nightlogs | talking to ghosts

Entry tags:

talking to ghosts

Who: Miggy & You??
What: Miguel stays behind to do dead honoring activities
Where: the Pole to start
When: Late October, Early November (Day of the Dead time)
Warnings/Notes: themes of mourning, though it can be lighthearted also

Miguel would be reluctantly absent during the action around Halloween. A strange enough decision, given his first instinct would be to throw himself into the fray as a distraction.

But as of late, he couldn’t hide that something was eating at him. The gloomy spell over his mood seemed more intense than months prior, burning away his patience and making short tempered remarks and the flashing of fangs more easy to let slip. He'd done okay keeping things somewhat under lock, but it was clear now something was definitely wrong.

And so, after some tense, but persuasive conversation just convincing enough to accept staying behind, Miguel finds himself idle on a quieter and lonelier Pole for a few days.

((prompts incoming - brackets or prose are fine))

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Stacia doesn't hover at Miguel's elbow in her investigation, because that's a good way to get whacked by someone's funny bone by accident (or get deliberately elbowed if the person notices you and wants to teach you a lesson). It's very interesting though: Miguel isn't like Bunny, he's not into cute stuff. He's not even into cute stuff ironically. And he's doing this in the middle of the workshop and Stacia is nosy as hell, so she settles in to wait until he notices her.

She also starts eyeballing the wood carving tools nearby and wondering how likely she is to injure herself if she starts messing with them...

There are few things less fitting than Miguel, with his deathly serious and measured mannerisms, using all his focus to finish the detail-line of a parakeet beak in his latest roughly hewn invention. There. Done (ish). Given he was used to doing this another material entirely, it didn't look too bad.

"Are you just going to sit there and stare?" The question comes out a little harsher than he meant to, probably. Although momentarily distracted, he was still in too foul a mood to perform politeness right away.

The cuteness of the critter held oh-so-delicately on the hook-ends of his claws dampens the effect, somewhat.

"Yes," Stacia answers, as casually as if Miguel had asked his question with sincere curiosity. She props her elbows on the table and rests her chin on her palms for good measure. If he thinks he can make her feel shame for observing him as though he were a weird bug, he's got another think coming. And, really, she could have been far more annoying: "I considered running commentary, but decided to go for the ASMR experience instead."

Smile, smile, cute face; like she's never done anything wrong in her life.

"I definitely wouldn't have guessed 'woodcarving' as a hobby of yours, but it looks like you've done this before."

"I had family that liked them. It was easier to eat and enjoy when it's made of fruit."

He sets the bird down, seeming to have run out of energy to be snarly. Miguel was used to speaking about the collapse of the world that took Gabriella with it, but he did his best not to show too much of that somber side. He couldn't afford to as the leader, he had to be strong for the others - or so he thought.

In front of Stacia, at least, it's not like he was going to be giving her orders the next day.

"Yeah," Stacia agrees, "I don't know a lot of people who eat wood for fun."

And yes, she has noticed that verb tense. She hums under her breath as she decides how she wants to respond to it.

"That time of year, huh?" she asks rhetorically. "You want to talk about it?" She cocks her head, watching for his reaction to the question. "I can go first, if that would help."

"It's not usually a topic of discussion." he says flatly.

At best, it was a cautionary tale to not repeat his mistakes. That's all. And he was adept enough ignoring the lingering ache in chest to repeat it a dozen times over and pretend that meant he was fine. His feelings on the matter were never part of the equation.

He grabs another hunk of wood, considering what it might be turned into. Maybe considering if he should talk about it more, after all.

"Maybe not most of the year," Stacia allows, because this is a delicate topic and she's not stupid enough to look at Miguel making cute things and not assume that they're for someone who died far too young. "But this close to Día de los Muertos?" She smiles, letting herself feel a little sad herself. "I've even got some good funny anecdotes, like the time one of my friends decided to fight a meth lab with his face."

“I don’t see how that’s related, but you can tell your story if you want.” he remarks, and that was about as welcoming and nice as Miguel was going to be at the moment. It appears he is not particularly feeling the humorous or celebratory side of the holiday.

