papadopoulos | (Reply)

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Claudius has been rather distant, of late. More appropriately, he's been absent. He's put in his appearances, gone about his routines, had ordinary but shallow conversations with people. He's pored obsessively over the pages of his dossier, tried to pick through the web of connections and relationships he's mapped there. He's softly recited the names aloud to himself, starting with A. But nothing ever comes together.

Truthfully, he doesn't even know what problem he's trying to solve. All his skills are useless now, and he's begun to think none of them were ever particularly useful. Knowing every flirtation and friendship, every grudge and motive for violence, didn't give him the ability to predict what happened. It won't help him prevent it from happening again. It's easier not to try anything, to freeze entirely, until the danger passes. And it may never pass.

Absently, he thinks he understands the chemistry here. In times of crisis, the sympathetic nervous system floods the body with the neurochemicals necessary to either fight or flee. There was no place to flee from this particular threat, which was his own yawning grief and helplessness, so he fled himself. Now he only moves in his body as an actor pacing through an empty stage, detached from his own feelings. Today he wanders down to the cafe, to put in an appearance, to keep up a routine.

But the cafe is different, today. Claudius notices the colorful flags hung on high, like at an embassy, and listens to the sound of Cole Porter playing. I truly am never going to dance with that boy, am I? It's the strongest emotion he's felt in days, and he doesn't like it. But he feels briefly connected to himself again, as a thing that sees and hears, with a heart can be moved by music.