1.18 Loki's Aside -E- Games

After he's eaten something small and hours later, Moira is once again in his room, asking questions without preamble. Whatever had passed between them earlier clearly had established a cautious feeling of friendship between the the two. At least, whenever Moira was here Loki no longer had the uneasy feeling of one who was being hunted. “So I'm going to ask you another question and I hope you'll be honest with your answer. If your life ended right now, what is the thing you would regret not having the most?”

The question took Loki aback for a moment. Did she mean, 'did not do/accomplish'? But she said 'did not have'. “Do you mean-”

“No I meant what I said. What is something you regret not having your life that you thought you would have? Think carefully.” She knew his mind was in the right place when his face became wistful, even a bit forlorn. It was easy for her to glean a name from the top of his thoughts, wrestling as they were with it. “Andrea?” She says it aloud, and he looks up sharply, sickly gray eyes meeting her bright iris blue. “So it's a woman.”

“I didn't say that.” He attempts to correct her but Moira has already seen it, the depth of his worthless, one-sided affection. He had carefully crafted a shell around that name in his mind, sequestering it so it could one day be destroyed, to hold no power over him. But she was the first and like other things in his life he had been far, far too serious about her.

She shakes her head to the side. “You didn't have to. Listen to me Loki. Regrets are very serious things for my kind, especially as we do not age quickly and can spend our time on anything, there is virtually no limit on how many years and decades can be invested, even if there are things that we cannot control such as the flow of time itself.”

“And the hearts of others.” He added sardonically. “I've read fairy tales too Moira so can you get to the point?” He didn't know when the manner of their conversations changed to include him as being of the sister's 'kind'.

She blinks at the way his patience evaporated. He does not like this topic. “I never said we couldn't control the hearts of others actually. Some things ...take more time than others and each one of us can use our abilities in different ways, but- well there's no easy way to say this- you have to get past the things you do not have, and learn to be grateful for the good things in your life, before it's too late and your heart becomes set on a certain course.”

He scoffs at this and works his jaw, irritated. Women. Always trying to 'fix' men. “I'll be fine.” He says quickly. “I've managed in the last seven years...”

“To avoid the issue.” Moira interjects, stopping his assertion in it's tracks. Then, before he can try to figure out where she's going with this, she says, “You'd have to ask her of course, but I bet Lyra wouldn't mind.”

He inclines her head the way he does when he's studying something he doesn't understand. Or in this case, someone. “Moira I don't follow-”

“She may be willing to have a child with you. Probably not many, but she's been considering it off an on for the last few decades and-”

Loki's eyes widen and he waves his hands through the air as if he can clear it of the topic. “N-no I am not interested in that.” Appalling idea. He finishes the thought in his head.

“Appalling?” She repeats, catching his thought as it was loudly stated in his mind.

He wants to be polite but Moira doesn't, seeing how she's reading his mind and all. “Look. Your sister is... well I don't want to have anything to do with her. She's said many times my life doesn't matter, what would make you think she'd be a great mother to my-” he stops himself, feeling actually queasy. Gross. “Or anyone's-”

Moira seems genuinely confused by his refusal. “I'm merely suggesting what could be a solution to your problem. She probably wouldn't care that much honestly. And if it's after you've turned, assuming you survive the transition- it would be like us. She loves the idea of creating more vampires, she's actually somewhat upset that she let me have you, I think. So, if not with Andrea, then-”

“Like us.” He says, his voice low. “I'm not sure I want to be 'like us'. Why would I want to do that to a child?”

But Moira is somehow hurt by this statement, and falls silent after saying, “I was born into this, it's only the natural way to me.”

“Oh. I- uh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that.” He rushes to explain. Moira is quickly becoming someone he's fond of and despite the pain, the weariness, and this damnable building headache he doesn't want her to feel badly. “Look. I've made a lot of mistakes since... Andrea and there's nothing that's going to convince me to rush headlong into another relationship that's going nowhere, or to have children for the sake of having them when it's my greatest aspiration to raise them, in a loving family. I hope you can understand that.”

“I.. I have family too that is precious, so I think I know what you're saying.” She doesn't look him in the eye again, and finally turns to leave. “When you have a moment, can you come out to the dining hall? There are some documents we'd like you to look over and you probably want to wash up a bit. Also, we're going to trust you not to leave the courtyard outside, but if you'd like some fresh air, even though it's cold out there...”

He nods once, wondering if he's hurt her feelings. Do these creatures really have feelings, that can be hurt? There are things that the sisters say that just make no sense from a human perspective. Have children with whomever, kill whomever... make more vampires... some of the things he's talked about with Moira were chilling in the right context. But who was he to say? And, no one had told him yet, his chances of survival. These thoughts plagued him as he finally stepped outside the walls of his little room.

The house had the feel of dark and ancient beauty, as if it was built to be enjoyed by people who saw in a different spectrum of colors than he could. Long term, a place like this just seemed too closed in, and he felt confined in every part of it.

Unfortunately washing up did not mean 'take a shower and have a change of clothes', but he was grateful to leave the room for a bit and scrub his hands and his face. He's a neat person and this whole ordeal reminds him of why he hates nature, and hates camping, and hates, hates being dirty. Sure he used to become very dirty from digging through piles of scrap, but that was a search for possibilities and ideas, and nothing like the feeling of wearing the same, chafing clothes for the last several days. Moira thought it was a good sign that he had been able to complain about what he was wearing, and he supposed that was true. So where was this horrible transformation that he was so afraid to succumb to?

Not long after he is sitting, sipping on the blood orange juice the sisters have told him is his, which tastes exactly as it sounds, like oranges, like citrus, but also like iron and magnesium. He severely hopes that there is no actual blood in it (or plasma), but he's not in a position to be choosy about anything. It makes him feel better at any rate, and his headache dissipates.

In front of him on the table are some documents prepared by a C. Kirke, a name he doesn't recognize, and detailing names and places he's unfamiliar with. Why is this here? Proposal, it says in print on the tab. Proposal for what? There's no argument presented, no service offered, and no fee to be charged. Underneath the folder he finds a manila envelope that had been bound with string addressed to Moira Rendall, from C. Kirke at the Simsitorium. Wouldn't it be insane if this was actually about him? And it had to be. It looks like a new life, all laid out on the pages of crisp copy paper from some case worker's cold office.

So it seems that whatever was going to happen to him was known to people outside of this house, which puts the future even further outside of Loki's control. Does this sort of thing happen often enough to have a procedure, to have proposals?

Disgusted, he crushes the carton of juice and heads outside to toss it, and to 'breathe fresh air'. But his heart is heavier than ever, and all the cold does is remind him that the nightmare is not over yet. He doesn't have a death wish, not really, but he has no interest in a life like these women live. They could have just let him die. There would have been some... dignity in that at least. The way his life is in shards around him, the way it seems they're trying to scrape it together piece by piece, the way they're all in his freaking head, and making plans for a future he has no interest in is somewhat... horrible.

His heart is cold towards all of it. The statues that flank the house and gather softly fallen snow have the right idea about this place. He'd much rather be a silent observer than actively involved in drama like this. He envies that nobody forces them to move, to do anything. Nobody cares if they are cold, or alive, or have regrets. They are fixtures. Nobody's checking their pulse, sifting their thoughts, and contemplating their future.

Is he supposed to feel grateful, that he's still here? Moira is kind, but that's not enough. His life wasn't ideal or perfect, but it was his life, and the papers in the 'dining hall', if such a cramped space could carry such a lofty name, are evidence that he's not even supposed to be Loki Beaker anymore. He's already told them where his family is, can't he just be sent back to them, in whatever condition he is in?

He's going to be in the company of strangers for the remainder of his human life, that is their plan for him. And if he doesn't like it, well, there's just not enough traffic on this deserted street that somebody kind will come along and run him over.

He heads back inside afterwards to think. That's all he's been doing, and it hasn't gotten him very far. It's moments like this that make him miss her, and are the reason he holds on to memories of Andrea. She would have had something bright to say that would solve his worries so quickly. He could only assume that whatever he had done for her in return, hadn't been enough. He had been so preoccupied with school and the future, he'd let her slip away from him, had he ignored her needs? He must have.

If she were in the room now, she'd probably slap a band-aid over the encrusting wound on his neck and drag him out of the house on some errant and feckless venture. So if that's the sort of thing he needs, why can't he just do it, and leave on his own?

He didn't think he wanted her back, but moments where one's life is in shambles deserve some sort of honesty. He may even need her back, he's just not willing to go do anything about it. But he was better with her than without, and seeing as it's been seven or eight years, he doubts she's letting her own life stagnate while secretly hoping for him to seek her out again.

He's a mopey mess and really, he doesn't think he'd pine for himself if he were in hers, or anyone else's shoes either. She had rejected him, after all.

A few hours later, after trying to read one of the dozens of books he was locked in this room with and watching the words on the pages blend together for the third time, the sounds of a muffled conversation reach his ears from the other side of the wall in the entrance way.

“Why would you let something like that come out of your mouth?” It was Moira, talking angrily in hushed tones. “The walking dead!” She repeats the offense.

“It seems a fair assessment of the situation.” The new voice belongs to a woman who Loki is unfamiliar with, but she seems to have no qualms about stirring up the vampire woman's emotions. The new voice sounds amused that her comment was even an issue. “I'm essentially the only person here with any life in them, isn't that so? You shouldn't pretend like you're the paragon of virtue because if you were then I wouldn't have a need to be here!”

“We-well,” Moira stammers, having a hard time standing her ground, and her sister's voice cuts in impatiently.

“Miss Kirke, we appreciate your timeliness. When I spoke with the Simsatorium yesterday they weren't keen on sending one of their elite nurses out on such a.. routine call. We're grateful.”

There is a pregnant pause wherein Loki can only imagine Moira is giving her sister a dirty look. “Grateful that you've come to see our patient, and so quickly.” She repeats for emphasis, which apparently ends the argument.

“Of course you are.” The woman replies, haughtily, and carries on without preamble. “It's been four days with no changes, he's going to turn by the end of the week at this rate. Shouldn't you have called sooner, or were you unsure if this was an issue for the morgue? If you'd have brought him to the Simsatorium immediately, as I've said, we could have assessed the situation from an earlier point and taken care of any contingency. We also have a morgue onsite. Things are a lot less... messy there.”

“You talk about him as if he were already dead,” Moira complains, clearly surprised at the nurse's attitude.

“Well he's not exactly alive though, is he?” The other voice crows, once again amused. “So as you've mentioned I'm the kind of woman who appreciates punctuality. Where is this charge of yours?”

Moira's voice again, dejected. “I'll show you...”

The door slides open and Moira steps away from it without a word, effectively retreating from the nurse. The door slides smoothly shut, leaving the woman alone with Loki in the tiny room.

He experiences a flash of memory when she walks in and her little slip on shoes come into view. He frowns. The machine has yet to show him anything in such clear detail as he had seen these, but he hasn't seen much that came after. He wonders if he's nearing the end of his visions, they are less clear, but there were some that seemed so utterly far away from where he is now... he stops trying to think about it. The original inventor noted in high detail that most of what could be seen that way was loosely possible in the first place. Something like a 30% accuracy rate to his own experiences.

“I am nurse Kirke.” The woman introduces herself shortly, interrupting his thoughts. “And you do seem somewhat alive at the moment.” There's the amusement in her voice again. “Which is good, I don't have a wheelbarrow.”

He does not look up from where he sits. He doesn't really care what sort of things amuse her.

She lets the silence of her words hang in the air without saying what she's looking for, or what he's to expect, or why she's been called for in the first place.

Eventually Loki merely sighs, eyes on the floor in front of him. “I'll be waiting.” He says.

The nurse seems confused but waits for him to say something else. When he doesn't, she bites. “Waiting?” She asks him, already impatient if this is a game.

He narrows his eyes, tuning out the cheerful color of her stupidly vibrant shoes from his peripheral vision. He's not really in the mood to play any games either. “For you to go and get one.”

And she laughs, genuinely, not with the twinge of sarcasm he'd heard from her voice in the hall but from actual amusement. He gets the feeling she wasn't expecting to enjoy any part of this visit. She laughs until she's breathless, and finally, curious, he lets his gaze glance up so he can see her face.

He stares at her while she composes herself, and for far too long to be polite afterwards. She regards him curiously in return, hand resting confidently on her hip. He knows that he's intrigued her too.

“Where's your clipboard?” He finally asks because he can't seem to look away. “You are a nurse, aren't you?”

Her response is a smirk. “I don't need a mental crutch. And, this is basically going to be an assessment of your ability to survive.” She says bluntly. “So do me a favor and be compliant. I can't look at you when you're sitting on the ground like that. Sit on the bed. The side of it is fine.”

“Your eyes are originally blue?”

“Yes.” Despite the harsh nature of some of her words, her touch is light. She doesn't force him to move, but she uses her fingertips to ever so lightly push his chin, or his cheek, so that he knows to move his head in that direction.

“The light isn't very good here, but it seems to me that your overall color is actually quite good. We may not need that wheelbarrow after all.”

“Do you get paid extra if people die believing that they were going to survive?” He asks in a conversational tone. Her touches have all been feathery and gentle, so when she pinches the edge of his chin, the pinprick of pain surprises him. “Shh.” She commands. “I don't have patience for these games you're determined to play.”

He glares at her then, and she ignores it, nudging him to tilt his head more away from her. “I hate them too, but worse than games are lies. I don't care to be played around with either, and I don't need to be coddled.” He says with quiet clarity. “You can tell me the truth when you have it.”

“Hmm, is that so?” She asks as if she has no interest in his response. “The marks on your face are actually healing. As for your complexion, well, you are naturally pale. The infection seems to be moving away from your respiratory system already. Your eyes will return to their original color, once the virus has... changed them.”

“Yet I can't have long to live, or be human, and if I have to be like them, I'm not sure I...”

“You're kind of a dramatic person aren't you?” She says simply, and her smile this time is not unkind.

For some reason, his only response to her question is once again a glare.

“Mister Beaker?”

He chooses not to respond. Something in her tone, he doesn't like. It's overly familiar and makes him want to shove her away, physically. He knows what it is that bothers him after a few seconds but it makes the situation no easier to endure. He hates the way her gentle touch is making him aware of her. Little trails of fire follow her fingers on his face and there's something contrarily soothing, and exciting about it and it's making him profoundly uneasy.

That sensation coupled with the proximity of her face, and the depth of her warm brown eyes searching his makes him shiver. He is vulnerable in a way he wasn't expecting. He shifts his weight on the side of the bed, trying to look away, trying not to feel her breath on him.

She finishes the exam and for a second lingers, hovering over him. He clears his throat and she leans away, an eyebrow raised as if she had been testing him in some way. He takes a deep breath now that her eyes aren't on him so much, and starts to relax.

Loki's relief doesn't last long. She picks up his hands from where they're folded neatly in his lap, moves them to his sides and sits, without preamble, on his lap.

Instinctively his hand comes up to the small of her back, to keep her from falling backwards as she leans back to look at him. She is the picture of confident relaxation.

He stops breathing for several seconds, and just stares at her, too shocked to know what to do. Every muscle in his body is suddenly tense.

She doesn't smile, smirk or say anything coy. She gives him a hard stare. “Do you think I'm just going to say nice things to you, and then leave? Letting you undermine my prognosis with wasteful moping and thoughts of suicide? You're going to live, Mister beaker, you should try to be a little bit happy about it."

“Yet you wouldn't take liberties like this if you thought I was a normal, healthy male, am I correct? I'm safe for you to behave however you like with, so I must not be healthy enough to intimidate you.” He claims, using his free hand to gesture over the 'situation' as emphasis.

She rolls her eyes at him and laughs a short laugh. “I know your type well enough. You need things boring, repetitive, and familiar. You hate when anything comes along that may ruin your routine. You won't let me give you advice as a nurse because nurses come and go and keep a safe distance. It's easy to separate yourself from whatever I tell you the moment I leave the room because you think there are things I won't tell you based on my profession or my pride. So. Let's change it up. How about my advice to you, as a woman?'

“Quit being such a damn baby about this. Man up. Because the virus will take it's toll on you and you're going to need conviction to overcome the transformation. Not complex sounding words or pain prescriptions. We don't really have anything for the pain, either. So you need to want to live, not mope around like you're already dead, or like a complete fool. You seem smarter to me, than that.”

He takes a moment to digest this, and for some reason he doesn't find her words, condescending as they could be, offensive.

“So basically -shocking reveal- you have depression. Your body will go through the change, and you will survive it, and you need to stop worrying about it all and just go live your life somehow.”

“I don't believe you.”

She stops talking, and frowns. “I'd wager my medical license on it.” She replies, the haughty tone back in her voice. “Unless you intend to harm yourself, you're going to make it through, healthy as a... well you get the idea.”

“Then I have a wager for you. You're so certain I'm going to survive, that you won't have to wheel me out of here at the end of the week, but you have no way of proving it or of making it convincing.”

She didn't need to prove it, but for some reason she's not offended by him at the moment either.

“I've never been married, I've never had the pleasure of raising my own children. I don't think it's something I'll ever get to do.”

“You'd be wrong in your assumptions, but go on.” She maintains eye contact, watching him in fascination.

“And keep in mind, if I do die, there is no risk to you at all. And if you don't like my wager, you have incentive to help me not become a monster that I don't want to be. You can wheel me out of here instead. Poison my food, I don't care how you do it, I will be grateful to you.”

She frowned and opened her mouth to speak, but he raised an eyebrow and mimicked her earlier behavior by silencing her with a pinch on her back. It's her turn to glare at him mutinously.

“If you so believe that I am better off alive, and that I will somehow survive, even though every day I feel like part of me gives in to this and stops working, then give me something to hope for, and give me something to fight for.”

He leans towards her and searches her face, a little smile plays on his lips. “If I survive the transformation, and I am still myself, I want you as my wife.”

She intakes her breath sharply and looks him over, warily. “You must be delirious, and to think I detected no fever...”

He shakes his head minutely from side to side. “I promise you, I'm not insane, but you are driving me in that direction. And if you feel like you dislike me then you should probably get off of my lap and go back to being a cold and calculating nurse. Because for every second I look at your gorgeous eyes I feel myself getting further and further lost in them, and I don't know how far I'll have to go before I can never find my way back.” The confession gives him a heady sense of excitement, maybe he is delirious, but the moment the words come out of his mouth he knows they are the truth. Before she can respond he ads, “But! And only you know the reality of this- if I'm going to die and you're lying to me about my chances, then you have absolutely nothing to lose by saying yes.”

Her eyes narrowed but the little smile that was on them still played about her full lips and it was starting to take serious consideration on his part not to simply lean in and-

“I haven't lied to you,” She breathes, obviously buying time.

He pushes on her back lightly, making it easy for her to get to her feet. And he stands up somehow smoothly after her, without faltering, despite his fatigue.

“I don't want you to lie to me. But I promise that I'm not teasing you. I'm actually serious. If I survive this-”

“I'm dating someone.” She says quickly, defensively, but he can see the apprehension in her eyes. He waits, watching her, and she reaches up idly to flick a strand of hair off of his shoulder.

As if it's too bad.

“You don't have to be.” He says, his voice quietly neutral. Trying to stamp back the erratic spikes of excitement her constant contact is forcing into his heart.

Her hand rests on his shoulder for a moment, her eyes look over his face. This is not at all how she'd expected this visit to go.

But before she gathers the courage to step away, he brushes his hand over her side in a gentle caress, leaving it on her hip. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to do.”

“Of course not.” She denies the thought, but her breathing remains shallow and somehow they've closed the gap between them.

Boldly, Loki slides his hand to the small of her back and presses her hips against him. To his surprise she allows this, and her eyes darken. “I wonder if this is the sort of thing you do with all your patients.” He whispers. "Excite them, tease them, leave them lingering with false hopes..." Her hand is on his chest, and for a few seconds she lets her nails trail circles over it until it comes to the side of his rib cage to rest, carefully positioned so that she can pull him close, or push him away in a moment's notice.

She shrugs, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Most of my patients are dead.”

“So I'll be in good company.” He mutters.

Amusement flashes in her chocolate brown eyes, and a feeling of warmth spreads over him. “You aren't going to die from this.” She repeats.

“But you can't prove that.” He says, leaning in, his lips hovering over hers.

“I don't have to prove it.” She protests faintly, snaking a hand through the waves of his hair.

He lets his lips brush over hers lightly, in a tingling sensation. “I thought you said you didn't like to play games.”

“Hate. Them.” She repeats with emphasis.

Then kisses him full on the mouth.

The kiss is more ardent and passionate than either one expects. She groans, snaking a hand through the waves of his hair and pulls his head down to intensify the kiss.

It takes several long, intimate moments for them to break apart again. And when she instinctively rises onto her tiptoes for another he pulls away, ever so slightly, and murmurs, “Only the one though. There also should be some incentive for you to keep me alive.”

“Huh.” She breathes. “You're smarter than I gave you credit for.”

“So my prognosis is worse than you told me?” He asks, a small smile filled with somewhat bitter irony on his features. He wouldn't be surprised. "You seem sure you won't have to go through with it."

“Maybe.” She says agreeably. And as she slides her fingertips back down the side of his face she lets her nails rake across the barely healing scabs of his wounded neck. He draws in a sharp hiss of a breath and her smile deepens.

“We have another appointment tomorrow afternoon, Mister Beaker. Try not to die before then.”

She releases him and saunters from the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

((Calm down Loki, you're starting to sound like young Dustin))

"Circe know 238 different ways to make someone scream, and none of them are nice. She enjoys taxidermy and collecting coat hangers." -Biography of Circe Beaker, Sims 2.

For those who are curious or don't remember her: http://sims.wikia.com/wiki/Circe_Beaker

Also I'm sorry that Loki's dumping on himself so much in this chapter, but he hasn't been very self aware and so he's working through things, developing as a person. He was something like critically unobservant in the past, so the introspection is key to his character development at this point. That, and I like the doof. I want him to have a moment or two of happiness. If I can get him there :/ Thanks by the way Owly for his new inseparable nickname. He's gonna be doof to me for a while now. Or forever. :p

Circe looks the best with male poses, for some reason. But I love how she came out! I painstakingly matched her coloration to the TS2 version of course, and because she's not a premade, I can share her soon, too <3

.............................

By the way Loki escaped for a few minutes and Moira had to chase him back inside. I was actually just curious to see if she could still feed from him when he was in the process of becoming a vampire (having the 'weird bite?' moodlet), and she was able to, which I found somewhat contrary that he didn't get weaker, or die from it or she didn't get a weird taste or anything. I guess the system just isn't that complex.

This image however, I feel explains a lot about Loki's personality. Maybe he's just an M after all?

Oh yeah Moira's irresistible too. :D

Stop being so adam-dorable!! Shee it.

Here. I pulled these out of my ass. They're for you.