nightlogs | talking to ghosts

He didn't consider himself the artsy type, but with a burst of inspiration and a strong desire to busy his hands and his thoughts, Miguel ends up on the work floor.

With his talons, he begins to use some wood blocks to carve rough forms out of the unused chunks. The claws on his hands were wicked things, making easy work of wood-shaving without losing any sharpness - but in this case, for something rather innocent.

He really was not an artist. The table is littered with aborted attempts to shake the rust off an abandoned hobby. The figures were mostly simple, cute animals - things a child would enjoy more than something Miguel would make for himself. A turtle, a rabbit, a parrot.

The third or fourth attempt would come out easier than the last, and he finds himself lost in the process of making.

Edited 2023-11-14 08:49 (UTC)

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.

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credit_not_blame - 2023-12-11 23:34 (UTC) - Expand

"I should have would thought this was your work," Dan says, entering the workroom with some slabs of balsam. "It looked carved by claws."

Dan, by contrast, is quite at home and confident in the work floor with his woodworking tools. His most recent work has been prepping Christmas gifts for people, which at this point has mostly gone into carving intricate keepsake boxes - personal, because they're handmade, but not an imposition on anyone and not anything so personal as to be uncomfortably, forcedly intimate. He's made one for Miguel, but he's made one for almost everyone at the Pole.

He sets the balsam down and starts to set up his own workstation, which is partially a woodworking setup and partially a craft studio for sewing and sketching and whatever other artistic pursuit Dan's decided to throw himself into that day. That he gravitates towards tailoring and woodwork is obvious based on the volume of tools and fabric swatches, but there's a little bit of everything. The yetis let Dan have run of the place and the elves mostly ignore his materials because he's left a decoy out for them, a repurposed cat toy with a ball and a bell that he leaves pieces of candy in for the elves to entertain themselves with.

"Are you planning on painting those?" Dan thinks of the beautiful painted wooden animals in Oaxaca and wonders if that particular artisanal tradition made it to Nueva York. He hopes it did. It's always a shame to see culture squelched to progress, lost to time.

"No. I didn't plan on it." he says curtly, making brief eye contact out of the corner of his eye.

Miguel hadn't really made plans at all. The beginning of November got closer and closer and he found himself confronting the hole in his chest he had desperately been avoiding. And it had filed off what little cordiality he had. Dan will have to forgive him for that.

His adjoining set-up wasn't much of one. He found an empty table to slouch at, gathered whatever unused scrap material was sitting around, and got to work. Physically, and at attempting to whittle away the malaise leaving him so relentlessly ill-tempered. It had been a good way to busy his hands on something in a less destructive and angry way.

"I was thinking about someone." he admits.

Although simple, the carving in his fingertips had details from remembering a specific animal he had seen, rather than going more abstract. It had a basic indication of slender claws and the general shape of a turtle you would see in a freshwater pond. He carefully makes a deep line to carve in the overhang of shell over neck.

Dan isn't bothered by the curtness at all. After all, he's the one interrupting.

"It's the right time of year for that, ain't it? The ghosts always start coming out around the Equinox and then they just keep coming." Because after the Equinox is all the celebrations of the dead, and after that are the winter holidays. The finals months of the year are rife with reminders of loss and bereavement.

He gets out his rulers and chalk and starts to mark up one of the planks of balsam wood in front of him. Where Miguel's left ill-tempered, Dan's finding his zen in the ratios and angles and planning for another puzzle box. He thinks about the time of year. He thinks about what Miguel just said.

"Me too, honestly. There were a few years I was celebrating Day of the Dead with someone." Because that was something Ellie liked to do; that was part of the culture she brought into his life, alongside so many other things. "I ain't sure how to approach now that I'm solo."

He may be married, but compared to his tight, us-against-the-world, only-have-each-other bond with Ellie, he feels so alone in some respects.

The question gets an affirmative grumble to it. Yes, the time of the year certainly factored into it. Very astute of him. Vigorous scraping sounds fill the silence between Dan's statements, being lost in the physical motion of making the shape. It was somewhat successful at soothing him.

The carving is gingerly set down next to a few others at varying states of finish. Like frantic drawings in a sketchbook, trying to purely expel energy. Miguel's bad posture over the table manages to make himself look smaller than usual.

"I didn't have to think about it when I was busy." he admits. How depressing is it to celebrate a holiday with just you and the ghosts? No dinner, no awkward family gatherings, just a table of empty chairs and you.

He'd rather get slammed through a hundred walls by whatever Vulture variant was making a mess out somewhere they shouldn't. Maybe he should go do that instead of clawing wood.

"I guess if you were feeling masochistic, you'd start building the altar right around now."

Edited 2023-12-04 19:52 (UTC)

"That's the beauty of busyness." Dan swaps out his set of tools for another upon deciding that the angles he wants to work with are more delicate than his original plans. He does an exploratory test scratching at the wood, mouth curled to the side in thought.

He bites his tongue on not the kind of masochism I'm into, because he and Miguel don't know each other closely enough for innuendo and it would clash with the underlying topic of conversation. "Reckon people would ask about an altar if they saw it, and I'm not keen to have twenty conversations a day about it."

