Confessor

Nicholas
Barbara Phipps, 49, died last week of heart failure (long term complication of colon cancer, not caught early enough.)  Last week Nick sat next to her and the sucking sounds of her respirator while she shared pictures of herself two years before that, occasionally holding a hand made of tissue paper while she pointed and gestured with the other: she was a hundred pounds heavier then, skin leathered in that manner of people who have spent a lifetime in the sun, her husband's arms around her muffintop in half the photos. Nick took extra time; he knew it would be the last meeting.
This week, in their interdisciplinary floor meeting they reviewed her case, the doctor who signed off on her cause of death was not Andrés and yet Nicholas thinks of him anyway; of the last time he saw the man, which was at the chantry meeting.  He thinks too of Andrés volunteering, and how sure, and how quick.
So before lunch, Sepulvéda receives a text, and that evening, here they are.
Neither have been in the city for very long and so the choice of bar might as well have been as random as one of them picking a place that popped up near the hospital in Google.  Here it is: there is a string of lights outside but despite the gentling weather (perhaps March will come in like a lamb and go out like a lamb, this year) there is no one outside yet.
The Chakravanti is waiting for Andrés outside beneath one of the streetlights, his tall dark silhouette casting a long shadow over the sidewalk.  Nick is looking at his phone; Nick is still conscious of his surroundings.

Andrés
It's easy enough to ask Google where the hell a cheap place to get a drink without seeing breasts or a bar-brawl happens to be. One or the other concedes upon it and when the Etherite arrives he is walking down the sidewalk as if he has taken the bus or parked somewhere other than the lot.
Like as not the place shares a lot with another. This is a dark world they live in. Not every place has well-lit lots easy to access.
He is smoking a cigarette when he arrives. It is the hospice counselor's resonance that enlightens the medical examiner as to the identity of the shadow carved out of the streetlight.
"Nicholas!" he says just as he's about to breach the twenty-foot perimeter of their personal distance. Unlike last time he is wearing corduroys and an ugly sweater underneath a blazer. Glasses, sure, and a beard, but it doesn't look as if he received Nick's text while he was still elbows-deep in an examination. "Put your phone away, eh?"

Nicholas
Nicholas does indeed put his phone away; he is younger than Sepulvéda, but not so young that he cannot remember a time before smart phones (or a time before the digital, even.)  As he tucks it into the pocket of his dress pants he straightens up.  He is in a heavy dark grey peacoat, the sort of thick wool that would for most people provide too much warmth in this kind of weather.  Today's wind has left his hair particularly fluffy at the moment.
"Hello, Andrés," he says, as the Etherite draws near.  His voice is quieter and less effusive than the other man's, and it is therefore necessary to wait until Andrés draws within close personal distance.  "It's good to see you."
Nick never gives the impression of someone who speaks social niceties out of habit; perhaps he does, and yet he also seems to mean them.  He matches pace with the other man as they both start to walk inside - and just as well, the wind that has been blowing all day now has a dampness to it that suggests it may be about to rain.  "I saw a dead body earlier and thought of you," Nick says, and perhaps Andrés is becoming acquainted with the Chakravanti enough to know that even this gentle good humor he exudes can have something of an edge.  "I'm glad you were free."

Andrés
Their lot don't tend to bother with social niceties. If a body says they're glad to see another body it's the truth. Glad to see you haven't vanished since the last doomsday meeting we all had.
The Etherite for his part does not echo it but then folks don't tend to worry about the Chakravanti. They being steady as they tend to be. Their philosophy has a Zen-like quality to it that is easy to admire but difficult as hell to adopt.
He says he saw a dead body earlier and thought of Sepúlveda. The Etherite laughs. It's a sharp surprised-sounding laugh but he is not offended.
"You say the sweetest things!" he says as he grabs the door to the bar and hauls it open. Lets Nick go first. "Let me buy the first round."
It's a weeknight. It's early enough that they don't have to fight for the corner real estate. As with dinner with Nick's wife, Sepúlveda does not appear to fear ulterior motives here. Clearly he has not had much experience with social calls.

Nicholas
Sepulvéda laughs and Nick flicks the other man a look of wry amusement: pleased, always, when he guesses correctly as to whom gallows humor will and will not offend.
"If you insist," Nick says, because there is no counselor in the world who will cling to pride when a doctor offers to buy them drinks.  He steps in through the door, reaching up to unbutton his coat as he passes inside.  He seems to head for one of the corners almost instinctively; it is the middle of the week, after all, and the place will be uncrowded enough for there to be little concern about speaking frankly.
Nick slides into one of the seats and his coat comes the rest of the way off, where he drapes it haphazardly over the back of his chair.  Beneath it, he is dressed in somewhat more neutral colors than the last time they met: dark grey pants and a white shirt with a brown belt.  "How have you been?  Feeling okay after the meeting?"
The server is quick, because servers on Wednesday evenings are tip-hungry, and Nick asks for a beer.  He gives no indication of ulterior motives; his attention seems to be more focused on their surroundings at the moment than heavy and intent on whatever Andrés might say.

