Of course. Why do you think I want to repeat the experience with a motorcycle? :)
[bury her here, he's so awkward and cute]
...I had wondered if that's why things slowed down when they did, you know. Not because of anything to do with the number of riders on the bird, but because you weren't alone anymore once I made it over to you.
[He isn't sure how to respond to that. Cloud isn't even certain he put that much thought into the dream itself, minus the part where he thought about the very end of it on loop for a while there. But was that the case? Had he felt so out of control, so alone on his impossibly fast trek on his chocobo, that having Carmen there was something... grounding? That someone else's presence was comforting, so that he didn't need to move forward alone and uncertain?
His mind can come up with no argument against it, at any rate.]
so it was a metaphor for my life in general you mean that wouldn't be too far off the mark, after retrospec entered my life so maybe you're right
[Not to change the subject, but now he really wants to ask-]
so when do you think would be a good time for me to stop by so we can talk about the bike? just to exchange ideas and talk details
[She's sitting there, watching these texts roll in one after another with no apparent end in sight, and for a second all she can manage to think of is, no wonder Prompto is so adamant about protecting him.
But look at this. Look at it. Look at the way he reflects and corrects and ultimately just lays down his thoughts, a little clunky but all the more refreshingly genuine for it. Ask Cloud what he thinks and he says what he thinks — no politics, no hidden designs. That's rare, and it's charming, and it leaves her thinking about how a trait like that is worth more than all the cars and corporations and couture that sometimes saturate the day-to-day business of her life. How valuable that is, someone who just...talks to her. Gets a little flustered by her. Always seems to default back to that same natural habit of being who he is, without trying to make pretenses toward being someone he's not.
Look at that. It's her habit to give people excuses to be around her, ways to justify seeing her and spending time with her, and he offers up something like this. It'd be nice to see you for no reason at all.
She's never going to get any work done ever again, at this rate.]
Do you want to come over right now?
[is it 3 am at this point we just don't know but like BALLS if she's going to see that as a problem at the moment]
[Even if it is some ungodly hour (it probably is), who's even keeping track? This conversation has Cloud wide awake, feeling strangely light. He's not sure he'll be sleeping any time soon, and that's before he reads what her response is.
(He had been not only mentally facepalming, but physically facepalming too. And when he peers through his fingers to see that question staring up at him, he nearly drops his phone.)
That being said, his response comes without much delay. This is something that he doesn't have to deliberate over for too long, though he does count to five first so he doesn't sound oddly overeager.]
as long as it's not an imposition because i know it's late but yes, i'd like that
[And so he will, once she sends him her address proper. The gate is indeed open whenever he arrives on his motorcycle, engine purring with life. And while Cloud shouldn't be surprised that it's quite a large house, to say that he's not even the slightest bit flabbergasted would be an understatement. Where does he leave his bike, even? Just out here on this long, long driveway?
Eventually, though, he leaves it. He'd rather see Carmen than spend hours deliberating on what to do, where to go. He supposes the front door is just as good of a starting point as any.
[It doesn't take her long to get to the door once the bell rings, in part because one of the benefits of the absurdly long driveway is that it gives her plenty of notice when visitors are making their way up toward her door, and in part because ever since she'd gotten the text confirming that Cloud was on his way, she'd basically bolted downstairs and started hovering near the door in anticipation, regardless.
Bustopher Jones, generally oblivious but at least somewhat conscious of his owner's moods, comes ambling down after her at a leisurely pace, managing to only trip over his own feet once before wandering over to rub up against her legs. Odd, to think that having him there with her means every occupant of this house is now idling in the same three-foot space. Ojisan had done that on purpose, though, hadn't he? Big rooms, high ceilings. Maybe that had been his way of surreptitiously taking care of her, even from far away.
Still. Eventually, the bell rings, and she lightly nudges her cat out of the way with her toe, causing him to flop over bewildered on his side as she heads for the door and gets it open — a few inches shorter than usual because she's in house slippers instead of her red pumps, but still with red on, courtesy of the soft red sweater dress she'd tossed on after she'd gotten home from work and settled in for the night.]
