eliotwaugh | sparks are spilling out the gears (for Martin and Daine)

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sparks are spilling out the gears (for Martin and Daine)

Eliot straightens up and feels his back crack. Another late night scribbling equations until he nearly passes out from exhaustion. It's probably not a good sign that he's getting used to waking up smelling like scotch and chalk dust, but at least he's managing to make himself presentable for shifts at the Archive. At this point the aggressively nonsensical nature of city records is almost a relief, and he's been surprised to find that he actually enjoys the mundane office work.

He knows somehow that there's probably an easy solution to his magic dilemma, that trying to brute-force the math is about as reasonable as searching an entire beach of keys one at a time for one in particular. But he's never been inclined to do things the easy way. So he's run the numbers on calculating Planck's constant three different ways, determined that no, this earth shouldn't be any larger or smaller than the one he knows, and tried a dozen other approaches without finding what he's looking for.

Eliot switches to water at midnight, slumping on his uncomfortable couch as he examines the charred remains of an oak leaf. Blue's power boost has helped, certainly, as well as attuning to the ley line for his sense of a cardinal direction, but what spells he's tried are still liable to just end explosively rather than doing exactly what they're supposed to. It shouldn't be this much work to transmute materials. He sighs and closes his eyes, letting his mind drift in a free-association haze brought on by low blood sugar, probably. He thinks about turning carbon to gold, and how gilded leaves would make for nice autumnal decor, and how if he were home he'd probably be well into costume planning in his continued efforts to get Fillory to celebrate Halloween. He thinks about gold leaf and Mycenean treasures, lost caches of ancient kings. He thinks about computer code as archaeological strata. A name drifts up from the depths of his subconscious. Schliemann.

He sits up too fast, his head suddenly throbbing, and frowns as he reaches for another leaf from the pile on the coffee table. he holds it in one hand while gesturing with the other, adjusting the movement of his fingers and trying to keep the metaphorical image in his mind. The incantation, a Cycladic dialect pronounced more musically than he'd done before. He doesn't reach as deep, doesn't feel the prickle of static in his hands. There is only a faint shimmer around the leaf in the moment before it grows heavier and changes from red to gleaming gold.

He grins, and sets it down with a soft metallic clink before firing off a series of texts.

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With only a bit of grumbling, Martin drags himself out of bed and pulls on a jumper and, with only some mild indecision, his pajama pants rather than jeans or anything else. If Eliot's going to wake him up at this hour demanding he come visit for unspecified non-emergent reasons, he can deal with Martin in his pajamas.

He is glad there's no emergency, but Christ, surely it could wait a bit. He supposes it's partly on him for leaving his phone's ringer on, but that became a habit when a part of him was still holding out hope John would get in touch at some odd hour when he was on the run for supposed murder. And it's not like anyone ever contacts him much even in the daylight hours.

Martin slips out, scanning the hall in case Peter is about like some sort of sleazy vampire, and steals into the elevator quickly, riding up to Eliot's floor while trying to get all his yawns out of his system. When he steps out he's quite surprised to see Daine arriving as well, accompanied by a few extra friends. He grins as he realizes those are little bats clinging to her. Gosh that's cute, almost makes this weird middle-of-the-night venture worth it. And then he remembers he's not entirely dressed.

"Oh, er..." He blushes a bit. He hadn't expected this was some sort of gathering, or he might have put some actual clothes on. "Got you too, huh?"

Edited 2019-10-26 18:17 (UTC)

It's an odd hour to be texted by anyone, but she supposes it being Eliot makes as much sense as not. She knows he's been working on his magic, and that it's involved a whole heap of studying that almost puts her anatomy lessons to shame. And she knows scholarly types can lose track of time when they get into things; midnight isn't even close to how late she'd catch Numair up when he'd gone down some rabbit hole or other.

She'd just returned from a late flight when he texted her, a few friends tagging along, and it had only taken her a few minutes to pull on some soft pajama pants, a shirt, and a sweater. A brief conference with the dozen or so bats clinging to her furniture had resulted in five of them deciding they'd rather stay with her and brave the odds that whatever Eliot was going to show her might be mildly alarming from their perspective, so she'd let them arrange themselves on her sweater, most of them clustered on her shoulders beneath her hair, and one gripping her collar just below her throat like a strange, furry pendant.

Eliot probably won't mind. Really, the way he gets around her sometimes, she figures it's for the best if she goes out of her way to be unimpressive, and 'wearing pajamas and covered in bats' ought to qualify.

She's surprised to see Martin also converging on Eliot's door, but she grins. She likes him, and it's nice to know they've got a friend in common. "He said there'd be snacks," she replies as she raps gently on the wood. "Couldn't resist."

