exsiliumlogs | And all our troubles in the dark

Entry tags:

And all our troubles in the dark

Date & Time: Jan 21st
Location: Chloe and Charlie's cushy little flat
Characters: Charlie Cutter, Chloe Frazer
Summary: It's her birthday; she's not right
Warnings: MAGIC??? (and an initial lack of pants)

She feels better now. No questioning the how or why, no wondering about where she belongs: it's all as simple as common sense these days, right down to the tailored sweater she's taken to wearing round the flat or the expensive, unscuffed boots on her feet. She smells of sandalwood and magnolia, and the scent's a comfort she can't imagine living without - if there was ever anything wrong with her life before, Chloe has to suspect it had something to do with that. With the fact that she never went through all the routines or that they--

The thoughts clip there. Needle skipping across a record and she hardly notices. The sweater's on, jewelry off (save for the simpler one made of metal and leather, tucked away under a high collar) sheets tangled high around her thighs-- and her thighs round the broad bulk of his own-- and she's quick to nudge Charlie, voice low in his ear:

"Oi. Wake up, darling."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He's almost entirely certain he's misheard her between pulling out pans and slinging them onto the (only slightly warped) stove top. He very nearly lets it go, frowning slightly as he turns the knobs on the stove until it's finally convinced to come on. They might be well off in this version of the universe, but there's an upper limit to everything.

Finally though, he turns slightly. Looks at her again. "Sorry, what? Your party?"

"Mmm." She catches that look, well from the other end of the kitchen that is, admittedly, not far. Given how she's angled off towards the bedroom, it's clearly a conversation Chloe's not intending to draw out any longer than she has to. "Nothing fancy, I promise. Just a few friends, one of the better bottles of wine Victor managed to bring back."

There's an additional pause before she adds, belatedly (as if it would help him understand her side of things): "Well it'd be a waste not to put it to good use, wouldn't it?"

They weren't talking the last time her birthday rolled around, but he's been to one or two Chloe Frazer birthday related incidents in the past and that's always what they've been - incidents. Pints in scummy pubs and the occasional high speed car chase. Not a bottle of wine, better or otherwise.

"Is there going to be cheese and crackers at this party as well?" He's slowly pulling down a packet of meat from the icebox, unwrapping it from the butcher paper on the counter top.

"Well if you don't mind swinging around the market before three..." She's serious. Or a damn good tease.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens is again to bark out a short, incredulous little laugh. He pulls the meat free from the wrapping and slaps it down where he can saw chunks off it.

"Go get dressed, you tart."

She does, then: strolls back into the other room to leave both him and her fresh cup at the counter, stays out long enough that by the time she's back (tidy from head to toe right down to the previously unkempt curls, modern clothes and ancient bangles) he's had plenty of time to finish cooking up breakfast. Finding someone willing to take a detour on a mission to fetch her an expensive set of clothes wasn't easy, but it goes without saying that she wears them well enough. Better than, actually.

If not for the occasional scar it'd be impossible to even begin to guess at what she's spent the majority of her life doing.

"How's it coming?" Though she can guess from the crisp scent of seared meat that there's nothing left to be done.

Her guess isn't far off; Charlie is in the middle of slopping some seared black meat and potatoes off onto two separate plates. It's British Man Cooking at the highest degree, in essence a few rungs below 'completely inedible', but he hands her one of the plates with enough pride to sell the possibility that it might not taste wholly of ash and grease.

"Ta da. --You look awfully flash."

"Thank you." Whether she means the remark about her dress or the food he's passing off is anyone's guess. Still, no apparent sarcasm. That's something. And it remains the case even after she's fetched utensils for them and sat down at his makeshift trunk-table set just a touch away from the edge of the couch, after she cuts through the char that fractures like splintered glass and pops the grease-laden meat into her mouth.

Chews it with a noticeable crunch.

He let's it slide, simply gathering his own plate and cuppa from the counter, switching off the stove with a clumsy twist of his wrist, and then trailing after her. The flat's too small for a proper table to be set up anywhere, but that's hardly important. He's certainly never been above eating while leaning over the coffee table.

