Me, safe. [ A little scoff, metaphorical fur all ruffled — compared to everyone around them, the heroes picking themselves back up with their injuries, Anathema is fairly unscathed. Almost annoyingly so; it grinds at her pride, her sense of participation. But that affront melts away as the other woman picks the debris out of her hair. ] I'm fine, Sal. Let's get moving and not waste any more— Is Sal short for anything?
[ Her thoughts are scattered, ping-ponging everywhere with the giddy confused rush of the end of the world and the end of the world averted (a second time). She takes the blonde's hand, squares off for flight. ]
[You don't need to say anything else about it, she thinks; and after a beat, even though you fucking well told her about the scars already. Maybe she would lie better if it was just another day. If she could fight back memories of other cities caught in violence. Some other place and some other person, and her own silence—]
Salazanca.
[She chokes that out, somehow. But for anyone sharp and perceptive, they might notice that her grip isn't as strong, almost shaky. Maybe there's a hero here who can save someone, but that's never been Sal. Salazanca; Red Cloud.]
You ready to lead us this time? Since you know the way.
[She's not looking at anything in particular, keeping herself focused on that magic linked between them. Familiar now, warm.]
Oh. That's a beautiful name. [ And she means it. It strikes her as curious contrast, for a moment. Classmates at college kept wanting to shorten hers to Ana, Klaus keeps saying Thema — but she always adamantly refuses. Meanwhile, the other woman's never introduced herself as anything but Sal. But Anathema likes the sound of it. Salazanca. Reminds her of Salamanca in Castile and León; a week-long study trip to the university town once. ]
I can. If you're sure you're up for the flight.
[ All she can do is hang on tight and assume and hope, as they rise up over the debris-strewn streets and Anathema starts pointing the directions to her house, like it really is a cab ride. Next left. Straight ahead two miles. Third on the right. Until they're at the government housing, and the fourth house down the uniform row, and Anathema's absentmindedly patting down her pockets — of course all her dresses have pockets — searching for the keys.
It'd be typical if she managed to lose them in the storm and lock herself out, but thankfully she finds them and fumbles for the lock, manages to open it. ]
[Standing in the doorway, right behind Anathema, she suddenly feels an acute awareness of her surroundings. Cathama's government minders used to tell the children where they were forbidden to wander to on royal property; try telling a girl of eight who can fly where she can't go, and of course it's going to play out predictably. Ever since, she's used to breaking into all places forbidden, and this—
Well, it's as if she suddenly feels the need to walk on eggshells. Don't break anything, don't cause a commotion. There's a strange importance to it that she can't quite quantify into words.]
...So this is what these houses are like from the inside. There's other people living here too, right?
[She shrugs out of her jacket, craning her neck to glance around to the other room. Because you can't really stop the intense curiosity from flooding out, her obvious interest now that she's here, but only try to mitigate the chaos and upheaval that comes with a title like Cacophony. For example, the tears in her shirt are pretty obvious without the jacket, and so is the blood.]
And you've got a room for yourself?
[She's a disaster, for certain, but she glances back at Anathema with—honestly it's hard to pinpoint the emotion playing on her face. Trouble comes close, amusement might work—as if that once-innocent little girl finally broke into someplace really special.]
I do. Didn't you get one, when you first Ported in? I thought they assigned everyone government housing.
[ She's knocking around in the bathroom cabinets, briskly searching for the first-aid kit. The common space in the house looks normal enough, almost blandly and generically so — which is what happens when people keep porting in and out, not staying long enough to leave their mark here. Her bedroom and the shop, though, carry far more of Anathema's personal touches — as does the kitchen, with its rows of spices and herbs and the mint plants growing in the window.
She returns to Sal's side, a hand against her shoulder pressing her down into one of the kitchen chairs. She has the antiseptic now, and the gauze and bandages. ]
Does it hurt? I already mentioned I don't have healing magic, but I could brew some tea— it'd function as a painkiller.
I have my own room, and there's a couple housemates and a couple empty rooms. People keep leaving, either because the Porter takes them or they find somewhere they'd like to live more. It's been convenient, though, and I like living in Jeopardy.
Not everyone works well in a group setting. Shit, I wouldn't wish me on the rest of these poor bastards getting ported in here.
[It's pretty matter-of-fact for Sal, that she's not really built for being around people...like this. But she's fascinated by it, and while Anathema is rooting around in the bathroom, Sal does her best not to paw through everything that catches her eye.
