[What you have there, Declan, is a pretty basic tattoo chair-slash-table set up, complete with workstation, tattoo gun, power station, and foot switch. It's the latter three items that V had taken apart to hell and back in the neighboring booth, especially the tattoo gun.
For now, watches as Declan gets himself settled in, quirking a brow at the goggles with different magnifying lenses. (He presumes.)]
Let me know if you need anything while you poke around. [Because his phone's buzzing, and he fishes it out his pocket, eying his screen.] Food's here.
[GONNA GO RETRIEVE THAT FIRST BECAUSE HE'S HUNGRY--
Fast forward a few minutes later. Now V's back, and settled with a box of Chinese takeout (with Declan's portion handed to him prior, of course), leaning back in one of the chairs and watching him work to take everything apart. He's mostly interrupting, but sometimes he's struck by an idle question thanks to his curiosity, like so:]
Where did you learn to do all of this? Were you taught?
[ Basic though it may be, it's all new to him, and therefor fascinating beyond belief. So it's probably a good thing that the food gets here when it does, so Declan can shovel some into his mouth before he gets too immersed in his work to eat. ]
Mm, all my tinkering and inventing you mean? I'm somewhat self-taught, somewhat formally trained. My mother is a brilliant inventor, one of the very best. It was her letters telling me of her exploits that inspired me to get into the trade for myself.
Those letters served as the foundation of my education, one might say.
Oh, heavens, no. Her work always took her far afield, and often straight into danger. I was much better off in the city.
[ Or so he had been told. Declan thinks better of mentioning he's never so much as met his mother, only spoken to her through the written word. It's not relevant. Probably. ]
[He supposes it's reason enough, yet it still sits at odds with what he knows of this man thus far. One who had ventured into a land kept under the thrall of an obsessed vampire lord...
V pops a little pink shrimp into his mouth, chewing and swallowing thoughtfully.]
You don't strike me as the kind of man who shies away from danger.
I don't strike you as that sort of man now, perhaps.
[ Said with a motion of his chopsticks. It's just as well that he just started eating without thought. The muscle memory of his other self took over, saving him the embarrassment of figuring out how to eat with sticks. ]
Even just a few months ago, it would have been a different story.
Ominous. An accursed place drawing others into it.
[More and more, it sounds like Declan has been living in the pages of a gothic novel or something equally dark and gloomy.]
But, for you- [His turn to waggle his chopsticks at him.] -it built character. That, and you followed in your mother's footsteps of traversing dangerous places. The apple never falls far.
An excellent question! If I could find the blasted woman, I'd ask her that myself.
[ He frowns, and for a second, something indecipherable passes over his face. Maybe he has a lot of things he'd like to say to his mother, and maybe he'd rather not think about them right now.
He points at the tattoo gun at the station he's currently claimed as his own. ]
[But V's observant enough, and there's not much else to focus on right now but his conversation partner seated just adjacent from him, and his diminishing carton of takeout. Of course he notes that look passing across his features and... Ah, well, is that indicative of a rather complicated relationship with a parent? V can certainly relate to that, in more ways than he'd ever wish to.]
...No. As long as you don't leave it to me to put it back together.
[Because they know how bad he is at that.
He gives him a moment or two of silence to do what he wishes, but then V's prodding gently again.]
How close are you with your mother?
[It's none of his business, and he knows that. But he asks anyway.]
[ Declan is not the greatest actor in the world, so there's nothing subtle about the way he goes very still, eyes flicking up to V. He looks like he's just been caught in a trap, though that's probably not V's intention. Besides, any trap here is a trap of Declan's own making. ]
[ There's a very long pause from Declan, as he just looks at V for a stretch. Eventually, he reaches over to grab the tattoo gun, his focus shifting. It doesn't seem like he's going to remark on that, then— ]
Does it count as disappearing if she was never there in the first place?
[ A sigh. He slides his goggles on, perhaps deliberately concealing his eyes. He hates getting personal, as a rule. Mostly because he knows his own past is a real bummer. Nobody needs that. ]
[He doesn't know if he'll even earn a reply. For a moment, he thinks not. But then Declan speaks, revealing a bit more about his circumstances, and suddenly the oddity of learning through letters alone seems to make... a bit more sense.
But, unsurprisingly, he doesn't want to talk about it. And V is not sure why he truly wants to pry, other than the ability to relate, even if it's only distantly. Parental... hang-ups were at the core of why Vergil acted the way he did for so long. Only recently have those knots been unwound, and only with great effort. His hands still feel raw from it, sometimes.]
My own situation with my parents was unorthodox, to say the least. That's the only reason why I wonder after others who might share in similar... complications.
[Plucking something else out of his carton now, just a leftover vegetable.]
But we can move on. To whatever else you'd like to discuss.
[ "Complications" is such a kind word, and the wry, almost bittersweet tilt of Declan's lips seems to suggest as much. But he's requested they move on, and move on they shall.
