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And then they're home. And then they're home at a particular home. That particular home that Fox recognized from her own visitation from the future. All of these things have been lining up for quite some time now, and she might well be wondering how long he's been keeping all of this from her. She might well indeed.
He sets her down on the shitty bed that they were able to get hauled in here from Myrne. Black Sea shipping is how Odessa gets its merchandise in. So it's not like there was a Serta Perfect Sleeper for him to go pick up when it came right down to it. They live like Ukrainian farmers in a Ukrainian farming village. And that means shitty beds. Even so, he sets her down on it gently and rather than join her, takes a knee beside the bed and sets his head on her hands in abject and silent apology. She will of course know him. She will of course know that it never occurred to him in any of this that the future he was protecting for her, the children he was guarding for her, might not be things she ever wanted. He saw a future where her people were happy, and she and everything she cared about was protected and happy, and that it was for that he had been doing these terrible things all of this time, after all. She would understand that without having to be told, and would forgive him without having to be asked. Because after all, she always wanted it and dreamed of it but knew in her heart of hearts it would have to be him coming around to the idea in the first place and then, because there's a war on and we're busy people, twins. You'll want two, Vasyl Andriyovich. You know you will would go the conversation they'll never get to have now. And the silence that hangs in the air like his head on her hands, it hums with its difference from perfection. And he lives with it.
"I am so sorry, krasniya." (edited)
She curls up to his chest. Sometimes, even when you could take care of yourself, allowing someone else to take care of you, not just for yourself, but for them? It's a thing that has to happen. It's a thing that's good to let happen. Fox doesn't let many people take care of her, really. Very very few. But he's always been someone she trusted, right from the start. Right when she probably shouldn't have.
But she did.
She lets him set her on the shitty bed and curls up gently on her side, still silent. Thoughts and feelings run over her like water. It's one thing to say 'yes, someday,' and it's another to be told this possibility as a certainty with a timeframe, with names, with a face and a mouth and words which he knows and she doesn't.
Her fingers card into his thinning curls when he lays his head on her hands. Her broken, grubby fingernails soothe along his scalp, movements of habit and time but no less genuine for their well-practiced, almost instinctual nature. Fox watches him, those wide eyes gone entirely gold these days, and smiles just a little bit when he speaks. Her lips part, then close again. The gesture repeats, and her hands continue to pet him.
He can see her considering being angry. He can see her pondering being upset. He can see her unwinding all of the little roads those futures might carry her on, as far out as they go, and not just because he might pick up the spooling and unspooling of Time and Fate on Mage Sight; he can see the way her gaze unfocuses a little bit, the subtle workings of her jaw's muscles.
And then her gaze comes back to him again, and he can see her comparing the things she might do to the things which might lead her to this perfect future.
It might be a little bit like watching something die, in its way, seeing her take up that path of prediction before action so fully. It might be like watching something be born, too. When what you've had for the last fifteen years of your life is the idea that at any moment, the people you love could be called away for One Last Assignment, and you might never see them again, life becomes tapdancing on quicksand without an end in sight. Tapdancing on into the darkness: this moment of joy here is all that exists, so live it. What future? What plans? They all might disappear in a moment, everyone who matters.
And for the first time since he's known her, he can see on her face that now there exists some definite idea of future, of tomorrow, of a place worth going together. As if, for the first time he's known her, she's put one foot on, if not solid ground, at least the idea of solid ground.
Eventually, after all that silence, she finally says: "I know."
And then she says: "Tell me everything."
And so he does. But first, he slumps around and falls to his rump on the floor, resting his back against the bed and draping his arms over his knees. Without his magic, he just looks old and tired. Worn down and hollowed out, like a used up assassin for a state intelligence office. He no longer has the benefit of his prior conditioning, his praxes, his attainments that kept him hidden and clever and quick witted and always, always, always adding to his internal memory. It's all gone at present, and he's stuck very much in the now with only his innate self to handle everything. It's not been going well, clearly.
