Misdirected

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Tom Cooke
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Thu Jun 20, 2019 5:00 pm

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
Shock, horror, and ultimately disbelief. He was used to those. When he’d first run off with Vauquelin’s body, piecing together half a life in the Dives, he’d yammered to everyone he could find: everyone at the textile mill had called him Tom, gone along with his strange little play, treated him like you might treat a moony old golly that thought he’d once been human. He’d told Corwynn, and Corwynn seemed to half-believe him, but not even Corwynn called him by his name. If he was useful to Hawke, it was as a curiosity. He felt sure nobody had really believed he was who he said he was, and so he’d stopped even trying.

At first, he thought maybe he’d misjudged, being honest. He wasn’t prepared for the tears. A lot of them, this time – coming out of both eyes. Smeared eyeliner and shaky breaths. Somehow, the fact that she didn’t sob made it even worse. Had she really loved him? Or perhaps she was still playing the game – whatever game it was – spilling out more tears to make him vulnerable? Tom was cursing himself for sticking his foot in his mouth. Then, she spoke again – I hated him was all she had to say – and his face went slack and pale with surprise. To say that in front of him, to Anatole’s face, she must’ve believed him.

She believed him. He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling with himself.

He remembered the first golly john he’d ever gone after, in spite of Meggie’s protests. Mung, manly fight-for-yer-honor chroveshit, was all it was. He’d been sixteen and all bluster. Hawke had just found him through the Carlisles, and his new line of work had been treating him well. For once, he’d been able to spread the wealth a little, even if it hadn’t meant much: a gift or two, here and there, for Meggie and Clarke. Made him feel like a provider. He’d sprung up fast, had Tom, and he’d learned early how to throw his weight around; when you were just about six and a half feet, built like a brick shithouse besides, you seldom lost a fight. With another man, that was.

Tom had nearly died that night. He’d been too embarrassed to crawl back to Meggie, embarrassed anyway that he’d put himself in death’s line of sight; she’d worried herself half to death in turn. Remembered that day for years. More importantly, he’d been embarrassed to learn the lesson it’d taught him, the same lesson all humans learned at some point or another, even in the Rose: a golly got what he wanted. A smart human didn’t try to fight back. Not with fists, anyway.

“Clockin’ awful, he must’ve been,” he murmured, trying to keep everything he was feeling off his face. “I hate him, too, the kenser’s erse. Look’it what he’s done to me, eh? I used to be a looker.” Frayed little laugh, then. Humor was the only way he knew how to deal with all this, but he was worried the joke had fallen flat this time.

So Tom reached across the counter, patting her on the shoulder briefly. It was an awkward motion, being as he was shaky and she was just a bit taller than him; he had to stretch. “He’s gone, rosh,” he said firmly, looking her in the face. Gone.

Cotted ’im personal. He didn’t say that bit. Still, there was a funny weight about his words, like he was telling ol’ Barkley he’d taken care of a Problem. A funny, serious look in his eye.

He withdrew awkwardly, clearing his throat.

Again, he pressed a hand to his eye, massaged his left temple. She’d composed herself, and she was looking at him expectantly. He tried to think what to say. Start small, hey? “Cooke,” he replied hoarsely. “Tom. Junta. It’s Anatole to everyone else, though, hey? I’m trustin’ you.”

Biting his lip suddenly, Tom cast another furtive look around the shop. He twitched his head toward the door. Rain still pattered against the glass window, but it was slackening; the occasional umbrella-toting shadow drifted by, visible in snatches between the fabrics on display in the window.

He leaned over the counter. “Ms. Weaver, I’m lost. I’ve only been like this for” – he counted it out, mouthed one, two, three… four… tapping each finger on the counter lightly – “six, seven months. There are – gaps. You were one of ’em, an’ this shit only gets worse. Listen, I can’t ask you to talk about it, but if you knew anythin’ about his – involvement—” He put special weight on the word, eye twitching. “But this don’t seem like the place for a talk like that, an’ bein’ honest, I’m shaken to the bones. You don’t look so good, yourself. If you got someplace to sit…”

Tom half-winced, eyes darting away from Ava. He knew what he was asking. He felt obscenely conscious of her eyes on him – of his face, of his grey-streaked red hair, of the timbre of his voice (in spite of the words), all of which he was sure she knew better than he did. A mant manna better. He felt like a viper pretending to be a garter snake.

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Ava Weaver
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Fri Jun 21, 2019 7:32 am

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
Anatole’s face went limp in what Ava could only hope was relief. It was hard to learn new cues to a familiar face. Anatole had never been so expressive in life, although he had managed to convey a remarkable range of sneers. Ava thought that the wrinkles on his face seemed to pull it into more familiar directions, but much of what she had seen on him today was utterly unfamiliar, brand new contortions that she would have said Anatole’s face wasn’t capable of.

Ava’s lips flickered at a smile at the joke that came from Anatole’s mouth, wan and tight, not much more convincing than the pale echo of an unpleasantly familiar laugh. She could have made a more credible effort, laughed to show him how funny the joke was, but Ava couldn’t quite find the strength that such a front would demand of her. It didn’t seem necessary, and the thought of smoothing over the rough, jagged edges inside of her was painful. That was what it would take though – that was what it always took. She couldn’t simply conjure emotion as if it were a wick’s tricks; she used what she felt, buffed and polished and shined for public consumption.

