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Instinct // for Greta
Anne's not sure where the idea came from or how it took such sharp hold, but by the first light of dawn it's come to her and she's decided: she's going to check on the baker. Last night had presented the greatest and most familiar sort of danger they've faced in this city, which is ridiculous twice over, both because the danger itself was remote, and the familiarity was only in that it could be solved with drawn blood. Beyond that, it was like nothing they'd encountered, and all very stupid besides. But there had been danger, of a sort, and the idea of Greta facing it is something that don't sit right. Most of the town had been out that night, and there's no reason why she shouldn't be one of them. She might turn up at Eliot's whatever-he-calls-it. 'Brunch.' But Anne don't like the idea of going there and waiting and hoping. So, without saying why or where she's going or how long she'll be, Anne leaves the apartment early. Jack doesn't question it, only says he'll meet her there, at the brunch.
She hadn't really said whether or not she wanted to go. But Jack's going, so she's going. Something about that don't sit right, either; something about Jack and how easy he's let Eliot into their world and how much that's become their world gnaws at her, and though it's been well over a month now she still hasn't taken the time to figure it out. Easier not to when it'll sort itself in time. It always does, with them.
She picks her way across town to Greta's home outside the city. She still remembers where; it's about the only place here, other than their apartment, that she's been to more than once. She keeps her hands on her swords as she goes, searching for any remaining signs of the creatures. They'd killed so many last night, and some of the dead are still strewn about here and there, though there's some kind of clean-up effort happening. All seems even stranger in daylight, and she keeps her goal at the fore, not wanting to dwell on any of it too heavily.
When she finally reaches Greta's cottage, all seems quiet at first, and there's sign of movement inside. Her first sense is of relief, and that surprises her enough that she stops short as if to take stock of herself. And before she can, her eyes fall to the thing on the porch. She hadn't seen it at first, partially hidden by the rail and easily passed over by how still it is, but as she looks closer, she can see it's one of those things, and it is still alive, twitching in its slow, stupid way toward Greta's door.
She doesn't even think. She just acts. She lunges up onto the porch, blades drawn, and comes down on top of the thing with a burst of speed and fury she hadn't even known she was storing. These things aren't fast, but they are strong and durable, and just as there's only one of it, there's only one of her. She can't afford to hesitate and she's not taking any chances that it'll survive her onslaught. Without Eliot's magic, it ain't so quick. So with an unrestrained growl of effort, she thrusts her blades into its horrible stinking body, yanks them back out and stabs again, ignoring the blood as it spurts fresh across her face and coat.
She hadn't really said whether or not she wanted to go. But Jack's going, so she's going. Something about that don't sit right, either; something about Jack and how easy he's let Eliot into their world and how much that's become their world gnaws at her, and though it's been well over a month now she still hasn't taken the time to figure it out. Easier not to when it'll sort itself in time. It always does, with them.
She picks her way across town to Greta's home outside the city. She still remembers where; it's about the only place here, other than their apartment, that she's been to more than once. She keeps her hands on her swords as she goes, searching for any remaining signs of the creatures. They'd killed so many last night, and some of the dead are still strewn about here and there, though there's some kind of clean-up effort happening. All seems even stranger in daylight, and she keeps her goal at the fore, not wanting to dwell on any of it too heavily.
When she finally reaches Greta's cottage, all seems quiet at first, and there's sign of movement inside. Her first sense is of relief, and that surprises her enough that she stops short as if to take stock of herself. And before she can, her eyes fall to the thing on the porch. She hadn't seen it at first, partially hidden by the rail and easily passed over by how still it is, but as she looks closer, she can see it's one of those things, and it is still alive, twitching in its slow, stupid way toward Greta's door.
She doesn't even think. She just acts. She lunges up onto the porch, blades drawn, and comes down on top of the thing with a burst of speed and fury she hadn't even known she was storing. These things aren't fast, but they are strong and durable, and just as there's only one of it, there's only one of her. She can't afford to hesitate and she's not taking any chances that it'll survive her onslaught. Without Eliot's magic, it ain't so quick. So with an unrestrained growl of effort, she thrusts her blades into its horrible stinking body, yanks them back out and stabs again, ignoring the blood as it spurts fresh across her face and coat.
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She sighs and hastily wipes her hands on her apron before heading over to the door. "All right, but you'll have to make it qui—" Greta starts as she pulls the door open, one hand on Sadie's collar out of habit in case there's a rabbit or something out in the yard. But there's no bracing herself for what she actually sees when the door swings open: one of those bloody mermen in its apparent death throes, spurting blood and goodness knows what else out of its assorted wounds and orifices. And crouched on top of it, swords in hand, is Anne.
All of that registers after Greta shrieks, and Sadie lets out a yelp, her forward surge arrested by Greta's mindless grip on her collar. "Oh, for—Jesus!" Greta exclaims, having picked that one up from Sweeney. "Anne?!" She gulps in a breath, her free hand braced on the door frame as she takes in the grisly tableau, he other keeping a tight hold on Sadie's collar so she won't try to bloody roll in it. "Are you all right?"