You made it.
[She's smiling already, peering around the half-cracked door at him before stepping back to open it properly all the way.]
Come on inside — and don't mind Bus. He's sort of forgotten how his feet work, again.
[He feels a wave of something dizzying when she opens the door to greet him, and it feels a little like... excitement mixed with nausea. God, when did he become this useless in front of someone before? It's simultaneously uncomfortable and the best thing ever, and Cloud honestly doesn't know how to sort through it all to sound even vaguely coherent.
Bus grabs his attentions, though, while his mind tries to toss words together. He steps in, then decides to crouch down to give the cat a pet on the head if he'll receive it.]
Just means he gets to laze around as much as he likes. I don't see a problem with that.
[He grins, vaguely, then stands up to look at Carmen again.]
[He will absolutely receive that petting, and push insistently against Cloud's hand to solicit more of it as well, because Bustopher Jones knows what he's about, and soaking up some pettings is a big part of it.
Once Cloud is inside, she closes the door behind him with a soft click, facing him and resisting the urge to toy with a lock of her hair while he plays with the cat and then eventually turns his attention back to her. It's somewhere around that point that it occurs to her that her forethought in terms of planning out this visit basically ended at the point of greeting him at the front door, but at the same time, casting around for a suggestion of what to do next seems to defeat the whole point of seeing each other without the pretense of having a reason for it.
In short, she's inwardly a little bit of a disaster at the moment, herself. But that's fine. It's not as though she's any sort of stranger to making things up as she goes along, after all.]
It wasn't my idea, believe me. My surrogate father picked it out.
[She laughs a little, tipping her head back idly to glance up at the high, expansive ceilings before bringing her attention back down to the sight of his smile.]
I never really know what to call him, when it comes to explaining what he is to me. Second father, surrogate father, adoptive father, uncle-but-not-really-my-uncle. "Mentor" usually works, too, but it misses that element of family. Really, he was a friend and associate of my mother's, so he's been a part of my life since I was young.
[A suggestion as his eyes follow hers, to glance back up at the vaulted ceilings.]
Family is family, so why not?
[But in the end, that's all it is. A suggestion. From a personal standpoint, he's dropped the whole "half" part of half-brother where Prompto is concerned, because he just sees him as brother. No qualifier necessary.
But... there's a pause as Cloud also comes to the realization that he wasn't quite prepared to know what to say, or what to do, once he arrived. A hand slides into his pocket so he doesn't fidget.]
[Still, it's lucky that the vague awkwardness of directionless small talk is coming into play at this point when it is, because that brings with it a slowly-escalating need to alleviate it somehow, which is also neatly conducive to a smooth change of subject.]
Let's go in the kitchen, I'll find us something to drink.
[Alcoholic or otherwise, depending on how much they both appear to need one when they get there.]
But yes, it's just us. He comes with me to work most of the time, too — I hate to leave him alone for very long. It's a good thing he's a sociable fellow, when he's not getting bewildered by the existence of his own back feet.
[Reserved. An interesting word to use for it, but it's really not Cloud's place to push the matter any further than a mere suggestion. As much as he likes her, he won't pretend to be close enough to do anything like that.
And so he nods, and then just follows her into the kitchen, occasionally glancing about to take in the decor and layout of the surroundings.]
You must love him a lot. [And Cloud thinks he's cute, even if that's not the first word he'll rely upon to describe very much. Idly, he runs a hand through his hair.] So you're a cat person, huh?
Mmhmm. Well — animals of all kinds, really. Cats, dogs, birds. ...Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.
[It's a short trip to the kitchen, through hallways with hardwood floors and the same high ceilings as everywhere else; unsurprisingly, the kitchen proves to be just as elaborate as the rest of the house, with marbled countertops and an island with barstools tucked neatly beneath its overhang and more cupboards than any person could possibly need, ever, in their entire life. Possibly relieving for its utter normalcy is the yellow plastic cat bowl tucked into one out-of-the-way corner, with a white one for water beside it; at least that much is sensible, as opposed to being forged of solid gold and diamonds or something ridiculous like that.
