annebonny | Marked Passage // for Greta, Eliot, and Jack

Entry tags:

Marked Passage // for Greta, Eliot, and Jack

26 December, 2019

There is an idea Anne's been turning over and over in her head for a long while now. Nearly two months. It took time to form and longer to grow into the sort of thing she was inclined to consider, but she's patient. Of course, in all that time she never quite manages to feel certain about it, which means she leaves it down to the last.

It's the day after Christmas that she ventures out into the snow and awful cold to Greta's cottage. She regrets it for the better part of the journey, her gloved hands stuffed beneath her armpits, but she is stubborn, and she continues forward. Jack's gone out, and she don't know when he'll be back, though knowing him it'll be a while. Everything was goddamn closed for Christmas; the whole world stopped running. It was fucking strange. And Jack was curious about it all, like he always is, but he was also just as nettled he couldn't go to the library.

So Anne figures she has some time. She reaches Greta's door and extricates one of her hands, teeth chattering faintly as she knocks.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The day after Christmas tends to be more relaxing than the day itself, in Greta's experience. Saoirse and Regan both have new gifts to keep them busy, there are enough leftovers that there's no real pressure to cook. The only thing resembling a chore to worry about is chucking all the detritus from unwrapping presents.

It's such a stay-in sort of day that Greta stares at the door incredulously for a beat or two after she hears the knock. She isn't expecting company, and her first thought is that it might be one of the neighbors come to tell her the chickens have escaped, or something. God, that's just what they need, a bit of bird wrangling out in the cold. She sighs to herself as she goes to the door, then blinks in surprise when opening it reveals a rather miserable-looking Anne Bonny.

"Anne?" Well, if anyone was going to show up without thinking to text first, she supposes it would be her. "I—goodness, come in, you look freezing." She steps back to admit her, shutting the door against the cold as Sadie and Cu wander up to say hello, tails wagging. "D'you want some tea?" Anne's dressed for the weather, at least, but Greta's gathered that she lived most of her life in far warmer climes than this one. It can't be an easy adjustment.

Anne steps inside as soon as the door's been opened wider, relieved and grateful for the invitation. It's much warmer inside, but she's already learned how much the cold lingers, how it sometimes hurts to warm up. And she don't intend to stay long. In fact she wants to deny the offer of tea, and nearly does before realizing there's no good reason she can offer. She came here to ask Greta a question, and if there's anything to be done after that, it's not really up to her. Not like she came here to just whisk Greta away without her say so.

"Yeah, all right," she says in a harried mutter that indicates she could really take or leave it. Tea's still sort of a novelty but she don't feel so strongly about it as some seem to. She follows Greta to the kitchen, hesitant but knowing she's got to explain herself.

"Last time I was here," she says, and it was a while ago now, "the party for your girl's birthday." It's not a question, but it is the subject of her question, and she stalls a moment before she asks, "Are those only for kids? Do people do something once they're grown, too?"

Greta goes about putting the kettle on and pulling down an inoffensive herbal blend that always helps her feel a bit more human after she's been out in the cold for a while. Hopefully Anne will have the patience for it. She seems restless, like there's something specific on her mind, and Greta can't even begin to imagine what it would be, on today of all days. But then, maybe they don't have Christmas where Anne's from, and she just wants to know if there are other dates she should mark so she won't be blindsided the next time most of the city shuts down.

The question that does emerge is a surprise, and for a few bewildering moments Greta wonders if Anne's got an odd but not entirely bewildering misconception of what yesterday was all about.

"They can, if they like," she answers. "It's more common for children to have birthday parties, but you could throw one for anyone, really. Assuming they'd like one." They'd thrown one for Thomas, what feels like a lifetime ago, after the rather sad realization that he'd never really had one, before. But she'd as soon avoid the fuss, personally, so she can understand why anyone over a certain age would prefer not to bother.

Anne frowns thoughtfully, looking vaguely toward the table as Greta explains. It's a helpful answer, though it doesn't entirely solve her current problem, if it is a problem. She hadn't really thought to ask if a party was desired, doesn't know what the answer would be, and now... well, now it's really just a decision that's got to get made.