It's hard enough to talk about Ellie even in only oblique references. He's sure Miguel can read between the lines.

"The problem there is that you're way too polite."

He doesn't mind an offputting reputation, because it means less people want to idle chat at him. That's perfectly fine with him. Bite some figurative heads, avoid future annoyances. Anger was an easy shield.

But it wouldn't do much for the quiet reflection part of the holiday, would it? If he was just pissed off the entire time, it would feel wrong to try and make something for Gabriella like that. So Miguel drums his fingers idly on the work bench, listening to the scritch-scratch of Dan making marks on wood, letting the calming sound draw up wandering thoughts.

"Maybe a small one in the bedroom."

He had a flair for the dramatic sometimes, but that felt more right to him.

Dan laughs. "I'll let my mama know she raised me right."

As if his mother is still part of his life and not one of those ghosts haunting the holidays. He's silent a moment, considering Miguel's suggestion. He compares his balsam plank to a sketch he made of his idea for the puzzle box, then redraws part of his sketch.

"Maybe. Bunny's not around often enough to mind if I bogart the armoire for an ofrenda. I just don't got much to put on it." No photos, no keepsakes. Just flowers and sugar and other offerings that Dan knows in his heart Ellie isn't actually receiving because she isn't still here, not really, not in any capacity. "Reckon I could make something right now for it, though."

He raises an eyebrow and watches Miguel, considering if he thinks that's what Miguel is doing right now with his carved turtles and other members of his wooden menagerie.

"Well, you won't be alone." he says drearily. "The dimension collapsed, and there wasn't time to grab anything."

His voice remains even only because he's had to explain this particular fuck-up of his a dozen times over. It is a performance well-practiced at this point, though he allows himself a vacant stare at the work bench. It felt worse when he didn't have second part of the speech. The part that made it seem less pointless and completely avoidable.

"Whatever can be made now will have to do."

Miguel really wasn't the type to stumble through things. He was rigid and well-prepared and reliable. Most of the time. Right now, an action to latch on to was exactly what he wanted. So of the bunch, he picks the a vaguely bird-shaped piece of wood in a loose cage of talons and mulls over it. This one will be next.

Dan doesn't even pause in his sketching, because he was expecting something like this to come to the surface eventually. People generally don't become workaholics just for the love of their projects. They do it when their home lives have become intolerable or unsurvivable.

"Anything I can do to help you make what you want, you let me know. I know my way around woodworking tools." He figures Miguel already knows that, based on Dan's work station and all the well-made projects. That isn't as far as Dan's willing to go to offer some comfort to Miguel, but it's as far as he thinks Miguel would be receptive to. "Ain't no going home to my dimension either."

Dan and Bunny reworked the timeline, which meant that the deaths that defined Dan's youth didn't happen, but Dan will never see that, never get to go home, never get to be with those loved ones again. The fact that they lived is academic; the visceral memory is of how they died, and that can't be erased just by knowing it was undone. The way their deaths morphed Dan's brain forever, stamped the bloodshed and the gravedigging in like a penny-press, that can't be changed.

But it means that Dan only has to think of one person to make an ofrenda to and not a whole family.

There are details lost in translation: The dimension wasn't originally his, that it was a cowardly attempt to escape an already miserable state of affairs in his home universe. The bizarre surreality of seeing (another version of) himself snuffed out by something utterly mundane. Looking at the body. Lying to Gabriella, even though he loved her more than anything else. Realizing his selfish intervening had been the reason for the collapse. It was his fault. It was all his fault.

His teeth are clenched together as the guilt surges up like a geyser, masseter tensed at the jaw. There is a little copper taste on his tongue from the fangs. He decides he prefers the blood to having any of the words reach his mouth. Dan seemed to understand, but at the same time, seemed impossibly distant.

"I didn't plan anything out." His voice is quiet, like he was admitting something shameful. "I'll have to see what would be best to put together. They deserve to be remembered."

Miguel opens his hand, releasing the wooden birdshape from chitin talons. He turns it around with his fingertips, and gets to work shaving out a very basic wing shape. In TRN-660, Mourning Doves thrived in the parks of Nueva York after they were reintroduced.

"What are the boxes for?" he asks idly.

"Yeah, they do."

Dan doesn't know anything about who Miguel's talking about, but he's firm in that determination. Whomever they were, they deserve to be remembered. They deserve to be preserved as well as Miguel can preserve them, for his sake if nothing else.

He gives Miguel the dignity of not watching him and instead turns his attention to a small box of screws and hinges, deciding on the right one for this type of wood and size and shape of box.

"Gifts. Impersonal gifts for folks. I was going to make you one too."

"Impersonal in my world would be a gift card to a department store." he remarks, finding it strange that he'd call it that. Dan was crafting something handmade. Taking the time to measure and carve everything himself. That inherently made it personal.

Maybe he simply didn't want the giftee to read into it too much.

"You don't have to do that. But... thank you."

It could apply to either offer.

Edited 2023-12-06 15:22 (UTC)

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