Open RP

[greatoldjohn]

[art courtesy of otterbiscuits @ tumblr]

text audio video prose action prompt etc.

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gently places this at your feet

[greenzone]

Willa's not sure what goes wrong when she goes home. Because, first of all, she hasn't gone home. She's not sure where she is at first, just that there are a lot of frankly terrifying people very scandalized by her jeans and that everything looks simultaneously really old and way newer than it should for being so ancient.

(Not Eldritch ancient. Just, y'know, teen perspective ancient.)

What she knows is that this isn't the plane to Florida. What she knows is that it's the dead of winter, she's stumbled through the snow after bolting from the weird town, and now she's found some rich person's house way up in the mountains. And that there's a familiar silhouette climbing into a car in front of the place.

She's freezing. She's fatigued and confused and more than a little scared. And she's pretty sure that's--

"Arthur?"

If that's him, then John can't be far away.

[lestercraft]

The silhouette might be familiar, but the details are different: Arthur's hair is long, longer than it's ever been on the Barge, ratty and dry and streaked with blood; his face is streaked with blood and multiple days of stubble growing in messy patches, and as Willa gets closer they only serve to highlight how gaunt he is, a skeletal frame with skin drawn tight, red from the cold - half an ear is missing, still bloodied - and the multiple layers of clothes he's wearing visibly hang from his frame.

And when he hears his name, he freezes with his right hand on the car door, tensed in a way Willa's rarely seen, that can only be associated with intense fear even with the exhaustion that hangs heavier than the clothes as his head twists towards her, eyes flicking wildly. "Wh-who-- I'm- sorry, who are you?"

Is that a- it can't be, surely, but it sounds like a teenager...??

[greatoldjohn]

[It's... it's a girl, Arthur.
A you g girl, dressed in workman's trousers and a coat that's too thin for the cold and a knitted cap. Her hair, as far as I can tell, is blond, medium length. She's looking at you as if she knows you, Arthur. ]

A pause before-

[She also looks scared. W-we should help her. Bring her with us. We don't want to leave her here for when Larson comes back... ]

[greenzone]

"Who's Larson?" She's so fucking cold, but at least it's not raining any more. Doesn't keep her from already being soaked through and shivering hard enough to make her teeth rattle. "Wait, what do you mean 'as if I know him'? Jesus Christ, what... what happened? You look like you got eaten by a wolf and shit over a cliff."

[lestercraft]

The sudden wave of panic tenses Arthur's features into a furious rictus, yet another expression Willa's never had directed at her. He didn't say Larson-- she can hear John. She knows who Arthur is, how are they supposed to--

His lips press as he glances away, turning his face away slightly so he can mutter to John. "John, we can't, it-it's not-- she's..." He takes a deep breath, sighing it out. He needs to, needs to remember to be compassionate, but this-- "She can hear you, that's not good. Is it?"

[greenzone]

She stops at that look on his face, as unnerved as she is worried. Wanting to come closer, wanting to see if there's anything she can do, and simultaneously frightened to try. The standing still makes her shiver even harder.

"Yeah, I ca-can hear you too Arthur, what the fuh... fuck." She hugs her arms a little tighter around herself to stop them shaking. "I spent m... m-months making the r-ri-ring work, I should hope I can hear you both. What ha... happened to you? Both of you..."

Oh, the world is tilting slightly sideways. She moves with it, catching herself against a tree. Plaintive and confused and wanting one of them to explain, she says, "Uncle John?"

If she weren't so cold, so tired, so worried for them, she would probably be thinking more clearly. She'd be putting two and two together or at least would have realized there's an equation to be solved here. As it is, she hangs on to the tree and tries not to shudder.

[greatoldjohn]

[ She'll freeze out here, Arthur, and so will you! Both of you need to get in the c-

Uncle John?]

He is also, definitely, confused about the fact that she can hear him but he's a great deal more aware of just how fucking weird the universe can be. And remembers the mask, which makes the mention of a 'ring' to hear him reasonable enough.

[Arthur, she's from another timeline! O-o-or from later on in *our* timeline!

Regardless, we need to all get in the car and get *out* of here or you're *both* going to end up in one of those prison cells down below! ]

[lestercraft]

Yeah honestly that's a wild one for Arthur as well.

"Uncle John?!"

