Sixtieth Theory [Action]

[i_speak_softly]

[Luceti is a cruel and perverted world. That's the only possible explanation for why Don revives from his death-by-drowning at the bottom of the lake. He thrashes for the surface with none of his usual graceful movement, and crawls ashore, panting and trying to figure out what happened.

He knows he died.

He remembers there is a price for being restored to the living world.

He lies in the rain, wondering if it will ever end.

When he has enough breath back to sit up, he does so, and carefully checks himself over for what the Malnosso took. Limbs, senses, memories… all seem in order. He stands and walks, and his legs work. He speaks a few words, and his voice is still there.

It doesn't seem possible that the Malnosso brought him back for free, and he's scared for what hidden deficit might reveal itself later.

He has his mask, belt, and pads. All his other gear is absent, hopefully still at home where he left it.

He starts walking.

He knows it will take some time to travel from the western lake to the village, but he knows the way and he's not in a hurry. It will be good to get his thoughts together before he sees his housemates.]


((Don's death penalty is a language disorder called aphasia. Reference post is here, and linked from the index post at the top of his journal. Meet him anywhere on his way back to House 55.

Plotting note: In the near future, Don will want to go to the clinic to find out what's wrong with him. If your character works there, and especially if they would recognize aphasia, please hit me up via PM.))

Comments

[i_speak_softly]

Thank you.

[He shakes his wrist, making sure the chain is secure, then sits down again, resting his bo across his knees.]

[semper_cogitans]

[Robert manages a somewhat-wobbly smile up at Don in response to that, and leans backwards a little to better look him in the face.]

... Y-You are welcome, Don.

[He still loves Don. He will never not love him, no matter what the Malnosso do to him.

He can take comfort in that much.]

[i_speak_softly]

[Don watches Robert another moment before looking away. His gaze travels around the room, through the kitchen doorway - he's hungry - and lands on a bin overflowing with bottles. They look suspiciously like something he wouldn't expect to see in this house.]

Ronald, what is this?

[semper_cogitans]

[... Well.

That was something he had meant to explain beforehand, but... this is kind of a bad time, isn't it?

Robert draws a slow breath to steel himself, and admits in a quiet voice -]

... Empty a-alcohol bottles.

[Blunt as usual, he doesn't try to dodge the reality of what they are. And it's not like even a reduced-intelligence Don couldn't figure out what that means.]

[i_speak_softly]

[A gesture of hurt and nonunderstanding. Why were you drinking? Why were you drinking that much?]

[semper_cogitans]

[The gesture is nearly meaningless to Robert. He stares, with a hollow gaze, somewhat halfway past him.

He's quiet for a long moment, before he finally says:]

It was... t-too much, Don.

[i_speak_softly]

[An answer like that doesn't make the drinking okay, but it does make it hard for Don to stay upset about it.]

[Very sternly:] No more.

[He'll wait for Robert to agree to this.]

[semper_cogitans]

[He winces under the strength of that demand, but slowly nods after a few moments.]

... L-Leonardo refused to let me, anyway. [Robert's shoulders shake briefly, and he admits -] ... E-Even though... I still wanted to.

It... m-made it harder to have n-nightmares, at least.

[i_speak_softly]

[He'll have to thank Leo for that later.]

How many was I there?

[He never got an answer to that from Buffy.]

[semper_cogitans]

[... How... many...?

Robert furrows his brow as he attempts to make sense of that sentence. It feels like there should be a meaning to it, like Don is speaking in a cipher.

Is there consistency to this?]

How... many... w-were you there...? [He's repeating it to himself, almost faraway-sounding, obviously trying to make sense of the sentence.]

[i_speak_softly]

[Hm. Don gets up again, and comes back with two pencils and a sheaf of paper. On the first page he draws a calendar - not this month's calendar, because heck if he knows what day of the week any date is, but it should still be recognizable.]

How many was I there?

[semper_cogitans]

[How many -

Robert stares at the calendar, then reruns Don's second sentence through his head, and then stares at the calendar again.]

... Do you mean... how long you h-have been here since... s-since whatever happened? Would you not know that better than I would...?

[i_speak_softly]

[Don bites his pencil, thinking about this, then takes another piece of paper and simply numbers it 1 through 31 in a column.]

What are we now?

[semper_cogitans]

[... Oh. Okay. Wait. Robert might be slowly realizing what Don meant, but -]

Th-The seventh. Of July.

[i_speak_softly]

[Don circles 7, and begins to write "July" at the top of the column - but stops after J, his pencil hovering uncertainly.]

[This is not good.]

[semper_cogitans]

[Robert waits patiently for a few seconds, but when it rapidly becomes apparent that Don cannot write "July" -]

... You cannot sp-spell it?

[There is an unintentional mild note of what might be pity or horror in his voice. Perhaps both.]

[i_speak_softly]

[Don shakes his head. He's also having a really hard time thinking backwards to what comes before July. He drops the pencil, no longer interested in the seemingly-simple question of how long he was dead.]

[semper_cogitans]

[... That's a level of awful Robert's not even really sure how to say anything about.]

...

[Still looking down at the paper, he asks:] Do you... w-wish for me to continue instead...? [Because he can't just let it go, obviously. He needs to unintentionally make it worse.]

[i_speak_softly]

[Don passes the paper to Robert, but he doesn't seem invested in it, the way he usually does when they work on a problem together.]

[semper_cogitans]

[And why would he be? This isn't cooperation at all.

Robert, of course, doesn't realize this. He takes the pencil, carefully finishes "JULY" at the top of the calendar, and then, next to it, recreates the calendar shape. This one is drawn with lines as precise as Robert can make them - he visibly winces a little when one line wobbles, and has to go back to erase it.

But eventually he has a matching calendar, which he then labels with "JUNE".]

[i_speak_softly]

[Don watches, but listlessly. He wants to know what this is, and he understands Robert's desire to follow the problem through, but part of him would rather not try to deal with this until he's had some food and a long nap.]

[semper_cogitans]

[Oblivious to Don's internal feelings, Robert continues the problem - he labels the calendar quickly and efficiently, numbering off the days after writing the names of the days themselves above.

Then his gaze ticks up and over to Don again.

"How many was I there?" The sentence seems like it should make sense. On the surface - grammatically - it is meaningless. But, Robert gets the impression that there is a meaning in it, struggling under the surface.

Come to think of it, didn't "tomato" seem to have a meaning too? Don kept using it. If he's speaking in cipher - like a word-substitution program - then maybe there's something else that should go where "tomato" did.

Is that true for this sentence as well?]

[i_speak_softly]

[Uncomfortable with being looked at like that, Don gets up on the excuse of finding some food. He'll just rummage around the kitchen while you draw calendars.]

[semper_cogitans]

[That's okay. Robert throws himself mentally into puzzling out the words as Don does.

Somewhere in between, his mind - still a little sluggish and addled from the week's trials - finally makes a connection.

"Many" is a quantitative term, he realizes, staring down at the calendar Don drew. But he obviously meant days. How many days -

There's only one context it would actually make sense to ask that question in.

... How long he was dead.]

[i_speak_softly]

[Don recognizes a eureka moment when his partner has one. He gravitates to the kitchen doorway, eyebrow raised, to see what's up.]