summonthesuit | IC Inbox

[It's a somewhat promising reaction at first. Understanding. And that's more than Steven can say for himself when he found out about the Mysterio thing. But then the conversation takes a turn and those last few words really hit Steven where it hurts. He would love to say he's made peace with this particular aspect of the situation, but he hasn't.

He raises one hand as if to move it up to his face, then drops it onto his leg again. His brow furrows so strongly that it almost hurts.]

He is. He's... He's always been the real deal. 'Cause he's the original, isn't he? I'm the warped reflection. Just a... an afterthought who came in later, and I didn't even know it. I'm not even really British. Most of my memories are fake. I... I'm not a real person. [Steven's voice cracked just a little bit on that last one. Oops.]

[Oh fuck. He's stepped into a conversational minefield he didn't even know was there. Quentin just meant 'real deal' in the sense that the guy was the one Steven knew, not- this. Oh no. Time to... figure something out, on the fly.]

...I dunno. You seem- pretty real to me. [He reaches over carefully to take Steven's hand. The grasp can easily be broken out of.] See? Solid. I knew you first, so that's why I... thought that. Him being potentially not- right. But you're right, you're not- bullshit. Take it from a bullshitter, if you weren't a real person, there wouldn't be-

[He gestures a bit helplessly with his free hand, struggling for a good word.]

Substance. Quirks. Things feel real when they have some truth in there. Ergo, you're real. Who else would write network messages like a letter, huh? Or know all those neat things about Dracula. I'm pretty sure that's all you, Steven. [He gives the other man's hand a small squeeze to emphasize his point.]

[Deep down, Steven knows exactly what Quentin meant when he asked. It just didn't stop his thoughts from derailing. He can't shake the image of a young Marc huddled up in his room, their mother banging furiously on the door. A memory that was never supposed to be shared between them, because 'that was the whole point of Steven'.

When Quentin's hand goes for his own, he doesn't shake it off. And he hears all of what's being said to him, but it somehow doesn't register as anything worthwhile. Who cares if he's different from Marc? Who cares if he lives life his own way? That was the whole point of him too.]

It is all me, but... But the only reason I exist is because Marc went through something horrible, and... [He swallows thickly, raising his free hand to his eyes. They're starting to burn. Some strained mix between a chuckle and a sob escapes him.] ... Hell if I know what happened at Tower Bridge. I don't remember anything like it. Chances are, I wasn't in town for it, but that won't stop me from thinking I've been living in London for years already. You know where... where he first got the accent? Off some movie he loved when he was just a lad. That just makes me the world's biggest joke, don't it?

[Oh, Steven. Quentin gives Steven's hand another small squeeze, and one of his wings very carefully drapes over the other man's shoulder. It's the best version of a hug Quentin can do without letting go.]

Hey, honey, no. [The endearment slips out before he can think about it.] No, you're not a joke. It means that you came from somewhere loved. That's gotta mean something, right? It's... I don't know how to talk about this kinda thing, but- it's your experience either way. Your life. This is your life here. Marc's just... showing up late to it, this time.

[He goes quiet for a moment, before deciding to give Steven another piece of things. One of those last remaining 'secrets' he's got.]

My uncle liked doing voices for fun. Does that mean he was a joke? Nah. You aren't either. Just means that something stuck. Was appreciated.

[Steven just feels so exhausted all of a sudden. And weak. He spent two months trying to adjust to life by himself; to be his own person again, as he always thought he'd been, but it just wasn't the same anymore now that he knows the truth. And having the body 24/7- not even getting a break to sleep- is much harder than it has any right to be.

He feels the squeeze into the palm of his hand, followed by the draping. It's like a soft quilt's been tossed over him and at first, that's what he assumes it was. It's not until he turns his head lightly that he realizes it's Quentin's wing. ... God, he's being comforted by the guy he was yelling at just a few minutes ago. He's really that pathetic, isn't he?]

Thanks... [He rubs at his eyes one more time before lowering his hand again. It comes to rest on top of Quentin's. When he speaks again, his voice is a little nasal.] 'M sorry for... For this. S'pose I'm just really tired too. But hey, all cards on the table now, right? ...Well, most cards. Those were the big ones.

[That whole Moon Knight thing is something for another day. Or possibly never. That's up to Quentin.]

[There's another small squeeze to Steven's hand. Quentin's not letting go any time soon, for as long as Steven needs it. Emotional stuff like this is... exhausting. This can be their small exhaustion zone for now. A place to rest.]

Hey, it was a lot to cover, lotta things to process. Shit like this is... [He lets out a small huff of a laugh, looking down for a moment.] It's a lot. But yeah, all big cards on the table. Think we can call this a success for now-? We could use the break.

