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

[loficharm]

Martin wrinkles his nose in displeasure at that wink, leaning back a bit. He doesn't like the way that sounds, just shy of a threat, really—and he especially doesn't like the way Sweeney is grinning at him. If his idea of a leprechaun is so at odds with the man before him, there's no reason his idea of 'luck' would be either. This might be an ideal time to change the subject, but before he can think of anything, John's already launched into a counterpoint.

Martin doesn't quite turn to stare at John, though his eyes go wide and a bit unfocused as he takes in what sounds like a bloody challenge. Christ, really? Even if the good luck really is limited to those examples, it doesn't necessarily follow that the bad won't be worse. Even if it is as unimpressive as John believes, Martin sees no reason to poke that particular bear.

But for all that John is brilliant, he hasn't always been smart, self-preservation never particularly high on his priority list. Martin shuts his eyes and heaves a quiet, put-upon sigh.

[onlythebranch]

Sweeney gives a laugh, then finishes the rest of his mimosa. The examples he'd given are small, the day to day things most people don't notice until they begin to add up. For someone like Greta, the only person who still leaves him offerings in this city, it may have simply become something she's used to, something she doesn't even notice, but still things that make every day just a little bit easier all the same.

And then there are the bigger things, too. Greta would know about them just as well as the rest.

"You'd be surprised how quickly a bit of change on the sidewalk can turn into a lottery win," he answers with a shrug and another grin as he goes for a second -- fifth? -- drink. "Or how swiftly a trip on the edge of a stair turns into a broken neck. But nothin' you've got t'worry about, right? Can't imagine you care much for leaving offerings to leprechauns or gods."