(Indeed, once they reach the door of the kitchen, Bustopher Jones abruptly loses interest in participating in the little train they've got going and bounds over to inspect his food dishes instead, which he miraculously manages to do without falling over or scaring himself at the sight of his own tail.)
But here, there are more signs of human life, as opposed to pristine opulence: a few paper cartons from takeout Chinese that are sitting on the counter because they've yet to be thrown away, a box of coffee filters taken down from some high shelf that never made it back up where they belong. Affixed to the refrigerator door are a series of pictures held in place by red magnets — one of what's clearly a teenaged Carmen halfway through a spin on a pair of ice skates; another of her standing next to a gray-haired man in a black coat, holding a diploma; one of a woman with long brown hair and a man with a widow's peak and gray at the temples, standing arm in arm.
Meanwhile, Carmen heads promptly for the cupboard, digging around until she finds a pair of glasses.]
What's your poison? Coffee, tea, soda, wine, liquor? Sarsaparilla?
[He chuckles a little at that. An animal person, huh? That's one thing they had in common, even if Cloud might outwardly seem fixated on wolves just because of where conversations have led him on the network. But lions, tigers, bears... he's not picky, he like animals because heaven knows they're easier to read than people sometimes.
The kitchen is, once again, a lot fancier than what he's used to. But that sign of life, those open takeout cartons and coffee filters add a bit of personality to it -- traces of her, and Cloud finds the sight very endearing in a strange way, though he keeps that part of himself.
He pauses, though, when asked what to drink. He's not sure how long he'll be invited to stay before he wears out his welcome, so maybe asking for wine or liquor wouldn't be such a good idea? Plus, if he drank too much and ended up acting like a fool around her, that would easily be the Worst Thing Ever, and so... ]
[Two glasses get set on the countertop near him, and then she ventures into the fridge and reemerges with a Coke for him and an Arizona iced tea for herself, the former of which she sets on the edge of the counter and then slides down to him, Wild-West-saloon-bartender-style.]
...You're nervous, huh?
[It's a soft remark, one that comes accompanied by a faint smile — an idle observation she makes as she pops the tab on her tea.]
[He catches the Coke in his palm with relative ease, not even really thinking about it because he's too busy focused on her question.]
I...
[No, is the stupid knee-jerk reaction he wants to spout almost immediately. But that would be dumb, because her asking this question reveals that she can tell.]
I've never done this before. [He cracks the Coke open with a crisp hiss.] Be alone in someone else's house like this.
["Like this" meaning alone in the house at night with a woman that he is... dating? So very obviously interested in? Sometimes flustered by? He doesn't even know what label to apply to it in his own mind.]
[She finds herself a seat on one of the barstools, hooking her heels on one of the bottom rungs and pouring her tea into her glass. When she sets the can aside, however, she wiggles her fingers at him in a playful wave before reaching to take her drink instead.]
You're more comfortable when you have something to do with your hands. When you don't, you look for something to do with them.
[She shrugs a little. It's hardly a secret that she's observant, even deductive. She's spent practically half her life drawing conclusions from the things that she sees, from watching people to note how they act.]
...Mine is that I don't like not knowing what to do, in any given situation. Being at a loss for words, or...for anything else, really. So here we are in my kitchen, having something to drink, because I know how to do that. And it's less awkward than just staring at you, which I'd be fine with doing, except for the part about it being awkward.
[All of a sudden he's more self-conscious of his hands, and what does he do as a result? Immediately flexes them, as if proving her point. He then grasps his soda, making sure that one at least stays poignantly still around it.]
Remind me to never play poker against you.
[He has a feeling he'd go broke within the first hour.
Still, it appears he's not the only one who's nervous in this situation if her words are anything to go by. Cloud decides to pull out a barstool and take a seat directly next to her.]
A little. It's like I'm afraid of spooking you, a little.