[He's not ending the conversation at all. Just gently tabling this portion of things for a breather.]

[Once there's another squeeze, Steven's gaze strays down towards their hands and a faint smile tugs at his lips. The sensation- the warmth helps to ground him. He'd question if it's an act, but the gesture matches Quentin's words and he can't lie. For a 'bad guy', Quentin sure is a nice guy.]

Yep. Break sounds good. [The tip of his tail swishes, tapping against the bottom of the couch, near the floor. It has something of a mind of its own until he learns to control it better.] So how uh... How's your week been?

[Quentin can't help the genuine laugh that escapes when Steven asks him how his week's been. His wing slips off of Steven's shoulder before he gently thunks his head against the same spot, like a cat headbutting against a hand. God. Quentin is so fucked. Steven is such a dweeb, how dare he be charming even now.

The sudden snap of lingering tension is weirdly relieving.]

I- sorry, but, ah, alright, for the most part! [He's still smiling a little as he sits back up.] Bit weird, bit empty, but- alright. Coulda been better, coulda been worse. Happy we could talk. Was thinking about trying a new recipe I found so I could just- do something, y'know? Some kinda... bread thing, I think. You get up to anything recently-?

[Aw man, Steven liked having that wing there. It wasn't on the level of a weighted blanket, but it still spread the sort of pressure that brought comfort. He's not even sure what to make of that headbutt. Some sort of faerie thing, maybe? Or maybe Quentin's just that quirky. He doesn't mind it, but caught him off guard a little.

What Steven meant was whether Quentin saw any familiar faces in the batch of newcomers, or got caught up in that candy debacle or anything like that. But you know what? The resulting ramble about trivial things like bread recipes is nicer to listen to.]

Oh, uh... Not really. Just work and trying to avoid my lush, dodgy neighbour on account of a supervillain history. As one does. [He laughs weakly. Really, he feels bad about that, he does. The hand that's on top of Quentin's own gives it a quick pat.]

[Quentin snorts at Steven's reply. Honestly? Fair. If he was in Steven's position, he probably would have done the same.]

As one does, of course. I get that this stuff is lush- [He gestures to the red fluff around part of his neck, tone lightly teasing.] But c'mon. I think there's probably a better word for it. I'll give you dodgy, though.

[Steven blinks, unsure whether Quentin's just joking or whether he genuinely confused the British meaning of that word with the American one. He uh... Yep. He'll just roll with it, then.]

Dapper? Smart? ...Probably soft, it looks soft. Does it shed a lot? Big tufts of fluff in the shower drain? [God help him, he can't stop nattering now.]

[...Oh. Okay, that is- not what Quentin expected. Just gonna... quietly tuck that compliment away for later, as he looks away briefly. Scratches at his jaw absently as he can't meet Steven's eyes for a tongue-tied moment.]

I'll take smart. But it's- soft, yeah. Little bit weird, but not as messy as the... scales, I think? On these. [One of his wings twitches as he says 'these', like lifting an arm and then dropping it again.] They tint the water, looks- really weird, if you're not used to it. The fluff doesn't shed as much. Sorta like...

[Quentin's face scrunches up in thought. He's never had to describe this to somebody else.]

Hair, I guess? Some comes loose, but not- handfuls. Do you get feathers everywhere, or is it a similar deal?

[When Quentin brings up the wings, Steven takes a closer look at them. They tint the water? Now he's wondering how that works. He doesn't know enough about insects to trace it back to anything.

At the question, his own wings strain themselves a bit, their position tilting backwards.]

Ah, no, I barely moult. For most birds it's seasonal, so I expect I might be in for a trail of feathers everywhere I go when winter comes 'round, but... Depends whether angel wings follow the same rules as bird wings, doesn't it? Maybe they don't moult at all. There's not a whole lot of Nephilim around to ask.

[Quentin's only learned how moths vaguely... shed through personal experience. Before this, he knew little to nothing specific about insects. It's still off-putting sometimes.]

Huh. Well, I guess I can't really say 'birds of a feather flock together' then, if there's so few of you. But I'd say- maybe? [Another small thoughtful face scrunch as he looks at Steven's wings.] Most of us seem to take animal influences from somewhere. But your wings are... painterly. Nice. Look a little sharp there, but-

[He gestures at them loosely, careful not to touch even by accident.]

Wouldn't be surprised if they turned out to be soft. Place is always full of surprises, ain't it?

Not soft, actually. I wish. Turns out, feathers are real fragile, actually? And they can bleed? [Ronstadt gave Steven plenty of warnings about that and now he's honestly kind of terrified he'll accidentally break some feathers and bleed out.

