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[Jun. 15th, 2005|11:44 pm] watch_wait Way back when... ...there were two angels and some alcohol. Young angels, as 'young' as angels ever get. And really, it was quite a lot of alcohol. The land was veritably flowing with it. Metaphorically. So. Drinking. One is lying on his back, and staring up at the fluffy clouds. "All, I'm saying," he says, gesturing, "is that the death of the firstborn was a bit excessive." Link 73 did|Poke the ex-angel

[May. 7th, 2005|02:23 pm] watch_wait Bartleby's asleep, as he so often is at the moment. He's in a chair, snuggled sideways. It's not quite big enough for him. Link 90 did|Poke the ex-angel

[Apr. 28th, 2005|12:09 am] watch_wait Bartleby is cross-legged on the bed, back against the wall, surveying the small room. He hasn't been here for a long time. It feels colder and lonelier than it used to. Not home anymore. Link 47 did|Poke the ex-angel

[Apr. 22nd, 2005|03:45 pm] watch_wait Bartleby's in his room. My brane is in hiding. Link 51 did|Poke the ex-angel

[Apr. 19th, 2005|09:03 pm] watch_wait Bartleby is not asleep. He is simply lying quiet and still, eyes focused on not very much, thoughts chasing around inside his brain. Link 32 did|Poke the ex-angel

[Apr. 11th, 2005|10:58 am] watch_wait Bartleby is not quite asleep. He's hovering on the edge of waking, and tossing in the bed a bit. Link 92 did|Poke the ex-angel

[Mar. 24th, 2005|11:00 pm] watch_wait Flashes of images are all he's conscious of. Angels with serious faces clustered over him. He thinks he sees faces he recognises every so often. Mostly it's only pain. The wings hurt the most as they are removed, carefully and cleanly, and he feels blood trickle down his back in warm rivulets. He'd hoped that would be it, wings off, now you're a human, but then the blade is raised and he remembers. They're being thorough. And then the blade is drawn across his throat. A dark, skinny, familiar girl is there for a second, but then not. Everything hurts. That doesn't do justice to the situation. There aren't the words to describe what his body feels like. Every single part of him aches, down, down at a level so far in the muscle and bone that no amount of twisting and stretching will relieve it. He's working up to opening his eyes. Just the thought of the muscles he will have to use makes him flinch back into the safety of his mind, but he needs to. Needs to know where he is. It would be so much easier to just lie here and die, but that's not what he's going to do. No. And in a sudden whiteflash of pain, he forces his eyelids to lift. He's in the alleyway, a tired and slow brain informs him. And there, right beside him, to his left, should be the door to Milliways. If only he could turn his head, he would see it. He coaxes himself into action. Here, turn, like this, just your head. And now, yes, there's the door. Lift an arm. Slowly. Don't move too fast or you'll have to scream in pain, and that would bring people running. Okay. The doorknob. Find the doorknob, don't drop the arm. Just a little more. There. He grasps it with stiff and tormenting fingers, and lets the weight of his arm turn it until he hears the click. Thank God. Thank God. Link 8 did|Poke the ex-angel

[Mar. 21st, 2005|11:43 pm] watch_wait He's back in the bright light room. He didn't ask to be here, he barely even thought it. But he Knows that it's the right time. "Will you come Home, Bartleby Grigori?" Bartleby straightens his shoulders to make his answer, because of course he must say it out loud, of course they will not just pick it from his mind. This is the most important word he will ever say, has ever said. And in the space before he answers, a hundred, a thousand images flash through his head, and they see every one. People crying. People laughing. People living. And this. He can do this. He can say this word. "No." It falls from his lips, falls and falls and falls and falls, and he feels like the whole world has heard it. "So." The voice is quiet. "So it is said." "You must die before you can be remade." "You are going to hurt, Bartleby Grigori." The words, he Knows, refer not only to the process of reshaping his body, but also to the rest of his life. There will be pain, and sorrow, and he's going to wish that one tiny word back in his mouth. He savours this last moment of Knowing. He is Grigori, he Knows what will happen. No longer. Link 10 did|Poke the ex-angel

[Mar. 19th, 2005|11:57 pm] watch_wait There shouldn't be a choice. Not at all. One is Home, one is merely home. And less than half a year ago there wouldn't have been. But now there is. There is a wavering. There are people and experiences and things that he would miss so much, and the thought of never seeing or hearing or touching or tasting or smelling again is painful. Not as painful as being separated from the One, but if he were human then he would not feel such pain, would he? Or would he? He doesn't Know. He always Knows. Link Poke the ex-angel

