001 ✝ there's an angel with a hand on my head

[ottimismo]

WHO: Sonny Carisi
WHERE: The fountain and the inn
WHEN: 12/14
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Nooothing? Will update as needed.
STATUS: Open

---

THE FOUNTAIN

At first, Sonny thinks he's dreaming.

There was a place their parents would take him and his sisters on vacation when they were little. As he got older, he learned that they were really just visiting his mother's family in Jersey, which really isn't much of a vacation at all when you live in New York. But they always got to swim in their auntie's pool while they were there, and Sonny would swim until his fingers were wrinkly and his eyes were red from the chlorine and his mother had to tell him three separate times that it was time for dinner.

He and his sisters got older. They did more sunbathing than swimming, and Sonny found he enjoyed helping his mom and aunt around the kitchen more than taking a dip in the pool.

Still, this reminds him of that, at first. The water's around him, warm to the touch, and it takes him a moment to realize he's not, in fact, dreaming, but that the burning in his lungs is real. He's drowning.

It's all instinct after that. The water presses around him, pushing him upwards, and Sonny kicks his feet, straining towards the lighter part of the water. He doesn't think about how he got in the water, or what body of water he could possibly be in. He only thinks about getting out, about breathing, about breaking the surface. And when he manages that, it's with a dramatic gasp of air, his lungs expanding painfully as he pulls in a much needed breath. One hand gropes blindly until he finds stone, gripping the edge of the fountain.

A fountain. He's in a fountain. He blinks water out of his eyes, pushing his sopping hair back with one hand. It occurs to him quite suddenly that the water wasn't warm, but that he was numb. It's sleeting, and it stabs at his exposed arms painfully. He's aware that there's a backpack strapped to his back, but more important, where the hell is he?

"Hello?" he calls out, and he can't even be bothered by how silly it feels.


THE INN

Eventually, he gets some answers, though not very many. And in the process of that, he manages his way to the inn, where he changes into dry clothes that are apparently his and sits down beside the fire to warm up. His hair's an unkempt mess and his bones still feel cold, his eyes tired. He's hungry, too. But he's too busy thinking for anything like food or sleep.

He tugs his backpack into his lap, digging through it a second time to review what's inside. Like maybe it'll hold more answers than it did before. This is what he does, though. Review, and review again, and again, until something looks different, until you notice something new.

After all, he is a cop.

Comments

Fountain

[hawkeyesniper]

Snow, then more snow, and now sleet. Riza hated this kind of weather and was glad she had never been moved to the Northern outposts back home. However, it probably would have at least prepared her for this because, based on the visits she had made up there, it was nearly this cold all the time (if not colder). Due to this weather, Riza had not been making trips out to the fountain as often as she had before. She made a point of coming by once a day, seeing if her timing was right, and then trekking back to the Inn for warmth and company. Most days were a bust of course, but at least it broke up the monotony of staying indoors all the time.

Riza looked over the fountain and the undisturbed snow. Once again, there was no one there, and it felt like another wasted trip. Her breath puffed out as a cloud as she turned to head back. She was a few feet away when she heard the sound of a splash and someone calling out.

Well, talk about timing.

The woman turned around and almost missed him, the white of his scrubs blending in pretty well with the surroundings. Then again, if she were just in her grey scrubs she'd probably blend in as well. Fortunately, she'd taken to wearing as many layers as she could when making these treks out -- the backpack having come with a coat, long johns, overalls, and wool socks. It helped, but she couldn't imagine how cold it must be soaked in water and wearing nothing but thin, white scrubs. But, hey, Riza was a practical kind of woman and that was why every time she visited the fountain she came prepared with a large towel and a blanket to boot.

She had crossed the distance between them, pulling her backpack off her shoulder, "Hello? I don't mean to rush you into this, but you might like these." She held the towel and blanket out as a peace offering. "

[ottimismo]

It's not long before he's shivering violently, the water and the sleet and the temperature working together to chill him to the bone. He's still confused and disoriented, unsure of where he is or what's going on, but he's already trying to sort things out in his head. First, he needs to get warm, find shelter, recover from his dip in the fountain. Everything else comes after.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to go far. As a matter of fact, help comes to him, in the form of a young blonde with a friendly face and supplies. If Sonny were a less trusting man, he might be suspicious and leery. But as it is, he's entirely too trusting, probably.