"I was among the first few contacted. There were others. Well you know, being one of them. I pulled a gun on myself. I threatened myself. I read the text of the law to myself." Vasya trails off, as though these particular details are of no great importance. "As I said, my love, they chose the precise moments in my life when I would be susceptible to redirection. At first I was dubious, of course. We were all very dubious. Concerned we were damning ourselves through our actions, or damning our friends through our inactions. In the end, I decided there could be no crime in opposing the Seers of the Throne if they're here breaking the Pax Arcana. So I broke it, too. They were sending people back, and I was helping them. They would give me just enough information to get me where I needed to be in the end, and then I'd do whatever it was I found myself needing to do. Fighting a Seer, or helping prevent an assassination. It wasn't long before some of us had figured out how to anchor ourselves to a timeline, how to monitor the timeline, how to begin to safeguard it. I'm learning on the fly how to fight this type of war, which may be why they went to such lengths. Probably I had more time in the future. Probably something else happened to shake me loose." (More)
"But here, now, with them coming back and attacking our present? We'll never know. The timetables are all moved up. I'm firing on people I am just seeing for the first time. Kids send back. Seers, sure. But kids. Putting rounds in them like it's prayer." Vasya rocks his head back and bounces it against the mattress, letting his eyes shut tight. Eyes still closed he admits, "They showed me a credible future where we were winning, Fox. Where your people are thriving, and we're winning, and we are happy. A future our enemies have been doing their level best to unravel and destroy. I threw myself in the way. I did my best to keep it safe, and I didn't tell you because of how impossible maintaining it would be. I didn't want to break your heart. I didn't want you mourning children I never even had a chance to give you. If I succeeded, I thought, we could have this discussion then. And if I failed, I could take it to my grave. Only one of us would ever have to miss them."
She scoots forward on the bed, curling herself around his shoulders as if he should expect her tail to drape over one of them. Instead, her arm loops loosely around his shoulders, sneaking her fingertips under his shirt so that her hand can lay flat against his chest while he talks. Fox listens, nodding here and there. She was there when he pulled a gun on himself, there when the two of them discussed law. This much, she knew. Fox snuffles at his shoulder, a small instinctive thing. "Me and Weaver, yes. I was doing Time Crimes before all the cool kids caught on." There's gentle amusement in her tone, responding just enough so he knows she's really listening.
"Oh, my heart," she sighs softly, her fingers curling against his chest, a slow, casual petting through the curls there. "You have always wanted to be the single man against the storm, because they told you that you had to do that. That it had to be you, always you, alone against the dark. That you couldn't trust anyone, and if your heart gets broken, well, it was always meant to be, so what loss?" Fox noses his ear gently. "I have always been your accomplice." A kiss to the side of his neck. "I am sorry I let you think you should stand out there alone. You're not, anymore. That's part of the deal." Probably she doesn't mean just her, but a whole bunch of people. "So tell me about them, and about what we need to do now, and if my heart breaks, it breaks. And from now on, we make these choices together."
Tears spring to his eyes unbidden, and he has to blink a few times to clear his vision. He's silent while he collects himself for a moment, craning his neck back so he can try to speak back to her somehow. "I only met one of them. She looks like me. Only she's pretty. Beautiful, blonde hair. The color of August wheat in the sunlight. She has your knack for nipping ankles and my sense of humor. My eyes. Your smile. Your nose, too. I am a modest man, but she is beautiful. And strong, too. Clever. Quick-witted and kind. I knew the moment I saw her who she was. I can't explain to you how I knew, Naika, I just... I knew. My soul knew it. And I haven't looked back, I've been living for the moment I see her smile again, but for the first time. It's all I think about, but there's a war. A war I no longer know quite how to win. I can't shoot another kid. I'm so tired. I'm so tired of shooting kids."
When he blinks, she snuffles at his ear a little. It's a companionable thing, but it's also designed to make him laugh. Fox has always clowned for him in the moments he gets overwhelmed, and this is no different. And then Fox lets her eyes half-lid as he describes her child -- their child -- to her. Summoning some proxy image out of the invocations he makes. "I guess I better keep a human nose, then. I wouldn't want her to inherit my fox nose, that would look very silly." The words weasel their way out around a little lump in her throat, come out a little bit squeaky. "I get that," she agrees. "I knew you were actually you." More little pets on his chest.