He turns his attention to the device in his hands, reaching up automatically to bring a pair of magnifying lenses down over his eyes. ]
For now, just watch a master at work, hm?
[ Declan would rather focus on doing something with his hands, anyway. And he doesn't need magic to be very good at what he does. (He got a whopping 29 on this tinker check okay.) In record time, he has the tattoo gun in pieces, strewn out over the work area. ]
[Move on they shall. V just tilts his usual grin at him in return, though it lacks its usual acerbic edge.]
I am prepared to be awed.
[And a 29, huh. V finds that he is, in fact, actually a little awed to watch him take it apart. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a man’s hands work so fast and deftly. And that’s saying a lot when you’ve had Dante’s itchy trigger finger firing infinite bullets at you before—
Look at all those little pieces.]
Poor, dissected tattoo gun. From something to nothing in record time.
Edited (help I can type really ) 2023-05-11 04:23 (UTC)
[ Declan is beaming, having pretty effectively pushed their earlier conversation to the back of his mind. One more item sitting in the pile of Things He Doesn’t Talk About, left shuttered away, hopefully never to see the light of day again.
Work is always a nice distraction, and this work is especially intriguing. He is at once discovering things with the sense of wonder that comes from newness and having memories flit back to him. He’s doing this for the first time, but he’s done this a dozen times before, too. Those are the memories he’d rather focus on and lean into. A second lonely childhood he could do without.
He looks up at V, lilac eyes comically magnified through the lenses of his goggles. ]
The pieces are just as important as the whole. Without even one of them, the whole thing would cease to function.
[V would argue that’s not an entirely healthy way to go about it, my guy, but they did touch on that briefly before, didn’t they? Things that are left to fester will catch up one way or another; either all at once, or insidiously, culminating over the years of so much neglect.
…But! For now, they’re talking about a tattoo gun taken apart, right? That’s totally what they’re talking about.
And yet.
And yet those words still strike him rather unexpectedly, finding their home in a different context altogether — though Declan would of course not realize this. The pieces are just as important as the whole. He knows this, of course. He forced his way back into his whole self just to prove that point, to fix himself. To make him even stronger than before. He wasn’t just cast-off weakness, he was a pillar holding the entirety of the self up.
But sometimes, there’s still a whisper of doubt. The belief that his value is only directly attributed to what he’s supposed to be, not what he is. It’s a tangled mess, that’s what it is, despite being mostly resolved. He supposes here, though, he has to deal with it all over again.]
[ Declan has no way of knowing what's going through V's head, and if there's any trace of it passing over his face, he's too distorted by Declan's lenses for him to notice.
So he just goes back to his work, idly motioning with a screwdriver. ]
It's like I like to say: never underestimate the importance of something small.
[It's fine. V's just pulling his attention to the inside of his takeout box, which has next to nothing in it now, just sort of picking up little stray noodles with his chopsticks.]
I take it you're unfamiliar with the poem, Auguries of Innocence?
[One of his favorites. He's already spouted it more than once in this world. Though maybe Declan's false memories might make it seem familiar, he's not sure.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
clockworksoul) wrote2023-04-30 08:50 pm
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For now, watches as Declan gets himself settled in, quirking a brow at the goggles with different magnifying lenses. (He presumes.)]
Let me know if you need anything while you poke around. [Because his phone's buzzing, and he fishes it out his pocket, eying his screen.] Food's here.
[GONNA GO RETRIEVE THAT FIRST BECAUSE HE'S HUNGRY--
Fast forward a few minutes later. Now V's back, and settled with a box of Chinese takeout (with Declan's portion handed to him prior, of course), leaning back in one of the chairs and watching him work to take everything apart. He's mostly interrupting, but sometimes he's struck by an idle question thanks to his curiosity, like so:]
Where did you learn to do all of this? Were you taught?
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Mm, all my tinkering and inventing you mean? I'm somewhat self-taught, somewhat formally trained. My mother is a brilliant inventor, one of the very best. It was her letters telling me of her exploits that inspired me to get into the trade for myself.
Those letters served as the foundation of my education, one might say.
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Letters?
[A long-distance education?]
You didn't travel with her, then?
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[ Or so he had been told. Declan thinks better of mentioning he's never so much as met his mother, only spoken to her through the written word. It's not relevant. Probably. ]
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V pops a little pink shrimp into his mouth, chewing and swallowing thoughtfully.]
You don't strike me as the kind of man who shies away from danger.
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[ Said with a motion of his chopsticks. It's just as well that he just started eating without thought. The muscle memory of his other self took over, saving him the embarrassment of figuring out how to eat with sticks. ]
Even just a few months ago, it would have been a different story.
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Oh? And what changed?
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[ There's a brief pause, as he shovels more food into his mouth. ]
It finds you.
