warmth in a meal
1200s, buyan • asa & koschei

"ssh, ssh," koschei hums out as he guides his horse into the walls of his kingdom. humans will eventually call the land many things in many times; but for now it is buyan, a home to more than one mystical creature. in particular, it's home to koschei and his consort. the firebird is what most people call him. and that was summarily apt, given that he indeed could become a bird of flame. not that koschei knew as such when he had first alighted on the steps at night to draw him away. he had come seeking a bride, and he had went away with one. there hadn't been more thought than that at the time. now, they'd been together (as much as two could be together when one was taken from his home) more than a few years. he had paid for what he had done (in politics, in fights), but in truth? it wasn't too heavy a price to pay. it wasn't comparable to what he felt as he goes through his kingdom, allowing the little servants to come and take his horse. his hands clutch the prize in his hand tightly, his form looking less and less skeletal, cleaved to his body as he goes. it looks more and more like a union of flesh and bone, healthier as he makes his way into his castle, into the yawning place that spiraled out in different directions. who he was looking for was going to be in the garden. koschei sheds his cloak, but keeps his still settling, more youthful form as he goes. his boots hardly disturb the floor as he makes his way, ignoring whatever missives arrive to him, ignoring much beyond adjusting the long jacket over his pants and boots. he only makes sure that he removes his gloves, places them carefully on the dresser he has before grasping the package. and to the gardens he goes, into the huge stretch of land. there are many trees here -- some native, some not -- a lake large enough to keep many entertained and his feet take him to the clearing he is looking for, the one with the nicest patch of sky, with a tree big enough for shade. he clears his throat, calling out, "asya?" there's a part of him that knows that the firebird could not be here. maybe flew off, decided to leave. he hopes that it isn't that as he opens the package he's carried with him. he's sure that asa will know that this is teas, plants and bowls he's brought with him. but that doesn't matter: what he did was bring it for him. "asya, i've come home," he says the words again, casting around, wondering if he might be in another form and secretly hoping for it.

It had been an interesting turn of events – a noble, meant for marriage to another, suddenly ripped away from all that had been and all that have could been to be the bride of another; but while there had been many who thought it a problem, a complication, a tragedy that there may not been a heir to the throne to come, Asa had found his engagement to Koschei to be … providing? Loving? Something he had expected his other, far more strict and staunch, to be? Which made the notion of flying away – something he could have readily done without fear of the cold – less considered, especially after the years to pass. Naturally there had been conflict and politics and trouble to come – to be expected under the circumstances and the lack of knowledge otherwise to what Koschei may have wanted and the aptly poor handed way he had gone about it – but there had always been the notion that he wasn’t bad. Sad, yes, Lonely, yes. Maybe a bit deranged, definitely, but as far as Asa had experienced, never bad which was why, when he heard his name, he hadn’t been miles upon miles away rather hit the ground in a fiery explosion before stepping out in a more human form, grabbing a robe resting nearby to cover himself when readily available. He could have run. He could have flown. He could have left and still, he was there, picking up a feather that remained. “Милый,” he says, eyes flicking down to the gifts, well aware of what they are but the scents that emanate from them, but it fails to be the focus point necessarily. Arguably, but most certainly spoiled, the bowls and plants and tea will certainly go to good use – some for their intended purpose, some food soups and stews and poultices which only serve to aid Koschei than harm. “You didn’t have to.”

