Under a sky, no one sees Waiting Watching it happening

[onlyeverdoubted]

WHO: Bodhi
WHERE: Around town, the inn
WHEN: Forward-dated to March 18
OPEN TO: All!
WARNINGS: None, will update
STATUS: Open

---

The storms didn't bother him a bit--he had far more on his mind when he first arrived, and wild weather has always been a bit of a specialty of his. The odd little flickers of light excited his curiosity, but he's known planets with much odder bits of phenomena. The soft, wet cold is just as unusual by his standards. Fog is kind of fun. Not, it turns out, the best thing to wander into alone, not when he can't trust his memory to race away to unsafe places, when shifting shapes and unpredictable dimness can so easily evoke... Well, he learns not to stay too far after the first time out.

Aside from that, he doesn't give the little lights or insects or weather much thought. He has Jyn's crisis to deal with, after all, and while he has yet to really find his niche, he's always intent on staying busy, contributing enough with odd jobs to justify the time he spends meandering physically and mentally. He doesn't try to avoid the little lights.

He notices the fever itself. He was a sickly kid, and he's not particularly sturdy now, but what he lacks in immune system, he makes up for in resilience. He moves a little more slowly, takes a few more breaks, but he keeps going. The other symptoms come on more slowly, and these, Bodhi doesn't notice. He's always sure he's doing everything wrong and that if anyone knew the truth they'd hate him. He glances to the side too quickly to see shifting shadows that couldn't be there more often than he'd like to admit. It's a little bit of a bad day, but he's not feeling well. It'll work itself out.

There are slips he doesn't usually make, though, or not without checking carefully to see if anyone's around. Talking to himself--a low, constant murmur, hard to make out any individual pieces. Drumming his fingers in complicated patterns against each other and whatever satisfying surface is nearby (actually, he's done that all his life, but if people notice they sometimes ask, and he gets flustered by having no answer). Long moments that, left uninterrupted, stretch on and on of just being... absent. It's so easy to slip back under, let bor gullet have him. Keeping his head together is the hard part.

There's nowhere he really does belong, and he winds up in the trees and the fog over and over again, but once in a while he gets lost near the inn, his usual base of operations.

Comments

[learned_to_die]

It's the lure of the fog that draws Ned out into the town. He's been mostly lurking at the Inn, no official chambers he's yet claimed, attempting to make the acquaintance of those in the town, knowing that a land is only as good as its people. He's met a handful of the other villagers - most notably his children (with whom he'd ideally spend the vast majority of his time, though he's been hesitant to thrust his presence on them for fear of hovering too much; he respects the fact, despite the unbearable urge to somehow latch onto them and never let go, that they're adults now. Forever his children, but grown and with their own lives, however strange they might be in this .. place) - but otherwise, he's spent his time exploring every nook and cranny of the area. He'd originally been searching for the Lord or Lady of the stead, thinking that perhaps he'd been rude - simply arriving, failing to make an introduction - but it'd been explained to him that no such person existed here.

It was simply .. democratic.

It reminded him of what lie north of the Wall, the Free Folk - derogatorily the Wildlings, which Ned had the nasty habit of using to refer to them. He needed to correct that, eventually. But they'd had a system a bit like this, he thinks, based on the limited interactions he'd had. Never answering to the Crown or the Realm - having a leader, but chosen by the people and not given the title through blood or marriage. All together strange and foreign to Ned, a man grown up with Lords, and Princes, and Kings.

He's been spending a good chunk of time loitering around the blacksmith, poking around a bit at what equipment is there (not much) and what could possibly be forged (even less). Not that he's got even the inkling of a smith's knowledge, but - it could prove to be useful. It's at least something familiar, something close enough to home to make him temporarily release the memory, a leaf on the breeze.

He thinks to perhaps return to the inn, fill his belly with something there. As he draws closer, he sees a rather aimless shadow floating around - then, with each step further, hears more and more what sounds like muttering. He wonders if it's a strange insect or creature nearby until he realizes it's the figure - a man. A very frail, wisp of a thing. He looks quite agitated, concerned, worried - yet somehow vacant. He'd seen men lose their minds before, sometimes from war, sometimes from death of loved ones, sometimes from isolation. Man's mind is fickle, he knows, and he wonders what might've happened to this one to make its owner act so erratically.