"Today's Jack's birthday," she says. "I... I dunno if he'd want one or not. But he's never had one before. That kind of thing don't really matter to anyone back home. I just thought..."

She trails off, not entirely sure what she thought. She lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug. "I... think he might want to see what it's like," she says, not quite able to meet Greta's eyes. It's not the whole truth. Yes, Jack is curious and he likes experiencing new shit, but she can't say how important this would be to him. It's just as much that she wants to do something nice for him, to mark the day if nothing else, and she's got no other ideas. "I just... don't know how to do it," she admits.

"Today?" Greta repeats, unable to keep a hint of incredulity creeping into her tone. Even with Thomas's birthday, there'd been substantial planning involved; she and Saoirse had conspired together for over a week. Granted, that was with the awareness that Thomas knew what a standard (for Darrow) birthday party consisted of. It's not that he had any expectations, but he would have recognized something slapdash. And while Anne had attended Saoirse's party, Jack had not. He might have no idea at all of what a normal birthday party entails.

Still, though. Day of is a bit of a pinch.

But Anne is asking for help. And while Greta doesn't know her that well, she doubts it's the sort of thing she does readily.

"Well," she considers as she pours them each a cup, "if he's never had one before, and isn't expecting one, besides, then it might be best to start simple. A cake, maybe a few gifts." She glances over at Anne. "Have you got him anything?"

Anne darts a look at Greta, wanting to defend herself but knowing there is little to defend. This is the shortest of notice and she has no plan outside what's already occurred. But she ain't asking for a whole fuss like there was for Saoirse. Just something.

Greta's quick to settle on that herself, though, and Anne relaxes a bit. At the question, she looks back down at the table, at the cup of tea she's meant to take. She remembers all the gifts Saoirse'd had, and it had all seemed so extravagant, so much for one little girl. At best, throughout the years, she and Jack had given each other anything from a piece of stolen fruit to a quick fuck, but nothing that might be wrapped in colorful paper. And now, none of that seems right, not for this.

"I haven't..." she mumbles, fidgeting a bit with her rings. "The sort of things we usually get each other, it's all shit we can buy now. Food, or a better knife, or..." She shrugs, ducking her face down to hide it beneath her hat. "I think just putting something together'd be enough. Just to mark the day. S'never been like that for us." She hesitates, then looks back up, finally meeting Greta's eyes. "Never had a proper cake before. Don't need to be anything fancy, just..."

This is a mistake. She shouldn't be asking Greta for help when this is hardly Greta's problem, when she's had no warning. Anne steps back swiftly, her hands flying up as if to erase the whole thing.

"You don't have to—I just wanted to ask, is all," she says hastily.

Well, she could try to explain that sometimes it's just about buying someone something they might like but wouldn't want to spend money on, or something nice that they don't strictly need. But Anne knows Jack far better than she does. And — more to the point, really — if Anne doesn't want to bother about adding gifts to the mix, better to let that be than insist on complicating matters more than they need to.

She already has some reassurance half-brewed when Anne steps back suddenly, lifting her hands in a dismissive gesture and insisting Greta needn't involve herself, which... well, she'd admittedly been looking forward to a quieter day than it's turning out to be, but she doesn't want to send Anne packing with nothing to show for herself.

"No, no," she hastily insists, her own hand lifting in a pacifying sort of way. "I think that sounds like a lovely idea. And a cake isn't that difficult, really." Thank goodness for Bake-Off; the idea of throwing something together under pressure is far less daunting than it might have been otherwise. "I'd be happy to help."

She pauses long enough to let that sink in, then continues, "What sort of flavors does he like? Chocolate and vanilla are popular for cakes, but we could do ginger or something else easily enough."

Anne stills, relaxes a bit when Greta promises it's no trouble. She still feels uneasy about this whole thing. She had no plan, and it ain't right to put that on Greta. But Greta's willing, and... well. Anne needs the help, and she wants to give Jack something good.