But hey, it's the tipping point in his decision, and he's quick to start moving towards her, stripping off the rainslicker and the double-breasted coat beneath it in one motion, leaving him in just a knit undershirt despite the cold. "Fine, alright, let's- get her in the car - w-where is she-?"

She sounds like she needs the warmth a lot more than him.

[greenzone]

Seeing Arthur, battered and traumatized and thinner than anyone should be, shuck his coats and head toward her--well, annoyingly, it makes her cry. She heads for him, too, speaking as she does.

"Right here. What's ha-happening? What happened to you?" She wants so badly to hug him, but the terror in him makes that absolutely a move that's for her, not for him. She keeps talking as she gets closer, though it's quiet nonsense to orient him more than anything, quiet enough for John to easily speak over her.

"I was going h-home, not permanently or anything but I wanted t-to call my dad, I wanted to ta-talk to him, and... it was your idea, so I thought-- It was only supposed to be for the l-length of a plane ride."

[greatoldjohn]

John's never had to comfort anyone but Arthur before, but at least he has that experience. He realizes that he hasn't actually talked to her since he realized she can hear him and he'll try that now.

[ We can talk about it in the car. Now, can you get in on the passenger side? Yes. And maybe tell us your name. Perhaps another version of us knows it, but we don't. But first, in the car. Arthur and I will drive.]

His tone gets a little firmer given that Arthur is in the state he's in and just took off his coat.

[Arthur, *both* of you will be warmer in the car. Get in the car! Then you can explain what she means by a 'plane' ride. ]

[greenzone]

"C-car Uncle Arthur, and put your fuh-fucking coat back on. Or w-we can use it as a blanket or something. But c... car." It's worried, though, affectionate and afraid rather than a reprimand. She crunches her way through the snow toward the vehicle, trying to figure out how close she should get, what will make Arthur jump and what might actually help.

"It'll be okay," she says softly, as much for him as her. A blast of wind makes her gasp, but she repeats herself all the way to the passenger side: "It will be okay."

She'll make it okay.

[lestercraft]

"Both of you shut up a minute." His voice is clipped: he's tired, he's sore, he's freezing, and the giant hole in his stomach is bleeding gently into his shirt, so the sooner they move the better.

Willa gets both coats draped over her shoulders. "Keep this on or you'll catch fucking pneumonia." As he opens the car door for her: "Mind the bindle."

And as soon as she's in, he's all but slamming the car door and making his way back to the driver's seat - though as he goes, Willa might notice the massive dark stain across his lower back, and the way the hair on the back of his neck is completely dark with blood.

But he gets into the driver's seat readily, only a soft grunt to mark his discomfort as he sinks into the leather chair. "Right. Let's go. John?"

[greatoldjohn]

John will take the time to describe to him the set up of the front area of the house and the path to the road out. His arm will take the steering wheel on the other side as his foot presses the gas. They coordinate between them to back out and start leaving.

[She's scared, Arthur. And... you took some of the bread. Maybe she's hungry too?]

[greenzone]

"I'm not scared," Willa insists quietly. Yeah, she's still shaking, but that's got nothing to do with the fear okay. She pulls the layers of coats tighter around herself, her skin grossly clammy along with the chill. "You eat it, I'm fine, I had something earlier. Thank you. Though."

And that is so much blood. "Wh..."

Who, what, where--?

"Willa. My name. Willa Givens."

[conning]

They find it in a heavy wooden trunk, sanded smooth and carved with the initials A. L.. It's part of a collection, an inheritance of century-old pieces from mixed estate sales over the years.

Neal finds himself drawn to the chest. Drawn to how plain and sturdy and simple it is. Like the person who owned it knew the value of being underestimated, the security in being able to go unnoticed. That and... and. And something. A feeling, a voice, he's not sure.

He fiddles the lock open while the FBI is still on the other side of the attic, burning with curiosity. He tosses the lock lightly into a corner, so he can there was no lock on the chest before he opened it, and then does.

It's an almost vertigo-like sensation, the way he can only seem to focus on one of the things inside.

[greatoldjohn]

The first thing he'll hear is this: a deep, otherworldly voice that comes from inside of him as opposed to outside. There's also something weird about his body, something strange happening where he can't feel his left arm, his left leg. In fact, everything on that side of him feels numb and odd and awkward probably. But there's also the voice. He's never heard that voice before, but even then, there's so much delicate hope in it.

[...Arthur? Arthur, you came back?]

[conning]

He doesn't know who he is.

"Arthur?" There's hope in that, too, but no time-softened British accent.