"Oh." He sounds a little breathless, because he is. He feels like the cold is all the way in his lungs. He accepts the towel first, using it to squeeze the water out of his hair and his clothes the best he can. It's a little bit futile, so he ends up taking the blanket too and wrapping himself up in it.

He's still cold, though.

"Thank you." His breath puffs in in the air, and he's still shivering, but at least this keeps the wind off of him. "Really, thank you. Where am I?"

Also what's going on. But one question at a time.

[hawkeyesniper]

Riza wouldn't have blame him if he hadn't trusted her -- weather or not it had to look suspicious that she had arrived just now with supplies on hand. However, perhaps his need to survive the weather was overriding his sense to question this. Whatever the case, Riza was relieved she didn't have to fight with the man...at least not yet. Finnick had proven stubborn and obnoxious enough before running off into the woods, though at least that had been prior to the cold, snow, and sleet. Besides, he'd had his reasons and Riza couldn't fault him for that.

"That's an explanation that's a little long for being soaking wet in freezing temperatures," Riza admitted rather bluntly. It's why she'd said she hated to rush this. Normally she wouldn't have minded taking her time explaining their current predicament before ever leaving the fountain. They didn't exactly have that luxury now. "Short version would be you're in a village with about 40 or so other people who arrived the same way you did," she gestured at the fountain he'd swam up from. "There's an inn just that way where I can explain more," she really hoped he wasn't about to run off into the woods, but she decided to add, "Or there are a few houses in that direction you could visit if you don't want to follow me. If your backpack is the same as mine was you might have a coat in there you could put on as well."

Riza stood, waiting to see what his decision would be.

[ottimismo]

She's very no-nonsense, he realizes, but it's very possible that that's exactly what he needs right now. Somebody that's going to cut to the chase and lay everything out for him instead of sugar-coating things or beating around the bush. It'll give him less room to think and consider for the immediate time being. Because right now, what's more important than finding answers is getting warm.

He listens to her short-story explanation and the list of options she's laid out for him, his teeth chattering noisily the whole time. Of course, he doesn't have to listen to her at all. But he's not about to push away the first helping hand extended to him.

"Whatever's closer," he says, though the words are broken up and forced out between clicking teeth, and he pulls the blanket tighter around him. "Let's just get inside somewhere."

i'll let you decide if we "jump cut" to the inn or not.

[hawkeyesniper]

She had never been known to sugar coat things before her life went to hell, why should she start doing it now? She certainly feels sympathy for the man though -- she'd been "lucky" enough to get here when the weather had still been decent. She hated that people were still coming through the fountain and now the arrival was made even more harrowing by the cold weather. Riza wasted no time as soon as she had an answer from him, "Inn. This way."

Riza hoped that walking would help. She wasn't going to leave him behind, so whatever pace he could manage she would maintain that and make sure he reached the inn without freezing to death. If they hurried she hoped that would even be the case, but if he did stumble or collapse she was fit enough that should could probably help him the rest of the way.

the inn!

[ex_assertiveness90]

Stella spends more time away from the inn than in it now; she's taken up residence in one of the empty houses a short distance away, and is still in the process of making it halfway decent, difficult to do in this weather but not impossible. Still, she comes back here on occasion, to eat something or make some kind of herbal concoction that is what passes for tea around here — it's for the latter reason that she's here now, just coming back from the kitchen with a mug in her hands.

There's a man there that she hasn't seen before, sitting next to the fire, dressed only in the simple clothes provided to new arrivals and apparently in the process of sorting through the items in his backpack. Normally, she wouldn't think much of it, but something compels her to stop across from him, next to one of the chairs facing the fire.