The question about cakes is enough to pull her focus to something more certain, though she has no idea how to answer it. Vanilla catches her off guard. She's dimly aware that people with money to spend on decadence might have vanilla cakes, but it doesn't sound real to her.

"W-we usually just have the kind with fruit in," she says. She frowns, wondering if she ought to get Jack something that'll be familiar, or something new.

He does like new things. That was the whole idea, wasn't it?

"Is vanilla... is that expensive?" she asks a bit timidly.

"It depends on how you buy it," Greta explains with a small but hopefully reassuring smile. She understands why Anne is asking, and compared to some of the other offerings in the spice aisle, vanilla is rather expensive. But she already has some extract in the cupboard. And if all Anne wanted to buy was boxed cake mix to try out on her own, it wouldn't shatter the budget. "They sell cake mix at the store — perhaps you've already seen it — and that doesn't cost so much. All you have to do is add water and eggs and give it a stir, and it's ready to pop in the oven. Now, vanilla extract..." Greta holds up a finger in a 'one moment' gesture and goes to fetch it, returning a moment later with a small, dark bottle in hand. "This costs a bit more, though a little of it goes a terribly long way."

She pauses for a moment, giving Anne a considering look before unscrewing the cap. "Here, would you like to smell it? It's concentrated, so it packs a bit of a wallop — tastes awful, too, until you mix it in with a large amount of something else. But you can at least get a sense of it."

Anne waits, watching curiously, while Greta goes and gets her little bottle of vanilla. She hesitates as it's offered to her, as she's invited to smell, and then reaches out slowly to take the bottle, lifting it to get a gentle, cautious whiff.

She wrinkles her nose and recoils marginally — Greta was certainly not overstating how strong it'd be — and hands the bottle back to her. "Fuck, that's sweet," she says, though she decides it's not a bad thing. Just surprising. Greta's a baker; she knows what to do. And the idea of getting Jack a vanilla cake has a certain appeal.

"That's good," she says a bit firmly, and she softens at once, but can't think of anything else to say. She thinks she'd feel better if they just got round to it, but she supposes waiting for Greta to decide that for herself.

Greta awaits Anne's verdict with her eyebrows slightly raised. It sounded as Anne had never personally experienced vanilla before, and it only fair to give her some idea of what she's getting into. She might not even like it; goodness knows that most of the children at the Gardens seem to view vanilla as a companion flavor to something like chocolate and not something to be enjoyed on its own merits.

But Anne, after an initial, startled recoil that Greta really can't blame her for, decrees that it's good in a tone that sounds certain enough to be getting on with.

"We could have fruit jam between the layers," she suggests as she takes back the bottle. "Add a little tartness to offset the sweet. Nothing too complicated, but it'd taste lovely, I'm sure."

After a brief, considering pause, she adds, "Could just make it here, and then take it to him."

Anne nods, relieved Greta's making suggestions, eager to get moving. "Yeah, all right," she says, shifting her weight in anticipation of leaving, and then going still when Greta suggests making the cake here. She's not sure what to say. She'd imagined Greta going with her, doing the work at their place, and now that seems like a ridiculous presumption. Of course Greta would want to do it here. This is where she works. She and Jack don't have all the shit she'll need.

But she don't know when Jack's getting home, and she hates the idea of him going into an empty room, no idea where she'd gone.

"Jack's gone out," she blurts. "Don't know where I've gone. Could be back anytime. I should be there when he — But we don't have any of the..." She jerks her chin toward Greta's kitchen and looks away, grunting. "You stay and make it here," she says decisively. "Bring it over when it's done, yeah? I'll go and... wait."

There's more she wants to do. Make the place look nice, maybe. Something. But she's not about to haul Greta out, not when she's already doing a massive favor.

"Er," Greta starts, at first thinking to suggest that Anne simply text him. But there might not be anything simple about that; she doesn't know if they typically communicate in such a fashion, and there's a bit of a learning curve if they haven't. And while Anne says they've never really marked his birthday before, it still might be notably odd that she's out and about on her own, and there's no sense in spoiling the surprise.