Koschei didn't need sustenance at all, truly. No need to sleep, no need to drink, no need to eat. None of it mattered, he thought. He could go on living forever without any of it, could go on taking the next breath, propelled by the magic, the deal that animated his body. To him, he seemed fine. He had gone out, had come when he was summoned, had killed when needed, had spared a few here and there. He had come home to his firebride, they had been together for hours both in polite company of others and in the last few hours, not quite so. It was just that something was telling him, however distantly, he wasn't entirely fine. He's not sure as Asa's fingers card through his hair. He's sure he was trying to get him to calm down, to sleep earlier through both the company of each other and some of the teas. Except he wasn't tired so why was there a need to? He didn't mind waiting for Asa to reawaken, he didn't mind having to stay around the castle for awhile, so. Why? (Of course none of this acknowledges the irritation he'd had with a servant who had simply tripped on his cloak that he had turned into a scared little mouse with the snap of a finger. Or that he'd killed so many men earlier in the day that he had taken a long time to wash it out in the cold river that ran through Buyan. Or the fact that he had skewered an ally over being tardy by two minutes. Or that he had bluntly told a visiting witch that he would take her tongue if she didn't adjust her tone.) (Or the fact that he hadn't slept in what was climbing up to be months.) He doesn't think there's much to worry about as he lies in the bed, his cold, old bones soaking up the warmth Asa left. There's a twitch in his fingers, a need to get up and start pacing again the way he had done hours ago. Thinking of battle plans, of creatures that needed his attention, of things to be fixed. He doesn't see the way he looks closer to fifty than thirty three, the way his skin cleaves to bone. He has no reason to as in the kitchen, Jai frets a little even as Asa reassures him. "Are we sure it will work? To... poison him to sleep?" He glances around as domovoi scatter around or watch, utterly curious at the idea of a bride poisoning their master out of... care? "I know I've seen him come alive through other means. But this is powerful." He glances at the hemlock again, nervously.

"Where Jeremiah was calmly dealing with having a gun pointed at his head, Mimi was not. The anxious feelings that had driven him to up his dosage went into hyperdrive, stomach turning to battery acid, bile climbing up his throat in nervousness. For an American stick up, this wasn't so bad. This wasn't nearly as bad as any of the old Russian places he'd been to or stories from there. Downright almost polite as the men in front scowled at Jeremiah, keeping their guns completely trained on him. His hand shook, and he glanced between them, trying to figure what he could do, what he could say to help. What could he do? He wasn't that tall, he wasn't that strong even on a normal day. "Come on," the first guy backs up, beckoning to Jeremiah. "Move when I say move. Keep the hands up, and I'll come in." The other one turns around, and Mimi has the sick feeling that they might've seen Jeremiah acknowledge him. His elbow is grabbed, and he's dragged forward. "The quicker you move, the quicker we get out of here." The implication that they're going to drag Mimi with them makes his panic increase -- did they think they were going to end up in a shootout? "You should," Mimi stumbled, "I, you can have my phone--"

“As far as robberies went, at least this one was turning out to be pleasant, so far. Then again, the amount of robberies that Jeremiah could compare this one to was zero. He had been lucky not to endure this type of situation for so long; but he always felt like it was coming. The line of work and location were stacked against the odds of anyone just doing the right thing. Oftentimes, he would daydream about what he would actually do in a robbery while at work, seriously and then wildly. This moment was like neither of his scenarios and maybe he had the nerve to be disappointed. There was a heightened sense of concern when they singled Mimi out. They were not going to take him. Who taught these people how to do this? Why were they doing? Who were they doing it for? Basically, Jeremiah had questions for the people in charge because this was shameful. “Okay,” he agreed. “On one condition, you have to promise to leave him behind,” he insisted, gesturing to the scene unfolding. Conflict seized his entire mind between wanting to save Mimi, trying to justify why, on top of acknowledging the audacity of the men holding guns. A couple of different plans started to crop up as he moved when instructed. Jeremiah let them know that he was reaching for the keys inside his coat pocket in order to let one of them in. “Did you even accommodate for a hostage situation?” Once the door was unlocked and open, he stepped backwards as the intruder moved forward. “Or a murder situation? I am genuinely curious.” “Shut the fuck up,” the guy insisted, motioning to the register for Jeremiah to do his thing. “It’s none of your fucking business so just do what you are fucking told.” He shrugged, feeling very aggravated that they had the nerve to tell him to shut up. He moved up, leaning over the register as he always did to put in the correct action code for a shooting. Immediately, the till popped open as if nothing was different and he started to fill up the money bag with small bills first, then the larger ones. After it was zipped, he laid down on the counter and looked back at the man in charge. “Have a bag for the drugs? I doubt you want to run out of here with a tote.” Those things were heavy sometimes.