"You're new here, I take it." It's almost rhetorical. She's not seen him round before, and in a village of only fifty or so people, it's not easy to get lost without doing it deliberately.

[ottimismo]

"Is it that obvious?"

His is also rhetorical, and he's even smiling a little bit. Things are totally turned upside down, and he's still reeling from the information he's been given, even though it's not a whole lot. Anybody else might be incapable of smiling right now, but not Sonny. It's difficult for him to not remain optimistic, truthfully.

He sets the bag down at his feet, giving the girl in front of him his attention. The more friends he can make here, the better, he figures. They'll need to stick together, from what he's heard.

"I'm Sonny Carisi." He offers a hand to shake. "How long have you been here?"

[ex_assertiveness90]

Stella's impression of the situation has also been that isolating herself isn't going to work, but that doesn't mean she needs to make friends with everyone, either. The expression that crosses her face is only faintly reminiscent of an answering smile, but when he offers his hand she takes it, her own grip confident.

"Stella Gibson." She pauses, considering, then decides to sit down in the chair she'd stopped next to. "About a month, give or take a few days."

Saying that out loud, making it real, unsettles her, though she's trying not to show it. A lot can happen in a month. She catches herself worrying about her investigation back in Belfast, about whether Spector is alive or dead, about who is going to prosecute him now that she's not there. The most frustrating thing is not being able to do a damned thing about it; the loss of control rankles, to say the very least.

"It takes some getting used to," is what she says, finally.

[ottimismo]

Sonny is the rough equivalent of an excitable, overly-friendly golden retriever puppy — he wants to try to befriend almost everyone he comes across. He's also likely to give strangers the benefit of the doubt, because he's entirely too trusting, so it won't be long before he's making friends with the wrong sort of people.

But for now, he's just making friends with Stella. Whether she likes it or not.

"I can imagine." He extends his fingers towards the fire, letting the flickering heat wash over him. He can't remember there ever being a time that he warmed himself by the fireside — his house had a fireplace they never used growing up, because his mom didn't like messing with it. So they boarded it up, used central heating, and got an electric fireplace for the ambient lighting.

He's sort of sad about it now. Sitting by the fireside is nice.

"You know, I thought the move from Staten Island to Manhattan was bad? Went from the suburbs to a tiny fourteenth floor apartment. Now I sort of miss my tiny apartment."

[ex_assertiveness90]

It's not that she's antisocial, precisely. Stella has friends, even close ones, back home in London, and she'd started to make a friend or two in Belfast. But she is simply used to remaining detached, most of the time, especially from people who shouldn't be dragged into her work.

That, specifically, isn't relevant here, though it's something she's still coming to terms with.

"Mm. You'll miss a lot of things. We're expected to survive on our own here, with limited resources. Our captors are quite fickle."

There's something of an edge on the word captors, a bit of anger she's keeping in check through sheer practice. Stella is entirely too conscious of the fact that the village and its surroundings are just one big cage.

The Inn

[00nothing]

Aside from the rather abrupt tour around the town that he'd done with Credence the day after his arrival to help spread the word about an emergency meeting, Alex hasn't really stepped much of a foot outside of the inn since he got here. Granted, he's only been in this place for three days, but for Alex? Keeping his nose to himself for that long when there was a mystery to solve only happened when he was laid up in the hospital.

And even that was questionable, really.

He can't help it though. He's tired, and it has nothing to do with the cold or his injuries (because those are gone-- or at the very least healed, and the implication that has with how long he's been gone already is frankly staggering). It's something more bone deep. Something he's having trouble finding the motivation to work through.

After all, what's the point in fighting, if he just winds up somewhere worse every time? Maybe he should just... settle? He really doesn't know, and that's the worst part of all of this.

It's enough, however, that he's started to get an eye for new faces at the inn. New faces that are appearing with enough regularity to be deeply concerning, but no, he's not thinking about that. The current one looks are rough as Alex feels, which is honestly the strongest evidence that Alex has that the man digging through his waterproof bag at a table is new, rather than simply someone who's been out, hunting, or whatever else it is they do around here, for the past couple days. Well, that and the fact that he's still touting around the bag, anyway.