Besides, the issue is elbowed roughly aside by the realization that it will apparently just be the three of them, and Greta blinks, startled. "Oh, is it—will it just be us, then? Does he have any other friends who might, er, want to know what's going on?"

It's not that she's intimidated by the thought of it just being the three of them, but it does seem like an awkward midpoint between a gathering of his closest friends (and she certainly doesn't qualify as such) and a more casual get-together. It doesn't have to be too lively, but god, she doesn't fancy being the third wheel.

The question is a pointed one, and it stops Anne short. Shit, she should have thought about this. Can't just be her and Greta. Jack barely knows Greta, not well enough for her to be a particular friend. Anne doesn't know exactly how many of the people he's met and told her about would be considered friends. All apart from one.

Shit.

"Yeah," she mutters. "Yeah, there's someone else. I can... I'll go and get him. You'll be all right?"

She's not exactly sure how Greta wouldn't be all right, doing the thing she's good at, but it feels like she ought to ask.

"I'll be fine," Greta reassures her immediately. She wouldn't necessarily classify this as a low-stakes sort of bake — someone's first birthday cake is no small thing, even if the someone is a fully grown adult and a pirate, besides — but at least the cake itself will be simple enough. There's no need to get fancy with it, especially when she's going to have to transport it safely to their apartment once she's done with it.

"Give me... oh, an hour and a half, maybe. I should be able to head to yours by then." Greta absently smooths her hands over her skirt and glances back at her kitchen, her thoughts already ticking ahead to what needs to be done. Turning back to Anne, she adds, "I'll give you a call before I leave here."

Anne nods and turns away, the urge to get moving and get this all sorted still very strong even with the amount of time Greta's given her. She only makes it a few steps before she stops, glancing back briefly.

"Thanks," she says, hesitating like she's not sure it's the right word to say. She turns back before Greta can respond and hurries back out into the cold.

She knows where to find Eliot. Jack's told her about the place he works, where they have all the documents about them. She makes it back into the city itself before rifling the map out of her pocket and staring at it for a while, shivering in the cold. Wouldn't be too far if it weren't so fucking cold.

She considers the option that's been suggested to her a few times now, finding a car that'll take her where she wants to go, but as usual she rejects the idea. Hates it more than she hates the cold, the thought of getting into that little machine with a stranger at the wheel.

So she walks. She has a warmer coat and gloves and a scarf, all the things Jack got her to help keep the winter out of her bones, but it never feels like enough. She digs her hands deep into her pockets and pulls the coat closer around her, but he's so hunched and chilled that her shoulders ache by the time she finally makes it to the unassuming little establishment called The Archive.

She goes inside. Eliot is there, talking to a shorter, rounder man she's never seen before. That is turned toward her, and he stops at once, looking at her and saying, "Oh, hullo, can I help you?"

She ignores him. This is probably the 'Martin' Jack has mentioned, and she knows he is timid and unimportant. She jerks her chin at Eliot. "You. With me, now."

Edited 2020-03-12 23:51 (UTC)

"I mean it's a touching gesture of course," Eliot says, gesturing to the depressing little fire hazard Martin's installed in the office, "but how long exactly were you planning on playing Charlie Brown, here? It's just a tree, or what's left of one, you're not going to hurt its feelings if we dump it."

Martin looks like he's about to issue some huffy managerial protest or proclamation, but then someone's at the door, and Eliot feels a wave of gratitude to whoever decided to come here the day after Christmas, of all times, for sparing him the lecture.

And then he turns and...it's Anne. Anne, looking more aggravated than Eliot's ever seen her before, and issuing the sort of demand that he can't ignore.

"Uh," he stammers by way of answer, "are you--am I going to get murdered? Are you taking me off to kill me, is that, is that what's happening now?" Eliot laughs a little at the end of the question, because he hopes it's a joke. He needs it to be a joke, because otherwise he's legitimately a little scared of her. She just looks so serious. Anne has no sensible reason to be here, she certainly doesn't like him, Eliot's sure, and she wouldn't come looking for him unless...

