, was that it? Did it hate /everyone/? Did it want all of them to suffer a slow, painful death of caffeine deprievation? Was /that/ it? Ohhh, he'll show it a /death/ /wish/--

...Shit, no, now he was starting to sound like /Dante/. What was he going to do? /Tackle/ it? Yeah, bunch of good that'll do. God knows it worked so well all those times before--
[1:21:42 AM] IBLiS: "hoh /oh/, playin' dirty huh? well /two/ can play at that!"

"Oh /Ghod/, /no/, chome ohn, thairhe's /people/ whatchin'!"

"it was aSKIN' F'IT--"

"/JAYSUS/-- WHOULD Y'/QUIT/ /AIT/--!"
[1:23:47 AM] * IBLiS ...No, there. Had to be a better way. A /sensible/ way. Something that wouldn't make him feel deep shame and regret for even thinking it, let alone /doing/ it.
[1:24:00 AM] * IBLiS (Stupid /doofus/ was probably the reason it didn't work anymore--)
[1:24:08 AM] IBLiS: (i missed that accent)
[2:36:30 AM] * IBLiS He leaned over to peer up into the machine, careful not to spill his scaling hot coffee all over himself. That was the last thing he needed right now. Third degree burns had a way of tampering with one's rising acting career. Now, /something/ had to be up with this blasted thing. Maybe the funnel was jammed? Commands all bungled up? Maybe? But even then, how could he...?

"Your row is distrupting the other patrons." Said the mysterious voice he apparently managed not to notice at all.

"...Uh? Yeah, yeah, Ai'll take cahre o'it. " He mumbled right back, still not quite noticing it. Give him a little time, folks. He'll get it. Eventually.









".../Wh/--" Ah, /there/ we go. See? Not so stupid after all.

In hindsight, he really ought to have kept a better eye on things. How unlike him.
[4:53:05 AM] * IBLiS It was a miracle that Vergil didn't end up getting his own honorary badge of scalding third degree burns with the way Cael whirled around, coffee precariously in hand. Miracle that he wasn't downright /impaled/, honestly, given... recent developments.

And oh, he almost did. He very nearly did. But no, not this time. The coffee had stayed snugly in place, and those oh so /curious/ 'recent developments' were nowhere to be seen. Just boring old snooty Vergil and his boring old snooty books. Nothing new. Nothing weird. Nothing /evil/.

/Good/. Cael wasn't in the mood for moral dilemmias. 'Specially not ones that involved lives on the line. He had so little time as it already was.

But, then again, it wasn't here. Not for miles. Probably whole planes. Maybe even a dimension or two. This might be his only chance in a long, long time. If he ever wanted to ask...

...Wait, no, /no/, what was he /thinking/? He didn't have time to play Buffy the Shoggoth Slayer. He was already struggling enough with /real/ /life/.
[4:53:12 AM] * IBLiS (And yet...)
[4:53:56 AM] * IBLiS (/Ugh/. Ye Gods, curse this conscience of his.)
[5:21:59 AM] * IBLiS No, no, they'd just have a nice, /normal/ conversation. Ones that didn't involve ancient evils or demons or /failing/. God knows Vergil didn't need to know about /that/. No, they were going to have a little bit of /fun/. One last hurrah before the next soul crushing reading binge, you could say. It's the least he deserved.

So he'd do his damnedest not to let anything show. Or, well, anything /else/. He'd already failed on the surprise, he suspected. He'd give him that much. Creepy stalking bastard.

Ahhh, but he could do better. Much better.

After the first wave of shock passed over him, leaving just the tiniest bit lightheaded, he snatched up the surprise on his face and twisted it into a look of /concern/. /Genuine/, /real/, /concern/.

/Acting/. To think she said he didn't deserve to be here.

"Oh, daid Ai?" he lifted a hand to his mouth, looking much like someone who had just accidentally run over their best friend's kitten. "Geeze, m'just-- m'so /sohrrai/! Ai daidn't kno'! Hohld ohn, Ai-- Ai just /gohtta/--"

And then. /And/ /then/. He made a point to put down his coffee, frantically and yet so /purposefully/, so he could cup his script over his mouth. Yes, like a megaphone. /Exactly/ like a megaphone. And a surprisingly damn good one too, no doubt to Vergil's detriment.

"SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHRRRRRAI! AI DAIDN'T MEAN T'DO AIT!"