"Let me know if you find anything in there other than clothes, will you?" Alex says in a friendly enough voice as he sidles over the to table, a soft London accent and slightly worn out smile for the man. "Maybe you'll have better luck than I did."

[ottimismo]

Sonny's been sorting through everything, clean clothes folded in his lap, but that's all the bag seems to hold. He's already ran his hands all over it, searching for extra pockets he missed before, hidden compartments that are hard to find, feeling to see if anything's in the seams. The sort of searches they do when they're searching housing and apartments and cars, looking in every single place he knows of people hiding things.

But there's nothing. Nothing more than when he searched through it the first time, and he's sighing in faint frustration as somebody slides over to the table.

"Doesn't look like it. Just clothes and more clothes. Not even enough clothes, you guys must have to do laundry all the time."

You guys. That's him now, he supposes. One of 'you guys'. It's weird to think about, but now he is. It seems to be a pretty minimalist community, with not a whole lot of technology. That probably means everybody does a little bit of everything, always helps out where they can. Every community needs some sort of law enforcement, though, and he wonders if this town has one already.

He sighs, sliding things back into his back. The outside is still a little damp, but everything inside is still dry, thankfully.

"I'm Sonny," he introduces. "Carisi."

[00nothing]

"Alex." He offers back casually enough, instinctively holding back his last name with his introduction because of the trouble it consistently drags him into with either side of the law. If he thought he'd be able to keep a fake first name straight for long he might have even taken it a step forward, but unfortunately he'd proven himself to not have much of a head for that sort of subterfuge on numerous occasions.

It was a wonder the MI6 still insisted so strongly on keeping their claws in him, really. Goodness knew he wasn't going to be able to pull off the hapless kid act for much longer, he was already 15 and only getting older with each passing day.

He taps a finger lightly on the side of Sonny's bag, tilting his head to one side with a sigh that he mostly means. Laundry wasn't exactly something MI6 or Scorpia had prepared him for, and maybe it was a tedious thing to be bothered by, but sometimes the tedious things were the only thing that kept you sane. It was a predictable chore, at least. Repetitive.

Comforting even, maybe? "I suppose I had to learn how to do laundry some day, I just wasn't imagining this being the scenario when I did." He smiles a touch wryly and shrugs one shoulder in his own, red colored scrubs. "Though I suppose none of us really did. The color coding thing is a little concerning, though, I wonder what that's all about."

Alex makes an effort to keep his tone light for the last comment, no matter how much the issue of the color coded scrubs honestly sets his nerves on edge. He's not going to be happy until he figures that one out. Probably not even after that, if he's honest. Happy is... complicated these days.

[ottimismo]

Sonny notices. He notices the lack of last name given, the distance feeling it creates, despite the friendliness that the both of them present. Truthfully, he hates that he's started having trouble not thinking like a cop. He always thought he'd be able to keep those two parts of him separate. Cop Sonny at work, and regular Sonny at home. But he's slowly began to realize that that's not the case.

He realized it before he ever showed up here and started coping by treating the situation like some sort of standard investigation. He realized it back home, with the last few cases that left him feeling he he'd been punched in the gut, wounded and a little breathless.

The job ruins a lot of good people. It makes them paranoid, pessimistic, unable to form healthy relationships. Sonny always swore he wouldn't let it happen to him, but lately, he's not sure.

"Yeah, I noticed that," Sonny says, glancing at Alex's red color scrubs. "I guess I got lucky — I don't have to worry about accidentally turning my socks pink."

It's a joke, his tone as light as Alex's, but the thought itself is a concerning one. Their clothes are different colors, like they're being sorted somehow. Sorted by what and by whom is the real question, but he's already gathered that nobody's figured that out, either. It's hard to figure anything out when they're all trying to survive.

[00nothing]

Alex's eyes widen in muted surprise as he glances down at his red shirt before looking back up at Sonny with open curiosity. "Is that something people have to worry about?" He asks, when honestly, he couldn't care less in that regard (even if the information really is news to him, laundry had never really been a topic of conversation between Jack and him after all).