"Yeah. That... " There's a silence there, words trailing off. "I don't want you to." She sucks on her teeth, a little tch noise, as she thinks. "You got us here," she points out quietly. "Not alone, but you did get us here. You can't go forward alone. And you know that Mary will have to tell someone -- or you should assume that she will -- she's always been a good kid. So I think your two problems have the same solution, and that solution rests with a guy who hasn't exactly run off to tell the Consilium that he spoke to his future self either." Weaver is the Warmaker, after all.
"Baldur is my spon-- my mentor. In the Children now. I figure if I'm not going to be going into combat any time soon, I may as well study up with the sprouts and buds." When Vasya spoke of such a fate prior, he dismissed it as beneath him. A waste of his resources. A strategic error he could never conscience or forgive. Now he sounds a bit like he's looking forward to it? Being ordered not to hurt anyone? Having an obligation to sit down and not kill anything? Indeed, a right to tell someone who orders him otherwise to go and fuck themselves? Yeah. Learning with a ten year old on his lap for a few weeks sounds pretty fucking swell.
"I have ideas?" He says it as a question, as though he's not certain if he's supposed to have ideas. If it's too early for him to still be who he is right now. "The armor they were wearing, the gear they were carrying. I've been trying to figure out what it's for, what makes it special. And the more I encounter the future operatives, the more of an idea I get of how I would deal with them in the field. What gear I'd craft and what tactics I'd employ. I wanted to become an Adept of Prime under Ethos, but fuck him at this point. I don't have the time right now. And I'm horrible at matter. But we're in a cadre with some absolute geniuses, and I am about to be taught the cortical precepts. I know we can begin to create some prototypes." He pulls out his pistol again and sets it down on the table. "Like a nonlethal version of Lyudmila. Either that, or I need to find a new tool to dedicate."
"But, sure. Weaver. I honestly can't see this blowing up in my face at this point. And if they try, honestly, I'm not sure a coup isn't in order." Oh, if only CENTRAL could hear him now, they'd have a heart attack and die.
And they'd deserve it. Let them all have heart attacks and die. If Vasya gave her the idea, she might make it happen. Okay, probably not, but she has enough spite and hate in her heart for everyone who used him over the years to overflow and stop all of their hearts instantly.
Yeah, probably don't give her the idea. It's not good for her Wisdom.
She continues to pet him, continues to listen. A small smile at the slip up, the way he almost says sponsor. She understands the nomenclature, and doesn't object to it. "Good. You shouldn't. It's like walking on a limb after reconstructive surgery. If you do that, it won't heal right." Fox continues to generally pet and sniff at him, curled around his shoulders the same way she does when she's orange and fuzzy. "I find my ring a useful tool. Multipurpose and wonderful for so many things given its materials," Fox offers thoughtfully. "But I have always been profligate with my tool use. You could have more than one, too."
"Yes. Weaver." She's always adored the spider. "And fuck Ethos, ask Mei. You should have asked her first anyway, she might make a big sad frown if she found out someone else taught you anyway."
Vasya just stares at Fox. Stares at her in silence for many long seconds. He then reaches out and covers the ears of the carving of Lyudmila Pavlichenko on his pistol, slowly shaking his head at her. "How could you. She'll hear you."
He still has that slavic deadpan that makes it difficult to know if he's being serious or not unless you know him. "I was being a good Free Councilor, Fox. I was trying to be a good... Citizen. Whatever that means. Whatever the fuck that means to them anymore. Whatever the fuck it ever meant." To put it mildly, his time in the Free Council has been underwhelming. Disappointing, even. He'd definitely had a higher opinion of them going in that he has going out. As a Guardian. Let that tell you something. He lifts his hand and examines his ring for a moment, then nods his head agreeably. "It seems fitting to turn what I used to consider my only vulnerability into my primary strength, though. Or to acknowledge the truth of it, as is the case here."
She knows him well enough that she doesn't look shocked or worried that she's actually offended him, but -- eyes glittering -- leans to smooch him loudly on his cheek. MWAH. "Oh no. I am afraid." Her deadpan isn't quite as good as his.
"I know. But like, fuck that guy. I know what you were trying to do. I do. But fuck that guy. I like that guy, but fuck that guy. Ask Mei." Fox drops her chin on his shoulder again, looking down the length of his arm toward the shimmer of siderite on his hand with its visible bands of lunargent and brontium, the orichalcum hidden in the interior's engraving. "I made it to be used," she agrees. "And... good." That last syllable seems to hold the weight of took you long enough, even if gently so.