Andrés
Counselors have a better feel for emotions and motive and the bones of what are driving a person than do doctors. For the most part. In this instance, accusing a medical examiner of being out of touch not only with his own emotions but with the idea of emotions in general would not be the wildest accusation in the world.
His job is not to explain why a murder or a suicide occurred. It's to determine whether or not Nature had anything to do with the death. Death and Nature are bedfellows see but he doesn't give a shit what a person was thinking at the time the death occurred or what contributed to its occurrence.
"Of course," he says. As if he didn't volunteer to walk into a Technocrat stronghold and pass off one corpse as another.
Then comes the server. Then comes Sepúlveda asking for a tequila with a beer back. No salt, no lime.
Once they're alone again, buried under the music and the din such as it is:
"What about you?"

Nicholas
They're alone again, and Nick's beer is pale and golden, deceptive given its bitterness, and he is absently raking his fingers through his hair in an attempt to bring some order to the chaos.  It is not like pulling a rake through sand, leaving neat rows and half-moons in a garden, and more akin to hacking back jungle with a machete; it seems to make little difference, in the long run, and he lacks a mirror.
"Concerned for the greater implications," Nick says, and vague though this may be it is honest.
He has taken a sip from his beer at this point, his wandering-eye ruminations carrying his gaze around the bar, which is an unfamiliar setting.  Nick may be a more wary man than he often gives the impression of when he's daydreaming through day-to-day conversation.
One does not jump into these sorts of topics.  He knows that, if anyone.  "Have you shared what happened with Ned and Margot?"

Andrés
"Not yet."
It would be easier to discuss an impending divorce and how to broach the news to the kids than why he hasn't told his apprentices what the other traditionalists brought up at the meeting.
He tips the shot down his throat. Cursory study of the film on the inside of the glass before he sets it aside again. Though his own beer is a cheap thin pale lager, Tecate or Corona or whatever the hell they had ready to roll, he pours it into a glass just to give himself something to do. Sitting still has never been his forte.
"Don't know what to tell them. The boy, Ned, he wants absolutes. Yeah? You tell him, 'Hey, the universe, we think it will lose enough of its free energy, we call it the logarithmic scale of thermodynamics--'" Beer poured, he just holds onto it. Lets the tequila burn his esophagus and does nothing for it. Addressing the beer and not Nick. "'--eventually everything will cease to be, no big deal, you have all this time until then,' and he cannot accept what you tell him. You tell him, 'Hey, the Traditions and the Union, we had a war, it ended, but the Union wants to start the war anew, we don't know why,' and the questions, he has so many questions about why bother and what's the point and how do we worry about that when we could get eaten by little fungus-harvesting goblins in the middle of the night. And the girl, Margot..."
Now he drinks his beer.

Nicholas
Sepulvéda tells him about Ned, and Ned's questions, and Nick smiles as the Etherite describes how interactions with the boy have proceeded thus far.  Nick had a longer conversation with Ned at the dinner party, and while Andrés was not there, something in that smile suggests that he knows precisely what Andrés is talking about.
These concepts, besides, are interesting to him: but too many questions, and so little time, and Andrés so rarely pauses.  There's always time to return later, once the scaffolding has been laid.
"He's tackling the existential questions first.  Precocious kid," Nick says, and there is another sip of his beer that follows.  Nick, too, was a precocious kid.  "What about Margot?"

Andrés
Sepúlveda drinks as if he's parched and can derive no satiation from water. Maybe he can't. He sets the glass down after swallowing a quarter of it and looks at Nick rather than its contents now.
"She fights against her Avatar. Ned, from what he tells me, his wants him to solve The Puzzle." Nick can hear the capitalization in the phrase. It isn't his. Maybe not Ned's either but it's what Sepúlveda has extracted from their time together. "Margot, hers is..." A quick swallow. "Well, if Pen took her on, indoctrinated her, a year from now, it would not surprise me, but I think she's meant for bloodier Work than that." He scratches his beard. "I'm not at liberty to talk about her, eh, her past, you know, why she is the way she is." A sigh. "I intend to meet with, what's her name, Kiara. Not about her, about, you know, what we're to do, but..." Another swallow. "If she and Margot talk, I think this would be a help, for Margot, yeah?"
The man is unapologetic about how much he fucking talks without letting the other person interject. Punctuation comes in the form of alcohol consumption but that's not enough wriggle room for the average person.