The more these guys 'worked', the more Mimi felt like this was going to spiral out of control. The way they were progressing felt like they didn't think of everything beforehand. And he had to admit, that taking a hostage? Felt stupid. Really, really stupid. (And you know; his life was on the line here.) As much as his anxiety was making him nervous, as awful as he felt, certain other things were starting to occur to him: just how loud Jeremiah tapping in the code on the register was; that he somehow, knew that the men's hearts were beating faster than they should have; that one of them was starting to sweat much more than needed. The comment about the bag at least, seems to refocus them for a moment. They clearly don't have much, and the looks between them are contemptuous. Wanting to make this easier on them, and on Jeremiah (how he was going through this on his own, this calmly, was beyond him), he offered, "You can have my bag. It's fine." The one gripping his elbow took a look at it. It wasn't that big, just an average sized backpack, with various pins. Many of which, Mimi didn't want to give up. If it got them through this faster, though, then fine. The man kept his gun trained on him, and started to struggle, trying to get it off of Mimi's shoulders, with shaking fingers, the sweat starting to drip down more and more. Mimi tries to help, tries to shrug it off as the first robber kept his eye on Jeremiah, hissing out, "Come on man, it's just a bag--" "Shut up--" One nervous finger pulls the trigger, gun still pointed square at Mimi's chest. His eyes widened as soon as the bang occured, bracing for impact-- --only for the scream that echoed to not be his, at all. Instead, to his shock, the man is the on who's got a bullet hole in his shoulder, shock on his face.

"What the fuck just happened? What were the odds of a gunman shooting Mimi just to have the bullet ricochet off his chest and strike him instead? ”Talk about a long way around of just shooting yourself,” was a thought that crossed his mind while he watched, wide eyed. He wanted to laugh, mostly at the situation and at the fact that what fear he had was fleeing. That pent up energy had to be expelled in some way but where would that leave the rage? It was very real that Mimi could have been fatally wounded, if not killed, and it was enough to force the anger to fully rise inside of Jeremiah. Once his brain was able to assess that his friend (yes, friend) was okay, he seized the opportunity to deal with the mook on his side. Even while distracted, the gunman managed to keep the weapon trained on him with a shaking hand. Eyes traveled to the items around him: register, phone, and anything of better use like sharp objects were on the other side of his counter. His mind flickered to a couple of different possibilities and then he dropped his hands to lunge for the assailant’s outstretched arm. His back was pressed to the man’s chest once he pulled him closer; and he used his left arm to loop it around his bicep, pinning the arm close to his sides. Nimble fingers on his right hand were clenched tightly around the wrist and Jeremiah used his strength to pull down on the gunman’s forearm to bend it in the opposite direction of the hinge joint. He could have stopped when the gun clattered to the ground and he kicked it away; but he was often times an angry, petty man. So he applied more pressure, stressing the joint as much as he could until he felt a closed fist clock the side of his head. His tall form staggered, letting go of the other man entirely as clutched the side of his head, blinking a few times. It was like a rush of adrenaline birthed a new person and he didn’t have the sense to let the guy just run away. “These guys ain’t right, we have to get out of here,” the man cried, holding his arm close while he scrambled to try and get out of the bullpen. Jeremiah grabbed the phone receiver, yanking it so hard that the chord gave way effortlessly. If he could, he was going to choke this fucker out.

He should be hurt. And… he wasn't? Mimi hadn't much time to process it, with the guy looking up at him in shock, blood still coming from his shoulder. The only evidence that the shot even happened was a burn hole on his hoodie, and even then, the sound of impact behind him (sounding almost as loud as the bullet itself for some reason he couldn't even fathom--) took more importance. The thought went like this: open the bullpen. Grab the guy away from Jeremiah. What actually happened, however, was that he was by the bullpen at a speed that, eventually, the cameras would hardly pick up. In the moment, he just knew that he was there, reaching out, trying to pull the guy away. He'd meant to pull the guy up and over the counter. It took a good moment to realize that as he grabbed the guy by the arm, and yanked it wasn't exactly normal to find a guy almost twice his size about as light as a sack of feathers. And even longer, once he'd let go, did Mimi realize that he had actually thrown him the length of the pharmacy, straight into the front. He hit the wall of cigarettes behind the front counter with enough force that Mimi brought his own hands up to his face in shock at the sound of the impact. "Oh shit, oh shit," the guy on the floor was echoing his own thoughts.

