[ He says, all of his usual enthusiasm for. Anything. His mismatched eyes flickered up from the paperwork on his desk, and up to Matt who looked. Off. He can't really describe it, but there was something about the movement, the smile, the relaxed pose that just sets him off somehow.
Silco's lip curled, but he started to stamp out the foul smelling cigar into his ash tray.]
Punctuality is something I prefer.
[ Says the guy who indulges literally the most carefree and chaotic child, who isnt on time for anything. He started to stand, predatory grace implicit in the motion. Silco has always been all business when Matt arrives, and today is no exception. If he's ignoring that mild, annoyed disgust, perhaps it's more accurate to say that he's more interested in satiating his hunger than he is in questioning Matt's easy, relaxed poise.]
Won't happen again, [ Matt assures him lightly. A moment later, he feels he has to add for accuracy's sake, ] Probably.
[ Contrary to what Silco may believe, Matt doesn't spend all his waking hours (or even 80% of them) actively fantasizing about everyone to cross his path.
That said.
He does glance Silco's way as he crosses to his usual seat and settles down. The quality of Silco's movement, something like the stalking of a cat or the sweep of a shark in deep water, is something Matt's always noticed passively. He notices how everyone moves. But for a whole stack of interpersonal reasons, including but not limited to Silco's habit of sacrilegious murder and his sourness over being hit on by his alternate self, Matt rarely takes a moment to appreciate it. ]
[ His fingers trail along the edge of his desk as he rounded it, feet eerily silent on the ground, despite his steel-toed boots he always wore. By now, Matt was used to the little oddities that came with Silco. The way his hands were always gloved, the way he always wore make-up across the scar that split his eye, and the small touches of his clothing. Dark slacks β with the faintest of stripes on it β a dark vest with gold lining, a dark shirt, cravat, and steel-toed boots. There was a coat, but it was hung neatly elsewhere. These days, he instinctively often let his fingers trail toward a pocket, where there was clearly something, but he never pulled it out. He kept it on him at all times, now. He couldn't chance it getting blown up, or destroyed, or in danger again. He couldn't risk it.
His crossing was swift, his eyes narrowed at the way Matt watched him, suspicious in nature as ever. Silco has never been able to handle others well. Nobody could be trusted. Nobody. There was nobody who could be trusted. He wondered if there was a plan here. Something of note.
He was late.
What was it? Could it have been a drug? Had he injected himself with something to put an end to him? Deprive Zenith of his fervency and dogged pursuit of their new world? Was it something else? Perhaps someone had given him something? Was it β Sebastian whose only promise was to keep Jinx out of his machinations, but perhaps he would only have to nudge and hint to get someone else to do so? The demon worked downstairs still, and Silco had seen the way the boy talked to him.
His lips peeled back, showing bared fangs. The agitation is apparent in communion, the paranoid circles Silco's brain takes are classic, expected, but he only crossed to halfway, before he stopped. ]
[ Matt watches Silco's fingers skim the desk's surface. He likes to watch people's hands. Tezcatlipoca's fingers maneuvering a cigarette; Amos in his workshop, transmuting disparate parts into a whole; GregΓ³r mixing drinks as if following a melody that only he can hear. He's noticed Silco's gloved fingers feinting towards his pockets, and guessed some weeks past that he's got a weapon in there. Silco doesn't need to carry weapons, but what is he if not the definition of "overkill"? ]
--Oh. [ Matt blinks up at him. Smiles. ] You, I guess. Is there somebody else in here?
[ Actually, now that he says that, Matt's gaze flicks to the corners of Silco's office. His awareness of spells and auras isn't passively much better than a baseline human's, but he figures he might be able to detect discrepancies in how objects are behaving.
Everything seems normal, though. He looks back to Silco. ]
[ There isn't much in his office, really. The biggest difference is now the large shield crafted by Tezcatlipoca sits in a place on the shelves, Quetzalcoatl's shards placed into them and seated into the center. Really, other than that, there isn't much. Though. From this end, Matt will probably be able to see the trace of a rune that seems to connect a wall to... nothing β or perhaps the more accurate way to say it, is that it appears to be a door, but there is no door there β as if it would activate a path to outside. (The crafty sort would probably notice that it does indeed connect to the alleyway that Silco had found Matt snooping in. hm!) ]
Why?
