{ inbox } meadowlark

[nonscriptum]

@nathan.drake| ■ ▲ ◌ ▼

Comments

[nonscriptum]

what?
found what?

[wittingly]

the holy grail

[nonscriptum]

[ He's really leaning into this California thing, isn't he? ]

i'm shocked it took this long since we're in a version of amsterdam
i thought smoking wasn't a thing anymore, though?

[ Something that is still patently weird to him. People are always going to be smoking shit. ]

[wittingly]

technically it's not, it's meant for edible use only
it's a damn shame there aren't any smoking apparatus left
I've come so close, and yet it's so far away
I guess I'll have to give up on the dream
if only there were something I could do about that

[nonscriptum]

i feel like you're setting me up to ask what you're going to do when we both know you can literally bend matter into any shape you want with your mind

[wittingly]

I can WHAT?

[nonscriptum]

shut up oh my god

[wittingly]

anyway come over and do drugs

[nonscriptum]

i was expecting an engraved invitation but when you put it like that

i'm going to use the front door this time though

[wittingly]

Boring
I'll make you a lovely archway
or some monkey bars if you're feeling froggy

[nonscriptum]

[ Wow, okay, so that's how it is- ]

please
like i NEED monkey bars
your building is basically a baby route at a climbing gym

[wittingly]

I'd say I could make it harder for you but I REALLY don't wanna encourage you
Living with the guilt after you fall and break your neck would be like super annoying

[nonscriptum]

aw, i'm touched
but i wouldn't worry, i've fallen out of planes before and survived

[ Never mind the fact that his last big fall may have been fatal. ]

eta like 20 minutes

[wittingly]

we need to talk about your life insurance policy and also what the fuck.

[ But just to be an asshole, he's taken the floor out in front of the door so it's a nice wide hole to the floor below, and a happy stretch of monkey bars over the top bridging the gap. The convenience of living over the maintenance rooms, no downstairs neighbor to balk. ]

[nonscriptum]

trust me, no need.

[ Just a little morbid inside joke that no one but Nate finds funny.

When he gets to the right floor he stops at the giant hole, not so much stymied as amused. There's a little lip at the edge of the apartment door and he could easily make the jump if there was something to hold onto, but these futuristic apartments have sliding, seamless things only slightly recessed into the walls and with some minor monkeying he makes it across.

Wedged in the niche he knocks thrice with his knuckles. ]

[wittingly]

[ Only takes a couple seconds for the door to swing open, and for Ian to greet him brightly. ]

Hey, man!

[ A little nod gesture. Come on in. Nary a single word about the enormous fuckoff hole out front. Nothing to see here.

On the coffee table in front of his couch, some obvious V1 bong designs out of what what seems to have once been tequila bottles. Reduce, re-use, recycle. ]

[nonscriptum]

I saw you got a new welcome mat.

[ When was the last time Nate got high? Harry Flynn, he thinks, over a decade ago. Nate was never really a fan of the stuff, doesn't like lacking control despite being an arbiter of chaos, but he can acknowledge that releasing the vise-grip he has on certain things might behoove him.

He casts a quizzical eye at the "bongs" and has a violent flashback to the accusation he leveled at Ian when they were sixty stories in the air. ]

You've been busy.

[wittingly]

[ He beams at welcome mat. Takes a second to stick his head out the door, there's some scrapey thumpy scratching noise, and then he pops back in to close it behind him.

He's got that enthusiastic kind of energy he usually only gets about new projects or, once, a monster bat. Has him flopping down too enthusiastically on his couch, jostling the the little pleasant pot paraphernalia tray he'd had on the middle cushion. Ladies and gentlemen, the professional is back. ]

Dude, you have no idea. I tried to take up glass blowing once back home. One time, and never again. At least woodworking won't burn your fucking hand off.

[nonscriptum]

[ Nate shuffles in, invited for the first official time without climbing through the window to be a huge pain in the ass. He gets a better look at the scenery now: the work space, the desk, a notebook he remembers very well. The table in front of the sofa appears to be an experimental zone. ]

So...I guess this is a better alternative?

[ He hazards, because he honestly doesn’t have the context for what qualifies as “better.” Manipulating existing containers with Ian’s power is at least a twofold endeavor, permitting for good practice and a potential, tangible result.

Nate settles on the other side of the couch, hopelessly out of his depth and looking the part.]

I’ll be honest, I don’t know a lot about this stuff? I’ve tried all kinds of weird crap abroad, but I don’t...like- you know. Do anything regularly.