By the time she gets back, and has that familiar gleam in her eye that Sal knows far too well (an honest hazard when you're this reckless), she allows herself at least one dramatic sigh. Nevertheless, she does this dance by muscle memory; not one to be body-shy, she peels off the torn up shirt with a few deft movements, holding it in her lap.]
It doesn't hurt so bad. Shit, I can't even remember when this happened.
[Look, she's so well-behaved she hasn't brought up whiskey at all as an alternative. She's improving as a fucking person, thank you. Leaning over a bit, the cuts along her side seem surface level, halfway healing. Some monster must have taken a lucky swipe.]
Yeah, so you live and work here then? What the fuck kind of job did they give you, anyway?
[ She's brisk and business-like, but her touch is gentle. Something of the air of a competent nurse. Anathema's mother had taught and trained her to have a steady hand and strong nerve; ready to face down the apocalypse, a few injuries are nothing. Like the first-aid supplies, laid out in a neat row, waiting for Newt.
The conversation, though, is a pleasant distraction for both of them from the work of cleaning up Sal's cuts, and Anathema's grin broadens beneath a stray lock of hair that's fallen into her face as she works. ]
Get this: I'm a fortune-teller at a shop called Small Mediums at Large.
It felt like an absolute cosmic joke, when I first saw the assignment, but it's worked out fairly well. I'm making the shop my own, and I'm growing fond of it. You should stop by sometime, get your palm read. I promise it's not entirely a scam.
[Sal takes this kind of attention as she usually does, whining a bit at the sting of the antiseptics, huffing about the situation but internally—well, she appreciates attention, anyway. Just don't expect her to own up to it. Liette would've been full into the riot act by this point, poking runes into her skin and telling her to sit still so she doesn't smear the ink up.
The quiet, cozy atmosphere here is...well, it's nice.]
That sounds cute, really. Maybe a waste of potential, but what can you expect from a place that doesn't respect magic?
[She's looking around, over to the stove where the teas are, the kettle. Maybe she was too hasty about it; could it be so bad if she stayed for a while? She knows what's waiting for her when she goes home, at least, and there's no real point in rushing away.]
I'm...I read books and I write a review for them. On the internet.
That's vague. [ A tilt of a head, a questioning look. ] Also not what I would've expected, exactly. I would've pictured something with... I don't know, swords. Do you enjoy it? What sorts of books do you review?
[She's got to turn to look over shoulder at the mention of sword, smile. Not the usual smile either; that's the thing about truth telling, once it starts it's hard to stop. It's a smile so rare only two others could claim it's real at all.]
You'd think so, huh? A big imperial force like this, they might just want to sign me up to fight their enemies on the front lines or something, but this...It's probably the nicest fucking thing some government has done for me.
[Sal's about to say more on it, the crack in her facade opening up like a fissure—but her luck's pretty bad, honestly. Outwardly, she just looks over to the window for a moment. But she can feel the Cacophony exude his own energy, like some bad, familiar omen.
There he is, standing there, watching them. Nobody else can see the fucker, missing that immaculate fashion, the noble disdain in his eyes, the way his lips part to show that awful brass grin (brass like the Mad Emperor's twisted crown of thorns, brass like the barrel of her gun).
Getting comfortable here, aren't you? I wonder if she'll invite you for tea, once she's put together what you and I have been up to, hmm?
A shake of the head and he's gone again, just like that. But that laughter remains ringing in her ears. Sal reaches up to her face and scratches at the scar there. Outwardly, maybe she just was lost in thought for a moment?]
Shit. Anyway, I meant to ask. You got other kinds of tea? For sleeping well, or something like that?
Of course. [ A sly little smile, because this is her favourite question to answer. Sal's patched up, she goes back to the shelves and starts rifling through them. ]
We have... Blueberry, raspberry, ginseng, Sleepy Time, green tea, green tea with lemon, green tea with lemon and honey, liver disaster, ginger with honey, ginger without honey, vanilla almond, white truffle, blueberry chamomile, vanilla walnut, Constant Comment, and... Earl Grey.
Sleepy Time is obviously what you're after, but any one of these I can imbue with magic, too. Help you sleep better.
[ It's one of only two times she's actually offered it to someone. Anathema doesn't usually like to go in for the whole potion-brewing thing; but does, for the people she cares about. ]
[When Anathema dashes off toward the kitchen shelves, Sal stands and slides her torn up shirt back on. She'll give one thing to modern technology; their shirts are far softer here, and hardly make her scars itch at all. This one, she'll have to replace soon.