[ He asked, his tone sharp, and annoyed. Why even bother? This is an uncomfortable thing, isn't it? It isn't like he hasn't noticed that it hurts Matt when he feeds β though he hardly cares β and Silco's reedy, gloved fingers naturally gesture with his words as he does so. The space between his glove and his wrist on one hand shows a darkened, sinewy stretch of skin, as if it was necrotic and dead.
[ It's interesting, that rune. Matt would put something similar on his wall as a focus for divination, or an anchor point for a spell meant to cleanse or protect. It could just be art, of course. A stylistic flourish. The decor in Silco's office is so sparse that it feels to Matt like its pieces are meant to convey something; like symbols in an unfamiliar alphabet. But that could be pareidolia talking. Maybe he's just spent too many moments staring at those shelves over Silco's shoulder.
Matt hears why, and his gaze snaps back to Silco. It's a confusing question. Why does he breathe, or eat, or respond positively to sunsets and rainbows? Admittedly, he doesn't usually notice Silco the way he might notice, say, D.
Almost never. ]
Let's not throw stones where weird's concerned, [ he protests, ruffled but amused. ] Sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.
[ He asked, with a faint snap of his reply, like a cracked whip. He wants nothing more than to silence him, or maybe turn his head away because he looks like he is noticing things, and Silco does not like the prospect of someone β anyone β noticing something about him.
He is a cruel, hard man. He holds many secrets, and he wormed his way into power by being careful, and cautious until it was too late. Silco had always had to claw and bitterly climb his way to what he wanted or needed, and it meant that he had often noticed things that others didn't. It was one of the few tools he had in a world where he had always been lesser.
He does not enjoy someone else throwing that atool against him. ]
You seem to not mean a lot of the things you do. [ He finally says, a sharp blade, wielded carefully. His steps are slow, like a predator, but more than that: he is dragging out the wait. It always makes the blood pump faster, make it taste better. ]
[ The actual words Silco's saying are almost funny, especially given the stakes of the conversation as Matt understands them. But his demeanor is a little more forbidding. And his posture has changed--the whole pitch and tempo shifting downwards, slowing.
Matt's eyes widen very slightly. For a moment, he wonders if this is how Silco finally kills him--one hopes not permanently. Or if it's how Silco finally pushes him down, pins him one-handed to the couch cushion and makes him beg to be drunk fro--
Uh.
Matt doesn't blush. But something of a flushing feeling sweeps under his skin, not unlike the silken warmth he associates with D. His gaze skitters to that pocket where he assumes Silco's keeping some kind of weapon. ]
I think ... I would need to understand you better, to stand a better chance of not stepping on things. [ As usual, Matt's tone is even, polite. Placid surface over a melting, shuddering heart. ] And I get the sense you don't particularly want to be known, so.
Matt now has something in common with someone who no longer resides in Kenos β the only bearer to be shattered, actually β that there were plenty of little landmines around Silco, and accidentally stepping on them only became easier the more he hated someone. Was that because he saw the worst in people? Yes. Was he a wholly acerbic and unpleasant man with few redeeming qualities? Also yes, and those were what far too people brushed up against time and time again.
Silco never bothered hiding them these days. Where before in Zaun, he had a purpose that required at least a veneer of peacekeeping, now... Now he had nothing of the sort.
The more power he obtained, the less he seemed to bother with pretense.
He notices Matt's eyes on his pocket, where he keeps β ]
Who told you?
[ He hissed, his tone harsh, fingers now tensed, almost clawed. Like he wanted to rip his throat out from his neck. ]
[ Another widening of his eyes, this time abrupt, turning them huge. In a way, Matt's grateful for the savage shift in temperature. It makes it impossible to focus on the humiliating, borderline intrusive fantasy of a moment ago.
(Almost impossible.)
Instead: Matt's personal assessment of the situation shifts firmly to "Silco is finally going to kill me." Does he have that sleep spell ready to go? He's been focusing a lot more on Oblivion lately ... ]
Who--
[ Matt leans back where he sits, trying to breathe steadily to even out his heartbeat. To call up the shape of the spell in his mind. His eyes flicker to Silco's clawed fingers. ]
I don't know what you're talking about.
[ Slight uptick at the end of the sentence. Matt's pretty sure Silco doesn't mean "who told you that I don't want to be known," because the answer would be literally all your words and actions told me. ]
[ He doesn't, of course. The problem is that Silco is so used to looking for hidden meaning in every corner, because the man had always been a paranoid mess, and the past few months had done nothing to alleviate it β they've only increased that scrambling sense of paranoia at the edges of his perception. After nearly losing Jinx during the explosion in Yima's Manor, to briefly seeing her, before things just sort of... disappeared, his brain is a swirling mess of frustration and anger.
