[ The door of the apartment is, as it always tends to be, locked. It unlocks almost as soon as L's hand has left it, the person behind it apparently unable to contain his impatience. The door swings open to reveal the familiar stranger behind it just as L's boots strike his toes, so the first thing that L will see on this known but altered face is an empathetic wince.
The fey lines of Paul's features are still present, but matured, set in the cast of an adult who could be on either side of thirty. Stubble his teenage self never could have aspired to shadows his jaw and frames his tilted mouth. His clothing is casual and light, in his typical shades of charcoal, but all of it is a shade too small for him.
All of this is the resemblance of a close relative - an older brother, a father. The two things that mark him most sharply as himself are this: the almost unaltered qualities of his movement, the way he angles his head and shifts his weight, and the thrum of the Bond print hidden on his shoulder. ]
You didn't have to hurry.
[ There's a new inflection to his voice, an accent acquired by exposure in his late teens. His vowels flow more softly, his consonants less crisp, but his crooked smile falls the same way it always has as he raises his hands, palms out. ]
[Even though he was warned about this precise possibility, it didn't go a terribly long way towards preparing L for confronting the Paul of the future. The "threat," as Paul's letter had insinuated.
He stares blankly at the smiling assurance. Of course he had to hurry; he was already late, on account of his death, and it's out of the question to consider tarrying for any reason once he did know.]
Yes.
[The strained rise of his brows hints that this is tediously obvious. He ducks his head in a shaggy-haired nod, nudging through the doorway past a version of Paul that might actually be his senior in age. He's grown and deepened, occupying this new skin with familiarity and ease that L finds uncanny. Unsure how to feel about it, he looks for the nearest inoffensive article he can use to wipe his filthy, freezing feet dry.
Lycka follows, dropping L's shoes and jacket neatly near the door. L doesn't speak further immediately, but regards Paul with skeptical curiosity, as if looking for a resemblance to someone he's been told is a relative but is only now meeting for the first time.]
Put the kettle on, if you haven't. Please.
[He doesn't know how to start approaching this without a hot, steaming mug in his hands.]
[ There's a knotted rug meant for wiping off feet, and a set of guest slippers already laid out. The bathroom is off the side of the entrance hall, however, and as Paul shadows Lazarus into the apartment he slips past to open the door to the tiled room for Lazarus' sake. ]
You can wash your feet in the tub. You must be freezing.
[ Paul takes Lazarus' scrutiny in stride, but an experienced observer like Lazarus will notice the care he takes in telegraphing his movement a touch more than he usually would. ]
I'll get the kettle on. Are you hungry?
[ Ridiculous concerns and questions, under the circumstances, and something in the gleam in Paul's eyes (green, green again like they haven't been in years, alien eyes in this face) suggests arch, self-deprecating and collaboration. It's a joke, but one he wants to invite Lazarus in on. ]
[L's bird-boned feet scuff against the rug. It's still not good enough by his standards; he prefers to pick up the slippers between two fingertips and carry them as he walks on tip-toe toward the bathroom, where he begins to draw a hot bath. As usual, the new dials throw him for a moment; someone used to do this for him, every bit of it, but that was more than a year ago.]
I could eat, but I'd also be fine.
[When L talks like this, it's been more than a day since he's had a bite. While he won't complain, he might hit his head on a table or desk in the process of graying-out.
He cranes his neck to catch those green eyes. This is a joke he wants to be in on, truly, but at the same time he feels that something of Paul has moved beyond him, escaped laughing into some darker future that is more smirk than smile, too cynical for even him to touch earnestly.]
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The fey lines of Paul's features are still present, but matured, set in the cast of an adult who could be on either side of thirty. Stubble his teenage self never could have aspired to shadows his jaw and frames his tilted mouth. His clothing is casual and light, in his typical shades of charcoal, but all of it is a shade too small for him.
All of this is the resemblance of a close relative - an older brother, a father. The two things that mark him most sharply as himself are this: the almost unaltered qualities of his movement, the way he angles his head and shifts his weight, and the thrum of the Bond print hidden on his shoulder. ]
You didn't have to hurry.
[ There's a new inflection to his voice, an accent acquired by exposure in his late teens. His vowels flow more softly, his consonants less crisp, but his crooked smile falls the same way it always has as he raises his hands, palms out. ]
Do you want to come inside?
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He stares blankly at the smiling assurance. Of course he had to hurry; he was already late, on account of his death, and it's out of the question to consider tarrying for any reason once he did know.]
Yes.
[The strained rise of his brows hints that this is tediously obvious. He ducks his head in a shaggy-haired nod, nudging through the doorway past a version of Paul that might actually be his senior in age. He's grown and deepened, occupying this new skin with familiarity and ease that L finds uncanny. Unsure how to feel about it, he looks for the nearest inoffensive article he can use to wipe his filthy, freezing feet dry.
Lycka follows, dropping L's shoes and jacket neatly near the door. L doesn't speak further immediately, but regards Paul with skeptical curiosity, as if looking for a resemblance to someone he's been told is a relative but is only now meeting for the first time.]
Put the kettle on, if you haven't. Please.
[He doesn't know how to start approaching this without a hot, steaming mug in his hands.]
no subject
You can wash your feet in the tub. You must be freezing.
[ Paul takes Lazarus' scrutiny in stride, but an experienced observer like Lazarus will notice the care he takes in telegraphing his movement a touch more than he usually would. ]
I'll get the kettle on. Are you hungry?
[ Ridiculous concerns and questions, under the circumstances, and something in the gleam in Paul's eyes (green, green again like they haven't been in years, alien eyes in this face) suggests arch, self-deprecating and collaboration. It's a joke, but one he wants to invite Lazarus in on. ]
no subject
I could eat, but I'd also be fine.
[When L talks like this, it's been more than a day since he's had a bite. While he won't complain, he might hit his head on a table or desk in the process of graying-out.
He cranes his neck to catch those green eyes. This is a joke he wants to be in on, truly, but at the same time he feels that something of Paul has moved beyond him, escaped laughing into some darker future that is more smirk than smile, too cynical for even him to touch earnestly.]