Ava inhaled and held still when Anatole’s hand reached out and up to pat her shoulder, an awkward and unexpected gesture. Despite herself, Ava felt a faint repulsion, like an icy tendril down her neck. The gesture was well meant, though, and the words comforting. “Mujo ma,” Ava all-but-whispered, meeting those familiar-unfamiliar eyes. She wasn’t quite sure what she was thanking him for, but the words felt right. She shivered, once, feeling a wave of goosebumps ripple of her arms.

“Junta, Tom Cooke,” Ava’s smile smoothed into something more genuine when he – Tom – introduced himself. It helped to have another way to think of him, a way that wasn’t Anatole. “I won’t forget,” Ava promised, lips quirked in a wry smile. As if she were likely to forget that he would be seen as Anatole! But she understood that the warning was meant as more than that, was meant to remind her that his cover was careful and fragile and important. Ava understood that all too well.

In truth, Tom didn’t look too good. His coat was still sopping wet, heavy wool, and water from it had pooled and puddled on her floor; his eye was twitching as if it had a mind of his own, and pressing his fingers into his temple didn’t seem to be helping. Ava was sure she looked a fright as well; she could feel the pale clamminess in her cheeks, and the tendency of her hands still to tremble.

The request caught her by surprise, and then – further to her surprise – Ava grinned. It was a genuine, utterly unguarded reaction, but some spark of joy caught and lit in her eyes, and she almost laughed. “Oh, yes, I understand. In truth – I am not sure where I can help,” Ava admitted, “but I would be very glad to try.” She smiled at Tom. It felt like being part of it. This was Tom’s life, and perhaps he did or didn’t see the irony of it, but Ava did, very much. She couldn’t imagine anything Anatole would have hated more, and she was delighted to be a part of building Tom’s cover.

After a moment, worried he might find the reaction strange, Ava added, very tentatively. “You don’t know – perhaps you do,” she hesitated, lips parting slightly. The impulse towards honesty, towards speaking her thoughts almost without a filter, was odd and unfamiliar. Ava swallowed her hesitation, and pushed a little further, smiling faintly again. “He’d have hated – ” she grinned a little more. Her cheeks were red now, an unfeigned blush rising on them. “I can’t think of anything he’d have hated more than you in… this,” Ava made a small, graceful gesture with one hand, sweeping it to cover the Anatole standing in front of her.

Ava took a deep breath. Tom was right; it wasn’t a discussion they could have out here. Ava glanced around the shop for a moment. She wasn’t sure she was able to serve any customers anyway, in truth, and it wasn’t like she had a fitting or visit scheduled for the morning. “Just a moment,” Ava stepped across the room to the door, carefully locking it, and turning the small sign in the bay window to indicate the shop was closed. She tugged at small curtains behind the glass display window, letting them tumble free and blocking the world outside. Ava turned back to Tom, looking at him from across the room.

From further away, it was harder to see he wasn’t Anatole. A shiver swept through her, and Ava closed her eyes for a moment, letting it pass. Good lady, but Ava hoped, desperately, that she wasn’t making a mistake. She hesitated there for a moment, then gathered herself again and made her way across the shop, smiling at – Tom. “Here,” Ava carefully opened the door to the back of the shop, glancing once over her shoulder at him, then stepping inside.

The back room had several couches, comfortable-looking, stacked with pillows and draped with billowing fabrics all around, making a soft, pleasant space, an easy place to relax in. “I can take your coat, if you’d like,” Ava offered, a little hesitant. “Or – fetch you a robe, even. Friendly-like,” she managed two thirds of a smile for Tom, standing with her hands folded over her front.

“I thought perhaps I’d make us some tea,” Ava continued, slowly. “It will take a few minutes, but I – you can wait here, if you’d like.” It was one thing to have Tom here; Ava thought that would be fine. The room upstairs, though, that was – hers. Perhaps the first place that had ever been hers. Perhaps Tom wasn’t quite a stranger; she and he had something shared between them, born of their odd connections to Anatole, which took them past that place. But he was still a man she didn’t know, in the body of one she desperately would have preferred to avoid. It didn’t make it terribly comfortable to invite him up.

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Tom Cooke
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Fri Jun 21, 2019 1:39 pm

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
Being honest, her grin did throw him for a loop. He’d half-expected to be told to get out; if not that, then at least, he’d thought, she would’ve been reluctant or conflicted. Her smile looked genuine, though, and the color that crept into her cheeks even made her look a little abashed. His eyebrows shot up. As she hurried to explain herself, gesturing with such delicacy and grace – such politeness – at him, at what she’d called this, his own face broke out into a genuine smile.

And he laughed. It wasn’t a wan, thin thing like he’d given her before, or the laughs he faked at soirees. It was a deep, rich laugh that bubbled up out of him, not quite his old laugh but not quite Anatole’s, either – and it ended in a godsdamn ridiculous snort that he couldn’t seem to help.

“Aye,” he replied, waving a hand and shaking his head. “Glad somebody else appreciates the fuckin’ irony.” This. He had to stifle another little snort behind his hand, to his consternation (and, damn it, amusement). He was tired, but even as the mirth bled out of him, it left his spirits a little higher than they’d been. He half-turned, watching her move to lock the door and close up shop. She was a thin, graceful silhouette against the pale grey glow, and as she turned to look at him, he couldn’t make out her expression.