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"Yeah," she says; killing those things takes effort, but if you're smart it's easy not to get hurt. She wipes her swords along her already-sullied coat, twice each for both sides of the blades, and then sheathes them before looking back at Greta. "Are you?"
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It then occurs to her that Anne might have been referring to the madness of last night, and she adds, "Saoirse and I are both all right. It was... well, it was all a bit disgusting, but it's not as if they were hard to outrun. I had no idea any of them were still... about, though." She sighs down at the mess on her porch, wondering how on earth she's supposed to deal with it. And then she looks up at Anne, at the blood on her coat and face, and abruptly decides that this is a much more agreeable sort of mess to tackle.
She sends Sadie back into the house, then straightens. "Here, come in," she says, waving Anne inside. "You can get cleaned up." She almost reflexively asks if Anne's hungry, but that question can probably wait until they're away from the stinking corpse and Anne's no longer covered in blood.
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She is a little surprised by the invitation inside. She looks down at herself, a bloody mess, and back up at Greta like she wants to object, but there's no sense in that. Getting cleaned up is probably necessary if she's going to Eliot's thing from here. It also means a greater delay.
So she goes inside, a little hesitant even though she's been here before. She stops in the entryway, glancing around for any signs of life other than Greta and Sadie.
"Your little one," she says. "She all right?" Saoirse's struck Anne as an uncommonly brave child, but she still ain't in a rush to be seen like this.
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She glances up the stairwell, listening for any signs of Saoirse getting out of bed and hearing none, then motions Anne down the hall. They can use the first-floor bathroom without disturbing the rest of the household.
Once she's shepherded Anne into the room, Greta gives her a critical once-over in the light. She'd been rather backlit up on the porch, and it had been a little hard to see how much mess they were dealing with. Her coat and hat can probably just be wiped down without anyone being the wiser, but if her shirt has suffered any bloodstains, she might have to borrow something of Greta's for a little while.
"Here, let's take a look at you," she says, motioning towards the coat and hat and grabbing an empty clothes hanger from off the back of the door. The coat can be hung over the curtain rod, and the hat... well, they could put it on the counter, or something. At least, between the tile floor and the dark rug, there isn't much harm blood can do to the room itself.
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She squints against the harsh bathroom light while Greta looks her over, not entirely sure what Greta intends to do until she's plainly indicating she wants the coat and hat removed. This is an obvious step, and yet Anne balks slightly. Jack's adapted to the fashion and customs of this place quicker than she has, and she still gets uneasy taking off pieces of what have always felt like her armor. But it's only Greta. Greta's never wanted anything from them; she only likes to help.
Anne looks away and slides her coat down from her shoulders, handing it gingerly over, hesitating a bit longer before she takes her hat off and sets it with even greater care on the corner of the sink. There's not too much blood on it, at least.
Looking down at herself, it seems the bulk of it hit her front through the open coat, staining the shirt and bodice beneath it. She frowns at the mess, wondering just how well those machines can handle this sort of thing, and if perhaps it would be easier to just go to Eliot's like this. He probably wouldn't like it. Jack probably wouldn't either. But she can't imagine anything Greta can do that won't take more time and energy than she owes.
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Which is ridiculous. The swords still hanging at her hips belie any silly notions of Anne being fragile, and Greta doesn't have to know her well to know that coddling her would be a non-starter.
So she clears her throat and gets down to business, instead. "Well, I expect we could just wipe down the hat and coat," she starts. "The shirt... I suppose we could try a little hydrogen peroxide and see where that gets us. I've got a lot of blouses here that aren't so different, if you want to borrow one while we sort yours out." She leans her hip against the counter and looks at the blood streaking Anne's face, reaching out without a thought to push the curtain of her hair aside with her fingers, exposing a face so delicately featured that for a moment, it's all she can do to keep herself from coughing out an astonished breath or saying something stupid. Pirates can look however they like; it's only coincidence that Anne looks as if she ought to be bedecked in jewels and finery and gazing down at the peasantry from atop the ramparts of a bloody castle. But god, between the hat and the glowering and the roughness of her voice, Greta hadn't fully realized that she was gorgeous. Given ten minutes to fuss with her hair, Greta could probably render her unrecognizable to anyone else in the city who knows her (except Jack, of course).
Greta recovers herself, withdrawing her hand. "At least it looks as if your hair's been spared," she says. "Do... would you like me to fetch some shirts for you?"
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Catching sight of Greta's face stills her twice over. Greta looks a bit shocked, like she didn't really know who Anne was under there. Which don't make sense. Anne stands a bit frozen under it all until Greta pulls back and starts asking about shirts.
"Yeah, all right," she says after a moment's hesitation. Might be simpler, especially if whatever Greta wants to do with her shirt is as complicated as the words she used about it. She waits until Greta has left to turn to the mirror, as if she wants to see what Greta was looking at.