When he's close enough, he decides to call out.

"Are you lost?"

[onlyeverdoubted]

Bodhi jumps rather obviously, cut off mid-mutter. He can't place the voice, can't slot it into any of the plans he's making or the ideas flitting through his head. He doesn't feel up to something new, making room for yet another variable, but the idea of upsetting someone is paralyzingly distressing. He doesn't dart into the mist as much as he wants to, turns instead, slowly, chin down, peering up around heavy brows in a way that lets him avoid eye contact. Good, he was right. A stranger. He's having a harder time being right lately. It's probably being sick.

The production takes entirely too long, and there's another pause while, once he's sort of facing Ned, he has to actually reach back into his head for the question. Lost. He's suddenly afraid he might be, glances around quickly (still keeping his gaze low), and determines he's pretty sure he's not. He can identify the way back to the inn. "N-no." Though the word's barely stuttered out before he checks again, just to make absolutely sure. No, that's the way. Not lost. He takes half a step to the side so he's facing the way back. It has the added bonus of putting his back to the broad trunk of a tree. He checks once more that he does know the way and only then drags his attention back to Ned.

[learned_to_die]

Not the right approach, he realizes too late. Though, he imagines, there'd be no interruption of the man's seemingly endless tide of thoughts (non-sensical or otherwise) that would've made the reaction any less jolting. He could've approached the situation a bit more delicately, though - spoken more softly, taken more care with how he edged in closer, been conscious of his posture and his voice to make them softer, smoother, less threatening. All great in hindsight, but not as useful now. Though he does take his own advice and relaxes his posture, warms the steel of his face (he's never been a garishly expressive man, but he's not without emotions all together), keeps his hands visible to show he's in possession of no weapon, there's no intend to harm here.

The man is troubled, to say the least. Whatever race he's been running in the desert of his mind, it's far from over, and who knows how long it's been going on in the first place? Ned inches closer still, bit by bit, mostly to aid in his own strained hearing of the man's voice, barely audible. It's hardly above a whisper, and though Ned's only seen 35 name days, the weathered crag of his face - the depths of the trails chiseled around his eyes and forehead, the peppering of white in his seedling hairs on his chin, the weariness that clouds his light eyes - all suggest a man significantly older than his chronological age - and his hearing has suffered a bit, after years at war.

He keeps his gaze steady on the man's face, not entirely trusting of his insistence of knowing where he is. It's fairly obvious that he might think he does - but whether his waking dream matched his reality is a different tale all together.

"I'm Eddard," he begins, voice low and gentle, "Though those closest to me often call me Ned." An open-ended introduction, a beckoning for the man to return the gesture without verbal force.

[onlyeverdoubted]

The slow approach doesn't do the man any favors. He doesn't like anyone in his space that he hasn't invited there, and the inching forward feels like an attempted incursion. Not that he does anything about it--he hates to be a bother, he might make the man angry, he knows it's irrational--but it doesn't make him any happier. He plucks nervously at the sleeve of his scrubs--he's not really dressed for the weather, the cold not deep enough to bother him when the fever's making it hard to tell one moment to the next what the temperature is, the fog warming to shimmery little beads of water on his hair and beard and making everything sort of soothingly clammy.

Having to find his own words (being polite is important if you don't want to upset people) increases the surge of nerves. One hand moves from his sleeve to his ragged hair, the ponytail already pulled halfway around by this same habit, his worrying fingers making even more of a mess of it.

Eddard. He's bad at names. Not as bad as at faces (the face itself isn't especially threatening, nor the voice, which in Bodhi's current state just fails to scare him more, rather than calming him), but he hopes he doesn't lose it immediately. Right, his own comes next. It's a script. He can talk if he knows the steps. He's fine when he knows. Why can't he settle into the way this conversation works? "Bodhi Rook." It's just as soft and shaky, and his eyes dart to the ground.

[learned_to_die]

The stiffening of the man's posture is enough to keep Ned's feet firmly planted; he'll strain to hear the whispers that escape the man's mouth, rather than risk further upset and discomfort. He peels the coat from his body - his Northern blood quick to adapt to the cold fingers that wrap themselves around him after he does - and holds it out to the man from where he stands. No obligation, just as he'd left the introduction open - but there, should the man decide he wants or needs the extra warmth. Ned's still not entirely comfortable or pleased with the attire here: rather thin fabric a far cry from the beautifully crafted leathers, furs, and pelts he'd known in Winterfell - or even the skilled tailors and seamstresses of King's Landing (though he'd never think all that fondly about warmer weather). Even still, the cold is slow to seep into his skin.