[Mar. 18th, 2005|09:01 pm] watch_wait "Come." The longer Bartleby was in Purgatory, the less apparent it was that time was passing. He couldn't judge how long it had been since he'd seen Ishmael. There was time in between, he knew, because things had happened, but it seemed less and less relevant. "Where?" "Judgement." The word dropped heavy into the grey space, setting off ripples in Bartleby's mind. He observed them with a detached interest, realising he was Watching himself and not stopping. There, there was the pattern of fear, there the sound of relief, there the faint tang of hope. Interesting. And so he nodded, and so he found himself in the the defacing brightness of the Room. The three Judgers gazed at him, and the weight of the eyes bowed him downdowndown until he touched the floor. They were Grigoris, a jury of equals, but here and now they were far more than that. "Bartleby Grigori." There was no need to reply. He was cut open, incised by their minds. They Knew he was listening. "Welcome Home." Bartleby flinched. Those words were so... should be so perfect. And they almost were. Only. Only they were tainted. "It isn't quite home, though, is it?" "Not to part of you." The thread was picked up. "And you have to choose." "Will you be an attendant of God or a child of God?" "We will want your answer soon." And he was back in the grey. Link 6 did|Poke the ex-angel

[Mar. 3rd, 2005|09:36 pm] watch_wait Sometimes, he has waking dreams. He's lying on a table, spread out like a sacrifice to a fierce Aztec god, and there are grey men in suits huddled around him. They poke him and they make notes. "Felipe Fernandez-Armesto forgave him this morning." "Really?" says another. "For standing by while his children were killed? Good man." Or No one is there, but he knows that everyone is there. He never knew what being Watched felt like, and now he knows that they're all, every single Gregori sitting bored in Heaven, Watching him, examining him, gossiping about his faults over sickly-sweet glasses of ambrosia. "He's the reason we can't drink." "Friends with the Angel of Death-as-was." "Chucked out a thousand years ago." "See his best friend compare him to the Morningstar? Good moment, that." He remembers doing that, remembers treating the humans as the world's greatest movie, but he never realised what the weight of eyes really was. Did all his Watched feel this? Or "He's got a while to go." They are scrubbing at his soul with wire brushes, and it hurts so much, but he knows they're just trying to clean it. It's grey, grey, grey, and no matter how long they scrub, not one speck of it shines white. They hold it up to the light to examine it. "Yeah. Stains like these don't come out very quickly." "Bloodstains are a bastard." The other nods. "I'm not sure some of these, like this one," he jabs his finger at a spot on the soul, and Bartleby flinches, "will ever come out." Or CharlieFoolCharlie. Link 6 did|Poke the ex-angel

[ooc: storing banners] [Feb. 9th, 2005|03:51 pm] watch_wait Link 2 did|Poke the ex-angel

[Feb. 6th, 2005|07:12 pm] watch_wait Jeremiah's soul is very tall. The grey door has to expand to let him into the grey room. Bartleby swallows and tips his head back against the grey wall. "Jeremiah." He keeps his eyes closed. "I need to make amends." I need to keep this short. When there is nothing but heavy silence, Bartleby opens his eyes. Jeremiah is standing in the middle of the room, staring at him, eyes wide. "Jeremiah." The giant slowly, slowly, takes a step forward. "Father?" "I need to make amends," Bartleby repeats, face stony. "For siring you and therefore passing onto you my own sin of disobedience, barring you from Heaven forever." His speaks quickly. Please let that be enough. "I..." Have you ever seen a giant fall to his knees before? whispers in Bartleby's ears, as Jeremiah crumples. Bartleby drops his head into his hands. "Don't... I can't..." "You left." Bartleby doesn't look at Jeremiah as he hears the small words. "I had to." He speaks into his hands, his voice thick. "I serve... I Serve." There are hitched, gasping breaths coming from Jeremiah, and Bartleby is not crying, but his nose is stuffed up and his throat burns and he has to swallow. "Forgive me." He looks at Jeremiah, his eyes darting away from the wet face to focus on his left shoulder. God, my son is crying and I'm not even trying to make it better. There is another stab of self-loathing, and slowly, slowly he swings his feet to the floor and makes tremulous steps towards Jeremiah. Except when he's almost there, the Nephilim looks at him and forces a smile through the tears, and says "I forgive you." "N-!" But he's too late. Jeremiah's soul is gone forever. Link 9 did|Poke the ex-angel