He's far more concerned with the insinuations of such a color system, and the lack of camouflage such a bright color affords him, particularly with all the snow lately.

With a sigh he settles his elbows on the edge of the table, dropping his chin to rest on them at the same time as he sits down across from Sonny, everything done in a single, fluid motion. The movement of a person who knows how use his body to his benefit. Eight years of karate and extreme sports had to result in something, after all. Something Alex wasn't always able to hide, unfortunately.

"It's incongruous, isn't it?" He says.

inn

[thecatinahat]

Cougar's too warm-blooded for this kind of weather, but he still needs to come to the inn to deliver the hens' eggs (though the eggs have now been moved inside, because the chickalings might be bigger, but they're just as cold). He shivers as he comes inside, dusting his hat off to get rid of the snow and sleet moisture before he gets too far inside.

When he comes to a stop, though, he stares at the man sitting there, not knowing when the new face arrived, though he knows he hasn't seen him before. He looks tired, too, and with the look of someone who's had to deal with the fountain today. Raising up the small cloth satchel of eggs, he gestures to the man and then to them. "Lunch?" he offers.

[ottimismo]

Lunch, the man says, and just like that, Sonny's stomach growls. He hadn't even been thinking about food before now. He'd been thinking about staying warm, how to get out of here, where here even is. Food hadn't even crossed his mind, but now he realizes how hungry he is. How exhausted he is, too. He's got to find somewhere to sleep.

"Yeah." He says it softly at first, then clears his throat, sitting up a little straighter. He shoves the stuff back into his bag, offering a smile. "Yeah, thanks man. I'm starving."

He's not even sure what food he's being offered, but it doesn't even matter. He'll eat it.

[thecatinahat]

Cougar heads to the stove in order to bend over and stoke the flames a little, aiming to warm it up before he starts to cook. His gaze stays focused on the man and the way he unpacks and then packs his bag, like he's been investigating what's in there. Of course, he's also a new face, and it doesn't take that many hints for Cougar to understand they have a new arrival.

It just means feeling it out. "Scrambled okay?" he offers, figuring he can find some starch from some of Kate's leftovers from yesterday's lunch, taking advantage of them before they go bad. 'And who are you?" he asks immediately, like they're the same thought.

[ottimismo]

"Scrambled's perfect." He starts to sit up like he's about to help, but then backs down. He still feels a little weak from the cold, and it seems like this guy knows just what he's doing. It's strange for him to sit by and let somebody else cook, though. Normally he's the one at the stove, flour on his shirt and Pandora playing something instrumental in the background.

But that's back home, and he doesn't really know the first thing about cooking with an actual fire. Plus, there's no Pandora here. He's already checked and rechecked himself and his bag twice looking for his phone. His friends and family must be worried sick by now.

"Sonny Carisi," he introduces. "I'm... new here. I guess."

[thecatinahat]

"Cougar Alvarez," is his reply, his accent rolling perfectly over his first language. He starts to work with the eggs, cracking them while keeping a steady eye over his shoulder to make sure he doesn't miss anything from this man. For a while, he will do nothing but catalogue expressions and movements and words, building a profile of who this man is.

"How long?" is his question, wondering if he'd come in while Cougar had been out on the hunting trip.

inn since riza saved him

[repressings]

Credence has a knife. That in and of itself isn't anything special--it's the knife Jess had made, homemade and hand-hewn, a scrap bit of metal with a wrap on it. It's is, and Credence has never really had something that's his before. Not a gift--he's had necessities, he's had clothes and a bed that belongs to him, but not something useful.

He's never had a knife. He's heard that some people name theirs, but Credence hasn't found a good name. He just knows that it's useful for his walks and makes him feel safer, thanks to Jess handing it to him the first time he's here.

He's moving swiftly down the steps, having been tidying up, when he immediately finds someone in the same white scrubs as him. He stares, midway down the steps, and quietly retreats back to his room.