"RHEALLAI!"
[5:23:47 AM] * IBLiS "JUST. GO BACK T'WHATEVAHR Y'WEHRE DOING."
[5:23:52 AM] * IBLiS "...OK?"
[5:24:20 AM] * IBLiS Yes, he /was/ dragging this schtick as long as he possibly could. Who wouldn't?
[5:32:17 AM] * IBLiS He paused, shoving the script back under his arm and waiting with bated breath, as if waiting for his own execution... and then, with a brilliant smile saved only for those who narrowly escaped their executions, he looked back to his beloved audience of one. "Ai thaink thay undarstahnd."
[5:33:03 AM] * IBLiS /Perfect/. Oscar worthy, even. Let's see him volley /that/.
[5:35:38 AM] * IBLiS ...You know, his coffee's probably getting cold.
[5:35:41 AM] * IBLiS /Ugh/.
[1:26:36 PM] * Cap'n Nites "...Uh? Yeah, yeah, Ai'll take cahre o'it."

...He really /was/ distracted, wasn't he?

That wasn't the immediate response Vergil had expected. He would not credit Cael many things, but he would give him this: he was /very/ talented at impromptu deception. Incredibly so, even. He could think on his feet with the best of them, stringing together a tale tightly enough to hold water, soundly enough that it wouldn't unravel between his fingers. Sure, every act would eventually have to fall apart...but for Cael, that wouldn't happen for quite a while.

It was this same principle that made his scarves of a reasonable quality. But that was completely unrelated.

And what came hand-in-hand with thinking on one's feet was being utterly aware of one's surroundings at all times. Which he usually was. The fact that the Irishman did not so much as /notice/ him (not /really/) for a notably long period of time was -- /would/ /be/ concerning, if Vergil were to bother himself with such matters. Which he didn't.

And it was irrelevant because Cael /did/ finally manage to notice him! Incredible. Vergil was beginning to suspect he'd have to do something /really/ drastic. Now he had nothing to be unconcerned about at all.
[1:42:36 PM] * Cap'n Nites The way Cael spun on him, though, one would've thought Vergil was about to attack him. But the instant of tension, ready to draw up /something/ and defend himself, seemed to die away almost immediately. If Vergil didn't know what paranoia looked like, he may never have caught it.

But it was evidently unfounded paranoia: he felt like he was being visually disected for a moment, and then it was gone. Strange, really. But it was always a little unnerving when Cael.../looked/ like that. Like he was seeing something -- or trying to see something -- that wasn't there. Nothing too out of the ordinary, for him, so Vergil wouldn't question it.

And Cael no longer seemed concerned with whatever he was or wasn't seeing at all. Instead, he was concerned -- and that was /genuine/ /concern/, if Vergil didn't know any better -- by the row he was allegedly causing. Let the show begin.

He looked every bit the part -- /distressed/ voice, fumbling movements that were /real/ except no, they weren't, not even slightly. He was an embarrassed man stepping on the toes of all the wrong people and clumsily, hastily, trying to placate them. Much more like the Cael that Vergil knew -- or rather, quite unlike him.

He made a point of pressing his mouth into a thin, irritated line at the megaphone. His ears would be ringing with Irish for a week. But he would put up with it. After all, this was what he knew full well that he'd be dealing with. /Sigh/.

Vergil crossed his arms as the theatricist's expression melted into bright relief, feeling that he'd sufficiently dealt with the imaginary patrons he'd allegedly agitated. "Ai thaink thay undarstahnd," he said -- not sarcastically, either. Like he /really/ /was/ happy to be back on good terms with his fellow library-goers.

It was not bad. Entertaining, if a little cheesy and overdramatic. But who was Vergil to deny him further practice?
[1:49:47 PM] * Cap'n Nites "I'm not so sure," he remarked, just a /tinge/ of very faint concern in his tone, striding by and untangling his arms as he went. "I think you need to learn to project a bit more. I don't think they all heard you." A far superior performance, he thought -- much subtler. Nothing /exaggerated/ about it. "It's quite simple, really. Breathe from your diaphragm rather than your ribcage."

