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more_magicThe wards he'd placed on Alex's apartment don't need reinforcing quite yet, but tonight's a full moon, and as Sandow and record after record in the archive at Il Bastone had impressed upon him, magic is always stronger when tied to something meaningful. A date, or a place, or a person. All three, if you can swing it. If they were going to do it, it may as well be tonight.
He'd texted Alex about something else earlier in the day and gotten a terse two words--Can't. Work.--in reply, and while he knows that means she'll be out late slinging drinks and wiping down the counter at whatever bar she's working at, Darlington still resolves to stop by the Bramford anyway. To do it himself, because he knows what he's doing, with or without her assistance...and because Alex deserves to feel safe in the place she calls home.
In a way, it's for the best she's not there. It'll be more effective if he does everything at the apex of the full moon, which isn't until practically the middle of the night; most likely, he'll be there and gone before she's even finished last call. She doesn't even have to know.
Around midnight, Darlington lets himself in with the key she'd given him that first morning, new, stronger magnets and a fresh tub of grave dirt in his bag. He starts by checking everything over, waiting for the start of the apex and fixing a few small things--smudged sigils, a faint crack in the boundary he'd laid on the bathroom window, of all places--in the meantime. When the moon is at its fullest, he begins, going ward by ward and room by room, adding piles of dirt where needed and drawing new, cleaner signs of protection where it feels like his previous ones have grown too thin.
The work itself requires all his focus, especially once he's neared the end of his circuit through the apartment. It's easy for him to miss the sound of a key turning in the front door lock.
He'd texted Alex about something else earlier in the day and gotten a terse two words--Can't. Work.--in reply, and while he knows that means she'll be out late slinging drinks and wiping down the counter at whatever bar she's working at, Darlington still resolves to stop by the Bramford anyway. To do it himself, because he knows what he's doing, with or without her assistance...and because Alex deserves to feel safe in the place she calls home.
In a way, it's for the best she's not there. It'll be more effective if he does everything at the apex of the full moon, which isn't until practically the middle of the night; most likely, he'll be there and gone before she's even finished last call. She doesn't even have to know.
Around midnight, Darlington lets himself in with the key she'd given him that first morning, new, stronger magnets and a fresh tub of grave dirt in his bag. He starts by checking everything over, waiting for the start of the apex and fixing a few small things--smudged sigils, a faint crack in the boundary he'd laid on the bathroom window, of all places--in the meantime. When the moon is at its fullest, he begins, going ward by ward and room by room, adding piles of dirt where needed and drawing new, cleaner signs of protection where it feels like his previous ones have grown too thin.
The work itself requires all his focus, especially once he's neared the end of his circuit through the apartment. It's easy for him to miss the sound of a key turning in the front door lock.
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Date: 2020-01-11 09:02 pm (UTC)"What the fuck?" She's startled by how loud her own voice is, bouncing off the tiled walls and surfaces in the kitchen. She's not really aware of doing it but one moment the mug is back in her hand and, the next, it's exposing into shards a couple of feet away from his head. "I'm sorry I'm not good enough for you, Darlington. I'm sorry I've consistently been such a fucking disappointment."
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Date: 2020-01-11 09:54 pm (UTC)"Evidently I'm not the only one of us who has the monopoly on drama, Alex," he says, and when he turns back to look at her, the blue of his eyes is as icy as his voice. "But please, forgive me for believing you're capable of something better than...this." He can't say it more clearly than that, the words sticking somewhere within him, held back by concern he doesn't have the right to feel and anger he should have tried harder to keep at bay. "For wanting you to be happy here." He almost says with me, but catches himself at the last second. That's not his place here, either.
He goes to the couch, picking up his coat. "Since there's going to be no reasoning with you, I may as well go."
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Date: 2020-01-11 10:10 pm (UTC)She probably ought to be ashamed of herself, but she's pleased at what his face does when the mug breaks. Because, in that moment, it's gratifying.
She watches him go to pick his coat up and her lip curls in a sneer.
"Go on then. Make yourself scarce. You're good at that."
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Date: 2020-01-11 11:13 pm (UTC)He focuses on that, on the sharp edges of that hurt, because a different one comes to mind not long after; one he hasn't experienced for himself, but knows is lurking somewhere in his future. One way or another, Darlington finds a way to escape her, and maybe something like this is the catalyst for it there, too. It won't do him any good to ask--and even if it did, he fears the answer.
He blinks, that tense and furious control finding its way back into his face as he pulls on his coat. In silence, he goes to her front door, and it's only then that he speaks. "We all have our talents, Stern."
Stepping out into the hall, he pulls the door shut, not caring when the jerk of his arm makes it slam.