But you know what? Beck seems to not have recognized just why Steven's wings look so 'painterly', which simply will not do.]

The influence is Egyptian. It's the kind of wings you'd usually find on depictions of Horus. You know, most commonly known as the god of the sky, including sun and moon. Which is different from the god of the night sky- that's Khonshu. Bet he hates Horus, come to think of it. More than he hates all the other Ennead. But anyway, you'd sometimes see wings like this on scarabs beetles, too. Scarabs were all over, in jewelry and such. And engraved into sarcophagi or tomb rooms. People saw it as an amulet of protection against disease and death. And it was interpreted as a symbol of resurrection, too. But don't think of the heart scarab, though. Those didn't have wings. But they're fascinating little trinkets. They'd place 'em on the heart of the deceased, right? So when they got to the afterlife, the scarab would bind the heart to silence while it was being weighed in the Duat- the underworld. That way, the heart couldn't bear false witness against the deceased and influence the scales. Brilliant, right?

[Oh no. This is all weirdly enthralling, and Steven is- very passionate about this. Quentin is... so very fucked, dear god he hopes he doesn't look head over ass or something right now. Oh no.]

Huh. So there are scarabs and then... heart scarabs? Do the heart scarabs have no open wings because they're... containing life, maybe? Keeping outside influence out of things. That is pretty brilliant, honestly. An interesting way to-

[Quentin makes a vague gesture as he tries to find the right word. Enjoy his vague theorizing, Steven. He was more of a Greek myth kinda guy growing up.]

Do the whole afterlife thing. What'd they way the heart against? Some kind of karma meter, or-?

[However Quentin looks right now, Steven's not really processing it. He's just happy he gets to talk about these things and actually be listened to, instead of being brushed off.]

No no, you weigh on scales. That's a common motif in a lot of religions, innit? In Greek Mythology, you'd have the golden scales that'd weigh fates. In the Iliad, during the battle between the Achaeans and Trojans, Zeus takes out those scales and weighs the keres of the Greeks and Trojans against one another. Keres are like death spirits, so they're "fateful portions of death". [He absolutely airquoted that.] But in the Testament of Abraham, the archangel Michael is shown weighing souls on Judgment Day. And then according to Egyptian beliefs, the Scales of Justice are used to weigh the ka, which is the heart. It's weighed against the Feather of Truth, and if the heart's heavier, the soul won't gain entry to the Field of Reeds. Which is, y'know, eternal bliss.

[...There was scales in Greek myth, not just woven tapestries of fate and shit? Neat. Also no one should look good while air-quoting something, and yet Steven is right here doing exactly that. Rude.]

Okay, so it's the heart versus- what. The truth as in some universal truth, some kinda- cosmic thing, maybe? Or the truth of the person's life? Like, the feather can pick up whatever lies you've told and go 'Nope, no bliss for you. No reeds, just-' I dunno. I do think that's some interesting overlap, though. The Greeks had Elysium Fields, and then there's the Field of Reeds with the Egyptians.

['No reeds, just-' Ammit, according to the old tales. Except, apparently that isn't quite right. Ammit was imprisoned by the Ennead, and ever since then, souls who don't make it to the Field of Reeds are cast into the sand to turn into... Well. Steven has a bit too much experience with that. His fingers shift uncomfortably in his lap.]

Right, right! And to get to Elysium, you'd have to cross the river Styx and face the judges, yeah? In the Egyptian underworld, it's the Duat you need to cross. That's not a river, it's a whole landscape, but you could still use a boat for that. [Trust him. He knows.] But then there's also the Wakandan Ancestral Plane, have you heard about that one? You wouldn't expect it, but that one's tied to Egyptian mythology too. They say Bast and Sekhmet will take the hands of the deceased's soul and lead them to an endless green valley. That's like another field, innit? And the Greeks also had that middle ground, didn't they? The Asphodel Fields? So just... Fields all 'round.

[Quentin doesn't miss that finger shift, but Steven sounds- confident enough. Settled. Prying isn't worth doing right now. He's not sure how long this pause on serious talk will last, so he'll enjoy it while it does.]

Now that you point it out, what is it with all these fields? If you're passing on, shouldn't there... [He gestures a bit helplessly in the air.] Be something to do, at least? Or are you gonna sit around all day watching the reeds and asphodels wave in the breeze-? Gonna get a bit dry after a while, I'd think.

[He has no idea what kind of personal experience Steven has with the afterlife already, so this'll get interesting.]

[Steven never actually saw the Field of Reeds with his own eyes, so he can't say for sure what it was like in reality. Maybe the tales were wrong. He'd ask Marc about it, but it feels like a touchy subject. Ultimately, all he can do is speculate based on stories.]

