Say When (A New Year's Brunch)

[eliotwaugh]

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.]

Comments

[formicine]

"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?"

[statement_ends]

"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.

[formicine]

"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.

[statement_ends]

"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.

[formicine]

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.