"Fuck that guy," he agrees without conviction. Because Ethos is just another dumb kid in a line of dumb kids, really. It's not his fault. Vasya's head shakes a little, as he tries to dismiss the past and remain in the absurdity that is the concept of Now. And Here. "No, they're quite lovely. I just always worried, you know. That they'd lead back to you. I always worried about you with respect to me. I still do. We're dealing with people from the future. Finding me at a vulnerable moment is the simplest of tasks from their perspective. So I maintained hyper vigilance. Only. Now? Now, I'm hiding in the Lodge with my spells down. We need to expect something. And we need to deal with it so utterly, so completely, so absolutely that they never risk resources on that ever again. Just. You know. Without killing any of their child soldiers."
He rubs at the back of his head for a long moment and sighs, "No pressure." It's at this point that he finally relents and pulls himself up from the floor to crawl over her and onto the bed. He doesn't bother getting to 'his side'. He just flops over her. She'll probably wind up a fox on his chest anyway. Might as well enjoy flopping on her for a while. "They do not have WaWa in Ukraine." This is probably a statement of desire as much as a segue to other matters.
"No -- oof!" She flops her arms around him. "They do not. Is that a request for me to portal back to Philadelphia and get you a meatball shortie?" She drops the conversation for now, saying only: "The family needs to talk." That term could mean a lot of people, but mostly the Firebirds.
"Damn. Now I want a meatball shortie. And Reese's Pieces."
Overhead, the clouds part. A clear beam of moonlight shoots down, apparently choosing to illuminate the little shitty shack of a farmhouse on the side of that shitty side road outside of that shitty little village of Myrne. The door swings open, a glittery wind blows in, and a tray of WaWa hot hoagies, chips, and boxed sweets with assorted drinks floats in through the door, Labyrinth style, to alight on the ground and cause the dust and animal hair to flee for the four corners of the shitty shack floor.
The Acanthus just inhales deeply, and exhales contentedly. Because that felt good.
Sometimes, it takes a truly absurd miracle to pop the increasingly fragile bubble you've erected around your sanity, so you can be the one taking care of someone else who was also taking care of you. And sometimes laughter turns into tears, and that's okay.
Fox begins to giggle when the moonlight illuminates the farmhouse; at first it's so involuntary, such little gasps of sound, that it almost sounds like she's burping laughter. All those scattered little spasms gather up and gather speed until they turn into a freight train of laughter. He's still laying on top of her, so he's getting jostled around as she laughs more and more hysterically. Laughter. Sobbing. Sobbing. Laughter. Both of them coming out of Fox at a certain point take on a sharp high tone like a fox screaming in the night.
"You have to redact the wrappers when we're done," he reminds her, just starting to unwrap a hoagie while she begins laugh-sobbing. He is at first quite confused. She doesn't do this terribly often, and he'd had the benefit of a much improved skillset at those prior moments. Or at least access to one without anyone noticing at literally the drop of a hat. That phantom limb reach for clarity is there as he spends several seconds staring at her, reaching for a part of him that's not there any longer and never will be again. She can see it written clear on his face if she's even able to see it. But it passes fairly quickly as he tries to make do with who and what he is. He finally rolls up onto an elbow and pulls himself off of her in order to cradle her upper body up in his arms and drop his chin atop her head. "If you get tears on the Reese's pieces, they'll run, too. I'm not cleaning that up, either. No matter."
It's not like she really has any control over when her control runs out. We all just do our best with what we're given. For whatever it's worth, she doesn't seem to notice that he struggles with knowing what to do: he cradles her up and she buries her face in his chest, wraps her arms around his waist. Hangs on.
The storm subsides, and she snuffles against his once-clean white tank top, fingers tightening in the cloth at the small of his back. "Can't cry on the candy," she sniffs, her voice cracking in the middle of the sentence as she reaches to knuckle her eyes clear. "I'll make the wrappers go away," she agrees. "I ain't redacting shit." A little hiccup, and she sits up a bit, still leaned against him, and then leans to snatch the hoagie he started to unwrap. Ah, well, she's all better now?? Stealing food? Yes? Good?
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