He saw the pause, though, and felt another pang. Tried to smile, didn’t know how it looked, and turned away. Soon enough, she was in motion again, moving to the door he’d seen at the back of the shop – the one he’d seen the other woman come out of. With a deep breath, he gathered himself to follow her.

How long had it been since he’d been in a place like this? He hung in the doorway, glance flicking over the panoply of cushions, the draped fabric, the seats that seemed like they’d spent years shaping themselves all comfortable for familiar sitters. It reminded him almost of the Quarter Fords house, sans the cling of incense and cannabis that lived wherever Ishma did. He looked down, noticing his coat and his trousers were still dripping on the floor, and his brows drew together. His shoes had mud on them.

Carefully, wincing apologetically, he slipped his feet out of his shoes, bent to set them to one side of the door, and then stepped into the room. She spoke again, and he tore his eyes away from the room to look at her. He was grateful for that two-thirds of a smile, and when she offered to take his coat, he hesitated, but then relented.

Friendly-like. “Er—” It was his turn to color slightly, the gears turning in his head. “I – thanks. That’d be— Hell, I’d be grateful for anythin’ dryer than this.” He plucked at the heavy, wet wool of his sweater, frowning. When she mentioned tea, he perked up a little. “’Course. Happy to wait.”

He tried to push another smile past his jangling nerves, but he knew it wasn’t convincing. He stood there for a moment, fingers curling into the thick fabric of his hat, then took a hesitant step toward her.

“Listen, Ms. Weaver, I – I’m grateful, but I don’t – I don’t want you doin’ all this shit for me, like you’re used to, like I was expectin’—” The word caught in his throat, and suddenly he couldn’t meet her eye. He twisted the hat, fingers edging around it. “I ain’t like that. Hell, I’d never even think – an’ bein’ honest, I can’t think, I’m not capable – I jus’ mean t’ say” – he stumbled, the words coming out suddenly in a rush – “I ain’t the sort of man who’s interested in the fairer sex. If you know what… I…” He trailed off, a faint surprised expression on his face, as if he couldn’t believe he’d just said it aloud.

When was the last time he’d told anyone that? He wasn’t sure he ever had, not in so many words. It was clumsy; he’d struggled to think of the right euphemism. It’d always been something assumed, something people noticed in the gaps and absences of his life, ultimately unspoken. Or something you took a chance on, making eyes at a kov sitting alone at the bar, feeling out the territory without ever asking, without ever saying the word.

“…mean,” he finished, wan. He swallowed thickly. “Even— Even still. You sure you’re comfortable havin’ me in here? Even still. You tell me to dust, I’ll dust. You don’t have to have Anatole sittin’ down here, makin’ you on edge. You don’t have to bring ’im tea. I can’t imagine what it must be like.”
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Ava Weaver
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Fri Jun 21, 2019 4:05 pm

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
Ava didn’t quite laugh with Tom, but she grinned at him, relaxing when he laughed. It was much better that he appreciated the irony too; she really would have felt awful if it he hadn’t. He was the one stuck in – that, after all. Or, at least, so Ava supposed. There were stranger things out there; one only had to interact with the galdori to know that. With all that they could do, how hard was it to believe that there were ghosts, and that one was sitting in Anatole’s body right now, staring at her with his gray eyes?

In the end, Ava supposed, it was easier than believing that this sort of tek was coming from Anatole. It was strange enough to hear it flowing from his mouth, in his too-familiar voice; it would be stranger still to force herself to believe that it was really him speaking it. It wasn’t. It just couldn’t be.

Tom seemed more comfortable in the back room. Ava noticed; she couldn’t help but notice. There in front of her was the set of Anatole’s shoulders when he was feeling comfortable somewhere, not that Tom quite had his usual ramrod posture down. Now that she knew, she could see it; there was an odd sort of predatory grace to him that Anatole had never had, a looseness to his movements where Anatole had been tight and stiff, properly dignified. That, interspersed with fidgeting and squirming of the sort Anatole had never engaged in.

Ava took a half step towards Tom, reaching out both hands to take the coat. She was still half-hovering there when Tom began to speak again, and she froze, looking at him in confusion. Ava started to shake her head a little when Tom began to clarify, noticing how uncomfortably he avoided the word sex, or any of the dozen possible synonyms. He rushed through a hastily and awkward explanation, explaining with a look like a pinched lemon on his face that he preferred kovs to chips, before fumbling into another offer to leave.

Ava didn’t quite know what to say, lips slightly parted. She exhaled, slowly and carefully, looking at Anatole’s face again. There was quite a bit she could say – she didn’t have any intent of trying to seduce him, and she felt a bit badly that he seemed to still think otherwise. She didn’t mind if he liked men; she liked women herself, mostly, when she got to choose. In the end, though, she thought she’d address the biggest, most important part of it.

“I ent bringing him tea,” Ava said. She straightened her back, drawing up to her full height, just enough to look very slightly down at Tom-in-Anatole’s-body, and settled her hands on her slender hips. It was a posture like the women of her family used to take, back when she had a family, every bit as odd in her fancy dress as Tom’s words were coming from his galdor mouth. “I’m bringing you tea, Tom Cooke, same as I’d do for anyone. Ye chen?” Her eyebrows lifted, a faintly stern tone to her voice.