"Bodhi Rook," he repeats, committing it to memory. "A name unlike one I've ever heard before. Where are you from, Bodhi Rook?"

[scepterschild]

Wanda found this new world strange. If it wasn't for those she knew she would have hated it. She spent a great deal of time in her room and then helping Clint in whatever task he'd given himself that day. She had a lot on her mind and she had to remind herself not to get caught up in her own head.

This sent her pacing about the small town, the green hue of her gaze flicking around her as she took in every detail. The fog made her tense and she tried to reach out and sense those around her. Her powers were weaker than before and she couldn't keep it up for long.

The fireflies made her weary. She didn't know what was happening but at this point she had come to the conclusion that they were most likely the cause of the rampant fevers and mishaps. Whenever she saw that familiar flicker she raised the red mist from her hand, surrounding the firefly and then suffocating it until it fell to the ground.

A shadow caught her attention and she turned, a red mist twisting around her fingers as her eyes narrowed. "Who's there?" She called out, her accent thick.

[onlyeverdoubted]

The accent at least lets him decide quickly that he doesn't know the voice. He can't think of anything he did to attract attention, but he can't imagine anyone wanting to talk to him for good reasons (he can't really think of any good reasons, actually), so he has to assume he won't like whatever results. Disappearing off into the fog is a very appealing thought, and he considers it closely before he spots the flickers of light, immediately bringing blasters to mind, and he freezes instead before he remembers he's been seeing those all along.

All of which plays out in his head rather quickly, and in the end all he does is peek around a tree shyly. "Me?"

[scepterschild]

Wanda's muscles relax some though there continued to be a readiness in her stance. She lowered her arms, the red mist slowly fading.

"What are you doing out here?" She eyed him, trying to place him among those staying in the village. She should really go to the inn more frequently than she did. "It's dangerous out here." Her voice sounded protective, as if she couldn't help but try and help those around her.

[onlyeverdoubted]

There's nothing significantly threatening about this woman to look at, which doesn't really help in his current state. Bodhi blinks dazedly at her, holding tight to the tree as he peers at her, digging his fingers into the bark for the sense of security the solid object provides.

He suggestion doesn't phase him much, though. It doesn't seem any more dangerous here than anywhere else. On the contrary, it's dark and quiet and he likes the fog. "W-walking..." He didn't think it was dangerous, but now that she said it, he wonders.

[scepterschild]

Wanda's eyes met his and she understood, if only a little. She tried to look disarming but she knew that there was only so much that she could do in that regard. It might be safe now but the fog had it's own dangers and she didn't want this man to get caught in them. As it was, there were two in her home who'd gotten bitten by the fireflies and were currently to sick to do more than lay in bed.

"I'll lead you. There are empty houses we can take shelter in. Anything is better than staying out here?" Her tone was a little softer but it'd be apparent that something in the woods was spooking her and the fog did not help.

[3ofswords]

Self-imposed exile or no, Kira hasn't stopped checking Ren's grave. It's an easy enough walk from their camp in the southwest section of the forest, and few enough people make the trip out to it that he doesn't worry about meeting anyone, having to explain an absence, or being convinced to come back yet.

It's only been a few days, and the weather's been atrocious, but it's been nice. His walks in the forest have been the only real time he's ever been alone, maybe in all his life, and he cherishes that despite the very present dangers in the fog.

At this hour of morning, the sun is high enough to cut the fog in the open field, and he can see a figure some distance from the shelter of Ren's tree. If the color of his clothes hadn't been clue enough, Kira can recall the fidgeting silhouette, the incomplete and shifting sense of the man that he'd spent a couple of nights with when he arrived. It's the man Casey had invited to use their second bed, and Kira searches his memory for his name.

"Bodhi," he calls, voice lifting with the guess of it. Today he's wearing the bright red and black flannel from his latest mysterious gift-box, and it marks him clearly for the man's sight as he approaches, a hand gently raised in greeting. He doesn't get within an arm's length immediately, wary of a reaction like Jyn's, but nothing in the man's posture seems threatening. If anything-- "Are you alright, out here?"