Once the other witch starts rattling off her extensive list of teas, it occurs to her; if anyone were to ever be similarly invited to her own place (it's in the realm of possibilities, somewhere), she'll probably be expected to have these things herself. It's a surprising thought—something she gave up on so many years ago, during the war. But now...]
Green tea's nice. I keep some jasmine at home, sometimes.
[Sal's walked over by now, peering over Anathema's shoulder. Curious, and oddly gentle.]
Green has caffeine in it. You won't rest all too well if you have too much of it. [ But it could be worse, so she fetches the box of all-organic green tea and, with Sal at her shoulder and a smile wreathing Anathema's 2mouth, she starts busying herself with brewing up a whole pot. Anathema snaps her fingers to light the gas on the stove, and while the pot's sitting on the counter, she pauses to toss in a few pinches of... something... then rest her fingers against it for a moment. A small burst of concentration, an imbuing of a restful essence.
She stays in one spot, enough to stay close to Sal, not drift too far away from her in the kitchen. If she just not-so-accidentally leaned backwards, she'd be leaning into her. Close enough. ]
What's your home like, here? Which city are you in?
[If only Sal was well-mannered enough to mind basic things like personal space or decorum, she'd probably be sitting in a nice, quiet corner on the opposite side of the room. Or whatever it is that proper ladies do—instead, this asshole enjoys being fussed after, so she stays where she is.
At least she looks like she's watching the kettle and the small display of household magic. This close, however, Sal can't help but realize that, through everything that's happened during the storm, Anathema's usual nice perfume is absent. Which means they both need time to clean up, but still...]
I'm over in Maurtia Falls. I was warned, after coming here, that it has some fucking kind of bad reputation—but if you've ever had the misfortune of living a day in the Scar, you know it's an exaggeration. Anyway, it's the second floor apartment in an older house, the kind with an outside patio, so I don't get fucking arrested for breaking in to my own window.
[Obviously a serious concern, for someone who prefers to fly.]
The former tenant must've been a cat lover too, because it's been half a dozen times now that I've found one sleeping in my bed and howling at me to feed it.
[If it keeps happening, she knows she'll have to bring it to a pet clinic for a check up or something. Honestly, she's only had the one piss-angry bird the size of a horse to look after; Sal doesn't have the first clue what to do with felines.]
Yeah, you sound like you can more than take care of whatever Maurtia Falls throws at you. Including a yowly cat.
[ Setting out the pot, the two mugs, and then finally letting herself collapse into one of the kitchen chairs while she waits for the tea to cool down. Wrapping her hands around the mug, savouring the warmth, and watching the other woman. ]
What kind of cat? I, completely true to stereotype, like black ones best. But all of them are good.
[ It's inane conversation and Anathema's aware of it, but she's too tired to really focus on anything more strenuous. They just saved the world! Let her have her inanities. ]
[Sal's not really the best when it comes to sitting still. She's well accustomed to pushing her body beyond its limit, and might have actually done so already, but that doesn't mean she wants to sit down again so soon. A restless person like that might want some kind potion to ease them down; especially someone who isn't used to sleeping for more than a few hours at a time.
So while standing, because what are manners, she pours herself a piping hot cup of tea and isn't as cautious about trying to let it cool first.]
Not completely black. It has the little white feet and tuft on its chest. There's a name for that, isn't there?
[She leans her hip against the edge of the table, sipping her hot tea and looking down to Anathema. There's a sudden, strange tug she feels in her chest— maybe it's concern? She must be worn out, right?
She can picture it, though; whatever the stereotype is she's referring to. Curled up with a nice quilt somewhere in this house, a cat on her lap to keep warm. It's very picturesque, but it's also true that Sal can be a sentimental dope if she's not paying attention to it.]
How long does the tea take to kick in, anyway? Your roommates aren't going to have to come home and peel me off the floor, are they?
[The mug doesn't completely hide that grin. Who needs an unruly cat when you have this miscreant around, anyway?]
[ Where Sal roams around the kitchen and then stays on her feet, Anathema's like a still and quiet pool at the center of the kitchen. Normally she can be such a dervish of multi-tasking activity herself; today's an exception. At the other woman's question, though, she doesn't hide her laugh. ]
It's not chloroform. Er, which is a kind of knock-out chemical. It takes maybe about ten, fifteen minutes? But that's still quick enough— you should have a lie down on my bed upstairs, you know. Take a nap, rest up. I need to take a shower anyhow.