It took a second to register the fact that Mimi was capable without his help; and when he realized that he didn’t have to “save” anyone, he channeled his adrenaline fueled rage into something else. The guy was already trying to get away but the ringing in Jeremiah’s head cheered him on to go the extra mile. In a swift movement, he was on top of the other man with his knees digging into his back. His hands worked skillfully to wrap the phone cord around clenched fists and then he brought it in front of his neck. One single jerk caused a stressed gurgle to roll off his lips. He eased up, watching through a glazed expression as the robber’s forehead bounced off the floor. Again, he pulled back until he felt the body being yanked out from under him. It was probably for the best, honestly. An oddly misplaced, but genuine, laughter erupted from Jeremiah as he fell back against the counter. There was no one else in this spectacle but the four of them, everyone else seemed to fade into the background. He found himself actually cheering someone else on and he sat up on his knees to watch the guy fly through the hair. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed, echoing the sentiments around the place. “What the fuck?!” Eyes traveled from the front end to Mimi, his mouth gaping in what could pass as a smile. It didn’t escape him that time was running out and to avoid a run in with the authorities, he gestured for Mimi to tie them up. “Can you?” He was unsure of the limitations of his friend’s newfound abilities. “And I can take care of all this so you can get out of here,” he offered, rising to his feet.

"What the fuck," Mimi echoed, but it was more bewilderment than anything else. His mind was going a mile a moment, trying to understand what had just happened. The temptation to look down at his hands like he was an idiot was there -- the rest of his brain, however, remembered that getting in any tangle with the authorities wasn't good for him rather it was the publicity of being a super, having his name pop back in the names regarding his old case, and the general suspicion of authorities his father had impressed upon him as a child. "I… I mean, I guess?" His legs shook a little bit as he reached over to help Jeremiah up, mindful of his grip now, not wanting to harm him. "I can just… use some shoelaces or something." It was so fucking weird to do it, the guy on the floor still bleeding out as Mimi walked over to him. There was an urge to help him, but it was quickly buried under the stark fact that the man would have surely killed him by accident if all of this hadn't happened. It made it easier to untie the man's shoes, turn him around (ignoring the sounds of pain he made), and tying his hands behind his back and his feet. He picked him up -- again, marvelling at how weightless he felt -- and took him to the front, where the other man seemed to be knocked out cold. Repeating the same thing with him, he took the moment to also go through their pockets. Removing the guns, taking the knives they had to put in his own pocket (who was he to say no?), leaving the cash, and everything else around them. Once done, he made his way back to Jeremiah, picking up his things, taking a breath. "I think that's it? Fucking hell, what are you telling the cops?" His bag he dusted off, already beginning to tell that his brain was trying to detach from everything that had happened, stomach stirring uncomfortably.

Hindsight suggested that apprehending them might have been excessive (now that he could see the full extent of the damage dealt). Neither crook was going anywhere but now they had no reason to even think about it. Mimi’s quickness was fascinating but hard to see with the naked eye, so Jeremiah checked on his team. They were looking at him as if he were a ghost. “Y - you stopped the guy, saved -“ One of the tech’s words were cut short as he held up his hand, making a small tsk through clenched teeth. “Don’t,” he insisted. All he did was channel his anger in a less than healthy way, Mimi was the actual hero and the most intriguing. Questions were forming on the fly for his friend but not a single one was relevant to the experience they shared. Jeremiah looked at him, like the awe inspiring being that he was, and it took a second to register that he was talking. To make sure they were out of the camera’s line of sight, he motioned for Mimi to follow. He stopped, right next to the fire exit. Now, they were just in distinct shadowy figures but he had a plan for the footage anyway. “You don’t have to worry about the cops,” he stated, clearing his throat while trying to adjust his collar. “I’m going to tell them what happened. We were under attack and some brave citizen took it upon himself to intervene like it was god’s plan.” By no means was he religious but he knew how to play the card. A set of keys were fished from his pocket and he pulled a panned up on the door handle. “I’m going to turn off the alarm so you can get out of here, okay?”

God's plan. An almost unbelievable snort wanted to leave him at the mention of that. But the rest of him was quickly sapping of adrenaline, and Mimi could only feel relief as Jeremiah replied. "Okay. Just text me when you get home okay? I just want to make sure that you're safe." There was an urge to joke about finding who did it -- but it died in his throat as he heard the robber moan in pain. "I'll text you too, promise," Mimi glanced towards the outside, and grimaced. "Be careful!" Once the door opened, he gave Jeremiah one more concerned glance. And then was on his way, trying to walk as if he hadn't just performed something extra ordinary.