And Matt had dared to focus his gaze on where he kept her, a crime that the man could not allow to pass. ]
Of course not. [ He sneered, his tone acerbic and sarcastic, angry. Petty. ]
The same as you don't know what you're doing, or where you are at, hm? It's all on others to figure out what you mean when you're doing it.
[ Silco.
Silco has an astounding lack of self-reflection. ]
[ God, Matt thinks distantly, what the hell is in that alley. His heart has picked up speed despite his efforts. Knowing he likely doesn't have much time before some sort of crisis point, he wants to breathe faster, deeper--but of course, this type of easing can't be rushed. One deep breath; one slow release.
O auspicious Kalika with dishevelled hair, from the corners of whose mouth two streams of blood trickle-- ]
I can't figure out, [ Matt says, on the exhale, ] if you think I'm an idiot ... or like, playing six-dimensional chess.
[ Which is to say, there's no way to win. Matt's instinct is to comfort someone who's thrashing like this, either out of sympathy or placation; but an equal, opposite instinct says that could make Silco mad(der) or (more) suspicious or both. Maybe fighting and losing is the only way to make him feel sufficiently in control of his circumstances.
If that's the case, terrific. Matt rocks at losing fights.
Gently, trying to hold the shape of the sleep spell in his mind (they who recite another doubled bija of thine destroy all their enemies), Matt makes to get up from his seat. ]
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no subject
[ He says, all of his usual enthusiasm for. Anything. His mismatched eyes flickered up from the paperwork on his desk, and up to Matt who looked. Off. He can't really describe it, but there was something about the movement, the smile, the relaxed pose that just sets him off somehow.
Silco's lip curled, but he started to stamp out the foul smelling cigar into his ash tray.]
Punctuality is something I prefer.
[ Says the guy who indulges literally the most carefree and chaotic child, who isnt on time for anything. He started to stand, predatory grace implicit in the motion. Silco has always been all business when Matt arrives, and today is no exception. If he's ignoring that mild, annoyed disgust, perhaps it's more accurate to say that he's more interested in satiating his hunger than he is in questioning Matt's easy, relaxed poise.]
no subject
[ Contrary to what Silco may believe, Matt doesn't spend all his waking hours (or even 80% of them) actively fantasizing about everyone to cross his path.
That said.
He does glance Silco's way as he crosses to his usual seat and settles down. The quality of Silco's movement, something like the stalking of a cat or the sweep of a shark in deep water, is something Matt's always noticed passively. He notices how everyone moves. But for a whole stack of interpersonal reasons, including but not limited to Silco's habit of sacrilegious murder and his sourness over being hit on by his alternate self, Matt rarely takes a moment to appreciate it. ]
no subject
His crossing was swift, his eyes narrowed at the way Matt watched him, suspicious in nature as ever. Silco has never been able to handle others well. Nobody could be trusted. Nobody. There was nobody who could be trusted. He wondered if there was a plan here. Something of note.
He was late.
What was it? Could it have been a drug? Had he injected himself with something to put an end to him? Deprive Zenith of his fervency and dogged pursuit of their new world? Was it something else? Perhaps someone had given him something? Was it β Sebastian whose only promise was to keep Jinx out of his machinations, but perhaps he would only have to nudge and hint to get someone else to do so? The demon worked downstairs still, and Silco had seen the way the boy talked to him.
His lips peeled back, showing bared fangs. The agitation is apparent in communion, the paranoid circles Silco's brain takes are classic, expected, but he only crossed to halfway, before he stopped. ]
What are you looking at?
no subject
--Oh. [ Matt blinks up at him. Smiles. ] You, I guess. Is there somebody else in here?
[ Actually, now that he says that, Matt's gaze flicks to the corners of Silco's office. His awareness of spells and auras isn't passively much better than a baseline human's, but he figures he might be able to detect discrepancies in how objects are behaving.
Everything seems normal, though. He looks back to Silco. ]
no subject
Why?
[ He asked, his tone sharp, and annoyed. Why even bother? This is an uncomfortable thing, isn't it? It isn't like he hasn't noticed that it hurts Matt when he feeds β though he hardly cares β and Silco's reedy, gloved fingers naturally gesture with his words as he does so. The space between his glove and his wrist on one hand shows a darkened, sinewy stretch of skin, as if it was necrotic and dead.