Nicholas
Andrés talks a lot, and Nick, for his part, spends a considerable amount of time each day listening to other people talk and inserting himself into the conversation as little as possible.  When he does, it's to gently reflect, to tease something out, to frame another's words in a different way than might have occurred to them on their own.  This is comfortable for him.
Comfort and growth cannot occur together, or so they say, and yet.
"It seems like it would be helpful for her," Nick agrees.  He drinks; he sets his beer back into the circle of condensation that has already appeared.  There is, again, a touch of that dry humor when he says, "What will you do with yourself if you pass them off?  It seems like they're keeping you very busy."

Andrés
This question amuses him. He flashes a smile and reaches up under his glasses to rub at the corner of his eye. Seems to decide he doesn't need his glasses on if he's just talking to someone across the table from him and rakes them off his face. Attaches an ear to the breast pocket of his blazer.
"Ah, hell, man, I don't know. Sleep through the night?"

Nicholas
"Andrés," and this Naming of the other man is chiding, amused, a little knowing perhaps, "I have a hard time believing a full night's sleep is high on your list of values and priorities."  A beat.  "Tell me about the logarithmic scale of thermodynamics.  I haven't had many chances to talk about magic with a member of the Society before."
Nick doesn't drink with the sort of dissatisfaction or desperation that Sepulvéda does, and yet he seems to be keeping pace with him rather easily.  He's a shot of tequila behind, but nevermind that.

Andrés
He's mid-glug when Nick uses the m-word. Committed to finishing what he started but capable of multi-tasking, he snaps the fingers of his off-hand as his ring-bearing hand is setting down the pint glass.
"Ah, ah, ah. No no no." He swallows again because he still had some errant fluid threatening to clog up the works. Gestures between the two of them with the finger-snapping hand. "We talk, we talk about Science. Or..." A turning gesture with his hand as he tries to find the right word. Snaps his fingers when he finds it. "Or work.. You leave that Magick shit outside."

Nicholas
Andrés begins to snap his fingers and the look Nick gives him at first is two parts openly bewildered and one part rueful, perhaps wondering he has somehow managed to be too intrusive, when -
We talk about Science.  And at this, the Chakravanti laughs, the clear rich sort of sound he makes when he's too surprised and perhaps even overwhelmed with a sort of generalized affection for other human beings and their human quirks to obfuscate it with layer upon layer of premeditation and intention.  "All right then, tell me about your Work."

Andrés
"Ah, hell, you wanna talk about my Work, physical cosmology and thermodynamic entropy aren't my fields."
Speaking of fields. This may be deflection. It may be tangentially related. They don't know enough about each other to know when they're deflecting or not but given how blunt he is about pretty much everything about his own life accusing Sepúlveda of deflecting tends to strike most people as premature. He would have to have feelings to try and protect them.
Plus he settles back in his chair instead of leaning over the table like he's at a fucking tribunal. Conversation. Back-and-forth. He's trying.
"Why'd you go into end-of-life counseling?"

Nicholas
There is a many-layered pause in which Nick gathers his thoughts after Sepulvéda asks him this question: there could be a longer answer to this, if Nick desired.  As with most things, there is always the longer answer - but then again, Andrés knows this.  He told Nick his wife is dead more or less in passing, this statement of fact without the particulars wound around it.
Nick is also not used to other people asking him questions.  Here is the subtext.  "The idea of balance is very important within my Tradition," he says, "and the Wheel - the cycle of life and death, to say it briefly - doesn't turn effectively when people don't die well.  There's no flow.  I didn't set out to do end-of-life counseling specifically, but I fell into it."
A beat.  "If people aren't ready to accept change, they hold on and it keeps them from moving into the life after this one.  They linger, their questions linger.  I help them resolve that."

Andrés
An empty glass on Sepúlveda's side of the table punctuates that thread of the conversation. Leaves two on his side. The server is not hovering around waiting for this sort of situation but they won't be unattended for long and when they are he asks for the same thing. Small as he is, if he's going to go to a bar, he's going to drink. Ask if Nick wants another one because what the hell. Balance. He makes more than he does and the drinks here are cheap as hell and he wants to keep asking questions.
Pin it on the fact that he's got two students who don't know what the hell they want to be when they go through their first Seeking. Maybe he's starting to consider the Euthanatos a friend and wants to get to know him. Sometimes it's better not to question an Etherite's motivation.
"So, how do you know, at the beginning of the workday, say someone new comes in, and they aren't ready to go, or you've had someone here for a time, and you all think they were ready to go, but in the end, deep down, no, they want to fight it at the last moment..." A beat. "You understand what I'm asking?"