In truth, Ava didn’t want him to go. It was odd, it was very odd, and it didn’t show any signs of getting less odd. But… it wasn’t painful, not as she might have thought it had been. Their mannerisms were too different; she only had to watch him shift and wring at his hat to know it wasn’t really Anatole standing in front of her. In truth, Ava was – curious. There was a connection between them, or at least she felt one, like it or not. The idea of helping him to wear Anatole’s skin really did please her, a better revenge than any she’d ever dreamed of, or anything she’d tried to put in motion herself. And, in truth, it was a bit pleasant to let her guard down. Dangerous, too dangerous, but pleasant too.

Ava softened a little, another wry smile quirking her lips. “It’s odd, I won’t say it isn’t,” Ava admitted. Her hands lowered from her hips, loose at her sides. “And I can’t – “ Ava paused, thinking over her words, before continuing. “I can’t say I won’t be on edge. But I meant what I said, I want to help you with this, and I intend to follow through on that. If I change my mind, and I want you to go, then I’ll tell you to go.” Ava paused, then grinned at him. “Now, give me that coat. I’ll hang it upstairs and come back with tea and a robe. It’ll be one of mine, and I can’t promise you’ll like it, but I can promise it’ll be dry.”

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Tom Cooke
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Fri Jun 21, 2019 10:12 pm

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
Just as she’d been about to take his coat, Ava drew herself up in front of him, putting her hands on her hips. Then, what came out of her mouth was like something he’d only known in life – there before him, wholly out of place in that fine blue dress, was a tradeswoman from Cantile or Sharkswell, taking a stern, tough tone with him. He stared at her, incredulous. Whatever words had been on the tip of his tongue melted away, and his mouth hung open for a moment.

Like he was a lad, and he’d just splattered mud on her drying laundry. Or like Josie, patching him up late in the night, mad as hell he’d crawled in with yet another nasty wound he’d gotten on the job.

It made him feel like himself. A good deal of that nervous, fidgety air melted away from him; he stopped wringing his hat. He straightened, lifting his chin to look levelly at her face, and crossed his arms. “Aye, rosh,” he drawled with something like playful aggravation. “I get it, I get it.” Thank you, thank you, thank you.

When she reached for his coat, he gave it to her without complaint. She spoke again, and this time, he didn’t have any trouble meeting her eye. He looked at her steadily, listening, and eventually just nodded. There was a lot he could’ve said, too, but he reckoned it would’ve just been stating the obvious: he knew it was odd, he knew she’d be on edge, and he knew it wasn’t likely to get any easier. Instead, he just flashed her a wry smile and said, “I ain’t picky,” watching her turn and move for the stairs.

He smiled to himself, then turned away as she disappeared.

Rain still pattered outside, tapping against the roof and the windows, burbling down from the gutters; he stood listening to it and surveying the still, quiet room. Empty-handed now, he felt oddly helpless. In the first place, he couldn’t believe where he was, couldn’t make sense of the whirl of events that’d gotten him there. It was like a private world, this, like the kind that exist in dreams. Though it was barely audible, he heard a stirring-about upstairs and found himself wondering what she was thinking. He thought about how she’d just taken Vauquelin’s coat upstairs, into whatever place she called her own. About how if he were her, he’d have burned it. About what reserve of strength she must’ve had that she didn’t.

His back hurt, and he wanted to sit down, but he didn’t want to get too comfortable yet. Padding over to the nearest sofa, he lowered himself to perch on the edge of the arm.

There, putting his head in his hands, he shook with silent sobs for at least a few minutes. Every time he thought he was done, something else caught up to him and he started again. He sobbed until he’d exhausted his lungs with hitching breath and wrung himself dry of tears, and then he simply sat, hunched, trying to focus on breathing.

A gentle creaking of the floorboards sounded from the top of the stairs, and it tore him away from his weeping. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, more tired than anything. He knuckled the tears out of his eyes, then wiped his face roughly and hastily on the sleeve of his sweater.

He’d got himself mostly composed by the time she came down, and anyway, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to care. Tom already felt beyond exposed, but he supposed it was fair, given what he’d seen – the admissions, the expressions he’d been privy to – of her. In a way, he reckoned, she was just about the only person in Vita who could grasp the specifics of what he felt. She wasn’t raen, but they were both a little too close to a certain Anaxi politician for comfort.

“Hey, hey,” he said, trying to sound casual.
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Ava Weaver
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Sat Jun 22, 2019 1:15 am

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
T
om smoothed out as she spoke, stopped squirming, stopped twisting at his poor hat, straightened to Anatole’s full height and, once he’d managed to close his mouth, gave Ava a look that was much more Anatole’s than much of what she’d seen from him so far. The tone though – the tone was all Tom, and Ava allowed herself a brief, self-satisfied little smirk, aware she’d surprised him and thoroughly pleased by it.

Ava took the familiar, sopping wet coat in her hands, and disappeared behind one of the hanging fabrics on the wall, making her way up the stairs hidden against the wall. She pushed open the trap door at the top with one hand, emerging into the small studio space that had been hers the last two years. It wasn’t much – a small room, with a bed tucked into one corner, with a bright, colorful coverlet and a heap of comfortable pillows, a wardrobe against one wall, a vanity, her washbasin against the wall, and a narrow stove across the room. She took her cloaks off the long stand for them, laying them on the bed, and hung Anatole’s coat in their place; it was dripping on her floor, but Ava didn’t see much she could do about it.

