pullmeoutalive | log > for lack of a better place to do so

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log > for lack of a better place to do so

He had to wonder how it was that, if no one save a very, very select few could leave Whitechapel, he kept ending up elsewhere. Indeed, this wasn't the steam-driven, smog-choked section of city he called home. This was somewhere else entirely - and startlingly modern in comparison to the Victorian England he was so used to.

It was unseemly of him, but he found himself staring - tall buildings all steel and glass towered over him, and over that lay the clearest sky he'd seen in his entire life. The sun was bright, brighter that it had ever been in Whitechapel, with its constant overhang of smoke. All the better, he supposed, that he was wearing his usual attire, complete with dark glasses.

Alabaster stood alone on the street, a tall figure in smoke black stark against the clean, polished world he now found himself in. There seemed to be no one around. This city, if it was indeed a city and not some ludicrous dream, appeared to be deserted.

He reached into the pocket of his coat, fishing out a pocket watch. In this alien place, was Grandfather Clock - his God, and God over Whitechapel - still watching him through the clockface? Or had the connection been severed with his sudden disappearance?

Such things would be answered in due time, he told himself. For now, there was only the question of getting back. It wouldn't do to have Grandfather Clock's elite agent up and vanish in the middle of a rebellion, now would it?

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If there was one thing to be said about Alabaster, it was that he had extraordinary reflexes. (When his chief weapons were his own arms, he sort of had to have them.) A couple quick steps and he was there to steady her, an arm looped around her waist. A mechanical limb extended from his free arm, the metallic fingers gripping the doorjamb to keep his own balance on the slippery floor. His shopping bag lay forgotten just inside the doorway. "Easy there."

"I'm okay," came the hoarse, embarrassed mutter-- and anyone would have been embarrassed to have been caught around the waist with one arm still outstretched to break her fall, and the rest of her body awkwardly tensed. That tension vanished once she'd reassured herself that she wasn't about to have a grand reunion with the ground, as she'd been previously fearing.

She lingered for a few more seconds until she'd made sure she was properly braced, and then nodded to him. "I'd say you just saved me a few bruises."

"And I say think nothing of it." He righted her, and made sure of his own balance before releasing the doorjamb. "Ah-" As the mechanical limb returned to its place, Alabaster shrugged his coat halfway off. Sure enough, the mechanical hand had torn right through the fabric of his shirtsleeve. Jacket sleeves were all well and good, they were usually more spacious, and were made of thicker cloth. It'd taken him a lot of practice, but he was quite capable of maneuvering his extra appendages in a coat. Shirts, on the other hand, were far too fragile and constrictive to allow him much movement without turning the sleeves to ribbons.

He retrieved the shopping bag, still half-wearing his new jacket. "Truth be told, I was hoping I could avoid doing this. Do you have a pair of scissors?"

The sleeve was regarded with a look that could have almost been called sympathetic (or lamentation for her lost paycheck), and Saga skirted around the stack and over to the table. The scissors were located under the fruit bowl (not that she remembered why), and she was quick to return and pass them over.

"That's got to happen a lot, huh?"

"Unfortunately." Alabaster dug around in the shopping bag for a moment and located a t-shirt (it wasn't a complete loss of Saga's paycheck. He'd selected short sleeved shirts as much as possible). Not about to strip of his shirt in the presence of a lady, he relocated to the bathroom and emerged shortly, having toweled off and changed. It was a somewhat awkward being able to go around without his usual concealing coat sleeves in the presence of another person, and while she hadn't made any remark about it earlier, he'd be lying if he told himself he wasn't a little self-conscious.

Rather than dwell on that, though, he took up the scissors and began cutting the sleeves off the now-ruined shirt.

Toweling off was a good idea, and one that she was quick to follow up on, retreating into the bathroom long enough to get into a change of clothes and dry her hair. When she reemerged, it was in a pale green sweater and black leggings and hair that was still threatening to curl at the ends.

No further words were said, out of concern that she'd interrupt his concentration; she just perched herself on one arm of the couch and watched curiously.