Eliot had needed something to siphon his manic energy off onto, and brownies seemed like the best idea. He keeps boxed mix on hand because as much as he likes the intricacy of cooking from scratch, sometimes it's 3 a.m. and you need to soak up all the alcohol in your stomach and you really want to watch television and eat an entire pan of Betty Crocker triple fudge. Or Barbie Cooper, as the case may be.

The oven's still preheating when he hears the knock, and he carries the mixing bowl along as he goes to answer it. Eliot valiantly manages not to drop it at the sight of Daine and Martin and what looks at first like a chinchilla clinging to Daine's sweater.

"Oh my god," he whispers as he sees the little wing-claws, his eyes wide in utter glee. "Is that a bat?" Of fucking course it is, and he wants to giggle as he realizes what kind of 'friends' Daine would hang out with at this hour of the night, but he also doesn't want to startle the little things. He steps back to give them room. "Come in, come in, come in, oh this is delightful, should I go change as well? a whole pajama party?"

Eliot's aware that he's babbling but he's also not quite able to stop.

Martin chuckles softly at the mention of snacks - brownies is what he'd heard. It's been ages since he had brownies. He has only a moment to consider all together the odd time, the unusually manic energy of Eliot's texts, and why brownies, specifically, might be in play before Eliot opens the door to greet them, mixing bowl and all.

Eliot's instant glee at the sight of Daine's little passengers is adorable and a bit infectious, but Martin is still eyeing the bowl a bit suspiciously as they're ushered enthusiastically inside, Eliot babbling about putting his pajamas on, as though he didn't just summon them both at a time when people are ordinarily asleep.

"Th-that's up to you, I think?" he says, and then, because he just can't wait it out wondering, he blurts, "Sorry, no judgment, I just have to ask - are you high right now? And are you trying to get us high?" This with a pointed nod at the mixing bowl.

"It's a few bats," Daine says as she ambles into his apartment. The one clinging to her collar swivels its ears and sniffs curiously as they cross the threshold, and Daine looks at the pages of scribbled equations spread across the table with her eyebrows raised. Mithros, he has been busy, and the similarities to Numair solidify a little in her mind. Probably just as well that he's making brownies; Mithros knows the last time he thought to eat anything.

She's about to ask what all the scribblings are about when Martin poses a very different question. It's so outlandish to her ears that she can't help but snort, arms akimbo as she looks at Eliot in mock offense. "Are you trying to drug us, Eliot?" she echoes in wide-eyed horror. "Sneakily?"

It takes Eliot a moment to realize that the situation is getting away from him. "No you're right, Martin, that's silly," he mutters, looking down at himself. He never changed out of his work clothes but he hadn't really noticed.

He startles at Martin's question though, scoffing outright when Daine joins in. For all her strange, powerful aura she is thoroughly delightful.

"Oh for-" he snorts, and sets the bowl down on the kitchen counter. "No, of course not, that wouldn't be funny at all! Honestly, if I wanted to invite you all up to get high I'd have said so. I don't really do sneaky." He continues his chattering explanation as he gets the batter into a pan and puts it in the oven.

"No it's--my word, Daine, how many of the little darlings are there?" he can see something move from under her hair, and more pairs of twitching ears. "Is it too bright in here for them? I can turn some lights off if you want, anyway it's about my spellcasting actually, I really think I've cracked it and I wanted to, you know, run a few tests-slash-demonstrations for you both since you've been so kind and helpful to me, and, well." Eliot slouches against the counter, taking a sip of water. "As far as the brownies go I honestly don't remember the last time I ate."

Martin was somewhat serious in his query, but when Daine picks it up, making it sound properly ridiculous, he has to stifle an embarrassed snort. He's glad Eliot doesn't seem offended by the question, which now feels foolish to have asked, and Martin has a sense he just outed himself as the resident buzzkill. But nobody seems to mind, and he glances over for another peek at Daine's adorable passengers as the conversation turns to them.

The mention of spellcasting has him lighting up - both because he's excited for Eliot, finally understanding the root of all this manic energy, and because the idea of seeing actual magic is still very novel and exciting to him. He smiles brightly at the remark that he's been helpful, not pausing to examine whether or not it's sad that that more than anything has him feeling so acutely pleased.

"Oh, that's-" he starts excitedly, but then he stops himself, pursing his lips over the explanation of the brownies. "Oh, Eliot, really."

"Just five," Daine says, all innocence. "They would like it a bit dimmer, but I can take care of that. You keep doing the brownies." She putters around for half a minute, flicking switches, exchanging the harsher overhead lights for a couple of lamps, and then makes her way back over to Martin and Eliot in time to hear Martin's light bit of scolding.