Nicholas
Nick agrees to another beer, which prompts him to swallow the dregs of the ale that is left in his glass.  It leaves three there at the end of their table; three is an auspicious enough number.  (Though Nick hopes that the auspiciousness in this case isn't related to him going home drunk on a week night, calling Pen and asking her to pick him up at the bar.)
"I understand what you're asking," he says.  There is a wry set to his mouth, something not quite a smile, something that is for a moment in another place.  "It's never my role to decide for anyone, or to tell them how they should feel, and in this case it would be especially pointless.  If they're fighting it, there's a reason.  Sometimes that reason is that they have something unfinished, in which case we talk about how to finish it, or they're processing something, in which case we process it.  Sometimes they have to come to terms with the inevitable, and understand that accepting death is the only power we have over it."
Nick's beer arrives, and he drinks, and again it's without the desire to drown.  This is not a distressing topic to him; if anything, the opposite.  "I don't give the Good Death to my clients.   I just try to help make what they already want more clear to them."

Nicholas
reposting email for the sake of my sanity.

Andrés

Part of the reason the doctor had disappeared from the dinner party was of course an empty wine glass. Something had distracted him in the kitchen and he had not returned. There is a room in the basement he has told his students they do not belong in, and are to stay out of. It's best if no one ever sees what goes on in there.

The other part of the reason was to leave Ned alone with Nick, Nick being additional proof one can keep one's day job and still progress through Awakened life. Just because he Awakened an Orphan doesn't mean he's completely boned.

Nick may be if he tries to keep up with the Etherite. He listens intent until Nick explains the absence of the Good Death in his profession and then he tips his second shot of tequila down his throat and starts to pour his second beer.

"So - correct me if I'm wrong - your work and your Work remain separate, but your paradigm influenced your profession."

Nicholas

"My Work does not begin, or end, with the Good Death," Nick says, and while there is no palpable heat or temper to his voice it is firm.  This is a common perception of the Chakravanti, them as the Death Tradition.  This response was so instantaneous one could assume it was almost reflexive: sometimes self-protection becomes a reflexive thing.  Nick is somewhat recently out of an episode of Quiet, a thing he does not readily advertise.  "There is very little separation between my work and my Work, except as I am aware of the power imbalance between Sleepers and myself."

And this could be a dangerous statement, depending on who says it.  It's likely that there aren't very many people like Nick out there, who do what he does in the way that he does.  It's a large part of the reason he is so careful.

Nick has taken a swallow from his glass.  He is not expressly trying to keep up with Andrés (he has recognized this as a losing proposition), but he has stopped trying to moderate himself, or at least to the extent he ordinarily might have.  Nick often picks up on the emotions and habits of others around him; this is an empath's blessing and curse.  "It's more like my profession influenced my Work, in my case.  I Awakened shortly before I began my career.  I knew much more about counseling than I did Awakened life, at that point."

His glance flicks to Andrés then, something sidelong.  "What about you?  Do you make a separation?"

Andrés

A bit of firmness is to be expected when discussing the core of one's beliefs and if the response is reflexive the doctor does not take it as a personal affront. Hell: just about everything that comes out of Sepúlveda's mouth is reflexive. He doesn't think before he speaks. His is a Dynamic Avatar.

I am aware of the power imbalance between Sleepers and myself.

This interests him. He sits up straighter and something in his gaze - made keen by the brightness of his irises sure but by his intelligence also - sharpens. Sepúlveda is three drinks deep and often seems as if he is lost in thought but right now Nick has his undivided attention.

He must be a pain in the ass for an empath. All he is is habit. Lack of impulse control coupled with certainty. Pen has told Nick more about his past than the man himself has.

"I have to," he says, and tries to make a joke: "If I didn't, they'd arrest me."

That's not an answer. Not a particularly funny joke either considering what they discussed at the Chantry meeting. He takes a swig of beer to cleanse his palate and goes on.

"My professional interest is determining the cause of death or injury in a case where it is not apparent, at first. During my internship at Johns Hopkins, I was able to help, ah, investigate alternative means of performing tomography angiography on the dead, which is a credit to my paradigm, as I treated the dead body as a, ah, intersection between inanimate object and lifeform devoid of life. It would have taken much longer without this insight. There are a few other instances where this was the case, but I have not done the research necessary to become a, you know. Sherlock Holmes, so I suppose you could say they're separate to a degree."

Big pull off his beer. This is your chance, Nick.

Nicholas
If Andrés didn't draw a separation, they'd arrest him.  Nick makes a noise that for him, is strangely short; not irritated, but it's an acknowledgement that falls short of understanding (though perhaps understanding, too, is not the correct word.)

He listens, his expression earnest, as Andrés tells him about his professional interests and how that intersects with the personal.  In some ways it's a relief to hear another person talk about this, the way in which they've blended their Awakened life and their life among Sleepers.  It would have been helpful for Nick to have another Nick around when he'd been a Ned, perhaps.

"I see," he says.  "So you experienced that insight, and it sounds as though maybe you've tried to differentiate the two concepts?  Inhuman matter and what's left after we die?"  A beat.  "I'm not sure I see the difference. Tell me about that."

Andrés
"The body has a way of betraying itself, does it not?"

