eliotwaugh | Say When (A New Year's Brunch)

Current Location: Candlewood 9C

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brunch

Say When (A New Year's Brunch)

Eliot had been warned by various people that New Year's often brings some kind of supernatural mischief to Darrow, and this news had only made him more determined to stick to his plan. No power of god or man or eldritch entity place-spirit or army of fish people will prevent him from throwing a damn party.

It made sense, really, and part of him wishes he'd done something like this before now. He needn't frame it as a sort of surrender to this imprisonment, but rather just indulging in something frivolous because, as far as his understanding of the metaphysics goes, none of this really counts. So why shouldn't he enjoy it? He's been here long enough to decorate the apartment some, and it really is a marvel the amount of things available through Nile. There's more comfortable furniture, potted plants, and a series of apothecary cabinets and display cases for magical components that give the whole place the air of some eccentric explorer's gallery of curiosities.

He's even managed to get enough appliances that the little kitchen is decently functional, and has spent a few days stocking up and preparing for what he hopes will a successful brunch. He has enough eggs to feed an army. There will be copious crepes. There will be mimosas for days.

Eliot's used to working through a wicked hangover this time of year, so he built that into consideration in his prep time. Thanks to the night's adventure, though, he spends his downtime sober and scrubbing mer-blood off of himself, and still feels a bit frazzled by the time the first guests arrive.

[It's time for brunch! Brunch is a state of mind, not an actual timeframe, so please feel free to have your pups show up whenever in the day, honestly. Tag in, tag around, chase the memory of merman horror away with a mimosa, air your grievances and dirty laundry in the neutral ground of Eliot's apartment. This is a safe space. For Drama.]

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John thinks about not going to Eliot's brunch in the same way that he thinks about not going to any given sizable social gathering, more of a reflex than a commentary on the gathering itself. But it doesn't take long to reject that impulse: Eliot is a friend more than a colleague, and while he hasn't exactly got much sleep, the highly anticipated New Year's Eve chaos wound up being rather placid, by his standards. Martin and he had made some observations of the creatures, and then he'd seen Martin home and returned to the Archive to start building a file. He'd caught a few hours of sleep on the cot in his office, then headed home to change and make himself presentable before returning to Candlewood. He imagines that these festivities will also be on the more laid-back end of the spectrum. And with substantially less screaming.

This is the first time he's seen Eliot's flat, and he looks around with a vague sort of envy at the decor. Eliot's actually tried, hasn't he? He really shouldn't be surprised; Eliot exudes style, and his flat should be no different. But John does feel rather shabby by comparison as he obtains a drink and goes to examine one of the cabinets, wondering if its contents serve a magical or merely aesthetic purpose.

"It's good stuff, isn't it? My aunt used to have a crystal a little like that one." Blue, who has been circumnavigating the room in the opposite direction, gives John a wan smile, pointing to a slightly cloudy crystal sphere, a little more oval than round in its setting.

"It didn't actually help her predict the future," she adds -- ironically, crystals fall more in line with Blue's own powers if what Gwenllian had said was right about mirrors and focal points, but she doesn't have any idea how to learn more about that -- "But she was...what's the word. Psychometric, and it had belonged to a very interesting woman."

"I met a girl who can see ghosts," she adds casually, as though this is part of the same conversation. "Not just see. Got grabbed by." That last bit still might be her fault, a little.

For all that he'd met her on his first day here, she made such a stronger impression on him as a cat that he's always vaguely surprised to find himself towering over her. Or maybe it's just the way she seems to dial everything up a few notches, her presence larger than her person. Regardless, he manages a wry smile for her.

"I presume that by 'psychometric,' you're referring to something besides making job interviews more obnoxious," he replies. Going off context, he ventures, "Gathering information via touch?" Georgie or Melanie might know, but Christ, he's had to draw the line somewhere. And his own research has generally been rather focused, based on whatever Statements he was reading. Discrete flavors of divination are still outside his wheelhouse.

Snorting softly, he adds, "Martin and I had our own ghost adventure up at Kagura about a month ago. Your new acquaintance has my sympathies."