He feels a chill, and tells himself it's because Anne's standing in the open doorway. He endeavors to keep the slightly manic smile on his face as he moves around Martin to get his coat. "If I don't text back in an hour or so," Eliot nods to him, tone light, "I don't know, ask Daisy to come find my body or something."

But he can't keep up the act, and lets out a shaky sigh as he steps outside. "Anne, is...did something happen?"

"It's only the day after," Martin manages to squawk before their collective attention fixes on Anne. Anne keeps her eyes on Eliot, and his questions set her scowling. She's ready to snap at him to stop being such a coward when his whole demeanor changes and he starts getting his coat and giving Martin some kind of contingency warning.

"Wait, what?" the little man sputters. "Eliot—"

"No one's gonna find your body," she snaps. "If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already."

She can hear some sort of faint high pitch coming from Martin but she doesn't bother looking back as she shuffles outside, back into the cold before she even had time to warm halfway up.

She's not expecting Eliot's next question, or rather the way he asks it, and she hesitates, looking at him from a wary distance. "S'Jack's birthday," she grunts, tipping her head back down. "Need your help."

Hopefully that'll suffice. She walks on.

He's not entirely surprised by Anne's statement of her murder skills, and he gives her a grim sort of nod. But Eliot still can't conceive of a reason why she would come abduct him unless something horrible had happened, which is why he had to ask, and then when the answer comes it takes several seconds to register.

"Wait," he says, stopping still for a moment before hurrying to keep up with her determined pace. He stumbles a little as he catches up. "His what?" the stress and worry that had been building in him abruptly dissipate, and Eliot finds himself a little dizzy. She can't be serious. "Like, wait you say you need my help, like it's today? Today today?"

Well, it still seems like a crisis of some kind, but at least one he should be capable of dealing with. "So what's the plan?"

She glances up at him as he lopes up beside her, a bewildered little scowl crossing her features. The hell's still got him so stirred up? She thought this would set him at ease.

Clearly that was a mistake. Maybe birthdays are more serious to him, or maybe he thinks this is a shit reason for pulling him out of his work. She don't much care if it's that; and if he's on the edge of panic because this matters, then... that's probably a good thing. At least she won't have to figure it all out on her own.

"Greta's making a cake," she says gruffly. "Don't know what else there is. Thought you might have some ideas or something."

Hopefully something that'll involve getting out of this damn cold as soon as possible.

Edited 2020-03-25 00:57 (UTC)

Here, at least, Eliot's grateful that Anne doesn't waste time with chatting. Straight to business then, especially if he's expected to help throw a birthday party on no notice. It's important that he do a good job with this, he tells himself. Anne wouldn't have gotten him if it weren't important.

"Huh," he murmurs at the mention of this Greta. He knows of this woman, if nothing else that she helped Martin when he first arrived, and she has something to do with the children's home where the boy who comes in to read lives. So perhaps it's no surprise that she's assisting with this venture as well, if she's just that kind. He wonders how Anne knows her.

"Cake's a great start," he says, thinking as they bustle northward. For someone so tiny she certainly walks fucking fast enough. "I could bring something to drink? Like hot wine or cider?" Eliot's well stocked on mulling spice, and he's pretty sure he has some Merlot worth giving to the cause. "I'd just need to stop at my place to gather some things together. And I-"

Eliot frowns at the salted pavement. He shouldn't be scared to mention this, it's such a silly thing to worry about. And yet. He clears his throat. "I'd gotten something as a...Christmas gift, for the two of you. I don't even know if you celebrate Christmas and it's not for Jack specifically but I could bring that. If you like."

She glances up at him as he starts to make his suggestions. Hot wine or cider both sound good to her, familiar enough as well as, importantly, hot, and she's cautiously relieved that he's making sensible suggestions. Stopping at his place doesn't sound bad, either; before because it'll be warm there and because she can't help a bit of wary curiosity as to where he lives.

Then he mentions a Christmas gift, and she looks at him a little more directly, openly startled. She probably shouldn't be. It wouldn't be the first time Eliot's given them both something. But she don't know how to respond for a moment.