He picked up the cup of (rapidly cooling, he noted) coff-- /creamer/ /coloring/ and placed it back under the nozzle, reaching up to the controls. "This is also quite simple, really." He raised his other hand to the side of the machine, measuring at a glance how far back he was reaching -- half the length of his forearm. Perfect. "It merely requires..."
[1:49:52 PM] * Cap'n Nites ...Uh --
[1:50:00 PM] * Cap'n Nites What was he about to do with that fi--
[1:50:04 PM] * Cap'n Nites /thUMP/
[1:52:39 PM] * Cap'n Nites "A bit of finesse." The /thump/ was not nearly enough to damage it, but it certainly sounded like it. Regardless, it seemed to effectively jar the malfunctioning nozzle and, lo and behold, there was creamer like water from a boulder, or perhaps the jawbone of a donkey.
[1:57:30 PM] * Cap'n Nites "I fear you'll have to apologize to the patrons /personally/ if they're to tolerate your presence," he remarked in a sigh that was just a little sympathetic, offering the (...hot?) beverage with an expression that didn't quite match his tone. "They're not terribly forgiving of disruption, I'm afraid."

They'd be forgiving enough. Hopefully, a little, ah, /nudge/ in the right direction was enough to force Cael out of whatever mood he'd worked up. After all, he had his coffee now, and that was as long as Vergil had imposed upon himself to be involved. He was free to wash his hands of this.
[1:57:36 PM] * Cap'n Nites (Except no.)
[1:57:43 PM] * Cap'n Nites (No, he really wasn't.)
[1:58:06 PM] * Cap'n Nites (Damn it. Stupid Irish brats with their stupid /weird/ /moods/.)
[7:45:00 PM] IBLiS: Ahh, it was so nice when he bothered to play along. It wasn't quite the same as watching someone splutter and fumble to make a bewildered response, no, but... Cael had learned not to expect any of that from him a long, long, long time ago. This was practically a Godsend. Getting anything beyond a cold hard glare was nothing short of a Christmas miracle most days. He must've been in a good mood today.

...Well, relatively good. Better than usual. By loose definition of 'better'. Very loose.  Either way, he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. That was just poor manners. He could use the practice, anyway.

(Could use the relief, too. Could he ever.)

"Oh, /well/, in that case," He chirped, as innocent as a baby seal in a fish factory. But come on, who wouldn't trust that smile? So guiltless. So naive. So /bullshit/. It could've fooled anyone... if anyone didn't know any better."Ai've got a megaphone in m'car thait'll do /just/ th'trhick."

He liked to be prepared.

Maybe a little too prepared, admittedly, but he hardly saw any faults in wanting to stay on his toes. Honestly, that megaphone was probably one of the lesser oddities lying around in there. To say nothing of the makeshift backseat bed. Or the reading lamp. Or the waffle maker.

...It was clean burning! Really!

"Orrrr, if y'prhferr," He glided around his 'enthralled' audience of one, not one hair out of place, a practiced move that would make any Disney princess fume with envy. He always took his bullshitting with a point of /pride./"Ai jus' hahppen t'kno' how t'crhack th'ainterrcom oop in th'offaice. Now /therre's/ a apalag--"

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. What was he doing with that hand. What-- no-- what was he dO--

/WHAM/!

...Good Lord. And here he thought he was dealing with the more 'civilized' brother. The one that was too busy with imaginary tea parties and dressage tournaments to deal with the barbarics of the /real/ /world/. /Huh/. Maybe they were twins after all.

/Maybe/. He had his doubts.

 Even more surprising, it actually /worked/. Not partly, not just barely, but really truly /worked/. It took every ounce of his self-control to keep him from staring down at his cup in sheer wonderment. Leave it to Vergil to do what Dante had always struggled to do in one fell blow. Boy didn't even bat an eye! Amazing.

And how would he show his eternal gratitude for this divine godsend, exactly?

"...Whai, Ai had no aidea y'prhescrhibed so /dearhlai/ t'y'lil'brhotherr's Rhock'em Sock'em teachin's. Tell me, y'a yellaw belt yet?" With a compliment wrapped up in layers upon layers of insults, of course! That was just the principle of the thing. Doing it any other way would just be /weird/. No, scandalous! A travesty in compliments.

Besides, he'd get it. He had to get it, if he managed to live 21 years with /that/ walking whirlwind.  He'd get it, right? Yeah, he'd get it. Just leave it at that.