Now he leans forward again. One hand remains wrapped around his glass while the other forearm rests against the tabletop. It does not stop him from talking with his hands but it does stop him from waving it around.

"In the instance of a person who's died of pulmonary thromboembolism, yeah? Alone at home, they're found much later, the meat has begun to rot, and the autopsy comes back inconclusive, most times. A person who dies in hospital, you have a trail to follow, it isn't so difficult, but the person who dies without witness, and stays dead for long enough, milking the limbs and examining the lungs is not so clear an indicator of what killed them. But angiography used to be difficult without... a pulse, you know, something to move the agent along, you're familiar with the procedure."

He takes a swallow of beer.

"I'm getting off track. What was I saying." The difference between an inanimate object and what remains after death. "How familiar are you with Life? The Sphere, not..." He waves his empty hand around a bit before waving it off. "... not lowercase."

Nicholas
Andrés leans forward, and Nick leans forward too, the gesture almost instinctive.  The bar isn't loud, but there's a sort of hush that always comes over their kind when they're talking magick (or whatever Andrés wants to call it) in a public place, and such a thing is natural.  Besides: Nick is interested.

Medical terminology thrown around that he might not have known did he not work in a hospital.  Nick's eyes are steady, and his beer is continually half-raised to his mouth while he listens to the Etherite.  "I know the basics," he says, of the sphere the other man mentions.  Andrés has said quite a bit, and there is some insight there, but it's never as much what people believe as what they do with it.

Especially what they do with it.

Andrés
"Okay. I didn't want to assume, you know what happens when you assume. Someone makes a terrible pun."

Another swallow to wet his throat.

"Anyway, there are instances when the Life Sphere will certainly apply to a corpse, but only if you have the other Spheres to go along with it, you know, probability and distance and those, but those are not my purview. I find them interesting, sure, but my focus has always been on Matter. So..." Swallow. "Matter, we can divide into organic and inorganic, but organic does not necessarily mean living. Organic matter is made up of carbon, yeah? If one treats the remains as a life form no longer living, and the tissue in the body that is no longer part of the biological functions that would have supported life, I find it easier to determine the cause of death." A beat. "It also led to the introduction of a less viscous tracer to the procedure, which makes it easier to perform a CT scan on a corpse once it's been exsanguinated."

He drains his beer. It doesn't take long.

"If any of that makes sense."

Nicholas
"Somewhat.  I'm a counselor, not a doctor," Nick says, and there is this little smile, this humble acknowledgement of his shortcomings.  Still: Nick, in his speech and in the way his perception cuts like a blade, comes across as perhaps too clever to not understand the general sense of what is being communicated, even without the appropriate language.

His beer has not quite been drained yet, but perhaps he takes Sepulvéda finishing his as a sort of cue, and he finishes the glass in one long swallow and sets it next to the Etherite's.  It's likely that he doesn't have anything approaching Andrés' tolerance, either, making this an ill-devised plan.  "So," he says, and perhaps the other man can pick up on the shift in tone immediately, "if I can switch gears a bit..."

Nicholas has adjusted himself in his seat.  He hasn't eaten yet tonight, and the beer has hit his head with surprising alacrity.  "I'm curious about what you plan to do based on what was discussed in the meeting.  You volunteered quickly, I wondered if you had some specific expertise or experience when it comes to dealing with the Union."

Andrés
He flicks his eyebrows like to indicate yeah sure go ahead and switch gears. Folds both forearms over the table and knits his fingers together and frowns a bit as Nick mentions the meeting. Oh right. He volunteered to do something stupid. Thanks, Impulse Control.

"There was a, how do you call it, an amalgam of them in Miami--" Oh there's the server. Yeah sure another round would be fantastic. Sorry Nick. Once she's gone again: "We had to work together, in the public sector, once." He leans back. "Trust me, I'm no expert on the Technocracy, and I'm not about to run off and rejoin the Union, but I'm not afraid of them, either."

Nicholas
Andrés orders another round, and Nick has settled back in his chair.  The arm flung over the back gives him an appearance that is casual, perhaps deceptively so.  Rejoin, this catches his interest until he recalls what little he knows of the Society of Ether's history.  "No fear even given that they seem to have more or less declared war?"

It's not surprise in his tone, necessarily.  Perhaps there is something just the slightest bit expectant, there, if one were so inclined to look.

It's better that he not be distracted, anyway.  Nick is too easily drawn into the minutiae of conversation, sometimes loses the big picture.  He knows this is as much a problem in his mundane work as now.  ""So you'll be there, and what do you plan to do?"

Andrés
Let's ignore the second question for a moment. Andrés doesn't give him a chance to ask it and his player is too scatterbrained for simultaneously conversations.

In response to the lack of fear in the face of war:

"An unknown quantity of them has possibly declared war, now that their Supreme Leader long-confined to the Deep Umbra due to the Storm is rumored to no longer know confinement, and in the meantime, they've destroyed the previous Chantry, and the Verbena Grove, and taken an Orphan into custody because he refused to answer questions concerning a reformed widderslainte that's in our midst."