A gift is good, right? Jack should have a gift.

"Oh," she says, and lifts a shoulder. "Yeah, all right."

"Okay," Eliot nods and tries to look calmer than he feels, which is not very much at all. Anne's expression isn't helping matters; he gets the impression that not very many people get to see her looking that surprised, and a grim little voice in the back of Eliot's head guesses that those who do don't tend to live very long afterwards. "Okay well...okay."

And with that seemingly settled they lapse into an almost comfortable silence. Anne's natural habitat, Eliot thinks, and he does his best to keep from interrupting it to fill the dead air with small talk. Instead he texts Martin, letting him know that no one needs to declare him missing, and wonders at the absurd turn the day's taken.

Once they get to Candlewood, though, some of Eliot's jitters return. "I'm up on the ninth floor," he says, apologetic as he holds the front door open for Anne. "There's ah, an elevator but if you're more comfortable with the stairs?"

Edited 2020-04-14 20:35 (UTC)

Anne's relief grows when Eliot stops asking speaking altogether, though it ain't quite enough to set her at ease. She keeps an eye on him, surreptitious from under the brim of her hat, as he fiddles around with his phone and then walks on in silence. She finds herself eager to get on with this, get back to Greta, where she at least has a better idea of her standing. Eliot may not be dangerous to her, but it ain't danger that worries her.

So when they reach his building and he offers nine flights of stairs instead of shutting herself up in that little box, she scowls to herself. Stairs are an easy preference, but she don't like being coddled, and nine floors is too many.

"S'fine," she grunts, making her stubborn way toward the elevator doors.

"Right..." Eliot doesn't feel tremendously reassured, but he calls the elevator anyway, and tries to give Anne as much space as possible when it comes. It's a small mercy at least that no one else is around to make the ride any longer than it has to be, palpably awkward silence and all. It is one of those rare occasions where he'd actually prefer some terrible piped-in music. He breathes a sigh of relief when the doors open and he can hurry down the hall to his apartment.

"Sorry, this should just be a minute or two," he apologizes over his shoulder as he inspects the kitchen for useful supplies. He tries not to think too much about Anne potentially snooping, though who even knows if she's that curious about him. She's always seemed more dismissive of Eliot than anything, and as he pulls down spices and a pack of cheesecloth from the cabinet he wonders again what it means that she sought him out for something that's so obviously important to her. He doesn't know how to feel about it.

He grabs a half gallon of cider from the fridge and a decent bottle of red wine from the rack on the counter, bustles back to the hall closet where he's kept the gift bag. And yes, Eliot confirms with a glance, he did make sure to write both their names on the tag. One less thing to worry about, at least. He packs everything in a canvas tote and straightens up with a smile.

"Okay," he announces, chipper to cover the lingering uncertainty. "Shall we head over? Do you need, I don't know, gloves or something? A Scarf?"

His apartment isn't too different from hers and Jack's, she supposes. He has a lot more things, but it's all tidily arranged. It looks like a proper home, at least as far as she can tell. She watches him putter around the kitchen for a bit, then turns her attention to his cabinets and shelves in the main room, poking around without touching anything, wondering idly how much of it is to do with magic and how much is just shit she don't recognize.

Her curiosity isn't enough that it keeps her from wanting to move on, though, and she looks up quickly when he announces he's ready, a bag of whatever he's gathered slung over his shoulder. At his question, she looks down at her gloves and scarf, supposing he means to offer something warmer, which is... kind, and she don't know how she feels about that, and she definitely doesn't know if she wants to accept it.

"Let's just go," she mutters. Greta won't be done with the cake just yet, which means she's preparing to wait around with just Eliot for company. But at least she can do it somewhere familiar, and Eliot seems like he'll be eager to find something to do.

The cold keeps their pace brisk, and between that and the sparseness of the apartment when they arrive, Eliot doesn't waste any time taking over the kitchen. There's something sad and transitory about it, but he supposes neither Jack nor Anne are all that concerned with decor. Still, though.