[wittingly]

[ And that catches Ian's attention enough to have him pause mid-way through twisting the top of an herb grinder. It's like he's checking for a second to make sure he's not getting screwed with — never heard of the Beatles — but no, this one actually seems legit. ]

Wait, so...

[ On comes the creeping absolute delight that only a stoner experiences when getting someone who doesn't smoke weed to smoke weed, particularly for the first time. ]

You, like. Arm wrestle sharks and blow up, I don't know, banks, and raid tombs and summon the Mummy on accident, but smoking weed is like...

[ A little gesture to his head, fingers out, explosion sound. Mind blown. ]

[nonscriptum]

I've done this before, thank you.

[ Nate's mouth thins in an obvious lack of amusement as Ian starts to look at him as though he's some kind of virgin. Peyote in Mexico, sure. Ayahuasca in Peru, yeah, why not. There are certain things Nate has indulged in under very specific circumstances, mostly out of a need to be polite to hosts. He liked it well enough, but not in a long-term sense.

The only addiction Nate suffers from is adrenaline high. ]

Seeing as my job involved inhaling compressed nitrogen in high-pressure environments, and before that, avoiding getting shot at by mercenaries, I kinda like to keep my wits about me.

[wittingly]

[ Nate's lack of amusement only seems to encourage his, and the smile never fades as his chin dips back down to focus on his well-practiced smoke prep ritual. ]

Yeah, okay, you got me there. Usually way less shooting in my line of work. As in, like, none.

[ Much less compressed nitrogen, but that one's a nonzero amount. ]

It's also horrifying that you got fucking shot at, by the way, in case I haven't mentioned that. Just so it's on record.

[ A pointed glance up through whatever hair's fallen in his face.

And then he kindly offers over the product of his handiwork, because it is Customary to let the underexperienced go first. ]

[nonscriptum]

[ Ian clearly did this often enough back home to be incredibly deft at the process and Nate experiences the strong urge to make another California comment. He refrains for both their sakes, because he agreed to come over but it wasn't exclusively for the temptation of engaging in recreational drugs. It wasn't even, like, 50% of the reason. More like 10%.

The company's nice. ]

Ha. You have no idea.

[ Nate has lost count of how many gunfights he's been in, which is perhaps a fact that should probably concern him as he takes the lead and the lighter. He remembers a bong in Harry's place a long, long time ago, some ridiculously over-the-top glass thing that got pulled out when Harry wasn't feeling his nicotine itch. This one is a little more similar to the waterpipes Nate has seen in Laos. ]

Can't believe you didn't wanna serve tea with your thuốc lào.

[ He says amusedly, flicking the igniter. Mouth, mouthpiece. Lighter, weed. Nate doesn't fill the chamber completely with smoke because it's been a while and he doesn't exactly trust himself or his memory of similar experiences yet, tugging the bowl out and inhaling.

He doesn't cough - the hit isn't hard enough - but the sensation of smoke in his lungs reminds him too potently of explosions and he grimaces when he exhales. ]

[wittingly]

[ The truth of it is his smoking died off tremendously sometime in his mid twenties, from a purely comparative standpoint. It became more of a once or twice a month with his TA kind of habit, right up until the end of the world. Luke may be one of the smartest humans Ian's ever met, it's a crying fucking shame he didn't believe in his ability to succeed as much as Ian did. Not that it wound up mattering, of course, but his brain found other fantastic applications in the form of a - setting up amazing (often too severe in Ian's opinion) perimeter defenses and b - cross-breeding marijuana in a greenhouse made primarily of plastic sheeting. God bless him. The hours between 9 p.m. and 7 a.m. were the fuck it hours, and there's surprisingly little to do sans electricity or metal.

Also, Ian's coping mechanisms were shit. Largely still are. ]

Gesundheit.

[ He says lightly, because he's never heard of thuốc lào and it's a classic, timeless joke.

Impossible to miss that expression considering how raptly Ian's studying him for a reaction; interesting that he seems to find more displeasure in that than Ian's ever seen him have knocking back any kind of hard liquor. ]

Is it a taste thing or a throat thing?

[ That expression; asked while holding a hand out to relieve Nate of his burden. ]

[nonscriptum]

[ He feels a little bad not immediately enjoying something that a clear and significant amount of labor went into, but it's probably better to be honest than force himself to like the flavor. If they do this again Nate is going to request something with a stronger profile, no matter how artificial, like the weenie he is. ]

Taste. Hit's not bad but it's strong.

[ He hands the bong and lighter over after replacing the bowl, apologetic. ]

One time I almost, uh, died in a burning building, so. Really smoky flavors remind me of that.