Edited 2020-01-05 01:59 (UTC)

Blue blinks. Different people with different wheelhouses, clearly. "I need to brush up on my hiring tactics," she says, wryly, feeling a little under-educated and slightly annoyed at herself for taking it personally. "I have no idea what it means in that context. But you've got it. Calla could tell you the -- story of a thing by holding it." It's easier and more complete than saying the past and the future. Time isn't linear; it's just that not everyone can see through it.

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "What sort of ghost adventure? Or should I not ask?"

"You're not missing much," he dryly assures her. "It just refers to people who incorporate dubiously legitimate personality tests into the hiring process." It's all rubbish, if you ask him; whether people can do the job ought to matter more than whether they're sufficiently extraverted about it. And that's presuming the tests have any more inherent scientific rigor than reading bird entrails, which he tends to doubt.

Hell, with Blue's family, bird entrails might actually get you somewhere, though he isn't going to ask for clarification regarding something so ghoulish (not at brunch, anyway). Instead, he grimaces at her question regarding the ghost, which... he probably should have seen coming. At least the wince can believably be applied to the non-mistletoe-related portion of the day, too.

"It was... needlessly dramatic," he offers at length. "I did manage to get a Statement out of it, which you're more than welcome to read next time you come by the Archive. But I've had more cooperative subjects." After a beat, he admits, "She locked us in the boiler room."

"Oh," she says, "you mean MBTI and enneagrams and all that." She likes taking those things, but they're not divination tools. Or rather, they probably are for someone, because almost anything can be, but it'd be about as useful for her to look at someone's own impressions of themselves as for her to break out a tarot deck and hire based on her, very unpsychic, reading.

"That is dramatic," she says, raising an eyebrow. "I haven't heard of many ghosts that could manage a lock. When they weren't around me." Her smile is a little wry, a little embarrassed.

"I..." She doesn't know how to broach this, especially with her knowledge so abridged, like someone redacted most of a report and gave her cut-word poetry to interpret instead. "Heard there have been some other dramatics. Are you...doing okay?"

"Exactly," John says, experiencing that little pulse of relief that comes with unanticipated commonalities between universes. Christ knows what the Darrow brand knock-off versions of the tests are called, presuming an equivalent exists here, but hearing Blue use the actual, real names for them is oddly but profoundly reassuring.

Responding to the ghost comment is a little trickier, if only because the whole topic feels fraught by association. But the technicalities ought to be harmless enough, and he ventures, "I think it might have been... an atypical effort on the ghost's part. What we experienced doesn't align much with the stories and rumors about the place. I suspect a good deal of the alleged hauntings had nothing to do with her." Or with ghosts of any kind, quite frankly.

He blinks down at her when she asks after him, then tips his head a little in wry acknowledgment. There was already a small scar across his throat when he arrived here, but the one his would-be murderer left him with is far more prominent, and visibly fresher. "I'm... surviving," he replies at length. "I presume Kat told you something." There's no ire or accusation in his tone; he doesn't begrudge Kat wanting to talk about it with someone, and as third parties go, Blue is rather unobjectionable. There is a hint of inquiry, though; he doesn't know how much Kat has told her, and he'd rather know how much ground there might be to cover before he runs the risk of ruining anyone's brunch.

"Something," she agrees, not wanting to throw Kat under the bus precisely, though he doesn't sound angry about it. "She -- told me you'd been attacked," she admits, tone concerned, "and obviously there was a little more to it, but I didn't want to push. She seemed like she didn't know how much she was allowed to say."

"I was...a little worried," she says, mildly.

Perhaps it's not the right topic for a brunch, but Blue's also not exactly a brunch person and she is fond of being open with her feelings, so.

"I was," he acknowledges evenly. It's been long enough that he has the facts of the matter pretty well sorted into what is (or may as well be) common knowledge, and what should be kept more guarded. That he was attacked is no secret, but the motives and identity of his assailant are details he'd as soon stayed under wraps. It's bad enough that Martin worked it out; he won't have anyone else following in his footsteps.

Which, unfortunately, leaves him with little to do but brush it off. He doesn't want to tell Blue it's none of her business, and not just because her concern is genuine and rather touching. But he doesn't want the whole truth haunting her, either.

"But I'm more... resilient... than I look," he continues. "We're taking appropriate precautions, going forward, but it would take something substantially more dramatic than an attack to, er..." he falters; there's really no good way to put this, "... finish me off." After a beat, he adds, "I don't believe Kat is in any danger," his tone and expression softening by a few degrees.