For a moment, Ava stood still, staring at the coat, her hands damp from the wool. Then she was moving again, picking up her bright copper kettle and checking the water level. Satisfied, she lit the small gas range and set the kettle into place on it, fetching her pot and two porcelain cups, laying them out on a tray and carefully measuring tea into the pot. Her hands shook, and a few of the dried leaves spilled onto the tray. Ava held still until she could control herself again, carefully picking up the small leaves and sprinkling them into the pot. Then, just as carefully, she put the little tin of tea away with its scoop. She fetched a small pot of milk from the cold storage next to the stove, pouring a little bit into a small pitcher on the tray.

Ava opened her wardrobe, taking out a comfortable full-length cotton robe the green of spring grass, with a sturdy tie at the waist, edged with just a little bit of lace around the front and wrists. Her lips quirked at a smile, and then she was sobbing again, doubled over and gasping for breath, one hand tightening on the robe as the other clung to the wardrobe door. She leaned her forehead against it, shaking, tears streaming down her face. After a few moments she shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut, breathing hard until she felt she could stop. Ava sniffled, once, carefully pressing her hand against her eyes, and draped the robe over the wardrobe handle with shaking hands.

The kettle was still heating, not yet whistling. Ava checked it, then moved across the room, making her way to her vanity. She sat, carefully, examining her face in the mirror, and wrinkled her nose, fingers lifting to touch the smeared kohl around her eyes. She went to the water basin next, dabbing a cloth into the cold water sitting there and pressing it to her eyes, letting them flutter shut for a few moments. She’d need more time than she had to get the puffy swelling left from her tears to go away, but she did what she could anyway, cooling both eyes and wiping the smeared edges of the eyeliner away. She touched it up once she was done, ever so slightly, until her face looked like her own again.

Behind her, the kettle began to whistle, noisily fluttering on the stove. Ava watched it in the mirror, the curls of steam that lifted up into the room. She held still for a moment, a breath, then left the kohl behind on the vanity and made her way to the range, turning it off and pouring the boiling water into the tea pot. She set its top back into place, took a deep breath, and lifted the tray, stopping at her wardrobe to tuck the robe over her arm, managing the tray with one hand for a few moments. At the hatch, she tucked the robe over one arm, and began to descend the narrow stairs, stopping a few steps down to shut the trap door.

Ava re-appeared from behind the hanging fabric. Tom called a hello that nearly managed to be casual, and Ava smiled at him. It was a shock to see him sitting on the edge of her couch, but one she’d prepared herself for, carefully. She turned and set the tray of tea things down on a small table near the stairs and crossed the room. “Here you are,” Ava extended the robe to him.

Ava made her way back across the room, and pointedly turned her back on Tom, keeping her eyes lowered to the tea things. There were a few things to do, at least; she rearranged the cups, checked the little pot of sugar, opening and closing the lid as if that might change the contents inside. She adjusted the milk, turning the little pitcher to the side, and checked on the tea, leaning forward slightly to smell it. Her hands shook a little, but she replaced the lid without clattering.

Only once she was sure that Tom was decent – either from his acknowledgement of it or at the very least the lack of sounds that might indicate changing – would Ava carefully lift the tray and bring it across the room. The tea had steeped enough, by now, and she set the tray down and poured two small cups of it, one after another.

“Milk? Sugar?” Ava asked, looking up at Tom with a faint smile. She didn’t know, and, oddly, it was reassuring. Once she’d finished making the tea, Ava made her own, one lump of sugar and a few drops of milk, just enough that pale color swirled through the dark liquid. She lifted her own cup and sat back, easing onto the couch Tom hadn’t chosen, feeling a little more comfortable with space between them. She had the knack of sitting with her back straight, her posture excellent, but in a way that made her look relaxed, as if the position was natural and comfortable both.

Ava took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as she settled into place, and took a small, delicate sip of tea. She lowered the cup to her lap, holding it gently in one hand with the other steadying the rim. She managed not to stare at Tom, at Anatole’s body in her pretty green robe, but did her best as well not to obviously avoid looking at him, knowing that would be just as bad. If his eyes were a little puffier than they’d been as well – Ava wouldn’t be the one to mention it.

“There is – one thing,” Ava said, delicately. She hadn't thought she would tell him, up until now - sitting there, looking at not-Anatole-but-Tom in her robe, Ava made a new judgment. “Before I – knew,” she made a delicate little gesture with her mouth, “I called in a favor. I asked someone to... take care of you. Well, him, although I suppose at the time, I didn’t…” Ava’s mouth twitched, faintly. “I’ll do my best to call it off, but – you should know she might be coming.” She looked up at him, unapologetic, and picked up the cup to take another small sip.

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Tom Cooke
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Sat Jun 22, 2019 11:08 am

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
Seeing her emerge from behind the hanging fabric with the tray, he stood up from the couch. At first, he moved toward her as if to take the tray off her hands, then hesitated, stepping back; he stood by until she’d set it down on the little table. When she brought him that lacy green thing, he stared at it, eyebrows raised.

Then he smiled wryly. “Mujo mujo ma,” he replied, taking it and watching her turn back to the tray. He stood, watching her, until he was sure her back was turned and she was occupied.

Tom changed hurriedly, wincing as he shed each wet layer. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her not to look, and unfortunately, it wasn’t as if this were a sight she hadn’t seen before. Still, this was his custom: change as quickly as possible; look as little as possible. Soon as he’d done, he deposited his wet clothes into a small pile beside the couch. Then he drew a few sharp breaths through his nose as he fought down a surge of panic. Keeping his eyes on a gauzy fabric draped over the back of the sofa, keeping his head up, he felt around for where he’d laid the robe on the arm. He snatched it up, fumbling with it for a moment.