[onlyeverdoubted]

He jumps at the sound, but for once the voice is one he can place and isn't alarmed by. Not that he ever got much sense that he knew Kira, but at least there's a touch of familiarity to cut his fear. It's not a reaction like Jyn's, but that's because Jyn and Bodhi have very different responses to being terrified and confused. It's not that he can't choose fight over flight, but he needs a reason, and he has no idea what reason that would be in the here and now.

It takes him a long moment to really parse the question. Everything is happening at once in his head, and sorting out every need to run and hide and question and cower from the simple meaning of the words is a struggle. Is he alright. Well, no, but being out here doesn't have anything to do with it. He's better out here in the quiet and calm than he would be with more demands on his overpowered senses. "Fine." Everything in his face and stance says otherwise, and his voice is almost too low to hear, but he means it. Fine.

[3ofswords]

Already patient on his good days, the combination of his exhausting month and a few days away from the source, Kira has several long moments to spare, easing his hands down into his pockets and letting Bodhi answer at his own pace.

It also gives him a moment to focus. Half his reason for leaving into the woods was the low hum of human emotion, the cluster of it like a faint buzz in his teeth when he lingered at the inn or a group meeting. With no power here to turn it off, he hasn't exerted the ability much either. He's been more concerned with his prescience, cut off at the ankles, so subtle he can't say if it's had any effect here at all.

But Bodhi, finally coming back to impart a single word, seems to deserve a second look. Without his cards to delve into it, there's only the images and impressions to interpret, nothing concrete to form an opinion on, but at least he thinks he'll know if a threat is coiling behind the soft murmur. There's a sound of a shallow stream, water babbling over rocks at a distance. There's a vision of fireflies, and that same heat that had come off Jyn when she'd reared back at him, but--it isn't a swarm. It's just a single insect, a light bobbing slowly through the air, aimless.

No harm in him, but some might befall him if he's going to buzz aimless through the canyon. "Would you prefer to be fine indoors," Kira asks, knowing the house isn't far, that it's been aired out and has some basic supplies already stocked. "Actually," he thinks better of the question, expands on it, "There's a favor I want to ask you, about a house near here."

[onlyeverdoubted]

It's lucky he changes tactics. Bodhi would not prefer to be fine indoors. Indoors is more likely to mean people, unexpected lights and noises, demands on his attention and potential threats he can't understand or predict. By comparison, the trees seem just about harmless, the cool air soothing the fever's heat and the sensitivity and aches it brings with it. Bodhi's not an outdoorsman by any means, and his perfect cluelessness about survival and farming have hardly done him any favors, but that distance is what makes the alternative of wandering the trees so appealing. Nature seems made to be a gentle palliative, just there waiting for him to come and avoid all the pressures waiting for him back where people are.

But a favor? Bodhi's desperate to be accommodating without any need for poisonous insects, just like he's always sure he's doing something wrong and everyone would like to be rid of him. The bug bite just helps. A favor means he has a purpose, a way to win himself a little real, earned goodwill, maybe, and unless it's a trick (he doesn't know what the trick would be, just that his mind immediately throws up a warning that it could be), he might win himself some defense against whatever it is that's going to come and ruin everything.

"W-what do you need?" He'll do it, and gladly and carefully, but he'd like to get it over with quickly.

[3ofswords]

Kira takes the lead, giving Bodhi his back to show he isn't worried about watching it, even with the bruise of Jyn's blow gone dark against his jaw and throat. While he can't project things the way he can pick them up, he can try it the normal way: steady shoulders back, look where he's going, lift his voice over one shoulder to reach the man trailing behind.

"Casey and I, we found a house near here. We started to get it put together but we're going to explore the canyon for a few days," he admits, though they've already been doing so. Squinting against the fog, he looks back once, using the tree over Ren's grave to orient himself until it fades from view and the shape of their houses fade in.

It's gradual--one sturdy and dark blue, the other a red skeleton of a structure, a few walls still standing, the roof still bearing the ugly symbol burned into it by the lightning. Pointing to the blue house, he looks back again, just to check that Bodhi is following his steps and words both. "I was just wondering, since you were a good roommate before," or so he assumes, their ships passing in the night and no one's things missing in the morning. "Could you watch it while we're gone? Just a few days, make sure the heat and water keep running, make sure no one else tries to move us out of it?"