Down the hatch goes the tequila.

"No, I'm not afraid. If cooperating with them, for now, for a given value of 'cooperate,' prevents another war, or gets this Alex fellow back, then fuck it. What's the harm in cooperating for five minutes?"

Nicholas
Nick's question was leading, and conveniently Andrés is giving him answers already to the other questions he has not asked; this is all to the good.  In an ideal world this is how these things would always work.

He picks up the glass that has been set in front of him, and his eyes are on some dark corner of the room, some faded brick or crack in the wall.  It is often easy to wonder whether or not Nicholas is listening at all; there is perpetually something far away about him.  "I hadn't heard about the reformed widderslainte.  Is this someone I know?"

Careful, Nicholas.

Andrés
"Ah..."

There he goes not using his verbal filter again. The server cleared away their cacophony of glasses when last she passed through so when he taps the shot glass to the edge of the table just to give himself something to do it's a quiet tapping. More of a thump they feel rather than hear.

"This is just what I hear, you know how people talk, for all I know a wire crossed somewhere, but the girl this Agent Weston was asking after, she's with the Verbenae. The Cultist, Serafíne said her name at the meeting. It's escaping me at the moment. Supposedly she Awakened inverted."

Nicholas
Ah: there had been a name, during that entire conversation, that he did not know and which did not belong to anyone in the room.  Nick recalls this, and the recognition and insight that floods his eyes is visible, like the proverbial switching on of an inner light.  But "That's interesting," is all that he says.

His gaze remains fixed in some corner of the room, as though he could stare into the past; his hand has come up to his mouth and he tugs thoughtfully on his lower lip.  These things, they can't be changed.  His hand falls away and back to his lap.

"Regardless.  It sounds as though you thought your decision through and know the risks.  I was worried about you," he says, and when he says this his eyes return to their conversation, they meet Andrés' across the table.

Andrés
[perc + empathy: u ok bro. lol he has no empathy.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 5) ( fail )

Andrés
[IN A MOVE NO ONE SAW COMING]

Nicholas
[Oh you sweet summer child.  Subterfuge.]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 2, 6, 6, 7) ( success x 3 )

Nicholas
Nick just spaces out a lot.

Andrés
So the hospice counselor who has been dealing with the dying and the families of the dying all day snarfed two beers on an empty stomach and is now spacing out and staring at the wall. Stranger things have happened. His wife used to listen to things he couldn't hear and have conversations with furniture and plants. The spirit world makes people do strange shit. So do memories and the feelings attached to them.

Sepúlveda doesn't do feelings. He's trying to seeing as his students have so many of them but whatever is causing Nick to space out flies so far over his head the astronauts on the ISS probably saw it.

As for the decision and thinking it through:

Oh yeah. He totally thought before he opened his mouth. Dr. Sepúlveda always thinks before he opens his mouth. Sure. Let's go with that. Whether he did or not that pronouncement slaps a bemused expression across the scientist's face.

"Fuck were you worried for?" he asks.

Nicholas
The spirit world does, indeed, make a lot of people do strange shit.  Many magi who deal with it regularly are evidence of the strange shit it does: they end up a little strange themselves.

Nick shrugs only one of his shoulders, the one attached to the arm that is draped around the back of his chair.  "A lot of people go a little loopy after an act of aggression.  I remember you saying that they'd attacked a grove, too, that sounded as though it was important to your wife.  I've just seen it happen before, is all."

His tone is casual: he doesn't seem to have meant anything by it.  Or, at least, not much.  "It's easy to get tunnel visioned."

Andrés
It would be easy to get defensive if he actually felt the need to defend himself. But there's not much there and the fact that his wife is dead isn't anything he keeps to himself to avoid talking about it. They don't call guys like him Mad Scientists because it sounds cute.

He just flicks his eyebrows again and quaffs his beer. He's slowing down a bit because he's starting to get drunk. He is not a large man but there's something to be said for tolerance and other pharmaceuticals.

"If you say so." A beat for comedic effect. "I'm a doctor, not a counselor."

Nicholas
Nick smiles at him, at that, and while Nick's expressions are often shifting and partially obscured, layered beneath his preoccupations and sometimes motivations he himself is only partially aware of on a conscious level, there is something genuinely appreciative in the expression now.  There is no wry tilt to his brows or mouth.  He likes Andrés, even.

"So tell me about the time that you worked with the amalgam.  It sounds like the kind of adventure I tend to imagine Etherites having."

Andrés
"... I already used 'I'm a doctor, not a blank,' didn't I. You want me to tell you a story now, Nicholas, eh? Fuck."