[Jan. 28th, 2005|02:34 am] watch_wait In the end, it wasn't as difficult finding Ishmael again as he'd feared. It was difficult to raise a ruckus in Purgatory, but he'd tried, kicking and hitting and swearing until he found himself back in the grey waiting room. He runs a hand through his hair and turns to face Ishmael, who iss frowning at him a little. "You could have just asked." "Asked who? The body riddled with bullet holes that was just trying to grab my feet?" It feels like cotton wool's lifted from his brain. Anger is good. He likes anger. "Just asked. You have been gone for a while, haven't you?" Ishmael neatly staples some papers. "Yes. Well done for noticing." "Sarcasm will get you nowhere." Ishmael's voice softens a little. "We sent him back." "And?" Bartleby's heart tightens painfully. Ishmael sighs. "I'm not a Grigori, Bartleby. They never tell us anything down here." "For fuck's sake." Bartleby scrubs at his face. "Hush." The sound is more soothing that it should be, and Bartleby drops his hands and glares. "Stop numbing me!" "You don't consider it a kindness? After the torment comes the repentance." Bartleby frowns, and then a sick coldness rushes through him. "Shit. I'd forgotten." "You'd better take a seat. The first one will be along soon." Link Poke the ex-angel

Notes to self. OOC. [Jan. 26th, 2005|10:01 am] watch_wait He's been reminded of all he's done, now he has to earn repentance - apologise to all the dead souls. Maybe some live ones, visitation type things? Check with Fool-mun if she wants to kill Fool off once and for all, or whether she'd be able to do a wee bit of RPing with B visiting the Fool. See if Liz-mun'd be around for anything? Apologies to angels he killed in the War? Cardinal whateverhisnameisGluckGlocksomethingorother? Bethany? Cept she's not dead, so... something Sciony. Talk to Loki-mun. Drag it out at least a week. After earning forgivenes, God offers the choice. Spend a while thinking about it. Make the choice, then a few days of being restructured (at molecular level? Bit by bit? Do angels have molecules?), during which technically dead, so Lochiel goes crazy. Right. Back. Human. Issues. No longer worth anything, Jesus Christ Icangethurtwhatthefuck?, no more flying - claustrophobia? although flying's not been built up as a big part of personality, so prolly too out of the blue, except that now he can't travel as fast, trapped, Fool-shaped issues, however it's worked. Fighting. Big part of self-respect is ability to pound people to a pulp, I'm not a coward, but... fuck, getting hurt hurts. No longer able to offer protection, Charlie-shaped issues, Lochiel-shaped issues? - has he set himself up as Lochiel's protector in his head? Loki-shaped issues? Because, fuck, the bastard got away with it again, I've never raped anyone and I'm going to die. Dying. Aging. Big issues, because, d00d, Hell is where I'm headed. Abandonment issues? Although he had those before, but... more? Worthlessness. Wasn't much before, but was at least an angel. Now just a greyed human. Hmmmm. Appropriate icon. Link 7 did|Poke the ex-angel

[Jan. 25th, 2005|08:23 pm] watch_wait Bartleby found somewhere to rest a moment from the barrage of people, voices, blood. He's sitting on an island when the white rabbit runs past, yelling about being early, and he has to force his tired body to his feet because he realises the island is sinking under the weight of the huge golden cow in the centre of it. He dives through a hole in the rabbit, and slithers to a spot in front of a grey desk where a grey clerk is working. "Bartleby." "Ishmael." Bartleby never liked him Before. He likes him less now. "Arrangements have been made. His survival depends on his friends." The clerk is watching Bartleby through shrewd eyes. "You have red feathers on your shirt." Bartleby brushes them off, ignoring their screams. "In exchange for?" "It's not an exchange. He arrived early." Bartleby shakes his wings impatiently. The clerk's eyes narrow. "You don't accept Heaven's infinite bounty?" "I'm not feeling it right now." The clerk sighs, and shuffles the paper on his desk. "You're not going back." Bartleby closes his eyes and tilts his head forward in acceptance, and continues tilting as the hands of the comrades he killed in the War reach up and drag him down. Link 21 did|Poke the ex-angel

[Jan. 24th, 2005|01:34 pm] watch_wait [ooc: post the entrance to Purgatory] All that had been in his head was the constant bassbeat: Home Home Home, and Lochiel's calming thoughts had been subsumed and swept away on a swirl of delight and agitation and fear and confusion. Home Home Home began to have a lighter note running over it She let me Home She let me Home She let me Home. He loses the sound of the others' voices as soon as he walked through the Door, and he doesn't even care, dropping to his knees as he is surrounded by the grey morning light and tilting his face upwards. Wel-wel-wel-come-ome. It rustles around him. And then a darker voice. You are not - not say the little rustles - Home yet. Bartleby knows this, he says impatiently. But Purgatory is nothing to angels, only a resting spot. The clash of cymbals answers him: And you yourself Know that you are not fully Angel. And the trumpets take up the tune: Purgatory holds more for you than rest. I Know myself. You can confront me with nothing new. Bartleby's tongue is silent. Purgtory does not need to be new, says the sun, and the moon agrees. Only real He tries to get to his feet, but the greyness holds him down. I was let in for cleansing? he demands voicelessly. Not only. The dampness of this voice curls around him. But mostly, the desert heat murmurs. She wants you back, Bartleby. God's Will be done. And he's falling, falling towards the ground, dropped by an angel with beating wings, who looks down at him with Charlie's face. Link 10 did|Poke the ex-angel

