10-11-2019, 09:03 PM
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At first, it was rather disheartening. Depressing, even, having to make such a long trip to mourn the loss of a man he knew wasn’t going to outlive him. It was on every chart, monitor, and statement he had ever been given regarding Cecil’s case, that he would not live a very long life, so it isn’t as if his death was sudden--he’s glad he had time to prepare towards the tail-end of their journey together, rather than have it hit him like a speeding train.
At some point it crossed the line from mourning into celebration. He stopped weeping at his husband’s gravestone and now brought flowers, food … a whole picnic, really. He sits there, munches on his lunch, and talks to the grave like Cecil is right there beside him to listen to him ramble (and boy, does he ramble. There’s just so much he needs to catch up on.)
He had to make room for his bouquet by removing the old scrap metal arm from his suitcase. For a moment, it lay gently across his lap, held fast as though the rickety old thing were the most important thing in the world (to him, it was.) At some point, he had unconsciously begun to fuss and tinker with it, and before he knew it, the tools were all out and he was messing with it like it hadn’t already gone through years of tireless perfection.
He doesn’t even hear Brendan approach, he’s just so engrossed in his task. Josef can’t help but jump a little when he speaks, though as soon as he looks up, a look of relief crosses his face. Oh, there’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s just a little boy--oh, dear lord, what's with the staff?
Truth be told, he knows very well how these interactions go. They’re all worried for their safety, yes, yes, he gets it, but he’s bored of it.
“Who are you?” Baumann demands right back, now bearing a coy little smile. He’s clearly no threat, so there’s no need for Brendan to regard him in such a way. Maybe, if he had caught him about thirty or so years ago, he would have been considered an international danger, but now? He’s just some crotchety old man, messing with a hunk of scrap metal in the same way a grandma would knit a scarf. “Am I not allowed to sit for a minute?” Young people these days have no respect for their elders.
At first, it was rather disheartening. Depressing, even, having to make such a long trip to mourn the loss of a man he knew wasn’t going to outlive him. It was on every chart, monitor, and statement he had ever been given regarding Cecil’s case, that he would not live a very long life, so it isn’t as if his death was sudden--he’s glad he had time to prepare towards the tail-end of their journey together, rather than have it hit him like a speeding train.
At some point it crossed the line from mourning into celebration. He stopped weeping at his husband’s gravestone and now brought flowers, food … a whole picnic, really. He sits there, munches on his lunch, and talks to the grave like Cecil is right there beside him to listen to him ramble (and boy, does he ramble. There’s just so much he needs to catch up on.)
He had to make room for his bouquet by removing the old scrap metal arm from his suitcase. For a moment, it lay gently across his lap, held fast as though the rickety old thing were the most important thing in the world (to him, it was.) At some point, he had unconsciously begun to fuss and tinker with it, and before he knew it, the tools were all out and he was messing with it like it hadn’t already gone through years of tireless perfection.
He doesn’t even hear Brendan approach, he’s just so engrossed in his task. Josef can’t help but jump a little when he speaks, though as soon as he looks up, a look of relief crosses his face. Oh, there’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s just a little boy--oh, dear lord, what's with the staff?
Truth be told, he knows very well how these interactions go. They’re all worried for their safety, yes, yes, he gets it, but he’s bored of it.
“Who are you?” Baumann demands right back, now bearing a coy little smile. He’s clearly no threat, so there’s no need for Brendan to regard him in such a way. Maybe, if he had caught him about thirty or so years ago, he would have been considered an international danger, but now? He’s just some crotchety old man, messing with a hunk of scrap metal in the same way a grandma would knit a scarf. “Am I not allowed to sit for a minute?” Young people these days have no respect for their elders.
[sub]the artist formerly known as hal[/sub]
Hoot gives Hal’s body a hug