It wasn't terribly difficult work, and Alabaster was certainly no seamstress, so all it took was a few quick swipes of the scissors to relieve the shirt of its sleeves. He went ahead and did the same to the other long-sleeved garments in his shopping bag.

"If you're not using those sleeves..." Still neatly seated and tilting her head like some kind of bird, Saga nodded towards the other couch arm where Duff was still huddled-- remembering all too late that she was the only one who could see him. "Mind if I take them? I'm pretty sure they'll come in handy."

His eyes flicked to the other arm of the couch for a brief moment, wondering what she was indicating. It didn't seem incredibly important, whatever it was, or surely she would have clarified. "By all means," he replied, handing the bits of cloth over.

She accepted them gratefully, examining them and then reaching down to set them in a faded pink sewing box positioned right against the side of the couch. If she ripped out the rest of the seams and combined some of them, she could probably incorporate them into her latest project.

"With this weather..." A sigh, tired and containing a hint of frustration. "We'll have to call it quits for the night."

He only half-heard her, since he was busy suppressing a yawn. Alabaster liked to think of himself as durable, but the day hadn't been so much physically taxing as mentally. It was beginning to take its toll on him.

"Or..." She trailed off, eyes softening when she noticed her guest was beginning to... droop a little. That was enough; she jumped from her perch and trotted into her bedroom, calling over her shoulder, "The couch is the only other bed I've got, but I'll bring some blankets out!"

Honestly, he was a little embarrassed that she'd caught that, but he wasn't about to show it. He'd dropped his guard far too much already. He supposed he couldn't really help it - she was the first person in years who didn't either hate him, or fear for her life around him (or some combination of both) - and, well, he'd be damned if he was going to admit this to anyone other than himself, he wanted her to like him. This girl he'd known for scarcely a day was the closest thing to a friend he'd ever had, which in itself was kind of sad, but he was determined for them to stay on good terms at least.

"The couch is more than enough, thank you."

"Not at all!" As cheerful as ever, the girl returned with an armful of at least three blankets, and dropped them onto the couch for some rearranging. "I should be the one thanking you for putting up with my poor excuse for hospitality."

Well, that was one reason, anyway. She couldn't exactly thank him for suddenly dropping into her life from another time and place, not when he so desperately wanted to return there, but how often was an experience like this going to come along? Alabaster was a genuinely interesting person, and she was only dejected that she wasn't going to have the chance to know him for much longer.

"That should do it," she said now, stepping back and waving her arm at the newly-made couch with a flourish. "I'll leave you to your rest, Mr. Donohue."

"Call me Alabaster, please." Now that was weird - he'd never said that to anyone before, but of course Baily's rabble had their own nicknames for him, and the Cloaks did as well. But he'd said it anyway, and meant it.

She blinked. Then blinked again, looking arguably more disconcerted than she had been all day. Of all the requests he could have given her, to be called by his first name was one that ranked high on the list of Quite Surprising. Alabaster had seemed far too formal to even want such a thing, but maybe that meant he was slowly opening up to her.

"Alabaster..." Saga tested out the name, brightening as she nodded. "Alabaster it is, then!"

Alabaster raised his eyebrows at her reaction, looking more amused than offended. He couldn't blame her - he'd surprised himself with that one.

He nodded in return, and found himself trying to (rather unsuccessfully) suppress another yawn.

"All right, enough of that." The cat was unceremoniously lifted from his spot-- earning her a yowl of discontentment-- and she shifted the unhappy and invisible armful into a more comfortable position as she headed back towards her room. "Just hit the light switch by the door whenever you're ready. And have a good night!"

"You as well." He nodded again, and waited until she was gone to flick the light off, kick off his shoes, and sprawl unceremoniously on the couch with a sigh. It had been a long, long day. He was fortunate that Saga had found him when she did, because if she hadn't, he sincerely doubted he'd be sleeping at all, let alone on a couch with spare blankets.

Alabaster sighed again, deeply this time, and listened to the sounds of Saga's many clocks and the apartment building settling, before drifting off.

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log > for lack of a better place to do so

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