[ Then, a moment later, realising how that might have sounded, she clears her throat. ]
There's plenty of room for two to nap. You wouldn't be putting me out any. And I'd feel better knowing you're letting that cut heal up.
[Honestly, if it was anyone else making this suggestion, well—Sal wouldn't even have stuck around long enough for them to ask it. She's really got to take a long, deliberate drink from the mug to keep herself from laughing, however. For the sake of everyone in the room, she's able to rein in her own awfulness.
It gives her time to think too. She could just fly up and nap on a rooftop, probably. She doesn't need to stay here at all of she doesn't want to.
Even so...]
Do you have a shirt I can borrow?
[It sounds like a yes, with the way she puts the empty cup back down gently on the table. Sal's not looking her in the eye anymore, but she's not leaving either. She wouldn't be able to tell anyone for who's sake she thinks she's doing this for, so she just lets it be instead.]
I don't want to make a mess.
[She makes a gesture to the scratched up holes. For Sal, it's the most sensitive she knows how to be, trying in her own way to distract from other awkwardness.]
I do. I don't always dress like this, believe it or not. [ A vague wave to her own now-grubby and dusty dress, heavy with sand and grit. With a thoughtful click of her tongue: ] Ugh. I should do a load of laundry anyway. I can get you a shirt and we can toss all of our stuff in the wash at once.
[ Starting to sound a little more brisk now, again, as she starts organising the world back into its to-do lists, items to tackle, next steps. Despite the fact that she only just sat down, Anathema's back on her feet again, carrying her mug and starting to head upstairs. ]
Thanks for— picking me up. It'd have taken me ages to get home by myself.
[Seems like a strange thing to thank her for, in Sal's opinion.]
I wanted to do it. And besides, automobiles are mostly shit. Nothing wrong with a good, reliable bird to take you where you need to go.
[Following along up the stairs, listening to Anathema start to create a chore list, Sal feels more certain about her decision to stay. She's at least strong enough to carry her if the other woman pushes too hard and manages to doze off on her feet.]
You want...help or something? I can do it while you're in the shower, at least.
[Sal has exactly zero experience in domestic chore sharing habits but what the fuck, laundry isn't difficult to figure out.]
Come on, you're the guest here. [ She's led the way to her bedroom, setting her mug on her dresser and pulling out the bag of laundry, then rummaging for a spare oversized shirt, which she tosses to Sal. The bedroom's a once-generic space that's been made more personal: a knitted throw blanket slung onto the bed, a stack of books piled on the desk beside a laptop, a phrenology skull on the mantle, a scattering of eclectic thrift shop finds. Anathema cares very much about making her surroundings nice, coordinated, even if it's temporary, like her cottage at Tadfield. Or here. ]
But if you really are set on being useful, then feel free to take a crack at the laundry — the machine's downstairs, next to the kitchen — and then just make yourself comfortable. And I'll be right back.
[ A wave of her hand towards the bed, with its stack of pillows and the throw, and then Anathema scoops up a towel and departs.
It's a mark of trust, just depositing Sal in her home and letting her have free rein of it — there's no end of drawers and books to poke through, a tarot spread sitting abandoned on the desk. But Anathema believes rather firmly in her gauge of other people; she's seen the other woman's aura, after all. And so she trusts her. ]
[Sal doesn't say anything as Anathema leaves the room, already reaching dutifully for the bag of laundry. She changes shirts with quick precision and throws hers in with the rest of the bag. The quiet wraps around her as she pads back downstairs, finding what she needs in the laundry room and works on starting the load up.
It's probably the first true peace she's found since the whole storm started.
When she's back in Anathema's bedroom, she does stand for a moment and take a look around. There's that feeling again, as if she shouldn't root around and break anything. The strange sacredness in another's personal living space. There's a candle on the table, so instead of keeping the light on, she waves a hand and a tiny flame begins to burn on the wick instead.
A faint sound of running water from the other room can be heard as she takes time in turning the bed down. Her gun holster is left on the floor, nearby but out of sight. And when she finally settles herself down under the covers, it's as Anathema guessed. There's room enough for two women without it becoming too uncomfortable.
