Darling Disarray

@darlingdisarray.bsky.social

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Name's Ryan. Your Friendly Neighborhood Goth Nerd. Writes about Temporally Displaced Romans and the Frazzled Post-Punk Loving Grad Students Who's Kitchens They Appear In. Sometimes I Make Things. She/Her. Ace. Feanorian Fangirl & Orkney Brothers Apologist.

me, dressed in a layered outfit thrown together from my closet for a costume for the local renfaire. kinda witchy vibes, layered skirts and scarves, corset belt, pointy shoes, jewlery and all.
“Duo milia anni.” was all she replied, all she could say. Words would not get her point across, not the words that they both had between them, anyway. So instead she pulled up another search on her phone. Brought up Rome, brought up the Colosseum, the Forum, Tajan’s Column, the ruins set amid the still bustling city. She handed him her phone. Let him look. Let him see. His hands were shaking as he took it. She could see him trying, so desperately, to grasp to his own composure. His head fell against the backrest. “Duo milia anni.” “Hey! Hey --” Oh, god help her. The last thing he probably wanted was to hear from her, lying there, his breath shaking and shallow as he took in that concept. Two thousand years… “Hey, it’s…it’s going to be okay” He rolled his head towards her, facing her. Giving her a flat look. “No.” She said, “I mean it. We.” she gestured between them, “ We’ll get you back…” Glancing around the room, she picked up her phone again, gently pulling it from Marcus’s grasp. She brought up another picture, an illustration of Rome in its prime, the forum alive with people again. “You” she gestured to him, and then her phone again, “you’ll go home.” A silence again as he pierced her meaning together. Then a short, butter snort. “You’re here aren’t you? Tu hic?” His eyes darted sideways, lips tugging to the side. “Sum Hic.” he admitted. And that was impossible enough on its own wasn’t it?
She could see it though in the way he held himself. It wasnt…’relaxed’ wasn’t the right word. He was very much relaxed --or maybe better to say ‘at rest.’ Casual, maybe, that was it. He wasn’t casual. It wasn’t the easy, salt-of-the-earth charm or ease of you regular small town new england mayor, not really. There was more…a presence -- an awareness of that presence -- in the way that he held himself. The quiet ease of a man who knew he was one of the most powerful men in the room, and felt no need to prove it. Gravitas she was sure he would have called it. He wore a suit. Navy blue with a crisp white shirt, with a tie and pocket square, both a deep imperial purple. She’d never noticed before, of course -- did he ever wear red or blue? Or was it always… Christine shook her head, only then registering the pair of eyes taking her in, measuring her up in that moment. Because of course she wasn’t the only one taking in the sight before her.
A collection of various items for crafting, including a jump ring kit, a box of pop-tabs and a couple of sets of pliers
Christine’s breath came in sharp. “That’s…that’s incredible.” Something almost wistful touched Michael’s features. “It is record of a life lived.” he said, tucking the seal away, into it’s compartment again. “A rare one. As I said, time often has a way of stealing things away. Objects, People become…lost…” He looked up, eyes resting on her. And she saw it, that thing she couldn’t help but recognize. The reason he was here, why she was, why any of the museum’s staff were. That longing to hear another language, long forgotten. To reach out and be able to know, really know another time. To touch it. To speak to and hear one of those forgotten, lost voices. For an instant she almost felt safe enough, even to tell him the truth. For an instant he looked as though he couldn’t possibly not believe her, if she did.
“You’re upset,” she observed. “Hrmmm?” his gaze flickered up. He blinked at her, still standing over the seals. “You're upset.” She said again. “Frustrated. Have a few choice words for Fen if I’d have to guess, too.” “I am fine.” Pushing himself more fully upright, he shook his head. “What are you talking about?” “You turn into a poet when something’s gotten under your skin." “And you’ve seen me allow anything to get ‘under my skin?’” He repeated, fingers curling around the edge of the Bullae drawer as his weight pressed into the table, now fully turned to face her. “You don't think you have, but you can see it if you know what to look for.” “And you do?” If anything, Michael's expression only became more incredulous. “Like I said, you turn into a poet.” Christine shrugged. “I’ve heard your end of enough difficult phone conversations. Like back in your office, earlier.”