John is clearly weighing his words, which isn't altogether abnormal, though often he seems to have just the right word picked out ahead of time. This is a more stressed -- more redacted, Blue thinks, but she doesn't necessarily have the right to be frustrated about that -- sort of tone.

"I mean," she says, and sort of gestures at the collection of scars that make up his general being. "You do look like you've seen some shit." Somehow, putting it crudely makes her feel better about the whole thing. "I just -- no one should have to," she finishes, ruffling her hair.

His comment about Kat is so on the mark that her eyes snap back up to his, and for a flash she wonders if he's listening without thinking about it. Probably, not. It's just natural to be worried. That's what she decides to think, anyway. "Good," she says, then adds, "I doubt we'd have to worry, she's kind of a survivor, but. I'd much rather everyone be safe. Not just Kat," she adds, a little embarrassed.

John is in trouble.

Not in the sense that he's in danger. Not in the sense that he's about to get murdered (again). But he has an actual killer after him, and she's supposed to be protecting him, and how is she supposed to do that when he's being an entire idiot?

Daisy had clocked him the moment he'd entered the building. He's not supposed to be alone, and when Martin is here and he isn't, she realizes that's exactly what's happened. The idiot had probably seen Martin home and then gone to the bloody Archive, instead of staying with Martin or having Daisy see him to his own building.

So the moment he enters Eliot's flat, she lands a solid, dull punch to his shoulder and glares at him.

"Oh, D—ow." John frowns, affronted, and makes a show of rubbing his shoulder. "Christ." He almost makes a 'some bodyguard' quip, but that would invite a retort so obvious that he doesn't even need to hear her say it.

And she'd have a point. Yesterday's madness had been so fundamentally silly that he'd managed to forget there were more salient threats to his safety. Granted, the odds of his murderer hijacking a cab had seemed unlikely enough that he wasn't troubled about coming here alone, but... well. He shouldn't ask Daisy to help protect him and deny her the opportunity. Especially if he doesn't want her taking matters into her own hands.

So he ducks his head and raises his hands in a hopefully appeasing gesture. "I'm sorry," he says sincerely. Then, "Please don't hit me again."

"Don't give me a reason to," she retorts coolly. She huffs out an annoyed breath, then leans closer and offers a much gentler nudge of her shoulder against his.

"Glad you're alright," she adds. "Don't be an idiot."

She turns back to looking at Eliot's flat like that's sorted. She's feeling similarly to John — Eliot's made an effort, here, made this weird little prison into a home, and she has to admit that she's a bit jealous. Her own flat is just a few floors down, but the only thing that didn't come with it is the plant that Martin had given her. She wonders if Martin's is the same.

John leans into the nudge, one corner of his mouth ticking up into a small, relieved smile. "You say that like there's an alternative," he quips, before following her gaze across the flat. He doesn't know if he Knows or simply suspects that she's also a bit thrown by how... put together the place is. There are plenty of perfectly sensible reasons why he hasn't gone to any great lengths to make his own flat feel more homey, up to and including the fact that he might not even wake up there tomorrow. It's hard to really think about settling when Darrow might spit him back out at any moment.

But it's also hard not to be a little envious. "He's really done something with the place, hasn't he?" he remarks, taking a casual sip of his drink. "Feels as if I'm not even trying, by comparison."

"Neither am I," she remarks. "Suppose it would feel less like a cell if we made it look less like one." She looks at some of the things Eliot's bought, though. Things that reek of indolence to look at, and that's not something Daisy wants to feel when she thinks about her own space.

"The problem is, it's lonely," she notes, softer than before. She doesn't even necessarily mean to say it, but it's John. It's so easy to be honest with John. "Even a pretty cell is still a cell when it's lonely."

John hums softly, somewhere between acknowledgment and agreement. None of them are bound to the Archive the way they were bound to the Institute, physical dependence and outside threats rendering them functionally under siege. They can all go their separate ways at the end of the day (to the extent that applies, with three of them living here in Candlewood), to their individual flats. No more forced camaraderie, which so easily translates to everyone respecting one another's newfound wealth of personal space.

It is lonely. He spends more time at the Archive than he does his own flat, and that's at least partly down to the potential that someone else might walk in at any moment, a fantasy he can't entertain so easily at the Bramford.