He sets a couple pots on the stove to get things started simmering, and within a few minutes the warm aroma of spices starts to suffuse the air. It'll smell homey, at least.

"How long of a wait do you think we have?" Eliot asks, glancing at Anne over his shoulder. In lieu of anything better to do, he starts washing dishes.

It's a relief to be back home, though she can't quite relax, not with Eliot busying himself in their kitchen. She brought him here to help and that's what he's doing, and some part of her is glad for that, but she still feels uneven. She hangs back, letting him work, forcing herself to trust him in this moment, for this purpose. This is for Jack. Jack admires Eliot and Eliot seems to like doing this sort of thing. It'll work out.

"Not sure," she mutters in reply before remembering she probably ought to check her phone. She fumbles it out of her pocket, taking a minute to fiddle with it before she gets into her messages. There's nothing new from Greta yet, but the time seems close to correct. "Shouldn't be long now."

And it isn't, fortunately; before Anne starts feeling ready to pace, her phone buzzes in her hand, still an unpleasant sensation, but it is Greta announcing she's arrived. "Stay here," she says to Eliot, probably doesn't need to but she's not sure what else to say, and she leaves quickly to meet Greta at the door.

She gives Greta a nod as she lets her in, her eyes flicking briefly to the large container she's got housing the cake before settling back on Greta's face. "Got a friend of Jack's here," she grunts. "He's got wine."

Again, she doesn't know what else to say, what she's expected to say in this situation, so she turns around, about to lead Greta to the apartment. She catches herself, stopping in the hall and turning back just long enough to say, "Thanks," before she carries onward.

Edited 2020-06-29 22:43 (UTC)

The cake ends up being rather straightforward, for the most part. She doesn't want to get too inventive with the flavoring, what with vanilla being an indulgence on its own. She just doesn't want it to be overpoweringly sweet, so she fixes the two layers together with a raspberry jam and covers the lot in chocolate frosting that lists a little more towards the dark end. It's the prospect of decorating it that gives her the most grief — a frosted but otherwise featureless cake seems boring, but how do you decorate a cake for a fully-grown pirate, anyway? — and in the end she winds up doing a frantic online image search and baking some vanilla sugar cookies in the shape of a skull and two crossed swords (a grim but seemingly popular motif).

She packs them and the otherwise finished cake separately, intending to ask Anne's opinion on whether to actually put them on top or not. Then, just to be on the safe side, she grabs some more general leftovers. Goodness knows if Anne's thought about dinner, or if she means to include that, but if it's been taken care of already, Greta can just stash what she's brought in Jack and Anne's fridge for the duration. Better safe than sorry.

She arrives at their building with most of the food in a bag slung over her shoulder, and the cake safely housed in its own container. Greta holds it carefully as she steps inside, perhaps irrationally paranoid that she's going to drop it or something. For all that she's been roped in at the last possible moment, she's rather invested in this going well. Or, at the very least, she doesn't want it to go poorly because she's made a botch of it.

"Oh, good," she replies, a bit inanely. Wine sounds excellent. "I, er," she starts, about to mention the food, when Anne wheels back around to thank her. Greta blinks. "Wh— oh, of course." She follows Anne down the hall, adding, "It was no trouble, really, though I, er, might want your opinion on the decorations. For the cake, I mean. I've brought some possibilities, but I didn't want to do anything final without a second opinion, and you know Jack far better than I do, so..." God, she's nattering. Greta clears her throat awkwardly, falling silent until Anne lets them in to their flat.

The first thing she notices is the smell of mulling spices, and she smiles faintly, feeling a bit more at ease. Someone's been busy. Must be Jack's friend. Greta sets down her bag and puts the cake on the table, peering over into the kitchen as she divests herself of her coat and boots. "Hello," she says cheerily, stopping short of any outright introductions in case Anne wants to handle it.

For a second Eliot wants to say something in reply, because where would he go, but Anne takes off, as brusque as ever. He tries to just roll with it, as he has been since she came into the Archive, because Anne is a little bit terrifying in the way that a force of nature is. As much as he doesn't really know her he knows enough to just..give her space and try to deal with whatever happens.