[She tilts her head, watching him sideways with a faint smile at the corners of her mouth.]
I hope that doesn't sound patronizing. I'm just glad you came over, and I don't want you to leave. Or...feel like it would be better if you left. I meant it when I said I asked you to come because I wanted to see you. I don't care how late it is.
[That's not what he wants her to believe. Her presence wasn't something that he was apprehensive about, it was how he acted in front of her. He didn't want to make himself look like a fool, and he hopes against hope that he knew really what to say in these sort of situations. What kind of words were expected of these kind of meetings, instead of just... indulging himself in her company, even if it is in appreciative silence, as is his default.]
It's like I told you before, though, I'm just no good at this. But that's a me thing, not a you thing. Don't be nervous; everything you're doing is perfect.
[Making him feel welcome, just wanting to spend time with him. What else could he ask for?]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[bury her here, he's so awkward and cute]
...I had wondered if that's why things slowed down when they did, you know. Not because of anything to do with the number of riders on the bird, but because you weren't alone anymore once I made it over to you.
1/??? idk let him live
His mind can come up with no argument against it, at any rate.]
so it was a metaphor for my life in general you mean
that wouldn't be too far off the mark, after retrospec entered my life
so maybe you're right
[Not to change the subject, but now he really wants to ask-]
so when do you think would be a good time for me to stop by so we can talk about the bike?
just to exchange ideas and talk details
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see you for a reason that isn't necessarily attached to having something to do
if you want
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but i just
uh
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i don't know, if you have some free time just let me know
it'd be nice to see you when it's not just in a dream
done...
or something like that
you know what i mean right?
[he wants to dIE]
not here
[ROMANTIC SENSES ARE TINGLING... BUT WHO..........]
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But look at this. Look at it. Look at the way he reflects and corrects and ultimately just lays down his thoughts, a little clunky but all the more refreshingly genuine for it. Ask Cloud what he thinks and he says what he thinks — no politics, no hidden designs. That's rare, and it's charming, and it leaves her thinking about how a trait like that is worth more than all the cars and corporations and couture that sometimes saturate the day-to-day business of her life. How valuable that is, someone who just...talks to her. Gets a little flustered by her. Always seems to default back to that same natural habit of being who he is, without trying to make pretenses toward being someone he's not.
Look at that. It's her habit to give people excuses to be around her, ways to justify seeing her and spending time with her, and he offers up something like this. It'd be nice to see you for no reason at all.
She's never going to get any work done ever again, at this rate.]
Do you want to come over right now?
[is it 3 am at this point we just don't know but like BALLS if she's going to see that as a problem at the moment]
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(He had been not only mentally facepalming, but physically facepalming too. And when he peers through his fingers to see that question staring up at him, he nearly drops his phone.)
That being said, his response comes without much delay. This is something that he doesn't have to deliberate over for too long, though he does count to five first so he doesn't sound oddly overeager.]
as long as it's not an imposition because i know it's late
but yes, i'd like that
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[Odd. Her face feels a little strange, and it occurs to her after a minute that it's because she'd started smiling without really realizing it.]
Come over. I'll make sure the gate is open.
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i can be there pretty soon
[And so he will, once she sends him her address proper. The gate is indeed open whenever he arrives on his motorcycle, engine purring with life. And while Cloud shouldn't be surprised that it's quite a large house, to say that he's not even the slightest bit flabbergasted would be an understatement. Where does he leave his bike, even? Just out here on this long, long driveway?
Eventually, though, he leaves it. He'd rather see Carmen than spend hours deliberating on what to do, where to go. He supposes the front door is just as good of a starting point as any.
So... ringing that doorbell, right about now.]
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Bustopher Jones, generally oblivious but at least somewhat conscious of his owner's moods, comes ambling down after her at a leisurely pace, managing to only trip over his own feet once before wandering over to rub up against her legs. Odd, to think that having him there with her means every occupant of this house is now idling in the same three-foot space. Ojisan had done that on purpose, though, hadn't he? Big rooms, high ceilings. Maybe that had been his way of surreptitiously taking care of her, even from far away.