He begins to carve lines on the wood, the talons making their song of muted scraping noises. The regular motion was easy for him to focus on.

"Mostly it's related in that he's dead now," she says. "Not from the meth lab, he survived that. He was murdered. But the meth lab story is funnier."

She lifts her chin from her hands and folds her arms on the table, leaning forward a bit.

"So my buddy, Bares -- it's a nickname, long story, not relevant -- Bares was on a run through the woods on his own one day and he came across this nasty, smelly shack. It was pretty obvious what it was from his description after the fact, but he didn't recognize it as anything but a nasty eyesore; and he was already in a bad mood, so he decided to wreck the place."

She's fudging a lot of details: Bares-His-Fangs had been born a wolf, which is why he hadn't been able to recognize what the lab was; and he'd been of the opinion that any human things in the woods needed to get wrecked to keep the humans from further encroaching on potential wolf territory. But she's not looking to get into Garou sociopolitical stuff, just bond with Miguel a little.

"Anyway, he goes barreling in without a second thought and sets about making a mess and breaking things. Naturally, it explodes and sends him flying into the trees. He came limping back an hour later, singed and smelling absolutely disgusting, and I teased him for an hour while I helped him get patched up."

She reaches up and presses her fingertips to the edges of her eyes so that the dampness there doesn't build up and run the risk of streaking her makeup.

"Anyway, I promised-slash-threatened him that I was going to tell that story to everyone, so here we are. If you're gonna pick a fight with a meth lab, don't do it with your face."

Well, that was a quick way to get him to look up from his task - enough hear the story, at least. He doesn't laugh or smile, or do anything to smooth things along. Miguel is feeling barely fit for cordial conversation, much less pleasant ones. But the dark, tumultuous look on his face mellows a little. Particularly when he catches the hint of near-tears at the corners of her eyes.

Maybe it would be a little healthier if Miguel realized that a cry here or there was healthy. For both of them. He's not ready to accept that particular advice, though. He blinks back, evenly.

"I'd argue not to pick a fight with any lab holding volatile chemicals."

He's not sure why the appalling breach of lab safety by shattering a bunch of beakers was the first thing that came to mind. He goes back to carving.

"There are a lot of ways you can make toxic fumes by accident."

Stacia laughs.

"Well yes, a fight with a bunch of volatile chemicals is a bad idea," she agrees. "But let's just say that I know a lot of people who are all about the Bad Decision Train. One of many reasons that I am a beloved member of my community is that I am willing to unleash a torrent of sarcastic common sense at just about anyone, regardless of how big they are or how pissed off they happen to be."

"The torrent is hard to forget after being subjected to it."

He'd mulled over their first introductions after it happened, and found himself impressed with her way of wrangling an opposing foul mood (with a lot of pointy ends!) It was strange in the moment, but it had disarmed him quicker than expected in the end. Stacia's talents shouldn't be underestimated, bad mood or not.

He busied hands still for a moment.

"Sorry to hear about your friend."

Stacia had glossed over it, but Miguel didn't miss the detail. 'Murder' wasn't exactly a peaceful way to go.

"Aww, that's so kind of you to say!" Stacia says with every sign of sincerity, pressing a hand to her chest as though Miguel had said something sweet rather than agreeing that she is loud and bossy. To be fair, it's something she's proud of; the society she was raised in tries to train that out of little girls, especially those who want to be perceived as 'cute'.

She smiles sadly at Miguel's sympathy. "Thanks," she says. "Turns out that the people responsible had a long history of doing that sort of thing to people they thought were too uppity or interfering with their 'betters'." She sneers over that last word, putting it inside finger quotes like something dirty she doesn't want to touch with her bare skin. "They're not a problem now, and I have hopes that the youngest one can be taught why what they were doing was wrong. But all the people they killed are still dead."

She sighs, sitting back in her seat.

"I've been to too many funerals for someone who never had grandparents."

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talking to ghosts

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