When he returns, it's with a blanket. It's from his bed, ripped right off of it, but it will do. He's wearing his scrubs--the shirt, at least, layered over longjohns and overalls and hiking boots--and takes note that they're the same colour. Maybe that's why he's thinking about the knife so much.

New arrivals shouldn't excite him. They do, though, just a little--someone from a strange new world, or maybe even his own--and he approaches the other, not quite freezing to his spot but still stopping once he's at the table, not saying a word. In his hands, a blanket. He's wondering if he should let him borrow the makeshift knife, too. Just in case he goes out and doesn't look in alleyways.

He should probably say something, too, but he doesn't. He just stares at the table he's at, shuffling his feet, and holds out the blanket for the new person.

[ottimismo]

So far, everybody he's talked to since surfacing in that fountain has been nothing less than friendly. People striking up conversation, offering food and towels and blankets, giving him whatever answers they have for whatever questions he asks. From what he's noticed, this is an all-in-this-together sort of community. Which, he guess with the circumstances, it's sort of necessary.

So, when yet another person comes up to him offering warmth, he doesn't find himself all that surprised. Even if it is very different from the rushing, selfish culture of New York.

It does take him a moment to notice the other man, however, simply because he's checking how dry his clothes are where they're sitting in front of the fire. It's strange to not be able to just throw things into the dryer, honestly. This is the sort of stuff he's read about in books, and now he's living it.

He's going to be praying for a very, very long time tonight.

He glances up when he hears some shuffling, and the first thing he sees is the blanket, and then the boy behind it.

"Oh." He smiles, and reaches out to take the blanket, pulling it into his lap. "Thanks. Is this yours? I'll give it back once I get my own."

[repressings]

The smile is nice. It's a friendly one, one not used for ill gain. It's his first impression, anyway, and he nods his understanding as the blond takes the offering for warmth.

He was going to go--honestly, he really and truly was--when something catches his attention. It's the brash, almost nasal way he speaks. He'd recognize that accent anywhere.

It's strange: his time in New York, his life, it hadn't been a happy one in the least, and yet that accent still makes him homesick. Terribly, terribly so, and he thinks of Modesty and Chastity, and the other kids he knows by at the very least sight. He thinks about the kind Witch who helped him with his Ma, and the British man who tried to help him.

This feeling, Credence realizes, is homesickness.

"I don't mean to be a bother, but--a-are you from New York?" He asks, and he almost feels bad, asking him questions. He clearly just wants to check his bag.

[ottimismo]

"You're not a bother," Sonny assures, and there's something about this kid that strikes a chord. He's not sure what it is exactly, but there's a vague sense of deja vu now, and he feels a little bit like he's in the interview room getting a victim or a witness statement. Something that he does nearly every day, but that feels horribly out of place here.

There's something about the boy in front of him, something about the way he draws in on himself, the way he speaks softly and stutters his words just a bit. Something that makes Sonny feels like he's at work.

That's probably not a good thing. But by default, he slides right into victim-handling mode, his voice softening, his smile encouraging.

"I am from New York Staten Island's where I grew up, but I live in Manhattan now." He sets his bag aside and gestures to the empty chair beside him. "Do you wanna sit down? Some company would be great, honestly."

[repressings]

"Me, too," he says softly. He's trying to hide how excited he is--how relieved he is--that the other recognizes the place. After all, there are British people that aren't from Britian at all, but instead strange lands. What if this one was the same?

He thinks, again, of the knife Jess has given him. If he should give it to Sonny, too. He mulls it over before he realizes that Sonny's invited him to sit, and by the time the other's finished he looks vaguely startled. He really hadn't expected that.

Credence pulls the chair out from the table neatly, and glances at the general direction of where he'd last seen Kate. Surely, he could talk and sit a spell? Surely, Kate wasn't like Ma. It's this train of thought that causes him to lean in conspiratorially, like they're sharing gossip and not just chatting.

"I've lived in New York all my life--I didn't think I'd miss all of those tall buildings until I woke up in the fountain, here. Were you scared?"