Still. Eventually, the bell rings, and she lightly nudges her cat out of the way with her toe, causing him to flop over bewildered on his side as she heads for the door and gets it open — a few inches shorter than usual because she's in house slippers instead of her red pumps, but still with red on, courtesy of the soft red sweater dress she'd tossed on after she'd gotten home from work and settled in for the night.]
You made it.
[She's smiling already, peering around the half-cracked door at him before stepping back to open it properly all the way.]
Come on inside — and don't mind Bus. He's sort of forgotten how his feet work, again.
[her cat is so dumb, she loves him]
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Bus grabs his attentions, though, while his mind tries to toss words together. He steps in, then decides to crouch down to give the cat a pet on the head if he'll receive it.]
Just means he gets to laze around as much as he likes. I don't see a problem with that.
[He grins, vaguely, then stands up to look at Carmen again.]
...Youour house is really... [BIG.] ...nice.
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Once Cloud is inside, she closes the door behind him with a soft click, facing him and resisting the urge to toy with a lock of her hair while he plays with the cat and then eventually turns his attention back to her. It's somewhere around that point that it occurs to her that her forethought in terms of planning out this visit basically ended at the point of greeting him at the front door, but at the same time, casting around for a suggestion of what to do next seems to defeat the whole point of seeing each other without the pretense of having a reason for it.
In short, she's inwardly a little bit of a disaster at the moment, herself. But that's fine. It's not as though she's any sort of stranger to making things up as she goes along, after all.]
It wasn't my idea, believe me. My surrogate father picked it out.
[She laughs a little, tipping her head back idly to glance up at the high, expansive ceilings before bringing her attention back down to the sight of his smile.]
I never really know what to call him, when it comes to explaining what he is to me. Second father, surrogate father, adoptive father, uncle-but-not-really-my-uncle. "Mentor" usually works, too, but it misses that element of family. Really, he was a friend and associate of my mother's, so he's been a part of my life since I was young.
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[A suggestion as his eyes follow hers, to glance back up at the vaulted ceilings.]
Family is family, so why not?
[But in the end, that's all it is. A suggestion. From a personal standpoint, he's dropped the whole "half" part of half-brother where Prompto is concerned, because he just sees him as brother. No qualifier necessary.
But... there's a pause as Cloud also comes to the realization that he wasn't quite prepared to know what to say, or what to do, once he arrived. A hand slides into his pocket so he doesn't fidget.]
So it's just you and Bus? Here, I mean.
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[Still, it's lucky that the vague awkwardness of directionless small talk is coming into play at this point when it is, because that brings with it a slowly-escalating need to alleviate it somehow, which is also neatly conducive to a smooth change of subject.]
Let's go in the kitchen, I'll find us something to drink.
[Alcoholic or otherwise, depending on how much they both appear to need one when they get there.]
But yes, it's just us. He comes with me to work most of the time, too — I hate to leave him alone for very long. It's a good thing he's a sociable fellow, when he's not getting bewildered by the existence of his own back feet.
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And so he nods, and then just follows her into the kitchen, occasionally glancing about to take in the decor and layout of the surroundings.]
You must love him a lot. [And Cloud thinks he's cute, even if that's not the first word he'll rely upon to describe very much. Idly, he runs a hand through his hair.] So you're a cat person, huh?
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[It's a short trip to the kitchen, through hallways with hardwood floors and the same high ceilings as everywhere else; unsurprisingly, the kitchen proves to be just as elaborate as the rest of the house, with marbled countertops and an island with barstools tucked neatly beneath its overhang and more cupboards than any person could possibly need, ever, in their entire life. Possibly relieving for its utter normalcy is the yellow plastic cat bowl tucked into one out-of-the-way corner, with a white one for water beside it; at least that much is sensible, as opposed to being forged of solid gold and diamonds or something ridiculous like that.
(Indeed, once they reach the door of the kitchen, Bustopher Jones abruptly loses interest in participating in the little train they've got going and bounds over to inspect his food dishes instead, which he miraculously manages to do without falling over or scaring himself at the sight of his own tail.)