If he got tired of it after a day, or if he decided to surprise them both and make off with anything, well, everything they really needed was back at camp with Casey and the dog.

[candor1]

Cassian sticks to his plan, locking himself into efficiency mode (when he all he wants to do is tear the planet apart with his bare hands). He keeps the running mantra in his mind. Can't just find her. Help her. A reminder that it won't be enough unless he can stay calm and not incapacitated and… what and how is he going to…? When the thoughts swirl and panic encroaches, he translates into Yaval, Varadian, Jeluca, one of Khriou's languages, Narede's, the same over and again. Ayudarla. Saeadaha. Usakee madad karo. Bāngzhù tā. Voítheia. Help her. Help her.

He's just entered phase two. Leaving the hospital with freshly seen to shoulder, seeking more information from anyone and everyone. He's just thought of Bodhi when he turns a corner and nearly smashes straight into him.

"Bodhi," Cassian exclaimed, creeped-out at the coincidence and in apology at once, catching both of their balances by grabbing Bodhi's arm. "I'm glad to see you."

[onlyeverdoubted]

Bodhi's mind was not on Cassian. That might have helped temper his response, which is yanking his arm away like the touch burns him and stumbling back as a result. Logically, it was an accident, and he knows captain for a physical person. He's usually alright with that, considers it the price of their association that there's sometimes contact he's not prepared for. He doesn't mind when he's ready.

But logic isn't exactly a powerful force right now. With his nerves on fire like they are, any touch he's not ready for makes his skin crawl, and he's sure Cassian knows he doesn't like being surprised that way. He's certain it was on purpose. He also knows that's stupid, but it doesn't help with the conviction. The look he shoots Cassian from his scrambled distance is hunted and miserable, but he doesn't bolt despite the impulse. Obeying the captain is the right thing to do and he's sure the consequences of running off would be... For a moment he's climbing through the rain on Eadu, telling himself he doesn't think what he absolutely thinks, struggling to keep his mind on seeing Galen again soon. It's just a moment, but it lingers poisonously, leaving him shaking faintly.

He doesn't actually manage to say anything while he scuttles away like a wounded animal. Too much going on for his brain to catch up.

[candor1]

Stricken, Cassian stands where he is, hand left hanging from where Bodhi's arm ripped itself out from under it, feeling a shockwave through his fingers as if he'd just struck Bodhi.

The way Jyn had recoiled from his touch

…The way Finnick had

…wait, no…

Is the common denominator himself…?

With a will, not to scream grief-struck obscenity to the sky, Cassian flexes the fingers of his frozen hand until he can open them fully, hold the hand palm-out to Bodhi, signalling peace and goodwill and bewildered apology. He doesn't try to approach.

"Bodhi…" Cassian repeats, much, much more softly. "It's me. Tell me you know me."

(Unless knowing him was precisely the problem)

[onlyeverdoubted]

It takes a moment to find a word, another to force it out. Not because he doesn't know Cassian, but because his voice doesn't want to obey, because words are so hard, a torrent or a drought, nothing in between. He doesn't run, but he cringes where he stands, twisting his hands in his hair with the need to move. "C-captain." It's often how he thinks of Cassian, not that he's ever said it that way. His eyes are as glassy from fever as from fear as they lock on the hand and he tries to force himself to move to take it, because clearly it's expected and he doesn't dare do anything wrong. His own hand won't obey.

[candor1]

Cassian's face furrows with worry. It's more expressive than his usual, either because he's so distraught himself he's not up to hiding anything/everything's heightened, or because he wants Bodhi to see the depth of concern—care for Bodhi—in his eyes. Maybe Cassian's too trained to monitor and modulate himself, tailor how he expresses anything to the purpose at hand, that there's no such thing as a purely involuntary reaction even when the feeling behind it is genuine…

With excruciating caution, keeping his hand open (and, on impulse, turning slightly to bring his other arm into the light: look, in a sling, I'm hurt, don't want to hurt you, less able than usual even if I did), Cassian took the smallest step toward him.

I'm not a captain here he might have said, but until he can tell if Bodhi calling him that is pure habit or lingering insecurity or some kind of plea for help/control, don't bother…

"What's wrong?" he asked. And is the same as what's wrong with Jyn?