There's more than just reeds, at least in the Egyptian mythology. See, the afterlife was meant to be an idealized version of life. So you'd find your home there, right down to your favorite tree and the stream where you'd like to go fishing, things like that. And your lost loved ones, and your pets... It'd all be waiting for you, so you could live the... The best version of your life, so to speak. And working the fields was always seen as virtuous and satisfying. So spending the rest of eternity cultivating the perfect field and harvesting bountiful crops? That was their ideal. [Steven pauses for a moment, frowning.] Those stories are ancient, of course. Who knows? Maybe the Field of Reeds evolved along with humanity and now it's less field and more... Sitting around on a sofa watching the telly? Playing videogames with your chums? I dunno. Just a cuppa and a good book, that'd be nice. I expect the afterlife exists on a plane of existence that's outside regular space-time, so it wouldn't feel like forever either way.

[...An idealized version of life, huh? Quentin grimaces, briefly rubs a hand against his jaw. It'd be... nice, if that were real. If it could be real. He doesn't even know what his own ideal life would look like anymore.]

...Is it like a blanket-statement of what's the ideal, like everyone would be doing the same thing, or still varies, person to person? You would get your books and drink, and I'd get- something else. Just- [Quentin gestures vaguely, blowing out a breath.] Old projects to work on, or whatever. Some movies. Old haunts to pick through.

[He looks down at his hands for a moment. He doesn't want to be this vulnerable, but. Steven probably won't twist the knife, as it's a genuine question. Probably.]

...Would people also have to believe in the same afterlife if you wanted to see them there, or no? Seems like a pretty big... problem, there, for lack of a better word.

[It isn't until this very moment, where Steven spots a grimace half-hidden by a hand and hears Quentin wondering about his own afterlife, that he realizes he's made a terrible mistake. He let the conversation get away from him when he really should've been more careful. Because Quentin's dead back home, isn't he? And he died a 'villain', so if there's a choice between a good place and a bad place for him, wouldn't he go to the bad place?

All that passionate enthusiasm over the topic slips away from Steven and he sits up straighter; more rigid. He absolutely doesn't want to twist the knife, but he hadn't even realized it was there until now and he's worried he'll end up jiggling it anyway.]

I uh... I don't really know. Maybe there's overlap between the different planes? Feels like there might be.

[But they should stop talking about this. Yep. He bites down on his bottom lip as his mind races to find another topic. Finally, he hits on something- a straw to grasp at- and leans towards Quentin again.]

But uh, old projects and movies, eh? What kind?

[Quentin doesn't full miss the way Steven tenses up, but- it's not really a surprise he's probably shoved his foot in his mouth somewhere in there. Talking about being able to see people you've lost isn't the easiest topic to navigate.

This one is safe territory, though.]

God. I haven't been asked this in ages. I, ah- my tech shit would be pretty tabled, so- none of that. [Nothing Mysterio related, even if a part of him misses those holograms. The ability to build something out of literally nothing.] But... don't laugh, I know how this'll sound, I- I used to do these... models, sometimes. Monsters, cars, spaceships, whatever. Put on some old B-movies, and just- made. Once you've done a few, it's- simple. Familiar.

[Quentin can't even pretend to be suave and aloof about all this with faerie bullshit forcing him to be genuine. Ugh.]

Used to be a lot of old sci-fi, before that... Chitauri bullshit. Dramas, for a while. That... Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman kinda thing, with some mystery in there. Real, but- not, if that makes sense. [His voice gets quieter, a bit embarrassed with himself.] A safe kind of distance. Black and white's different from color like that. Like another world.

[Steven doesn't laugh at the model thing, nor anything else that follows. He's intrigued, really. Old movies aren't the sort of thing he knows much about- names like Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman mean nothing to him- but he knows what it's like to love something old and niche. And the models, of course. He knows about that too.]

An old movie buff, eh? Honestly, that sounds brilliant. Don't think I've seen too many of those myself, but I get it. It was a different era of movie-making back then, wasn't it? Less pretentious. More genuine love poured into it, I think. [And that's probably why Marc clung to Tomb Buster as much as he did, Steven thinks wryly.] ... If you like models, you should see my Pyramid of Giza sometime. I'm making it with real limestone. Got the idea after talking to someone about it on the network. I've only just gotten started though, so it isn't much of anything yet.

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WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, HASNOFEAR. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 13.15.15.14 * HASNOFEAR has joined 13.15.15.14 <HASNOFEAR>** Hello! This is Steven Grant! If you need something, just leave me a message and I'll get back to you asap!