So he did, sipping away at his /mildly/ /warm/-- /ugh/-- coffee and flashing that coy smile that came so naturally to him. Look at them, chatting it up like nothing was wrong, like not a single thing could be off in their lives. Like it was /normal/. Completely, utterly, totally normal. Dull, even.

If only it could last. Oh, if only. Then maybe he wouldn't have to spend every little second of this so completely, utterly, totally dull moment wondering when that /thing/ would come back and destroy it all. No, no, no, enough of that. Back to Bizarro Crazy Town U.S.A with you, boys. This place isn't for /you/.

...
[7:45:23 PM] * IBLiS "...N' m'offerr staill stahnds."
[7:45:27 PM] * IBLiS /Ssssssip/.
[7:45:39 PM] * IBLiS Maybe he should just enjoy it while it lasted.
[10:10:40 PM] * Nitro Of course he wouldn't show his gratefulness. Vergil had not expected otherwise. The instant of shock hardly even showed on his face at all. He was no /mediocre/ actor, after all, and had the librarian not already suspected very well what his reaction would be he'd see only that shining innocent (/wicked/) playfulness. (Little /weasel/.)

Nevertheless, he didn't (not couldn't -- /didn't/) stop himself from rolling his eyes, just slightly, at the backhanded compliment. It was the only response he needed to grace it with, after all. Cael already knew his action was nothing like his brother's tendency to employ brute force in an aimless anger-fuelled desperation to get it (and a lot of machinery) /working/ -- no, he knew what he was doing. And Cael knew he knew what he was doing.
[10:10:42 PM] * Nitro ...
[10:10:45 PM] * Nitro Yeah.
[10:10:58 PM] * Nitro (Nevermind that it still left the question of just how he came upon that little trick. It wasn't as if he went out of his way to help people with it, not often -- no, it was far more entertaining to let them grapple with it. And it wasn't as if he /drank/ coffee...right?)
[10:12:23 PM] IBLiS: (...how /did/ he figure it out)
[10:12:39 PM] Nitro: [that's for you and Cael to wonder and me to laugh about]
[10:13:05 PM] IBLiS: (vergil how often do you binge on coffee)
[10:13:18 PM] IBLiS: (verge you /know/ how you get with caffeine)
[10:13:30 PM] Nitro: [ 8) ]
[10:59:33 PM] * Nitro He /did/ resist the urge to repeat the motion at that ever so brief jester's grin. It wasn't as /pointy/ as Dante's, no, but the attitude was precisely the same, and the impulse to roll his eyes came as automatically to him as that smile came to Cael and his brother. Force of habit, he supposed.

...It was almost nice, really. Very ordinary. Very quiet and --

"...N' m'offerr staill stahnds."

The remark drew his attention back to the speaker. (He silently, slowly loosened the fist at his side, just out of sight.) All of this was remarkably ordinary, in fact. Down to Cael's theatricism and flourish and everything (almost everything) was perfectly in place...except for Cael himself.

"At your own risk," he offered, simply enough. "I should think they wouldn't appreciate any further rowdy disruption. It may behoove you simply to leave them in peace." He lifted one hand to adjust the collar of his shirt -- it was straight, perfectly straight as he had fully expected, but he ran his fingers under it anyway, and when he dropped his hand the urge to clench it was gone. "And I'm certain you have your own business to attend, regardless."

There was no obvious subtext to his tone, no -- after all, he couldn't come off as threatening. Not if he really meant to understand what was strange here, or the particulars behind the theatricist's initial (funk, his inner Dante remarked) strange behavior. Or the fact that he was /here/ at all. Because Cael didn't belong in a library with a quire in hand, fighting with a coffee machine as if the next hours of his life hinge on it. Not in this library at this hour, and not with the way he didn't seem apt to acknowledge his aforementioned quire, presumably the reason he was here. And he had a few guesses as to what it might, /possibly/, be.

(...not a quire, really. Scripts were ordinarily a bit more than two dozen sheets, but.../was/ there another appropriate word? Ream was far too many, obviously. Pamphlet, maybe? Packet? A packet, then.)

So no, he couldn't afford to come across as (overb--) /minatory/, not without shutting Cael down. Or -- or maybe not shutting him down, but --
[11:03:04 PM] * Nitro ...causing problems, all the same. For the both of them. The sooner he dealt with this, the sooner he could keep that date with his newest novel. The details.
[11:03:09 PM] * Nitro The details mattered little.