Once he’d got it round his shoulders, he sighed with relief; it wasn’t too hard to wrap up and tie it at the waist, though he stood there for a moment, eyes still trained on the fabric. Still not wanting to look down or move. The cotton was light and comfortable – dry, most importantly – and the hem brushed his ankles, but the way it draped and clung made him terribly conscious of himself. Made him feel skinny and old – and very small. He managed to look down at his hands: the fringe of lace around his wrists felt utterly surreal.

“’M’done,” he muttered a little more gruffly than he’d intended, sitting tentatively on the couch. He watched Ava bring the tea over, metal tray rattling as she set it down. The question – ’cause she didn’t know how he took his tea, did she? – lightened his expression a smidge, and he found he could look her in the face. “Jus’ black, Ms. Weaver, if you please.” He studied her face as she poured the tea into the cups. He noticed she’d taken the time to neaten her makeup a little.

As she settled in opposite, he felt himself start to unwind. The distance between them was good. Felt safe. Comfortable. Steadily, he settled back against the cushions; his posture grew a little more languid. He still couldn’t shake feeling like a plucked chicken, though, and he tugged at the fabric around his knees occasionally, shifted around less as if the robe fit incorrectly and more as if he fit incorrectly. Shivering from the draft, he cradled the cup in his lap, wrapping his fingers gratefully around the hot porcelain. He shut his eyes briefly: he felt the steam curling up against his face, breathed deep of that familiar, bitter bohea smell.

Ms. Weaver was looking at him – best she could, he figured, without staring or looking away. He reckoned it was an odd enough sight for her; he couldn’t blame her, but it didn’t make him feel less self-conscious. Not with her sitting there, straight-backed and elegant but comfortable-looking still, like this was just the shape she took by default.

Then, just as casually and elegantly, she admitted she’d taken a hit out on him.

The rim of his own teacup had just brushed his lips; he spluttered tea. Take care of--? She? Call it off? Blinking, he looked up at her and watched her take a dainty sip of tea. Who the fuck are you, anyway?

He stared at her for a long time, face utterly blank. Then he gazed down at his tea. For a moment, he had second thoughts about drinking it, but he banished the thought. He was dressed in a light robe and she’d taken his coat upstairs; it was a little too late for an escape. If death were coming for him (again) today, he doubted he could do much to stop it. Not that death wasn’t already scheduled anyway. “Huh,” he grunted at length. “Uh – well – under the circumstances. It’s understandable, I reckon. Guess I did a real benny job pretendin’ t’ be Anatole that day, hey?”

He flashed her a light smile, then took a sip of tea. He’d forgotten to blow on it this time, and it scalded his tongue; he made a face. Holding it in his lap again, he drummed his fingers on the rim. His eye was still twitching.

“I used to be a fightin’ man,” he continued slowly, “an’ I wasn’t, uh, a ballach. So I know how these things work, bein’ blunt. I also know I ain’t got a chance in hell now. If there’s anythin’ you can tell me about this chip, anythin’ I need to be aware of before I get scragged while I’m on the shitter, I’d much appreciate it.”
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Ava Weaver
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Sat Jun 22, 2019 2:36 pm

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
T
om had been bigger in life. Had Ava been the sort to bet coin on such casual things, she wouldn’t have hesitated to take that bet. It wasn’t just that he was human; Ava would have laid coin on him having been large even for a human. It was in the way he sat on the couch, shifting in the robe as if he was used to looking down at himself and being pleased with what he saw – a look Ava remembered from men she had grown up with, the ones who were strong and tough, confident in their size and their fists. When she’d left the Rose, some of the boys she’d known had just been starting to come into that strength. A man like her uncle – smaller, frailer in more ways than one – she didn’t think would look that way.

Ava saw it too in the way he responded to her news. There was a brief splutter of surprise, a splash of tea against the rim and a few drops that splattered, probably hot, against the cotton lying over his thigh. Ava finished her sip, her posture as easy and casual as it had been all along. Her eyes though – she didn’t pretend not to stare too much at Tom now, doing her best to read his thoughts into Anatole’s face. It wasn’t easy.

But the size he’d been was in the way he reacted. He didn’t hunch back, flinch away from her, as if the prospect of it frightened him. Instead, she thought maybe he sat a little taller, squared his shoulders a little straighter, as if readying himself to meet it head on. Ava had never doubted that he lacked for courage; how could he, with the (after)life he led? Knowing what she knew now, she understood that it had been terribly brave of him to come find her today, strong in a way – clearly – beyond the physical.

Tom sat for a long time, thinking and studying her. Ava didn’t rush him; she didn’t say another word. She took another small sip of her tea and cradled the cup in her hands again. It was, she thought, rather easier to tell someone you’d taken a hit out on them when they sat in your lacy green robe, drinking tea you’d made. Her instincts told her she didn’t need to be afraid of Tom – but all the same, she watched him, carefully. She knew something about Anatole, his strength, but Ava knew something as well about rage, and she doubted she could fight off Tom, if he meant her harm. She didn’t move either though, didn’t pull back or flinch. There wasn’t much point to it, really.

He grunted, and, as he’d done before, turned the hard subject into a joke. Then he took a sip of tea – which Ava thought was, again, truly brave, under the circumstances.