[repressings]

Bodhi is fascinating.

Since their first conversation, with Credence being too hasty to get answers out of someone--space, actual space!--he hadn't realized it might be draining for the other. He'd distanced himself after that, as he's wont to to. Not unfriendly, but there hasn't been any inn conversations with Credence blurting out that he can't quite understand that the sun is also a star, and that each star are suns, and etcetera.

Credence isn't a fool, no, but this hadn't been in his adoptive mother's teachings. Witches and their evilness, that had taken it's place. Study the bible, never stray from being anything other than the perfect son. And even then, that would come crashing down on him at a near nightly basis, when his mother had calmly told him to hand over his belt.

This is different. Credence can be himself in the village, even if he's still trying to figure out who that is. Bodhi is someone he thinks about often, perhaps too often--because Bodhi is soft and charming and tries. He tries harder than anyone he knows.

Now, though, Bodhi is strumming his fingers on any available surface. It's a pleasant rhythm, a tap-tap-tap, and Credence nearly smiles as he passes him. It's a shame he can't actually smile, now.

"Is that a song?" he asks carefully. He doesn't mind that the other is drumming, only curious. He doesn't know Bodhi at all; dosn't realize he could be in danger. Both of them hide it so very well.

[onlyeverdoubted]

He jumps theatrically, though there's nothing the slightest bit alarming in Credence's voice. He's rather fond of it, actually. Credence makes more sense to him than most people he's ever met, and his voice is pleasantly soft in addition to his communication being so wonderfully simple and straightforward. He'd wish there were more like that even if Credence weren't also the only person Bodhi's met on any planet who seemed to be impressed with him.

But any voice would have made him leap out of his skin, and the eyes he turns on Credence are wider even than usual, glassy with nerves and fever. A long pause while he collects up the words and tries to force them into order that makes sense. "Y-yes, um..." Stringing words together isn't coming easily, even to Credence who always makes sense. He's looking for the catch, trying to figure out what trap it is he can feel bearing down on him. "I, um, the... part of one..." Making sense is one more thing than he can manage right now.

[repressings]

He hadn't intended the other to jump. Credence blinks rapidly as he does so, but he doesn't point it out--he's been known to freak out over less, and he knows someone commenting on it most likely makes Bodhi feel worse, too.

In a way, Credence feels like Bodhi's the first person to understand him. Even though they've had just one conversation, and even then, it was on the surface level. Perhaps it's kin recognizing kin. Perhaps it's Credence being over eager and over invested.

"I don't remember full songs, either," Credence assures. "One time, I heard someone's Victrola down the street, and there was the prettiest sounding girl singing on it. I never found out the song name, but sometimes, when I'm trying to go to sleep, it'll burst through my mind and that's all I can think about. Just the chorus."

But something's off. Credence realizes it about halfway through talking, and he frowns lightly. Bodhi's sweating, but it's quite crisp out.

"Are you--Mr. Rook, are you alright?"

[onlyeverdoubted]

Being called Mr. Rook would usually be the most minor annoyance, a reminder of condescending Academy teachers that also managed to make him feel old before his time, but today it's actually a bit upsetting. Just Rook by itself would be alright, but somehow he feels separated from his name by the honorific, and what is he without that? Even less. Even in this state he recognizes the irrationality in that spiral of ideas, but there's nothing he can really do about it. "Fine," he says too quickly.

Talking about music is much more appealing, and he tries clumsily to bring Credence back to that. If there has to be talking, then he wants it to be talking about something ordinary, something that doesn't make him want to flee the room just because he's not alone in it anymore. "I--I remember them, just, the rhythms are easiest, not, not notes, I'm awful at those..." Now he wants his fingers stilled but he wants to complete the bit of percussion he's tapping out, and he can't quite get it to come out right so he can stop.

[repressings]

Fine, he says, and it's the same cutting, staccato noise that Credence makes when a kind stranger asks him if he's alright in the alley. Fine, please forget this happened.

Maybe it's not healthy. Maybe Credence should gently tell him it's alright, and that it's okay to feel off, and that if he's sick or troubled he can always sleep all the time like Kira does, because that helps Kira so it might help Bodhi.

Instead, he nods and continues talking about music. "I can only sing Hymns, but I like jazz music, even if I'm not supposed to listen to it. Do you have that, where you are?"