[Jan. 22nd, 2005|08:17 pm] watch_wait Bartleby woke up an hour ago, curled in an uncomfortable position on the chair with Lochiel crumpled next to him. Lochiel's face was pale and drawn, and Bartleby frowned worriedly for a second before his eyes turned to Charlie. He's been watching Charlie not-breathing since then Link Poke the ex-angel

[Jan. 22nd, 2005|12:36 am] watch_wait Charlie's been gone for longer than he should have been. In fact, Bartleby's not sure how long he's been gone for. He left when the sun was just beginning to come down from its zenith, kissing Bartleby's salt-covered shoulder and murmuring about checking on Claire, and Bartleby nodded and flicked water at him, and watched him walk up to the top of the beach and disappear into the greenness of the jungle. And then he fell asleep. He's floated slowly back to the surface of wakefulness now, and the rocks are casting streaming black shadows along the beach. There's no Charlie. Bartleby rolls to his feet, skin a little chilled, stretching his arms and twisting his back and sighing. He knows Charlie can take care of himself, but at the same time... He loosens his perceptions, lets his mind spread outwards. Bassist? He comes across a few bright sparks of consciousness, nudges them gently, moves on. Where've you gone and fetched up? Ah. There's the mind he's looking for. He spreads slowly towards it, his physical self smiling slightly. Hesitates, jerks back, as he realises the shape of it, a shape that is horribly familiar to him. Holdonholdthefuckon. He slams back to his physical body with the sharp pain of a snapped rubber band, and is on his feet less than a second later, his wings spreading, his toes lifting, the beach getting smaller below him, just a curve of white. Frantic. CharlieCharlieCharlie. The flight lasts too long, too fucking long, air rushing past his ears, blood rushing in his head, his heart beating so loudly that it could knock him out of the sky. He arrows in on Charlie, his landing clumsy, scattering feather into the dark green of the foliage. There's... The world stops. And starts again, hideously realigned, twisted to fit in the fact of Charlie hanging from the branch of a tree, blinfolded, rope around his neck. He's dead. Bartleby knows, even before he rises into the air again, catches Charlie up, takes the weight off his neck. He hovers in the air, pulling the blindfold off with shaking fingers, tearing at the rope until the knot loosens enough to slip the noose over Charlie's head, and returns to the ground, sinking into crossed-legs and clutching Charlie closer to him, tucking the blond head into the crook of his shoulder. His whole body curls inwards around Charlie. He's dead. Bartleby doesn't cry. There's no breath on his neck. He feels cold. Eventually, thoughts begin to move sluggishly through his brain again. There's someone on this island who did this. The only thing left to do is tear that person apart. He hugs Charlie closer to him in a convulsive movement, and then begins to climb to his feet, stiff and aching. The body. He should bury the body. He looks around helplessly. Something to dig with? Or maybe... maybe... oh God. There's someone coming. Thank God, someone coming, someone he can kill. He lays Charlie down on the ground, taking a moment to wipe the smudge of a tear-track from the side of the still face, and turns to face the source of the noise, his lips drawing back from his teeth. A woman stumbles out of the bushes, and he hesitates. She could be the killer, but... she's pregnant, and crying, and when she sees Charlie she screams and runs to the body, falling to her knees. "Oh my God, oh my God." "He's dead." Bartleby is surprised at how clogged his voice sounds. "He can't be, oh fuck where's his pulse? CPR, you can do CPR, right?" "He's dead." Bartleby reaches to grab her elbow and draw her to her feet. "Dead." He stares at her. Claire. This is... Claire. She recognises him at the same time. "You... you know him, right?" Tears are still running down her face, and her eyes are drawn to Bartleby's wings, arcing above his head. "You're taking his soul to Heaven?" "No." Bartleby wipes away the sting from his eyes. "I don't... I can't..." She turns away, and scrubs at her eyes, and takes in a deep, gasping breath. "Take me with you." "To hunt the killer?" Bartleby blinks. "No! Somewhere... somewhere safe. Somewhere I can bury Charlie." "He's mine to bury." Bartleby is surprised at how hard his voice is. Claire regards him from wet eyes. "We can bury Charlie." "Milliway's." Link Poke the ex-angel

[Jan. 21st, 2005|08:38 pm] watch_wait Testing, testing. WTF is wrong with these people's computer? Link 8 did|Poke the ex-angel

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