It's just her, blood and all. She lowers down over the sink to wash her face off, watching the red swirl down the drain until it's like nothing happened, then looks up again.
Anne thinks there was something familiar about it—the look, the way it seemed to stop her in her tracks. She thinks, too, she knows exactly why it was familiar.
She sighs and looks at her hat before looking about the room for something to wipe it down with. All of the towels here are far too nice.
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Greta pauses near Saoirse's door to make sure the lass is still asleep before going to see what her closet has to offer. There won't be anything exactly like what Anne was wearing, but she knows she has plenty of blouses that are in a similar vein. She selects a few, leaning a little towards some of her older ones, the ones she'd sewn herself in those first few months after her arrival, when the idea of buying things off the rack was foreign and bewildering. She thinks, for Anne, they might be more familiar than not.
On the way back down, she briefly swings by the kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels. It's taken her literal years to get comfortable with the idea of using paper to clean up messes, but she has to admit it's useful for the sort of spills that would otherwise leave a stain.
"Here," she says as she returns to the bathroom, handing Anne the paper towels, first. "Those are for the blood; you can just throw them away, after," she explains, on the off chance Anne hasn't dealt with paper towels, yet. "And I brought a few things for you to choose from, shirt-wise." She sidles past Anne so she can hang the shirts up on the curtain rod, a safe distance from the coat. "I can, er, leave you to change," she offers. "And then we can sort out your shirt, if you like...?"
She feels a little like she's babbling, but it could just be that Anne speaks with such economy that almost anyone would be wordy by comparison. Regardless, she falls into an expectant silence, eyebrows raised.
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"Yeah," she says quietly and with another nod, both to Greta's offer to leave and the uncertain sorting-out of her shirt. She doesn't quite look at Greta, keeping her eyes on the paper 'towels,' and waits until the door is shut once again.
She slips her shirt off carefully and looks it over before draping it over the toilet, careful to keep the bloodied side from touching anything. She takes her time using the paper to clean, wiping down her coat and hat and whatever else has taken a bit of spatter. She throws them in the little bit by the sink and just stares at it for a while, needing a moment to take in how strange all of this really is, before she chooses one of Greta's shirts and pulls it on.
It fits rather well, just a little too large in some places, but it's not bad. Anne studies herself in the mirror a bit longer before she dons her hat and coat again, which helps her look a bit more like herself. All this done, she opens the door again.
"Ready," she says to the empty hall, expecting Greta is near enough to hear.
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She's just pouring it out — something black and bracing that she plans to load with honey and milk — when Anne emerges from the bathroom, looking... well, rather normal, all things considered. The coat and the hat go a long way, and if she didn't know it was her shirt beneath it all, she might not have noticed. That's probably a good sign, though; it means her offerings weren't too far off the mark.
"Oh," she says, looking Anne over. "Seems like it fits well enough, then. I just made some tea, if you'd like a cup while we get your shirt sorted. Which shouldn't take too long, it's mostly just waiting for the machines to run their course." After a considering beat, she adds, "Though if you'd rather not wait around, I could always return it to you later." She's grateful that Anne showed up on her doorstep and dispatched that horrible creature before Saoirse woke, but she doesn't know Anne's schedule. She might have other plans for her day that don't involve lingering here for the duration of a wash/dry cycle.
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And she does have somewhere to be. That comes with its own set of uncertainties, but she had already decided: Jack's going, so she's going.
"Did Eliot not invite you to his... brunch thing?" she says. As far as she knows, the only time Eliot and Greta have crossed paths was on Jack's birthday, at her own behest. But they'd seemed to get on. "That's where I was going. Could come with."
It don't much matter to her if Eliot invited Greta or not. If he didn't, he should've. And while she could question her own motivation in making the invitation herself, it is easier not to. It ain't Greta that makes her feel ill-at-ease here; ain't even the way she looked at her. She's not sure what it is, only what it isn't.
Maybe it just don't sit right, stopping in, borrowing a shirt, and leaving Greta to do the washing.
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Well, it must be. She wonders if Eliot managed to avoid all of the hubbub last night, or if he's simply refusing to let it get in the way of a planned gathering. She's not sure if the latter is more likely, but it's certainly plausible.
"Well," she starts, canting her head a little as she reconfigures the shape of her day, "I suppose I could. We could get your shirt through the wash and into the dryer — that wouldn't take too long — and then it'd be dry by the time we got back." She looks to Anne, eyebrows raised, to see what she makes of the idea.
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"Right," he says, and then finds herself caught between options all over again. It still feels odd being here, the idea of making herself at home where she don't belong, but the only other thing she can do here is stand and stare and wait, unfriendly and cold. She'd be fine with that normally, but it's not right now. She helped Greta, and now Greta is helping her, and she's offered tea, and so Anne supposes she ought to just sit.
"Tea'd be all right," she says, cautious but firm.