"It's just what mages do," she informs him. "Except for wild mages. We're too sensible." She grins up at Eliot, though, because she doesn't really blame him. His magic is fiddly in ways hers isn't. She's offered some help with all the work he's had to do, mostly involving questions about the local environment, which she knows quite well (and if you want to know about soil composition or the kind of bedrock you're sitting on, moles and bats are experts). But she can't even begin to get her head around how much he has to work out before he can really do anything, and it's no great wonder to her that he's wound up down some rabbit holes and forgotten to take care of himself.

Eliot wants to object, but Daine's right. Magic as he knows it always attracts people who are too stubborn, who try to do too much, and he's no exception. He smirks at the 'sensible' bit; it's not the first word he'd think of to describe someone with that almost unimaginable level of power, but maybe it makes sense. Julia's his only comparable frame of reference, dryad as she is now. She's sensible in her own way, too, though much more aloof than Daine. Maybe that has something to do with being part tree, he's never been sure.

"Yes, well," he sighs, shrugging at Martin's disapproval. "You don't need to be mother hens, either of you, because I'm fairly certain I've cracked it, so." He ushers them to the sofa, clearing away the strew of notes as he goes.

Where to begin? There's certainly plenty of time until the brownies will be done, and Eliot had thought about doing a bit of a light show but that wouldn't be kind to the bats. So perhaps a bit of background is in order.

He clears his throat. "So the problem, as I realized, was that the way magic works in my world, the way it even exists at all, is due to a sort of a flaw in the way the universe is structured. We didn't know this of course when I was first learning, it was something we discovered later on and that was a whole can of worms, let me tell you. But if you imagine something like...like one buggy line of code in a computer program or a thread in a tapestry that was woven wrong and creates a tiny hole, that flaw allows magic a way to get into an otherwise mundane reality. And for me, well, knowing the inherent energy and geographic Circumstances of a place is half the work but the rest of the magical process, the oomph that makes it function, is focusing one's will on that universal flaw and manipulating it to affect change upon reality."

It's not a half bad explanation, Eliot thinks, and for a brief moment he wonders what his life might have been like if he'd gone into teaching or something instead of dedicating himself to hedonism after he graduated. Probably not nearly as fun, really.

"But here, though," he continues, sounding a little sheepish, "I've been trying to do it the same way and it simply doesn't work. I thought it was a matter of different Circumstances, but what I've just realized is I've been trying to reach down into the bones of this universe to find a flaw that simply isn't there. Darrow's not the same as my world at all, and I've, well, just been trying too hard. Shocking, I know. But I think now I should be able to adjust my methodology, and it might take some trial and error but the important thing is I know how it works."

Grinning, Eliot hums a low tune; his mind knows what to look for now. He snaps his fingers and this time, finally, a small cheerful flame springs to life in his hand.

Martin follows along to the sofa, leaving the residual instinct toward any further mother-henning behind as Eliot starts in on his whole process. The sofa is quite comfortable, and he nestles himself rather naturally into the corner with what he presumes is the appropriate sort of sleepover energy. Fortunately, his drowsiness has all but left him now, replaced instead by excitement which only grows more pronounced as Eliot explains.

"Wow," he blurts out in genuine awe over the description of how it all worked where Eliot's from. The implications are astounding. He seems a bit embarrassed as he continues, but Martin has no idea why - to him, this is all outrageously cool. And that Eliot's been able to figure it out here, when it all seems wholly contingent on what reality one inhabits at any given moment, is even cooler. Daine's abilities seem somehow intrinsic, and John's operating more or less the same, even somewhat cut off from his source. But Eliot's had to relearn everything from the ground up with only his wits and not even a month's time.

So it is with even greater anticipation that he leans in a bit to see what Eliot's about to do, and when the flame bursts up, small but no less impressive, Martin lets out a delighted little gasp.

"That is amazing," he says eagerly, more about all of it than the fire, though he watches it flicker away with a big grin.

Daine listens to Eliot's explanation, one finger idly stroking the bat that's clinging to her neckline. The way Eliot's magic works is so foreign to her, both to how her own magic works, and what she understands of the Gift. It's not something you're born with, or given by the gods. It sounds more like science, really -- something you can just work out so long as you know all the right things.

Still, there's nothing overtly scientific about the little tune he hums, and then he snaps his fingers, and a fire springs to life in his palm. Daine grins, oddly pleased that his first trick should be calling fire. That's one of the basics for folk who have the Gift back home, a classic way of demonstrating that you've got something.