There'll be cake, Eliot thinks, and starts shifting dishes around to clear space on the kitchen counter. It's not too long before he hears the door; if this were his party he'd rush over to help but he stays put for a moment, until he sees that the cake's been put on the table instead.

Greta says hello, and she sounds so pleasant that Eliot can't help smiling. He gives a little wave.

"Hi," he answers, stepping out of the kitchen. "I'm Eliot, Martin Blackwood's told me about you, actually? I work with him at the Archive." He offers her a handshake. "Delighted to finally make your acquaintance though...do you need any help with all that?" It's seems she's brought more than just the cake, which is good, Eliot thinks. She's certainly as helpful as he's heard, if so. And she looks...familiar, maybe, but Eliot hasn't been to any children's homes here and he thinks he'd remember her face if he'd seen her in passing. She's striking, in a way that contrasts with her clothes, and Eliot thinks perhaps that's where the confusion lies. She looks like she ought to be famous.

"Oh, Eliot!" Greta brightens as she shakes his hand. "Yes, Martin's mentioned you as well; it's a pleasure to meet you properly." The act of shaking Eliot's hand almost dislodges the bag, and Greta catches it before it can slip with a brief, self-conscious laugh. "Please," she says, shrugging it off her shoulder and passing it to him. "I wasn't sure what the whole food situation might be, so I brought some leftovers from yesterday. You can just pop it all in the fridge if we don't need it, but..." she trails off, glancing between Eliot and Anne in unspoken inquiry. Are they even planning anything dinner-ish? She really isn't certain what she's walked into.

"I could also use your advice with the cake," she adds, before it can slip her mind. "I wasn't sure about decorations, so I made some cookies that we could put on or leave off: whatever you think he'd like best." She fetches the tupperware that said cookies are packed in, carrying it over to the counter and carefully prying off the lid to reveal the simplistic but still clear enough motif to Anne and Eliot.

"I don't know," she frets, looking down at the skull and crossed swords and worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "Is it too childish? It just seemed odd to not have anything."

On their way up, Anne glances back at Greta as she babbles about the cake, acknowledging it but not yet sure what to say. She doesn't understand the need for decoration on a cake, but Greta knows more about this than she does. She expects she won't know how to answer until she sees it.

And once they're back in the apartment, she waits a little longer while Greta and Eliot greet one another. It's easy for them, smiling and trading references to their shared acquaintance (does everyone know this same Martin?) — as easy as if they've already met. It's reassuring, in an odd way; Anne feels some of the pressure lift off her own shoulders. She no longer has to worry so much about making her own conversation with anyone, particularly not with Eliot. These two can manage, and she can wait for Jack.

The mention of food surprises her a little, but it's not unwelcome. She should've thought of it herself, really. Jack will be bringing home something, but it probably wouldn't have been enough for everyone. Anne ducks her head down, once again feeling out of her depth, about to make a quiet retreat when Greta reminds her of the cake's so-called 'decorations.' She looks back up, struggling to understand from a distance, before she finally paces forward to have a look.

Greta says something fretful about it being childish, but there doesn't seem anything childish about it to Anne. Greta's made the cookies, somehow, into a clearly recognizable shape, and for a moment Anne can only stare at them, stare and think about that whore, Charlotte, who was designing Jack his flag, until she wasn't anymore.

Anne steps back softly, moving slow like she don't want to startle anyone. She knows the shape Greta's made, not because she saw it in those drawings before she murdered that woman, but because Jack later drew it himself. He's been carrying it in his pocket for a little while now. A little drawing of charcoal, which Eliot told him would become the flag known and remembered above all others. Anne thinks that may have been the first time that Eliot made Jack smile the way he smiles now.

"Put them on," she says quietly. "They're perfect."

Her task complete, she steps back to give them space and takes a seat at the table where she can watch either them or the door, where she can wait.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Marked Passage // for Greta, Eliot, and Jack

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject