No Love Lost [Open]

“Nantan?”

Atticus blinked, but his hesitation lasted only a moment. With the lorikeet still clinging to one of his fingers—her jeweled eyes squinted at Nantan as she cocked her head, feathers unsettled—he raised the hand that had been shielding her and shoved a few bangs out of his eyes. “Not expecting that,” he mumbled. Not that running into Nantan, here of all places, was a bad thing. But it occurred to Atticus that at this hour, Nantan would normally be at the office, filing paperwork or otherwise absorbed with a client or law enforcement officer. Business, especially law, required a lot of time and effort. Atticus however, had reached that magical point in his career where he was not constantly required at the tattoo parlor to keep things running smoothly. His assistants were fully capable of maintaining the ink, customers and general inventory while he was gone—and if they didn’t, he’d kick their ass and throw them out the door when he came back.

No big deal.

Atticus looked around for a moment; he hadn’t bothered to bring a watch with him. He was due at Bleeding Ink in an hour or so to follow up with an appointment. Yet another perk of reaching a state of mastery in this art—his clientele often had to schedule their visits if they were looking for quality work from him and not from one of his assistants. “Day off at the office?” Atticus asked casually as his thoughts dispersed, gaze dropping to the small bird in his hands. Another small smile played across his face when his gaze flicked up again. Nantan definitely seemed like an animal person, so it didn’t really shock him that his little Empress seemed to be inching her way across his fingertips to get a closer look at his friend, charmed. Once she had her fill, Atticus briefly lifted her up so that she was level with his own face and broke out with another chuckle as she leaned forward and touched her beak to his nose in a gesture of gentle affection.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said to Nantan a moment later, eyes flashing and a smooth smirk replacing the smile as he observed her jaded feathers. “This is probably the last place you’d expect to see me. But this girl’s had her eye on me for some time. No matter how hard I try, she keeps dragging me back. Women,” he huffed matter-of-factly. A thoughtful glint entered his eye as he traced a finger over the lorikeet’s feathers. “Or maybe it’s just love; love that’s more than love, that’s got nothin’ to do with what or who we think we are, that makes us do things we wouldn’t normally do—yeah. That’s what it is. The kind of crap that can be so damn annoying sometimes,” he chided. However, the playfulness in his gaze betrayed him. Even as he said it, there was a hint of mischief behind those words, as if he didn’t quite believe it. Maybe this was what customers sometimes sensed in Atticus when they sat in his parlor and spilled their hearts with their words, how some of them whined, pined or grieved like lost souls searching for a hand—any hand—to reach down and help them up again. But words, like ink, could run. People complained so much they might as well leak poison—and the way Atticus figured it, they looked to him to purify—justify—their wounds. Which he couldn’t do. Hell, he couldn’t reason, much less right his own hurt. But there were hints of wisdom in Atticus, obscure and valuable like rare gems. They were simply guarded by a sleeping dragon, and he could not seem to let them slip from his claws easily.

“Here. She seems to be a one-man bird, but she loves that stuff more than she loves me,” he finally added. Noticing the nectar Nantan had brought with him, Atticus gently handed over his lorikeet.

There was a fleeting second where, as he entrusted her to Nantan, he stared into the all-seeing-eye tattooed into the skin of his palm. Its judgment smacked of impertinence. He frowned. Sometimes when he looked at that carefully drawn symbol, it’s bold, almost fiery lines entranced him—sucked him in—his gaze mellowed. He seemed to stiffen and brace himself against something—and that was when the reminder barreled into him like a bellowing bull. Inwardly, he cringed.

Once upon a time he would have come here with her, and she would be the one obsessed with the birds while he looked on in boredom, hungry for a smoke but knowing he couldn’t have one. There were rules here. No smoking allowed, he thought, remembering the bark of one of the bird keepers.

Atticus furled that same hand into a fist and shoved it into his jacket. Just like that, the memory was gone; it left an emptiness inside him that made him wish he could take out his pipe and satiate it with tobacco. It had all happened so quickly he doubted Nantan had noticed much of a difference—but for once he felt the need to explain. At least, a little.

“I used to come here with a friend,” he admitted under his breath. “A long time ago." Atticus paused. His brow furrowed, briefly. "She liked the birds more than I did back then.” Another chuckle, which helped him to relax again. “They used to shit all over my clothes. Not fun, trying to wash it out.”

Time Stamp: April 25th, 3:40ish
Notes: Yay. Finally. A post from me.

Ah, well that explained it. “You’re lucky you caught me, then,” he grunted. “I can’t be away from the parlor too long either.” Now he remembered. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. Atticus had forgotten the incident that had gone on not too long ago in the general area of those offices. He’d glimpsed something about in the paper, but hadn’t bothered to do much more than skim the details because as usual, the depressing crap reported in the media didn’t merit much of an effect on his own standing at the shop. Any local would admit that LA received its fair share of good and bad anyway—it just seemed that the bad was pummeling the citizens more often these days. Rather than wallow in despair, Atticus decided to ignore it. What happened, happened. Life moved on regardless of whether or not he cared about the small details. And there wasn’t much anybody could do these days to keep discord at bay anyway.

However, what Nantan suggested jarred Atticus out of those thoughts. “Meet her?” he parroted.

Atticus’ eyes lit up fiercely, a sudden grin breaking his somber mood and a laugh pushing up his chest. He accepted his Empress back willingly, but this new vigor did not seem to be caused by the lorikeet. As soon as she was back in his hand, she spread her wings, the light catching her feathers and giving them an ethereal glow, like sun soaked jewels. Instead of flying away to reunite with the rest of the flock, she settled on Atticus’ shoulder and bunkered down in the small gap between his black jacket collar and his neck; he could feel the brush of her feathers against his skin as she shifted around. Finally, she promptly began preening and sifting her beak over her vibrant body, completely disregarding the two men and their conversation. Fair enough, he thought. Atticus raised his hand to his lower jaw, so accustomed to her presence that he didn’t even reach up to remove, or reward her with attention. “Nantan,” he said, a breath of a laugh still in his voice, “don’t take this the wrong way. But she wouldn’t have liked you.”

He paused and his smirk grew. “Too timid,” he explained. “And too much empty passion about yourself.” Atticus held up his hand to ward off an objection before Nantan could voice it. “That’s not to say you’re fake. When you typically say you’ll do something, you mean it. You obviously wouldn’t go into law if you weren’t determined about it. But she’s the kind of person that peels past that layer—sees and notices things that you don’t want noticed. Weakness. Fear. Loneliness.” Atticus shrugged his shoulders. The Empress hardly seemed fazed. She gave a quick shiver of her wings and then settled again. “She’ll tell you like it is and make you confront it. She’s a terrifying woman,” he added, smiling, amused. “A wildfire, but tempered with humility and patience.” Clearly, he also thought very highly of her.

Atticus walked forward a few steps, stopping in front of a metal railing that kept visitors from venturing out into the nesting section of the aviary. He slid his hands back into his pockets and observed the plethora of trees and singing birds.

“I’ll let you in on a secret. She didn't like me at first either. She saw a few things in me once that were…ugly,” he admitted. Worse yet, she was right. “You know those kids you see that are always gunning for fight?" Atticus continued. "That was me. I was angry all the time. All the time, Nantan," he stressed. "And drunk. Frequently.” He snorted. “And then one day I made a mistake and being the person she was, she forced me to confront it; if I wanted a fight, I’d get one.” Atticus raised a brow and hesitated before adding, “You should have bought tickets—you’d have laughed.” His brow furrowed and he shook his head, a steel-like quality hardening his eyes. “That fight was sadder than watchin’ a one legged man in an ass kickin’ contest. She bulldozed all up and down my sorry ass. Broke my arm and everything.” He lifted a hand and waved it through the air in aggravation, glancing over at Nantan. “…but it was what I needed—and I think that’s why she wouldn’t like you. No offense, Nantan, but you’re not the most confrontational person, at least not what I’ve seen of you.” His gaze flicked back to the trees. “You’re too nice—and while you might be willing to stand up and court and support your decisions passionately, you won’t confront yourself, and that's what matters to her. Most people don’t, actually, so don't take it badly. We pick up other means to distract ourselves—like booze—and ignore our mistakes. Our fears.”

Atticus paused, a thoughtful glint in his eye.

“No, she wouldn’t have liked you at first. But then, I think, given the chance to prove yourself, you would have earned her respect,” he added. “You’re tougher than you look. You just don’t know it.”