He rubs his eyebrow one two three times like to milk the memory out of it and he was not in Miami for very long so in invoking the memory he invokes a time in his life when Hinata was still alive but he can talk about Hinata's death so surely that means he can talk about the fact that she was alive once.

"Shit, now that I'm thinking about it, it may have been more than once. There was this one fucker with the Coast Guard who was in the morgue every other month I'm about ninety-nine percent sure was NWO, drank at the same bar all the government employees did. You want to talk about a lightweight, that man could not hold his alcohol."

If this sounds like a stall tactic it's because this is uncharted backstory territory and Jamie is sober.

Nicholas
NWO: a moderately unfamiliar term, though Nick can place it as something like the Technocracy's Traditions.  It's a strange thing, really; he, working in a hospital as he does, may well have run into Technocrats in the past and never have known it, and perhaps the reverse is also true.  He works with evidence based practice, he has found a means of merging the ancient and the modern, and and perhaps this is one reason why the thought of his wife's Tradition declaring war has shaken him.

Still, he is watching Andrés with a corner of his mouth upturned, and he is sipping while he listens to the other man speak.  "You made me wonder whether I've ever run into anyone, myself."  A beat.  "It's funny what we fight wars over."

Nick doesn't think it's that funny.  "I didn't mean to put you on the spot, Andrés.  I just like listening to other people talk."

Andrés
"No, no no no, I love the spot, the spot is great, it's just that, ah..."

The story in question involved working together, collaboration, setting aside their stupid differences for a minute so an actual hellsmouth and not just a metaphorical one didn't open up and swallow an entire city. Not happening to pass each other by and deciding to ignore each other because the Technocracy and the Traditions are no longer in Search and Destroy mode.

He muffles a burp with his fist and shifts in his seat.

"Permiso. It's just that there's not much to the story, I only know my side of it. Our paths crossed, the Union's and ours, when one of theirs turned up in the morgue with his skin missing. Not just some of it, you know, I'm talking the whole thing, and then one of Hinata's people, she turned up with her skin missing, and, ah, fast forward to it turns out it was an Infernalist. I wasn't there for the showdown, you know, we let them handle that, but, ah, the coven, you know. They were pissed, and I talked them out of going after the Infernalist because, you know, if the Union wants to go after an Infernalist, good for them, they got all sorts of shit we don't. So. Tell you the truth, I'm not afraid of mirrorshades, but if I knew I would go the rest of my life without getting yelled at by a Witch if I cut off one of my nuts, I'd do it."

Drink.

Nicholas
His laugh is a rumble, something from deep in his chest and his throat, as he drains the remainder of his glass.  Yes: Pen will definitely be picking him up from the bar.  He spares a look at his pocket where one can note the rectangular relief of his phone, a quick sheepish thing, the nature of which is somewhat at odds with the sound he just made.  He'll apologize later.

"I think I'd probably do some yelling too if a Traditionmate of mine showed up without their skin."  A beat.  "Hinata was your wife?"

Andrés
A cant of his head like to concede the point that yeah okay Tradition loyalty here's some other traditionalist telling you to stay out of it the Union is handling it sisters before misters he definitely deserved the lambasting he left out of that part of the story.

And then a question. He answers without hesitating.

"She was, yeah."

Nicholas
There is a beat in which Nick debates, and his internal debate is written across his face in a way he typically would not allow.  It's purposeful, that: sometimes topical shifts go down more easily if the other person can see them coming.  Finally, he settles.  "So, not that it has to be a topic of conversation," he says, with that attitude of feeling out murky water with a toe first, "but I feel I should be honest with you and tell you that Pen told me what happened."

There are times for keeping secrets, after all, and Nick likes those; but perhaps he was serious when he spoke earlier about his discomfiture with power imbalances.  Death, after all: it's the great equalizer.  His gaze is searching, and if Andrés seems to desire a shift of topic after he says this, well: Nick always has plenty of questions.

Andrés
[int + alert: what the fuck are you talking about. -1 bc alcohol causes bashing damage, double 10s bc of his twink specialty.]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 7, 9, 9) ( success x 3 ) [Doubling Tens]

Andrés
"What happened?"

As if Nick totally changed the topic on him. But Sepúlveda is bright even if he isn't the most empathetic person in the room on the best night and the second he asks for clarification it hits him.

"Oh." He takes his eyeglasses from his breast pocket and unfolds them. It's like a test. If he can put his glasses on then he's golden. He puts his glasses on. Leans on his forearms. "What'd she tell you?"

Like they're talking about an episode of The Walking Dead that he hasn't seen yet and not, you know, the most traumatic thing that's ever happened to him in his entire life.

Nicholas
Nick has leaned his chin into the L-shape of his thumb and forefinger, and he is watching the other man's reaction.  Sepulvéda's question, the manner in which he seems interested and almost detached, does surprise Nick somewhat - but only a little.  He is, after all, a man who is continuously immersed day to day in other peoples' grief.