She tries lying on her side, but with the bandages, ends up settling on her back. With one arm up, under her head, it leaves Anathema the lion's share of space. When the magic finally begins to kick in, and the world begins to sink away, a realization dawns on her. With every tiny gesture she's made since the beginning to now, Sal has made the decision to put her trust in this person.
More than that, she's trusting Anathema not to hurt her.]
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[ Her thoughts are scattered, ping-ponging everywhere with the giddy confused rush of the end of the world and the end of the world averted (a second time). She takes the blonde's hand, squares off for flight. ]
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[You don't need to say anything else about it, she thinks; and after a beat, even though you fucking well told her about the scars already. Maybe she would lie better if it was just another day. If she could fight back memories of other cities caught in violence. Some other place and some other person, and her own silence—]
Salazanca.
[She chokes that out, somehow. But for anyone sharp and perceptive, they might notice that her grip isn't as strong, almost shaky. Maybe there's a hero here who can save someone, but that's never been Sal. Salazanca; Red Cloud.]
You ready to lead us this time? Since you know the way.
[She's not looking at anything in particular, keeping herself focused on that magic linked between them. Familiar now, warm.]
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I can. If you're sure you're up for the flight.
[ All she can do is hang on tight and assume and hope, as they rise up over the debris-strewn streets and Anathema starts pointing the directions to her house, like it really is a cab ride. Next left. Straight ahead two miles. Third on the right. Until they're at the government housing, and the fourth house down the uniform row, and Anathema's absentmindedly patting down her pockets — of course all her dresses have pockets — searching for the keys.
It'd be typical if she managed to lose them in the storm and lock herself out, but thankfully she finds them and fumbles for the lock, manages to open it. ]
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Well, it's as if she suddenly feels the need to walk on eggshells. Don't break anything, don't cause a commotion. There's a strange importance to it that she can't quite quantify into words.]
...So this is what these houses are like from the inside. There's other people living here too, right?
[She shrugs out of her jacket, craning her neck to glance around to the other room. Because you can't really stop the intense curiosity from flooding out, her obvious interest now that she's here, but only try to mitigate the chaos and upheaval that comes with a title like Cacophony. For example, the tears in her shirt are pretty obvious without the jacket, and so is the blood.]
And you've got a room for yourself?
[She's a disaster, for certain, but she glances back at Anathema with—honestly it's hard to pinpoint the emotion playing on her face. Trouble comes close, amusement might work—as if that once-innocent little girl finally broke into someplace really special.]
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[ She's knocking around in the bathroom cabinets, briskly searching for the first-aid kit. The common space in the house looks normal enough, almost blandly and generically so — which is what happens when people keep porting in and out, not staying long enough to leave their mark here. Her bedroom and the shop, though, carry far more of Anathema's personal touches — as does the kitchen, with its rows of spices and herbs and the mint plants growing in the window.
She returns to Sal's side, a hand against her shoulder pressing her down into one of the kitchen chairs. She has the antiseptic now, and the gauze and bandages. ]
Does it hurt? I already mentioned I don't have healing magic, but I could brew some tea— it'd function as a painkiller.
I have my own room, and there's a couple housemates and a couple empty rooms. People keep leaving, either because the Porter takes them or they find somewhere they'd like to live more. It's been convenient, though, and I like living in Jeopardy.
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[It's pretty matter-of-fact for Sal, that she's not really built for being around people...like this. But she's fascinated by it, and while Anathema is rooting around in the bathroom, Sal does her best not to paw through everything that catches her eye.
By the time she gets back, and has that familiar gleam in her eye that Sal knows far too well (an honest hazard when you're this reckless), she allows herself at least one dramatic sigh. Nevertheless, she does this dance by muscle memory; not one to be body-shy, she peels off the torn up shirt with a few deft movements, holding it in her lap.]
It doesn't hurt so bad. Shit, I can't even remember when this happened.
[Look, she's so well-behaved she hasn't brought up whiskey at all as an alternative. She's improving as a fucking person, thank you. Leaning over a bit, the cuts along her side seem surface level, halfway healing. Some monster must have taken a lucky swipe.]
Yeah, so you live and work here then? What the fuck kind of job did they give you, anyway?
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The conversation, though, is a pleasant distraction for both of them from the work of cleaning up Sal's cuts, and Anathema's grin broadens beneath a stray lock of hair that's fallen into her face as she works. ]
Get this: I'm a fortune-teller at a shop called Small Mediums at Large.