“Benny enough, certainly,” Ava agreed, smiling at him. “You must have worked hard.” The temptation to get him a warm cloth for that eye was still there, but Ava held off. She thought it would make him feel worse, not better – a tangible reminder that, quite possibly, she knew his body better than he did, at least in some ways. It was best for both of them not to dwell on it.

Ava couldn’t help but twitch when Tom spoke again. The request itself wasn’t unexpected, and she had given it a little thought, in the corner of her mind not occupied by watching him. It was the phrasing of it that caught her off-guard, and dragged a little giggle from her, soft and feminine and utterly inappropriate for the topic at hand – for both topics at hand.

“Of course,” Ava said, clearing her throat and mastering herself, lips twitching again at a smile. She had thought about it. There were things she could tell Tom – he had every right to ask, and she thought she ought to give him enough to try and help himself, just in case. There were things she couldn’t tell him. Caina’s name – no. She couldn’t know Tom’s loyalties, not in truth. He was a Rose man, after all, and a tough from the Rose – well, Ava wouldn’t bet on him being Resistance. Ava would prefer not to give Tom enough to identify Caina in any meaningful way or notice her signature on any death. It had been enough of a risk to ask Caina to help her in something that was, arguably, more personal than mission-based; she wouldn't compromise her in the process.

“It’s not my qalqa, exactly,” Ava continued. “But I can tell you she’s small – my height, perhaps. Dark hair, blue eyes. I don’t know how or where she’d come for you, but she likes knives,” Ava was as casual as if they were discussing the weather, and she took another drink of tea. This sip tasted oddly bitter, and Ava lowered her eyes for a moment, full lips pressing together. She looked back at Tom.

“Be careful,” Ava said, slowly. She didn’t think Tom was the sort to underestimate someone solely on the basis of gender, but she didn’t know, not really, and she thought she had better be direct. She would, Ava realized, be very sorry if Caina killed him. “She’s – very good,” she was quiet, reaching forward to set the half-full cup of tea down on the table, hands coming together to rest in her lap.

She ought to have stopped there, and Ava knew it. Yet again, something about Tom dragged a little more from her, pushed her a little further than she intended to go. “If there's anything I can do...”

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Tom Cooke
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Sat Jun 22, 2019 10:38 pm

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
She likes knives, thought Tom dully.

Incumbent Anatole Vauquelin found – shockingly – in his study one morning, throat cut, the blood still fresh. Or disappeared one day, nobody knew how or where-to – in truth, sunk to the bottom of the Arova. Or that good old stand-by: gutted like a fish in an alleyway, probably dumped in the same place. Or something else that even Tom’s imagination couldn’t conjure up offhand. “Well, fuck me.” He took a long draught of warm tea, as if the bitterness could wash down all the fear bundled up in that profanity.

He took a deep breath, shrugged, then looked back at Ava. His smile was a little brittle this time, being honest; he didn’t look angry – not at her, anyway – but there was tension in the lines of his face and the set of his shoulders, and he couldn’t hide it. Inadvertently, it was a look very much like Anatole might have had if you’d told him he was losing a race after a long and harrowing campaign, and he had nothing more to do but wait and look back on all the spent energy and the wasted money.

Nobody’s fault, but a damn shame.

“All right. Well. I ain’t goin’ to ask you how you know this woman,” he started, “or anythin’ else like that. I get it. Believe me, I get it.” He rubbed his twitching eye with a fingertip, sucking at a tooth as he thought harder. “An’ I don’t see as there’s anythin’ more for you to do, other than callin’ off your knife quick as you can an’ keepin’ an eye out for me. Otherwise, we just got to wait it out an’ hope. Supposin’ you don’t still want me bobbin’.” It had the tilt of a jest, but there was still a bitter twist to the way he drawled off the words; he lifted an eyebrow at her as he said it.

Through all his jangling nerves, though, through the grim realization that he’d probably be in the market for a new body within the next two weeks, Tom felt strangely pleased with himself. It tempered the bitterness of his words.

Most of all, he was happy he’d made her laugh. Delighted to’ve done it, he found himself. It was a sound he hadn’t heard before from her – not even when she’d grinned at the thought of getting back at Anatole by helping him, though that’d been strange enough by itself. Now, she’d laughed at his rough turn of phrase with something like pleasant surprise, not stopping to question why he’d laugh at a time like this. Not taking it personal. He’d always thought laughter was like a balm – even the laughter of bitter ironies, even the laughter that hurt. Life was absurd at the best of times, and death was a damn sight moonier.

Lately, he spent a lot of his time scowling, and he rarely laughed out loud at his own jokes. It’d been a long time since anybody’d found something crude out of his mouth funny; more often, he felt like he was sticking his foot in his mouth, especially among Uptown types.

What a curious woman, he thought. She only got curiouser and curiouser. Into her well-enunciated, coached, proper Estuan she sprinkled Tek pronounced well enough she could’ve been a spoke’s fami; she giggled primly at the word shitter. She seemed nonchalant, what’s-done’s-done, about the whole affair: as nonchalant as he’d have been in her position. Never before in his life had Tom ever felt so immediately fond of someone who’d sent an assassin after him. For a moment, something terribly sad came into his expression. He hated that this, of all faces, was the face he had to wear around her.

He cleared his throat. Then he scooted to the edge of his seat, bending forward to leave his steaming cup momentarily on the table between them. Then, rolling his shoulders and wincing a little, he settled back again. He leaned against the arm of the sofa, propping up his head and trying to loosen up a little. He had some success.