"How's it taste? Not bad, eh? It's a little black on the outside, I'll give you that, but it adds something to the texture." Something is right, though whether it's good or not even he's not entirely sure as he begins to wolf down breakfast, eagerly washing down mouthfuls of faintly charred meat with over sugared tea.

"What, like crème brûlée?" Syllables all careful and correct though it's a mild tease. There's no rush to drown the flavor in coffee, despite the fact that he likely wouldn't care.

"Oi, oi, enough of that from you." He cuffs her with his knuckles and wrinkles his nose before he sets back to sawing off pieces of meat with his knife.

It's a long moment of silence on his part, shredding breakfast into manageable pieces. "So," It's not a subject he broaches with any kind of hesitation or thought. "What's with all the primping, then?"

Chloe stops midway through cracking through the outer shell of another piece, Charlie earning her full attention as she glances up towards him with one cocked brow. "You don't care for it?"

You're on thin ice, Cutter. He may be dense, but even he can tell that much. He purposefully doesn't look up as he continues cutting because looking up makes the conversation solid and he's pretty damn sure that's the last thing he wants in this instance. You don't tell a bird how to dress; it's just not on.

"No, I don't mean that. It just seems out of sorts for you."

In this case, it'd be on as anything.

"Well we're here for the long haul, aren't we? Settling in seems appropriate." There's a noticeable crunch as she breaks through the venison's exoskeleton again. Pops it in her mouth like the discussion's good as done.

He does look at her then - like he's forgotten his resolve not to. "And that means curling your hair, does it?" There's nothing really combative there, just utterly bewildered.

"As part of settling in-- definitely." That's what it takes, isn't it? Doing things properly? Reprinting stripes and doing what's expected for the sake of stability.

He balks at that, back going up - fork and knife stilling over his plate. "Is that what all this nonsense is about?" It's not the pleasant thing to ask. He'd been doing so well - letting her do whatever she pleased, not commenting on the nice clothes and the extra time in the wash room or the way she'd gone finicky about her hair and hands.

"Why would it be about anything else?" It's not a hostile question; her brows are raised in earnest confusion when she pauses mid-way through her next bite.

He sets his plate aside, turning slightly on the couch to face her. There's something stormy in the set of his jaw, the angle of his shoulders. "If you're trying to have a go at me, you know I'd rather you just do it straight on."

"Charlie, sweetheart, I'm not." Simple as day, she says it; defensiveness blatantly absent in her expression and posture, stops to even sip at her coffee though it's bitter as anything from lack of sugar or cream.

"Really? So you playing at happy homemaker isn't some elaborate commentary on how I'm being an arse?" Because it kind of seems like it is, down to that serene expression and her neatly filed fingernails against the glass of the coffee mug.

It's not her most subtle con, but it packs a punch - he'll give her that much.

"I told you - things settle down here, I'll get myself untangled from all this bureaucratic nonsense. I don't need you going Julia Child on me to prove a point."

"There is no point-- how many times am I going to have to tell you that before you believe me?" There's the edge of a frown for it, the first she's shown in days.

Christ, he hates it when she gets like this - digs in her heels to prove something, as if she thinks he's dumb enough that he wouldn't listen if she just said it outright like a normal bloody person might.

"You're telling me all this rubbish isn't to rub how stupid I'm being in my face, then? Look, I know all this--" he makes a sharp gesture, clearly meant to indicate matters outside the flat, things like his beef with Saul Goodman, his steadfast picking at the network and other transports for some perceived 'greater good' "--is nonsense, alright? I already know you've a problem with it; you don't have to pretend to be something your not to get that through to me."

Clearly there's no getting through to him. So she stops-- mentally and physically, fingers still against the rim of her cup-- pursues a different tactic. "Just tell me what it is you'd like for me to wear instead, then, if it bothers you that much."

That makes him balk, shoulders going all sharp, chin snapping up. He sets his jaw then, inhales through his nose and frowns - slowly. What is she trying to get at with this? With any of this?

"You can wear whatever you damn well please. It's not up to me."

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