But here, there are more signs of human life, as opposed to pristine opulence: a few paper cartons from takeout Chinese that are sitting on the counter because they've yet to be thrown away, a box of coffee filters taken down from some high shelf that never made it back up where they belong. Affixed to the refrigerator door are a series of pictures held in place by red magnets — one of what's clearly a teenaged Carmen halfway through a spin on a pair of ice skates; another of her standing next to a gray-haired man in a black coat, holding a diploma; one of a woman with long brown hair and a man with a widow's peak and gray at the temples, standing arm in arm.
Meanwhile, Carmen heads promptly for the cupboard, digging around until she finds a pair of glasses.]
What's your poison? Coffee, tea, soda, wine, liquor? Sarsaparilla?
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The kitchen is, once again, a lot fancier than what he's used to. But that sign of life, those open takeout cartons and coffee filters add a bit of personality to it -- traces of her, and Cloud finds the sight very endearing in a strange way, though he keeps that part of himself.
He pauses, though, when asked what to drink. He's not sure how long he'll be invited to stay before he wears out his welcome, so maybe asking for wine or liquor wouldn't be such a good idea? Plus, if he drank too much and ended up acting like a fool around her, that would easily be the Worst Thing Ever, and so... ]
I... guess a soda would be fine, thanks.
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[Two glasses get set on the countertop near him, and then she ventures into the fridge and reemerges with a Coke for him and an Arizona iced tea for herself, the former of which she sets on the edge of the counter and then slides down to him, Wild-West-saloon-bartender-style.]
...You're nervous, huh?
[It's a soft remark, one that comes accompanied by a faint smile — an idle observation she makes as she pops the tab on her tea.]
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I...
[No, is the stupid knee-jerk reaction he wants to spout almost immediately. But that would be dumb, because her asking this question reveals that she can tell.]
I've never done this before. [He cracks the Coke open with a crisp hiss.] Be alone in someone else's house like this.
["Like this" meaning alone in the house at night with a woman that he is... dating? So very obviously interested in? Sometimes flustered by? He doesn't even know what label to apply to it in his own mind.]
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[She finds herself a seat on one of the barstools, hooking her heels on one of the bottom rungs and pouring her tea into her glass. When she sets the can aside, however, she wiggles her fingers at him in a playful wave before reaching to take her drink instead.]
You're more comfortable when you have something to do with your hands. When you don't, you look for something to do with them.
[She shrugs a little. It's hardly a secret that she's observant, even deductive. She's spent practically half her life drawing conclusions from the things that she sees, from watching people to note how they act.]
...Mine is that I don't like not knowing what to do, in any given situation. Being at a loss for words, or...for anything else, really. So here we are in my kitchen, having something to drink, because I know how to do that. And it's less awkward than just staring at you, which I'd be fine with doing, except for the part about it being awkward.
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Remind me to never play poker against you.
[He has a feeling he'd go broke within the first hour.
Still, it appears he's not the only one who's nervous in this situation if her words are anything to go by. Cloud decides to pull out a barstool and take a seat directly next to her.]
Am I making you nervous?
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[She tilts her head, watching him sideways with a faint smile at the corners of her mouth.]
I hope that doesn't sound patronizing. I'm just glad you came over, and I don't want you to leave. Or...feel like it would be better if you left. I meant it when I said I asked you to come because I wanted to see you. I don't care how late it is.
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[That's not what he wants her to believe. Her presence wasn't something that he was apprehensive about, it was how he acted in front of her. He didn't want to make himself look like a fool, and he hopes against hope that he knew really what to say in these sort of situations. What kind of words were expected of these kind of meetings, instead of just... indulging himself in her company, even if it is in appreciative silence, as is his default.]
It's like I told you before, though, I'm just no good at this. But that's a me thing, not a you thing. Don't be nervous; everything you're doing is perfect.
[Making him feel welcome, just wanting to spend time with him. What else could he ask for?]
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