It felt like an absolute cosmic joke, when I first saw the assignment, but it's worked out fairly well. I'm making the shop my own, and I'm growing fond of it. You should stop by sometime, get your palm read. I promise it's not entirely a scam.
What did they give you?
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The quiet, cozy atmosphere here is...well, it's nice.]
That sounds cute, really. Maybe a waste of potential, but what can you expect from a place that doesn't respect magic?
[She's looking around, over to the stove where the teas are, the kettle. Maybe she was too hasty about it; could it be so bad if she stayed for a while? She knows what's waiting for her when she goes home, at least, and there's no real point in rushing away.]
I'm...I read books and I write a review for them. On the internet.
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[ It's something Anathema probably would've enjoyed doing too, actually. ]
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You'd think so, huh? A big imperial force like this, they might just want to sign me up to fight their enemies on the front lines or something, but this...It's probably the nicest fucking thing some government has done for me.
[Sal's about to say more on it, the crack in her facade opening up like a fissure—but her luck's pretty bad, honestly. Outwardly, she just looks over to the window for a moment. But she can feel the Cacophony exude his own energy, like some bad, familiar omen.
There he is, standing there, watching them. Nobody else can see the fucker, missing that immaculate fashion, the noble disdain in his eyes, the way his lips part to show that awful brass grin (brass like the Mad Emperor's twisted crown of thorns, brass like the barrel of her gun).
Getting comfortable here, aren't you? I wonder if she'll invite you for tea, once she's put together what you and I have been up to, hmm?
A shake of the head and he's gone again, just like that. But that laughter remains ringing in her ears. Sal reaches up to her face and scratches at the scar there. Outwardly, maybe she just was lost in thought for a moment?]
Shit. Anyway, I meant to ask. You got other kinds of tea? For sleeping well, or something like that?
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We have... Blueberry, raspberry, ginseng, Sleepy Time, green tea, green tea with lemon, green tea with lemon and honey, liver disaster, ginger with honey, ginger without honey, vanilla almond, white truffle, blueberry chamomile, vanilla walnut, Constant Comment, and... Earl Grey.
Sleepy Time is obviously what you're after, but any one of these I can imbue with magic, too. Help you sleep better.
[ It's one of only two times she's actually offered it to someone. Anathema doesn't usually like to go in for the whole potion-brewing thing; but does, for the people she cares about. ]
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Once the other witch starts rattling off her extensive list of teas, it occurs to her; if anyone were to ever be similarly invited to her own place (it's in the realm of possibilities, somewhere), she'll probably be expected to have these things herself. It's a surprising thought—something she gave up on so many years ago, during the war. But now...]
Green tea's nice. I keep some jasmine at home, sometimes.
[Sal's walked over by now, peering over Anathema's shoulder. Curious, and oddly gentle.]
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She stays in one spot, enough to stay close to Sal, not drift too far away from her in the kitchen. If she just not-so-accidentally leaned backwards, she'd be leaning into her. Close enough. ]
What's your home like, here? Which city are you in?
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At least she looks like she's watching the kettle and the small display of household magic. This close, however, Sal can't help but realize that, through everything that's happened during the storm, Anathema's usual nice perfume is absent. Which means they both need time to clean up, but still...]
I'm over in Maurtia Falls. I was warned, after coming here, that it has some fucking kind of bad reputation—but if you've ever had the misfortune of living a day in the Scar, you know it's an exaggeration. Anyway, it's the second floor apartment in an older house, the kind with an outside patio, so I don't get fucking arrested for breaking in to my own window.
[Obviously a serious concern, for someone who prefers to fly.]
The former tenant must've been a cat lover too, because it's been half a dozen times now that I've found one sleeping in my bed and howling at me to feed it.
[If it keeps happening, she knows she'll have to bring it to a pet clinic for a check up or something. Honestly, she's only had the one piss-angry bird the size of a horse to look after; Sal doesn't have the first clue what to do with felines.]
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[ Setting out the pot, the two mugs, and then finally letting herself collapse into one of the kitchen chairs while she waits for the tea to cool down. Wrapping her hands around the mug, savouring the warmth, and watching the other woman. ]
What kind of cat? I, completely true to stereotype, like black ones best. But all of them are good.
[ It's inane conversation and Anathema's aware of it, but she's too tired to really focus on anything more strenuous. They just saved the world! Let her have her inanities. ]
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So while standing, because what are manners, she pours herself a piping hot cup of tea and isn't as cautious about trying to let it cool first.]