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[More and more, it sounds like Declan has been living in the pages of a gothic novel or something equally dark and gloomy.]
But, for you- [His turn to waggle his chopsticks at him.] -it built character. That, and you followed in your mother's footsteps of traversing dangerous places. The apple never falls far.
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[ Someone could probably write a book about what it's like to adventure through Barovia. Maybe someone has... or will. ]
Mm. I followed in her footsteps more than I realized. She's been there. In fact, she's possibly still there.
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His brow knits at that, slightly confused.]
Still there? For what reason?
[And that would mean... that she's as stuck as the rest of them. For how long, he wonders?]
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[ He frowns, and for a second, something indecipherable passes over his face. Maybe he has a lot of things he'd like to say to his mother, and maybe he'd rather not think about them right now.
He points at the tattoo gun at the station he's currently claimed as his own. ]
You truly don't mind if I take that apart?
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...No. As long as you don't leave it to me to put it back together.
[Because they know how bad he is at that.
He gives him a moment or two of silence to do what he wishes, but then V's prodding gently again.]
How close are you with your mother?
[It's none of his business, and he knows that. But he asks anyway.]
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I don't really see how that's relevant.
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Only curious. [It isn't very relevant, but-] You wouldn't be the first to have a parent just... up and disappear, that's all.
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Does it count as disappearing if she was never there in the first place?
[ A sigh. He slides his goggles on, perhaps deliberately concealing his eyes. He hates getting personal, as a rule. Mostly because he knows his own past is a real bummer. Nobody needs that. ]
I'd rather we moved onto a different topic.
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But, unsurprisingly, he doesn't want to talk about it. And V is not sure why he truly wants to pry, other than the ability to relate, even if it's only distantly. Parental... hang-ups were at the core of why Vergil acted the way he did for so long. Only recently have those knots been unwound, and only with great effort. His hands still feel raw from it, sometimes.]
My own situation with my parents was unorthodox, to say the least. That's the only reason why I wonder after others who might share in similar... complications.
[Plucking something else out of his carton now, just a leftover vegetable.]
But we can move on. To whatever else you'd like to discuss.
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He turns his attention to the device in his hands, reaching up automatically to bring a pair of magnifying lenses down over his eyes. ]
For now, just watch a master at work, hm?
[ Declan would rather focus on doing something with his hands, anyway. And he doesn't need magic to be very good at what he does. (He got a whopping 29 on this tinker check okay.) In record time, he has the tattoo gun in pieces, strewn out over the work area. ]
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I am prepared to be awed.
[And a 29, huh. V finds that he is, in fact, actually a little awed to watch him take it apart. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a man’s hands work so fast and deftly.
And that’s saying a lot when you’ve had Dante’s itchy trigger finger firing infinite bullets at you before—Look at all those little pieces.]
Poor, dissected tattoo gun. From something to nothing in record time.
no subject
[ Declan is beaming, having pretty effectively pushed their earlier conversation to the back of his mind. One more item sitting in the pile of Things He Doesn’t Talk About, left shuttered away, hopefully never to see the light of day again.
Work is always a nice distraction, and this work is especially intriguing. He is at once discovering things with the sense of wonder that comes from newness and having memories flit back to him. He’s doing this for the first time, but he’s done this a dozen times before, too. Those are the memories he’d rather focus on and lean into. A second lonely childhood he could do without.
He looks up at V, lilac eyes comically magnified through the lenses of his goggles. ]
The pieces are just as important as the whole. Without even one of them, the whole thing would cease to function.
1/2
…But! For now, they’re talking about a tattoo gun taken apart, right? That’s totally what they’re talking about.
And yet.
And yet those words still strike him rather unexpectedly, finding their home in a different context altogether — though Declan would of course not realize this. The pieces are just as important as the whole. He knows this, of course. He forced his way back into his whole self just to prove that point, to fix himself. To make him even stronger than before. He wasn’t just cast-off weakness, he was a pillar holding the entirety of the self up.
But sometimes, there’s still a whisper of doubt. The belief that his value is only directly attributed to what he’s supposed to be, not what he is. It’s a tangled mess, that’s what it is, despite being mostly resolved. He supposes here, though, he has to deal with it all over again.]
…
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You’re right, of course. An inventor would see the value in all the fragments laid out before him.
[It is nice to hear, though, as simple as that.]
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So he just goes back to his work, idly motioning with a screwdriver. ]
It's like I like to say: never underestimate the importance of something small.
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I take it you're unfamiliar with the poem, Auguries of Innocence?
[One of his favorites. He's already spouted it more than once in this world. Though maybe Declan's false memories might make it seem familiar, he's not sure.]
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[ A thoughtful hum, while he begins the far more tedious work of reassembling what he has laid out before him. ]
The name sounds familiar. I'm sure I've heard it from you before somewhere in these false memories of ours. Why don't you tell me for real?
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