But he's not going to pretend that forced camaraderie is a tenable solution. Martin probably had the right idea by obtaining a cat. "You could get a pet," he suggests. "That might perk the place up a bit."

She huffs a laugh. "Could you imagine? Me with a goldfish, or a cat, or something. Poor Kermit's enough, and I'm barely tending to him." Though, she supposes that's rather the point of succulents, isn't it? They're very low-maintenance plants.

"This is... good... though. All these people. I used to hate crowds." Now, she can't imagine being alone even long enough to sleep, anymore. She has the telly going, just for the noise. For the illusion of company.

God, she's pathetic.

"Not a fish," John says with a dismissive flap of his hand. A properly run fish tank is a lot of time, money, and effort, and the payoff is largely aesthetic. He wouldn't expect a tank full of fish to feel like companionship. "But cats aren't bad. Or a dog. A dog might even be able to assist you on one of your little dinosaur-related missions." As if Daisy needs the help. He's yet to stump her, and he suspects actually doing so would be too maddening for her to feel like a victory for him.

"Think I still might," he admits in response to her comment about crowds. "But this is all very... normal." It takes him longer than it should to find the word, and he has to chase the unfamiliar taste of it with a sip of his drink.

He looks a bit like he's just tasted something that disagrees with his palate, and she realizes that she can relate. Normal is a hard pill to swallow, these days.

"Normal is good, John," she says, though she sounds like she's trying to convince herself. "Normal is normal. Sometimes the rest of us mere mortals need that." She doesn't mean to sound bitter, or even to steer the conversation away from talks of pet pros and cons. But she doesn't think she's wrong, either. Normal is good, and sometimes it's good to be reminded of that.

"I—" John starts, getting halfway through 'I know' before the rest of us mere mortals registers, and then he stops, as abruptly as if a hand had closed around his throat, and presses his lips together into a tight frown. Setting aside the fact that he'd sooner characterize normal as atypical as opposed to bad, it's impossible not to feel hurt by the implication that... what, that he's beyond it? That it isn't for him anymore, anyway? That he's forgotten what it means, that he doesn't at least intellectually understand that it's a good thing?

Maybe he's overthinking it. But then, he's slowly losing whatever knack for lying he ever possessed, and that includes lying to himself. All of those implications might be unintended or unkind, but that doesn't make them strictly untrue, does it?

"And what would I know about mortal concerns," he volleys back in an almost rhetorical undertone, though there's a pained edge to his customary dry humor.

Daisy winces a bit at that. Well, fuck. She hadn't meant to do that. Her words taste like copper in her mouth and she fixes him with an apologetic grimace.

"John, I—" she says, and forces herself to say the rest. "I didn't mean it like that. I meant it in the... casual, playful, 'oh look you're an aloof arsehole' way, not in the... 'oh look we're both weirdo monsters' way. Not that that sounds better, now I say it out loud..."

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering to herself about needing a fucking drink.

John snorts quietly, but some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He does know that Daisy wouldn't have meant to outright insult him — she's not above giving him a verbal kick in the arse when he needs one, but her intention has never been to hurt — but, well. They're both still... adjusting, to all of this. It's no surprise that said adjustments aren't always graceful.

"How do you feel about mimosas?" he asks. "Or I suppose you could go with straight champagne." She'd probably need a whole bottle to get anywhere at all, but it would be rude to raid Eliot's liquor cabinet for anything stronger.

"Rather a decent scotch," she admits, but she has the same moral obligations as John not to raid Eliot's flat for something better, and it's obvious in her tone. "Suppose it'll work for now," she adds, "but you owe me something stronger for that scare."

It isn't as though she'd been clutching her pearls like an old woman, but she does want to drive the point home to John: don't be an idiot. Let her do her job.

"Fair enough," he allows, though a small part of him is already thinking, a little despairingly, of how much mid-shelf scotch Daisy could put away on his dime without breaking a sweat. It might be more cost effective to go buy her a bottle of something rather than go out somewhere.

They make their way over to the drinks table, and as Daisy pours, he asks, "What did you make of last night? Get a good look at Darrow's idea of a mer-person?" Christ knows how he ought to gender the things; his examinations hadn't been particularly revealing in that regard.

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Say When (A New Year's Brunch)

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