He sniffed, and shook his head. ]
It's weird.
no subject
Matt hears why, and his gaze snaps back to Silco. It's a confusing question. Why does he breathe, or eat, or respond positively to sunsets and rainbows? Admittedly, he doesn't usually notice Silco the way he might notice, say, D.
Almost never. ]
Let's not throw stones where weird's concerned, [ he protests, ruffled but amused. ] Sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.
no subject
[ He asked, with a faint snap of his reply, like a cracked whip. He wants nothing more than to silence him, or maybe turn his head away because he looks like he is noticing things, and Silco does not like the prospect of someone β anyone β noticing something about him.
He is a cruel, hard man. He holds many secrets, and he wormed his way into power by being careful, and cautious until it was too late. Silco had always had to claw and bitterly climb his way to what he wanted or needed, and it meant that he had often noticed things that others didn't. It was one of the few tools he had in a world where he had always been lesser.
He does not enjoy someone else throwing that atool against him. ]
You seem to not mean a lot of the things you do. [ He finally says, a sharp blade, wielded carefully. His steps are slow, like a predator, but more than that: he is dragging out the wait. It always makes the blood pump faster, make it taste better. ]
Yet you keep doing such things.
no subject
Matt's eyes widen very slightly. For a moment, he wonders if this is how Silco finally kills him--one hopes not permanently. Or if it's how Silco finally pushes him down, pins him one-handed to the couch cushion and makes him beg to be drunk fro--
Uh.
Matt doesn't blush. But something of a flushing feeling sweeps under his skin, not unlike the silken warmth he associates with D. His gaze skitters to that pocket where he assumes Silco's keeping some kind of weapon. ]
I think ... I would need to understand you better, to stand a better chance of not stepping on things. [ As usual, Matt's tone is even, polite. Placid surface over a melting, shuddering heart. ] And I get the sense you don't particularly want to be known, so.
no subject
[ He says, tersely.
Matt now has something in common with someone who no longer resides in Kenos β the only bearer to be shattered, actually β that there were plenty of little landmines around Silco, and accidentally stepping on them only became easier the more he hated someone. Was that because he saw the worst in people? Yes. Was he a wholly acerbic and unpleasant man with few redeeming qualities? Also yes, and those were what far too people brushed up against time and time again.
Silco never bothered hiding them these days. Where before in Zaun, he had a purpose that required at least a veneer of peacekeeping, now... Now he had nothing of the sort.
The more power he obtained, the less he seemed to bother with pretense.
He notices Matt's eyes on his pocket, where he keeps β ]
Who told you?
[ He hissed, his tone harsh, fingers now tensed, almost clawed. Like he wanted to rip his throat out from his neck. ]
no subject
(Almost impossible.)
Instead: Matt's personal assessment of the situation shifts firmly to "Silco is finally going to kill me." Does he have that sleep spell ready to go? He's been focusing a lot more on Oblivion lately ... ]
Who--
[ Matt leans back where he sits, trying to breathe steadily to even out his heartbeat. To call up the shape of the spell in his mind. His eyes flicker to Silco's clawed fingers. ]
I don't know what you're talking about.
[ Slight uptick at the end of the sentence. Matt's pretty sure Silco doesn't mean "who told you that I don't want to be known," because the answer would be literally all your words and actions told me. ]
no subject
And Matt had dared to focus his gaze on where he kept her, a crime that the man could not allow to pass. ]
Of course not. [ He sneered, his tone acerbic and sarcastic, angry. Petty. ]
The same as you don't know what you're doing, or where you are at, hm? It's all on others to figure out what you mean when you're doing it.
[ Silco.
Silco has an astounding lack of self-reflection. ]
no subject
O auspicious Kalika with dishevelled hair, from the corners of whose mouth two streams of blood trickle-- ]
I can't figure out, [ Matt says, on the exhale, ] if you think I'm an idiot ... or like, playing six-dimensional chess.
[ Which is to say, there's no way to win. Matt's instinct is to comfort someone who's thrashing like this, either out of sympathy or placation; but an equal, opposite instinct says that could make Silco mad(der) or (more) suspicious or both. Maybe fighting and losing is the only way to make him feel sufficiently in control of his circumstances.
If that's the case, terrific. Matt rocks at losing fights.
Gently, trying to hold the shape of the sleep spell in his mind (they who recite another doubled bija of thine destroy all their enemies), Matt makes to get up from his seat. ]