(Redshift) Home for the Holidays

[superposition]

Anchor's VR facilities, when not in use, aren't very interesting to look at. The physical rooms are just twenty-foot cubes, totally empty, their plain white walls, floor, and ceiling broken up only by thin cyan gridlines. They could almost double as racquetball courts.

Qubit's footsteps echo off the bare walls as he enters, walking briskly to the center. There, he stops and faces the door, spreading his arms and smiling in (mildly exasperated) welcome. "There, you see?" he says to his guest. "Nothing to be afraid of."

Comments

[abheirrant]

Carlisle hmms in reply, nodding. Qubit is right, of course — as he so often is — but old habits die hard as the clergyman continues, his expression sober, reserved. He tries to keep his emotions from his voice, as though it would help mitigate how he feels — how he has felt for years and years and years. Perhaps he'd have been better off if he had learned to express his frustration in a healthy way rather than always worrying what others — like his father, and the townsfolk, and everyone who ever heard of the Longinmouths — thought of him.

"He was distant after that, more so than before. Not just to me, but- but to all of us. When that portrait was painted, it was one of the last times he and my uncles were in a room together without argument. I think..."

He trails off with a quiet sigh. "I think he was more concerned for me as the heir of the bloodline, rather than as his son."

[superposition]

Qubit doesn't reply right away, turning over the words in his mind. It's odd, he thinks to himself, how frank and dispassionate Carlisle sounds about this... or perhaps numb is a better word. These are old wounds now, after all, ones that have had ample time to heal - although, knowing Carlisle, it's more likely he just got used to them.

How must it have felt to be him back then? Trying to recover from life-altering wounds, only to have his father openly reject him? And then having to watch, powerless, as his family - the core of his world - started to disintegrate before his eyes? It makes his chest tighten to imagine it. What is it called, again? That worst, most bleak and desperate feeling, trying to cling to hope, but slowly coming to understand that nothing will ever be the same again ...

... (and it's all your fault.)

He doesn't reply right away, but when he does, it's unusually subdued - brows drawn together, a frown that deepens the lines in his face.

"... And you blamed yourself, didn't you?" A question he already knows the answer to. Another pause. "I'm sorry."

[abheirrant]

Though he has long stopped looking at it, Carlisle's gaze remains locked on the painting; he closes his eyes, giving the slightest of shrugs. "Well," he starts softly, "spare no sympathy, as the saying goes." He realizes almost immediately that Qubit might not be familiar with an idiom of his world, and continues after a brief pause. "Spare no sympathy for those already dead, as they have no time for their own consequences. Though I suppose that's not been entirely true for me, now has it?"

He says the full saying so smoothly, his observation after presented with an air of levity. Maybe it's because it's been so long since his death, or that he's just so used to stifling how he truly feels about his lineage and his affliction, but he manages to keep the emotion from his voice, the waver from his tone. Better to not let his congregation, or his family, or Qubit see him that way, to know how much of his own loathing and bitterness he buried in his own heart as the years passed. His congregation might have suspected. His uncles knew, but were never sure of how to address it - and then they were gone.

But Qubit knows. He has known for some time, and what's more, he understands. When Carlisle finally manages to glance Qubit's way, he's taken aback by his companion's solemn expression, his own brows over his glowing eyes knitting together in silent surprise, then concern. "I appreciate your sympathy, Mister Qubit, but... you need not apologize. What pain I felt then over my father's words seems so distant now, and inconsequential compared to... well."

He gestures toward himself.

[superposition]

He's right that Qubit's unfamiliar with the adage, although he can sort of appreciate the black humor in it. Don't feel sorry for the dead; they're not the ones who have to clean up their mess. Cynical, pragmatic - attitudes you often see in cultures from very cold places. (It's context, anyway.)

Still, Qubit nods, resting his hands in his pockets. "Fair enough," he says. If Carlisle wouldn't rather go dredging up childhood trauma right now, far be it from him to force the issue. "Sympathy'll be here if you should need it, though."

With that, he'll gesture in the direction they were walking, and resume if there's no objection, returning his hands to his pockets. "Still," he adds after a moment, with a wry glance, "there ought to be a few pleasant memories around here, too, I hope?" This grand thoughtful gift of his isn't just a huge bummer, right?

[abheirrant]

Carlisle smiles behind his mask, grateful to leave the memories of his tenuous relationship with his father behind for the moment, and finally continues down the hallway. The end of the corridor bends in one direction toward another wing of the estate, while a door in the corner leads into what appears to be a kitchen with a dining nook.

"Down that way is the eastern wing," Carlisle explains briefly before stepping into the door in the corner. "And the kitchen, obviously."

There's a well-worn table on the far wall near a door to the outside, one with polished seats and a smooth, wooden top the color of warm honey. The door looks like it leads outside, with a path to the nearby conservatory just visible through the snowy haze. The kitchen itself isn't nearly as remarkable as the rest of the manor: metal pans and colored jars of otherworldly ingredients hang from metal hooks on the walls above the stonework countertop, with cabinetry all around and shelves built into the bricks near the window. Beyond the glass is more of the outside, though it's hard to tell what features of the estate it might overlook on a clear day. While most of the dinnerware is closed within the cabinets above and below the counter, there is an ornate tea set pushed along the back wall. The single cup on the tray matches the teapot, featuring gold filigree flowers around painted, ursine accents.

"I'll have you know I wasn't a bad cook, once," he admits. "Though I'm willing to bet most of what I cooked would've had your tongue curling."

[superposition]

Qubit follows him into the kitchen, mildly amused at being given the guided tour as if he didn't just get done building the place. (He does not remind Carlisle of this.)

It's a very different atmosphere in here compared to the cavernous dining hall. It's smaller, but cozy, rustic - it feels actually lived-in, unlike most of the house. There's even a fire in the hearth already, as if Carlisle had only stepped out of the room for a moment.

Qubit wanders the room, casually eyeing the ingredients along the wall, some familiar, some strange. But his eyes soon land on the tea set again - an oddity here, to be sure. The estate has its share of expensive-looking furnishings, of course, but very few of them live in the kitchen. The pots and pans, while sturdy, are very much unembellished, whereas the tea set just screams "Rococo."

(Or is it "Baroque?" Whatever, it's one of those old French art movements. They all look alike to him.)

At the mention of cooking, though, he perks up, the tea set practically forgotten.

"Oh?"

In all the time they've known each other, Qubit and Carlisle have never really talked about food. Not to say it's never come up, but Qubit's done his best to sidestep it when it does. It'd feel awkward at best, maybe even cruel, like discussing a painting gallery with someone who's just gone blind.

But now that Carlisle's brought it up, it's different. Qubit's interest is immediately obvious - the eager glint in his eye is the same one you'd normally see when he's talking about SCIENCE.

"You might be surprised," he says, leaning on the counter with one hand. "I'm nothing if not an adventurous eater."