"That's marvelous," she agrees. "Where does the oomph come from, then? If there's no flaw here?"

Eliot grins, delighted that he's managed to be a little impressive. He feels the urge to be showy and go into a sort of professional patter as he works through some simpler exercises, but he won't. These are his friends, now.

"You know I don't actually know?" Eliot admits, thinking over Daine's question. He transmutes another oak leaf and with a bit of staccato Etruscan shapes it into the form of a small bat. He doesn't feel confident to try animating it yet, but at least it's a cute paperweight. "Martin, you said when we met that Darrow is magic, on some level? I don't know if I'm siphoning off of the city or what, but I think my best guess is that magic is just...maybe a naturally formed part of the world, however this world works, and not something I need to ferret out so much. Just doesn't feel like I have to reach as deep."

He stands up, frowning a bit. "Of course I don't like the possibility that I might be draining the life force of something, even if it is a horrible place-entity that kidnapped us all from our homes, but...hm. Suppose I'll just have to not do anything too extreme?"

There are other reasons for moderation, of course, that Eliot doesn't mention. If he doesn't know how much power he can tap into here, he doesn't know what would push him past his limits. And he doesn't trust that any of his fellow castaways have the skillset to bring him back, if he ended up like Alice.

"Sorry," he says brightly, swerving out of his own grim thoughts, "would either of you care for tea?"

Martin feels an increased burst of delight when they start talking shop, as it were—it's like he's been welcomed into some secret society even though he doesn't belong in it. He thinks he could watch the two of them banter back and forth about how it all works all night.

So when Eliot suggests tea, he nods promptly, giving no thought to the hour. "Love a cup," he says. "I could go and fix it if you'd like to keep, well—demonstrating." He doubts Eliot will allow it—he seems very committed to being a good host—but it's worth a shot.

Before he even gets an answer, he can't keep from asking, "Do you think—if you were siphoning it somehow, I mean... is it a finite resource, or...?"

Daine grins at the little bat Eliot creates, lifting it carefully so she can show it to her friends, who swivel their ears towards it, all quivering curiosity.

"Makes sense, I suppose," she says. "Wild magic exists here, elsewise I'd be useless." That isn't entirely true -- she'd still be able to take animal shape -- but in a place like Darrow, that's the least useful of her abilities, more of a party trick than something she often uses to help anyone. "There's probably all kinds of other magic just... around," she continues with a flap of her free hand.

Granted, Eliot's the first mage she's ever met who seems to draw his magic from around himself and not within himself, but that doesn't mean he's taking what can't be spared. On a bit of a whim, she lets her focus turn inward, examining her own magic for any sign that it's been siphoned away. But nothing looks missing or diminished, and she blinks back up at Eliot. "You're not borrowing from me, at any rate. At least, I don't think so. I'd have to change my focus a bit and watch you do it to be sure." Brightening a little, she asks, "Should I? Maybe I can see where you're getting it from."

She sets Eliot's bat back down. "I'd have some tea," she agrees.

Eliot's already up and heading to put the kettle on; it didn't take him long to realize that Martin is the sort of person whose mom-friend instinct will take over at the slightest provocation, and even though they've grown closer from working together Eliot can't abide having a guest make tea.

"I suppose it would be good to know for certain," he says, considering his options, and the possibility that the city would find some way to act against him if he used too much of what appears to be the latent magic of this universe. "Right, I'll try something a little more robust perhaps, and you can take a look? See if it's draining the life out of anything? I mean I hope not, obviously, wouldn't be able to live with myself if that were the case."

He's babbling a bit, but he starts to focus in on a spell and his hands form the shape of it, making minute adjustments to the configuration like he's playing a song by ear. After a false start he casts Fergus' Spectral Armory, and it seems to take: a brief opalescent shimmer covers his form for a moment. But he doesn't know how solid it is, and there's really only one way to find out.

"Martin," he begins, grinning, "There's a dust mop in the cabinet over there, would you be so kind as to get it and try to hit me with it?"

Martin settles back down when Eliot heads over to handle the tea, though he does turn back to watch—Eliot, not the tea. He knows Eliot can make a perfectly fine cup, but there is still interesting discussion happening, and the chance to see something else amazing. Sure enough, Eliot starts talking about casting something more 'robust,' and as he watches, those fascinatingly precise hand gestures eventually create a result as a sort of shimmering field emerges around him.

He's grinning as well when Eliot addresses him, but as soon as he understands the question the smile slips from his face.

"Wait, what?" he sputters. "I'm not going to hit you with a mop, Eliot!"

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sparks are spilling out the gears (for Martin and Daine)

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