“In the meantime, there’s shit I’m still – a little turned-around about. Your woman ain’t the only one that’s out for my blood, an’ I don’t know why. Circle fuck it, but this is hard to ask.” Glancing away momentarily, he ran a hand through his hair. Where it’d dried unevenly, it’d gotten fluffy, and it was an unruly halo of red. He looked at Ava, frowning deeply.

When he spoke again, his words were still rough, but his tone was softer – gentler, almost. Serious, like he knew this wasn’t something to take the piss about.

“I gathered, uh, the nature of the situation, but I don’t know the details. I don’t know who else was involved, or how he got involved, or why. I’ve been like this since late Yaris of last year, an’ I ain’t seen hide nor hair of you. How long’d it been since you saw him? What happened?” He hesitated, then, even lower: “Anatole’s got friends I don’t much like. I could – use – my position. This body. To help do somethin’ about all this. If you wanted. If I ain’t dead by next week.”
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Ava Weaver
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Sun Jun 23, 2019 1:26 am

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
T
he look on Anatole’s face was a familiar one, this time. Ava dropped her gaze now, taking a moment to master herself. She didn’t tremble or shake, she didn’t cry, but something in her withdrew, ever so slightly, becoming indefinably less Ava – or perhaps more. Tom might have thought she was already sitting straight and tall, but her shoulders would pull back just a little more, her hips shift to adjust their position on the couch. Her hands would stay in her lap, very still.

Ava had learned over the years that when Anatole was angry or frustrated – and this look was more frustrated than angry – it was best to be quiet, to hold still and wait it out. To draw his attention to herself before he was ready was a mistake, and one she had not made more than a few times. Tom wasn’t Anatole, Ava reminded herself, but it was still a hard lesson to unlearn, almost more physical than anything, as if her body remembered and responded without her own volition.

He began to talk again, and Ava lifted her gaze to look at him. The lingering smile left behind in her eyes from the little giggle had nearly gone, but it softened back into place as he spoke, most if not all of the way. It was terribly odd to watch Anatole sucking at a tooth. “No,” Tom’s comment about bobbing had been something of a joke, but Ava didn’t treat it quite as such. Her voice was a little more raw than she’d have liked, and she had to clear her throat, as softly as she could. “No, you’ve found a – body that works. Better you stick around,” Ava’s gaze dropped again.

It had been the wrong tack to take; she ought to have responded to the joke, not the sentiment beneath it, and, worse, she ought not to have referenced the situation they found themselves in. Ava felt more flustered than she would have liked, and in a vain attempt to cover herself she picked up the tea again, taking another small sip. Still bitter. Had she oversteeped it? She was glad he was taking this seriously, at least.

Despite her awkwardness, Tom rearranged himself on the couch once more, and pushed ahead to the topic she’d promised to discuss. Ava wouldn’t force him to do it with her eyes down; she lifted her gaze to meet Tom’s frown, watching as he ran a hand through his hair, inadvertently fluffing it up even worse. She wasn’t sure if he’d intended to smooth it down, but he’d failed, leaving him with an odd fluff of gray-streaked red hair around his head, which clashed terribly with the pale green of the robe. Ava didn’t want to – and wouldn’t – laugh at him, but the contrast made her feel just a little better.

The first questions were more or less what Ava had expected, Tom’s tone oddly soft and gentle as he talked around words that might bite. The continuation caught Ava off guard, and her hand shook. She set the tea cup down with a little thunk, utterly still for a moment, only the soft rise and fall of her chest proof that she was alive. Conflicting emotions warred; Ava was truly sorry for Tom, and at the same time suddenly felt a rush of excitement, a new insight into some of the possibilities. Perhaps if it had been any other galdor’s face she would have seen them immediately, would have understood before now.

“Yes,” A little more of the life came back into Ava’s eyes, the response slipping out. She leaned forward, staring at Anatole’s face, searching, trying to read Tom into it again. She wouldn’t insult Tom by asking if he was serious. Her lips twitched at a pale imitation of a smile, and Ava tried and knew she failed to soften the intensity of her reaction. “Please.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t know what or how, I… I’ll have to think on it.”

But, Ava had promised Tom information on Anatole, and she had promised again to deliver, despite the awkwardness of it. Not only that, but he wouldn’t be able to do much if he didn’t know. She took another breath, letting it out slow and shaky, and set the tea cup down again, her taste for it gone. “It ended two years ago,” Ava said. “Perhaps he was – fond of me, in his way,” her lips twisted, faintly, “because he let me go, then. Perhaps he just didn’t like the idea of sharing, even after he was done.” One black nailed finger traced a slow circle around the rim of the cup on the table before her.

“He had started to rise, then,” Ava said, slowly. “To your – position. He was under more scrutiny. I had always been a risk for him, a guilty -” Ava fumbled, unable to finish the phrase. Hot color rose on her cheeks, fragile control breaking, and tears spilled down her cheeks again. “Oh, circle. I’m – I’m sorry,” Ava got up, abruptly, turning away and taking a few steps to put more space between them. Her hands tightened on the skirt of her dress, squeezing the fabric then letting go. “I’ve never -” she lost the words and pressed one hand to her mouth, stifling a sob, head bowed and shoulders shaking. It wasn’t entirely true, but it was true enough, and the tears that she couldn’t seem to stop were true too.

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