Time Stamp: April 25th 3:50ish
Notes: N/A

Atticus slid his gaze in Nantan’s direction, his amusement at the situation only growing, his smile developing into a smirk. In fact, a small breath left his chest that might have been the beginning of a laugh, which he let disperse into a bemused sigh so that it wouldn’t further offend his friend. It was hilarious, actually, to play witness to this; in all the time that Atticus had known Nantan, he couldn’t remember an instant where Nantan had taken such a defensive, and almost flustered, stance against something that Atticus said. In a small way, it was petulant. Shame too—it almost seemed at first as if Nantan had stiffened out of shock, or revelation—because he might have learned something about himself. Oh well. Atticus It wasn’t so much Atticus’ words as they were hers. In his weaker moments he would often admit that his softer side surfaced because of her, but the moment had passed. All that Atticus could do now was offer a half hearted shrug to the last thing that Nantan said.

“Whatever you say, Nantan,” Atticus said pleasantly, looking across the aviary. In spite of the tension that seemed to have seized his friend, time moved on; the birds sang, and spectators of all shapes and sizes walked by without a care. “They’re just words, Nantan, and they weren’t my words,” Atticus began to explain, “not really.” He crossed his arms over his chest and continued to look anywhere else, but at Nantan. Atticus wasn’t sure if he could—he might rise to the challenge of Nantan’s implications. Still. Something about the talk felt good to him. “They would have been someone else’s, actually but it’s no skin off my back. Get as angry as you want; I won’t tell her about it. Will I?” He grinned playfully, more or less addressing the last question to his little Empress, still nesting on his shoulder. As gently as he could, Atticus reached up, scooped her onto his palm—much to her aggravation—and covered her with his other hand. “I’m no saint myself,” Atticus said to no one in particular. “And there’s too damn much to learn.”

After a few seconds of waiting, he finally opened his hand, freeing the lorikeet that had been trapped under his fingers. She threw him an unhappy whistle and retreated for the cover of the trees, at last growing tired of his company. The last he saw of her, his little Empress’ jeweled wings were glittering amongst the foliage before she vanished entirely amongst a sea of leaves and birds.

“By the way, Nantan.” Atticus tucked his hands into his jacket pocket, his gaze darkening. Finally, there seemed to be a sour note poisoning the amusement he felt before. There was also a slight rigidness in his shoulders. “I never won.” He’d leave it up to his friend to figure out what he meant by that, as Atticus quickly dropped the subject, shaking off the darker feelings that flickered to life a moment ago. He could not however, keep the stern edge out of his voice; he hadn't quite reached a level of anger, but there was irritation there. “Nantan. Relax. This isn’t the courthouse, you’re not on trial.” Atticus paused, lifted his gaze and raised a brow. He shrugged. “Like I said, she judged me just as much, only in my case, she was right. And women are women. They’ve got opinions,” he added, then paused. “A lot of them, actually.” Another pause, followed by a small frown. “All the time.” His gaze fell a bit and his frown deepened. “Hard to…keep up with them all, actually,” he growled, before clearing his throat and looking away. “Anyway, thank god my friend was better at noticing shit like that than I was. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t be standing here right now. My ass would be in jail or ten feet underground." It wasn't that hard to explain how Atticus knew that was the truth either, but he refused to say anything else.

There was a moment where he froze, thinking, lost again in a time where he might have been standing at this exact spot, growling in her ear that they had more important things to do than watch birds. He had always meant it more as a joke, but he could never quite seem to escape the aggravated, almost critical, flash in her eyes that made him laugh and quicken his heart. But even memories like those, so full of color, and connection, faded. Atticus would watch from the sidelines as his old self lifted his hands in an offering of peace, unable to keep his smirk at bay, the amusement hidden in his words and dancing in his eyes.

All right, all right, he had relented. We'll stay.

And then in his mind, the moment passed. The color drained; there was nothing but his own heartbeat, so slow, angry, and left behind.

...

Atticus closed his eyes and turned away from Nantan. The lorikeet forest might be singing, but it felt as if a rhythm inside of him had faded a little. "I'd suggest you'd think on it," he said lowly. "As for me...I think it's time I go. I've done enough thinking for one day." His gaze skimmed over his shoulder and back to Nantan. "Shop opens soon again, anyway." He paused and raised a hand up to slide it over his face. "Enjoy your time off, Nantan. I'm sure once they fix that place up, you won't even have time to tie your own damn shoes. So be happy with what you got," he joked, though perhaps that advice could be taken in multiple ways. He shrugged halfheartedly. Sometimes Atticus had his helpful moments.

And others.

Well, other times he just needed a drink.

Time Stamp: April 25th, 2012
Notes: Edited Post.