Not completely black. It has the little white feet and tuft on its chest. There's a name for that, isn't there?
[She leans her hip against the edge of the table, sipping her hot tea and looking down to Anathema. There's a sudden, strange tug she feels in her chest— maybe it's concern? She must be worn out, right?
She can picture it, though; whatever the stereotype is she's referring to. Curled up with a nice quilt somewhere in this house, a cat on her lap to keep warm. It's very picturesque, but it's also true that Sal can be a sentimental dope if she's not paying attention to it.]
How long does the tea take to kick in, anyway? Your roommates aren't going to have to come home and peel me off the floor, are they?
[The mug doesn't completely hide that grin. Who needs an unruly cat when you have this miscreant around, anyway?]
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[ Where Sal roams around the kitchen and then stays on her feet, Anathema's like a still and quiet pool at the center of the kitchen. Normally she can be such a dervish of multi-tasking activity herself; today's an exception. At the other woman's question, though, she doesn't hide her laugh. ]
It's not chloroform. Er, which is a kind of knock-out chemical. It takes maybe about ten, fifteen minutes? But that's still quick enough— you should have a lie down on my bed upstairs, you know. Take a nap, rest up. I need to take a shower anyhow.
[ Then, a moment later, realising how that might have sounded, she clears her throat. ]
There's plenty of room for two to nap. You wouldn't be putting me out any. And I'd feel better knowing you're letting that cut heal up.
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It gives her time to think too. She could just fly up and nap on a rooftop, probably. She doesn't need to stay here at all of she doesn't want to.
Even so...]
Do you have a shirt I can borrow?
[It sounds like a yes, with the way she puts the empty cup back down gently on the table. Sal's not looking her in the eye anymore, but she's not leaving either. She wouldn't be able to tell anyone for who's sake she thinks she's doing this for, so she just lets it be instead.]
I don't want to make a mess.
[She makes a gesture to the scratched up holes. For Sal, it's the most sensitive she knows how to be, trying in her own way to distract from other awkwardness.]
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[ Starting to sound a little more brisk now, again, as she starts organising the world back into its to-do lists, items to tackle, next steps. Despite the fact that she only just sat down, Anathema's back on her feet again, carrying her mug and starting to head upstairs. ]
Thanks for— picking me up. It'd have taken me ages to get home by myself.
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I wanted to do it. And besides, automobiles are mostly shit. Nothing wrong with a good, reliable bird to take you where you need to go.
[Following along up the stairs, listening to Anathema start to create a chore list, Sal feels more certain about her decision to stay. She's at least strong enough to carry her if the other woman pushes too hard and manages to doze off on her feet.]
You want...help or something? I can do it while you're in the shower, at least.
[Sal has exactly zero experience in domestic chore sharing habits but what the fuck, laundry isn't difficult to figure out.]
yourssss to wrap?
But if you really are set on being useful, then feel free to take a crack at the laundry — the machine's downstairs, next to the kitchen — and then just make yourself comfortable. And I'll be right back.
[ A wave of her hand towards the bed, with its stack of pillows and the throw, and then Anathema scoops up a towel and departs.
It's a mark of trust, just depositing Sal in her home and letting her have free rein of it — there's no end of drawers and books to poke through, a tarot spread sitting abandoned on the desk. But Anathema believes rather firmly in her gauge of other people; she's seen the other woman's aura, after all. And so she trusts her. ]
closed for snuggles.
It's probably the first true peace she's found since the whole storm started.
When she's back in Anathema's bedroom, she does stand for a moment and take a look around. There's that feeling again, as if she shouldn't root around and break anything. The strange sacredness in another's personal living space. There's a candle on the table, so instead of keeping the light on, she waves a hand and a tiny flame begins to burn on the wick instead.
A faint sound of running water from the other room can be heard as she takes time in turning the bed down. Her gun holster is left on the floor, nearby but out of sight. And when she finally settles herself down under the covers, it's as Anathema guessed. There's room enough for two women without it becoming too uncomfortable.
She tries lying on her side, but with the bandages, ends up settling on her back. With one arm up, under her head, it leaves Anathema the lion's share of space. When the magic finally begins to kick in, and the world begins to sink away, a realization dawns on her. With every tiny gesture she's made since the beginning to now, Sal has made the decision to put her trust in this person.
More than that, she's trusting Anathema not to hurt her.]