"She told me what was rumored, back when she knew you before.  That Hinata was killed and you attempted to bring her back, and that it didn't go well."  Nick's terms are more delicate than the ones Pen actually used, but, well.  These situations call for delicacy.

His eyes rake over the other man's face once more, gauging his comfort level with the discussion.  "I'm sorry to spring it on you that way, but I thought you should know that I knew."

Andrés
'Detached' is one way to put it.

Nick has sensory access to other people's life signs. The Etherite is a bit flushed from drink but he isn't soaked in it. His breathing is even and the clearest indication that this has caught him off-guard comes when he draws a deep okay so this is happening breath and reaches into his suit jacket for a pack of cigarettes. Leans back so his body language is more open than it was before. He glances away only to sight an ashtray at another table and leans over just enough to snag it and plunk it down in front of him.

As Nick is apologizing he's lighting up.

"Don't apologize," he says in a mumble before blowing out a plume of smoke. Settling in with a cigarette gives him something to look at instead of Nick. That may not be intentional. He isn't exactly Mr. Social Skills. "That's the way I remember it happening too, so I'm glad we're all on the same page."

Nicholas
Andrés leans back in his seat and his posture opens, and he is not as drunk as Nick would have been had he swallowed down everything Sepulvéda already has tonight.  He finds this to be a good sign, that Andrés is still in control of the choice to disclose or not disclose: he would not persist if he thought this were not the case.

Nicholas beckons the server over when she appears again, and after a friendly smile and brief exchange takes the next round this time.  "We can talk about it," he says, "or we can move on, if you prefer."  He has settled back in his chair once more, swung his legs back to fold beneath him under his seat, toes lightly braced against the wood bar at the bottom of the stool.

"Though a warning to the wise: I do start talking about the Umbra a lot when I get drunk."

Andrés
No more beer for him. He hasn't finished the last one he ordered. Tequila though! There's always room for tequila.

Anyway:

"Is that meant to infirm--" Hah. Try that again. "--inform my decision, or influence it? Because there's nothing to talk about, if you want to keep talking about, uh..." He ashes his cigarette. "What were we talking about?"

Don't be an asshole, Sepúlveda.

"Oh right! The Umbra!"

You tried.

Nicholas
Nick has also requested tequila; there are times when it's better to level the playing field.  He also takes his without lime or salt.  Andrés tells him that there is nothing to talk about, and Nick's eyebrows arch in this way, see, that -

Well, he doesn't believe that.  But he is also not going to dig.  "If you ever do want to return to the subject," he says, "we can."

And that's it.  And he downs his liquor with a flick of his wrist and lays his shot at the edge of the table, and there is this slight grimace - "It's been forever since I had tequila."  A pause, but it's the sort of pause that is heavy with words that have not yet materialized, and then, "So, out of curiosity, this reformed widderslainte.  Do you think that's a possible thing?"

Andrés
The fact that Nick takes it without lime or salt to cut the burn has Sepúlveda laughing at the grimace.

"Tequila!" he says. "From darkness, there is light!"

So they leave the topic of the dead wife and cycle back to the supposed reformed widderslainte.

"Possible? Sure. Anything is possible. Is it probable?" He tips his head to one side and takes off his glasses again. "It's probable she had a shitty Awakening, and took out some of their guys, and people don't always get the story straight. I don't know the girl. Listen--" Since they're talking about rumors and dark things and why not just get it over with. "--I loved her. More than..." He's no more a romantic than he is a storyteller. "... well. You know how it is."

He checks his bare right wrist as if he's checking the time. He does not wear a watch.

"You should go home to your wife before you end up under the table, güey."

Nicholas
Nick might have quipped about this, about the taste left in his mouth that is at once familiar and from long ago, but whatever he might have said: it would be too revealing, in that small way, and pointlessly so.  Instead his mouth just lifts, amused, as Andrés has a laugh at him.

He folds his arms, and once more his gaze drifts as Sepulvéda ruminates over probabilities and possibilities.  He makes a noise of assent: because this is indeed the probable thing.  He is not sure which thing is more preferable to believe, either.

Nick's expression when Andrés returns to topic, tells him to go home to his wife, is unreadable.  "I know how it is," he says, with gravity, and there's also this: he knows how it would be.  He exhales, so slowly that  it's possible to watch the way in which his chest deflates under his unsoiled white shirt, and he says, "I should go home."  Then, this sharp appraisal, "And I'll ask Pen to give you a ride too."

Andrés
"That's not necessary. I have a gadget for sobering up. Got it out of the Sky Line catalogue." A beat. "And I'm gonna stay a little longer anyway, I think the bartender's been checking me out."

He does however stand and hold out his hand to shake. And will stay until Pen comes to collect Nick. Maybe tosses fraternal abuse about his lack of ability to hang into the car after him.

They will see each other again.