Nicholas D. Wolfwood (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notabluesbro) wrote2012-11-13 01:30 am
notabluesbro) wrote2012-11-13 01:30 am
37th Confession [Written/Accidental Voice a While Later]
[It's been a while since the... Well, since the draft. On the most outer part of him, Wolfwood looks like he's faired well enough—but a lot of that is just show, as it's always been. Vash went and died, Sanji's been distant, Nami's gone... The place was so tense, it was impossible to even cut through the thickness at a certain point. But then the New Feather's came trickling in, and with that comes his best performance, best attempt at making it seem like this whole thing didn't bring everything he's stepped toward crashing down over his head.
In terms of finding him...? Well, he's been volunteering to help at the Cloud Nine (has been off and on, but times have been pretty shakey, haven't they? He'll even have a drink or two before he leaves--nothing too big. It's still daylight and he's not a big drinker nowadays, even if he really, really wants to be.
He goes home, takes his turn to watch Noah. He takes the time to talk off and on, maybe write something to a question or two; usual business.]
[Written]
Welcome, welcome. Hope you guys didn't have a rough landing. Literally—how many of you fell out of the sky, got stuck in trees, the usual? I know the guide answers plenty enough, but hell, I got something else I wanted to offer.
If any of you want lessons on how to shoot a gun—how to take it apart, put it together, reload, just lemme know. Around here? We have plenty of reasons to have a gun. Especially if a bad shift hits. Or if we get assholes throwing dangerous temper tantrums at everyone else.
[When he stuffs the journal in his back pocket (it sits halfway out, like a newspaper in a paperboy bag; like he cares), he plops down beside the six-month-old baby and offers him a hand to grab It's about 30 or 40 minutes after his initial written message, and on par with the usual luck, sometime during his less guarded time with Noah the journal drops behind him on the floor—audio picks up a voice just distant enough to hear despite the muffling of the blanket.]
—geez, you really do got your mother's eyes, I swear. Lookit you, kiddo; we got pretty good genes for blending, huh? [A soft coo; he's probably wiggling fingers at the baby's face. Wolfwood's clearly gotten too used to this.] Lookit that. Hey there. Hey. You got your mama's personality, too, don't ya'?
[Noah giggles. There's a snort.]
Let's hope you got everything from her, huh...? Wolfwood's aren't known for their luck with... anything, I guess. Maybe one or two things, but they don't mean much. [A baby noise, and he let's the boy hold on strong to his fingers, off-screen.] You're strong though. In the way your mother is—not like me. And you won't ever have to worry about anyone treating you wrong while I'm around... Got it? No kid should ever have to feel like they don't belong; I know... I won't let it happen. Not again.
[A shuffle, as he picks Noah up, leans him against his shoulder. He closes his eyes. It's quiet for a long pause.]
Just... don't end up like papa. I've done too much to go back.
Just....
[...
The feed goes quiet. Answers to that won't show up for a good ten minutes.]
In terms of finding him...? Well, he's been volunteering to help at the Cloud Nine (has been off and on, but times have been pretty shakey, haven't they? He'll even have a drink or two before he leaves--nothing too big. It's still daylight and he's not a big drinker nowadays, even if he really, really wants to be.
He goes home, takes his turn to watch Noah. He takes the time to talk off and on, maybe write something to a question or two; usual business.]
[Written]
Welcome, welcome. Hope you guys didn't have a rough landing. Literally—how many of you fell out of the sky, got stuck in trees, the usual? I know the guide answers plenty enough, but hell, I got something else I wanted to offer.
If any of you want lessons on how to shoot a gun—how to take it apart, put it together, reload, just lemme know. Around here? We have plenty of reasons to have a gun. Especially if a bad shift hits. Or if we get assholes throwing dangerous temper tantrums at everyone else.
[When he stuffs the journal in his back pocket (it sits halfway out, like a newspaper in a paperboy bag; like he cares), he plops down beside the six-month-old baby and offers him a hand to grab It's about 30 or 40 minutes after his initial written message, and on par with the usual luck, sometime during his less guarded time with Noah the journal drops behind him on the floor—audio picks up a voice just distant enough to hear despite the muffling of the blanket.]
—geez, you really do got your mother's eyes, I swear. Lookit you, kiddo; we got pretty good genes for blending, huh? [A soft coo; he's probably wiggling fingers at the baby's face. Wolfwood's clearly gotten too used to this.] Lookit that. Hey there. Hey. You got your mama's personality, too, don't ya'?
[Noah giggles. There's a snort.]
Let's hope you got everything from her, huh...? Wolfwood's aren't known for their luck with... anything, I guess. Maybe one or two things, but they don't mean much. [A baby noise, and he let's the boy hold on strong to his fingers, off-screen.] You're strong though. In the way your mother is—not like me. And you won't ever have to worry about anyone treating you wrong while I'm around... Got it? No kid should ever have to feel like they don't belong; I know... I won't let it happen. Not again.
[A shuffle, as he picks Noah up, leans him against his shoulder. He closes his eyes. It's quiet for a long pause.]
Just... don't end up like papa. I've done too much to go back.
Just....
[...
The feed goes quiet. Answers to that won't show up for a good ten minutes.]