Neal! Someone's voice, a voice he thinks is familiar but can't be sure, muffled like there's a wall between him and the speaker. The ground underneath part of his back thrums with running footsteps. His ears feel like they're ringing, except one of them feels like nothing at all. And he can only see out of one eye.

Is that normal?

"Who are you?" It's soft, said almost to himself, because the voice came from so close. His focus is clearing, but his mind is still blank. A man probably ten or fifteen years his senior stoops over him, worry in his eyes.

"Neal! Can you hear me?" To someone else, the man says, "What the hell is wrong with his arm?"

[greatoldjohn]

John has been processing while Art- while Neal, apparently had been going through all of that, and he's not happy to see the other man coming so quickly. It's going to make things a lot more difficult.

[ My name is John. Your friend can't hear me. And your memory will come back in a moment or two. Don't be alarmed. ]

The arm in question is going to start moving then, completely independent of Neal, and he's going to give a little wave of yeah, huh, wild right? I'm fine.

[conning]

"It's in my head," he says, looking at the man standing over him--over them?--in confusion. He's starting to notice a presence sharing his internal space, an impression of a being and a glimpse of emotions that aren't his.

"Neal, what are you talking about?"

He catches up with himself then, still confused about who he is, what just happened. But instinct is to play it off, to smile and nod and lie, so he trusts his instincts. "I- I guess I slipped. Landed on my left side--little stiff."

"That didn't look like a slip. It looked like you passed out."

"I'm fine, I promise. I didn't pass out." Neal moves to sit up and there's a half-second where limp weight drags at half his body before that pull disappears and he slowly, slowly gets to his feet.

He feels weird. In that he doesn't feel at all on one side. Absolutely nothing. "Uh, I think I might have hit my head on the way down. Mind if I go outside and get some air?"

Peter frowns, glancing at a black woman in a crisp suit at his side. "Diana, get EMS out here to give him a look and keep an eye on him outside until they get here."

"Sure thing, boss." The woman, Diana, eyeballs Neal. "You good, Caffrey?"

"I-- Yeah, I. Yeah."

[greatoldjohn]

The voice is a little more of a growl.

[ *Don't* say that there's a voice in your head talking to you. You'll get us locked up in an asylum, asshole. Now... come on. Let's go outside and... and we can figure out what happened here. ]

[conning]

Neal flinches at the intensity of the growl, at the chest-deep stir of unfamiliar emotions. The emotions of whoever is in this overlapping space with him. Whoever is slowly synching with Neal's footsteps to walk seamlessly after no more than thirty feet. It's somehow even more disorienting to see glimpses of his left foot and hand moving with confidence instead of uncertainty. When they were uncoordinated he could at least pretend the total numbness of his left side was from falling. A intense bruise, minor nerve damage, anything. Now, it's like his body ends in the middle and is supported on the other side by emptiness.

"Neal Caffrey," he says quietly. "I remember that name. I remember my name."

Not much else yet but it's something. Diana is a few steps too far back to hear him murmuring. "Who are you? Why is my body numb?"

[greatoldjohn]

[ You'll remember more in time, though if there's something familiar we could do to jog your memory faster, it would help. ]

They keep walking and John is clearly thinking, not taking the effort to hide that processing from Neal even if he can't see into what the thoughts actually are.

[I told you: my name is John. John Doe. And your body isn't 'numb'. Half of it is under my control. *I* can feel it just fine. ]

[conning]

"I'm not sure."

Art. Art, but that's so wildly unspecific as to be useless.

He stumbles when the voice--John--informs Neal that he's controlling half of his body. "What?"

That's full volume, and Diana takes a couple of quick steps forward to grab Neal's arm and keep him from falling. "What's wrong? Dizzy?"

[greatoldjohn]

[ ...we need to find some privacy. You might need to make something up to give us some time.

See if she can give us a room alone to sit in for a time. That would probably work. ]

[conning]

Neal takes the direction seamlessly, glancing at Diana and not bothering to hide his disorientation. "Is there-- a bathroom, maybe? While you call EMS? I feel like I'm going to be sick."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure, come on." She helps him to the nearest bathroom--one room, no stalls, a lock. Good enough.

As soon as Diana steps away to make the call, Neal closes and locks the door and turns on the overhead fans. He sounds more shaken than he wants to.

"Not the most elegant place for you to explain what the hell is happening, but it'll have to do."