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chasseurdeloup-retired · 3 years

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Something Seams Off || Irene and Kaden

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Sew La Ti Do PARTIES: @threadofheart and @chasseurdeloup SUMMARY: Kaden goes to Irene to repair his jacket and they have a snicker-snacker of a time. CONTENT WARNINGS: None

Kaden ran his hands along the leather jacket as he watched the signs of the stores along the street. He didn’t want to miss the repair shop. Clothing wasn’t usually precious to him. It couldn’t be, not as a hunter. Sure, he had to scrounge and save for new clothing back in the day, but any shirt or pants could get destroyed in the wrong monster fight. The best thing to do was usually patch it best as he could for as long as he could before tossing it aside for something else decent. But the leather jacket in his grip was different. This was a gift. Kaden had precious few gifts in his life that he held onto, at least not prior to coming to White Crest. Either way, if anything was worth taking care of, it was the jacket Blanche had given him. To the point he was careful not to wear it on hunts, at least not often. Sometimes it was hard to avoid. Still, he couldn't figure out where some of the holes in the piece were coming from. It didn’t make sense. Definitely beyond his skills to repair. Time to try a professional for once. He gulped before swinging the door open. He had to remember whatever the price, he was fine, he could afford it. Old habits were hard to break. “Hello?” he called out. “Uh, got a jacket that needs fixing. This is the place, right?”

After the online interaction with the owner of the leather shop, Irene was quick to research some tips on how to better mend leatherwork. Since it wasn’t her typical area of expertise, she wanted to improve on it in the event she had customers seeking that specific service. Scattered across her table were scrap pieces of leather she had practiced her stitching. Several of her poor needles already set aside and bent at odd angles. Just then, the jingle of the door chimes caused her to look up at the customer entering her shop. With a warm smile, she got up from her table and walked over to the counter. “Welcome, I’m Irene, and you’re in the right place. What sort of fixing does this jacket need?” she asked, her hands gently patting on the counter indicating for him to set down the piece. Upon brief examination, it certainly appeared to be well-worn, well-appreciated.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” Kaden said, awkwardly and a little stilted as he walked towards the counter. He had no idea what the protocol was in this whole exchange, it wasn’t like he’d ever done it before. Thankfully she took the lead and indicated where to place the jacket so after giving her a slightly startled look, he did just that. Right. Made sense, she had to look at it after all. “Uh, there are some holes in it. Weird spots. I don’t think I made them.” Then again, he got so many injuries and brushed up against so many various fangs, claws, and pincers it was hard to keep track of the damage after a while. “Not that I-- I mean, I work in animal control. With the WCPD. Uh, Officer Langley.” Which probably didn't matter. Why the fuck was he introducing himself? And why was he nervous about a damn jacket repair? “You probably didn’t need to know that or care. Just, yeah. Weird holes. Does it… You think you can fix this? Not to-- I just don’t know what can and can’t be saved. Usually don’t try.”

Irene’s expert hands were quick to search typical areas where jackets typically formed holes. The seams didn’t seem to be split but with some of the holes, she likely would have to reline a couple of spots so that any fixing wouldn’t look like a patch job. Her eyes narrowed as she continued to study the jacket. “Overall, this looks like it’s in good condition, but the holes are… a little strange,” she noted aloud. “Like you said, definitely in some strange places. If this were a weather or cotton piece, I’d say maybe moths or something, but I’m a bit at a loss as to the cause.” Straightening up, she let out a small sigh and another smile. After all, her job wasn’t to determine what caused this but rather how she would fix it. “Well, Officer Langley, this probably will take me about a week. I think I have similar thread and fabric to fix this up, though once I’m done, it’ll look brand new.” It was clear this jacket meant a lot to him; the stress emanating from him was hitting Irene like a wall of bricks, so she hoped her words could offer some relief. “And I could offer you a rough estimate as well if you’re interested.”

Kaden rubbed the back of his neck as he watched the woman work through what was going on with his jacket. Putain, he wasn’t normally this nervous about simple human interactions. Something about it being new, unknown, it left him unsure. “Yeah I didn’t think moths would go for leather, but a brow--” Merde. He caught himself before he started talking about fae and monsters. Barely. “I mean, yeah probably not moths.” He felt his stupid heart pounding in his chest over a stupid conversation with a seamstress. The fuck was wrong with him? Maybe he shouldn’t quit hunting. He clearly couldn’t handle normalcy. “A week? Is that-- I mean, sounds good. I’m not sure how long this would normally take. I’ve never had anything repaired before. I normally just throw away things once they get damaged but I guess if I did that you wouldn’t have any business so anyway this is, uh, new. For me.” He was certain she could tell without him saying shit. Her next assurance had him even more wide eyed. Shit, was he really that obvious? He didn’t think he looked poor. He didn’t right? Fuck, maybe he did. “A rough estimate? Oh. Yeah. That’d be good. To know. If you--” His brow furrowed as he cut his sentence short once more. This time it wasn’t just him not knowing how to speak like a normal person. Something was moving. His brows knit together as he looked closer at the jacket. “You’re not…” His eyes darted back up to her. Her hands were in fact not underneath the jacket. And yet it was wiggling. “That’s not you moving it, is it?”

Irene could feel the intensity of his emotions grow despite her telling him that the jacket could be fixed. Was something else worrying him? In the past, she had worked with clients who held incredible sentimental value to their clothing articles. Perhaps this was one of those instances. With a warm smile, she looked across the counter at the man. “This jacket must mean a lot to you if you’re bringing this in for extra care. I assure you that your jacket is in great hands with me, officer. You’re doing great,” she added lightly with a small chuckle. Grabbing a notepad and a pen, she scribbled a few quick notes about the current condition of the leather jacket and the exact fixes the officer was requesting. That helped her approximate the cost. Just as she was about to write out an estimate, his question caught her by surprise. “Hm? N-no, what do you mean?” she asked, her eyes instantly darting to the jacket to see brief movement. Shoot, did her shop have mice or rodents? “Oh goodness!” Without thinking, she lifted the jacket up, expecting to find some sort of critter there only to spot something… not quite exactly that or anything she had seen before. “What--” she jumped back in surprise, her eyes wide after she immediately dropped the jacket back down.

Kaden nodded a little along with her words. “I mean, sure it, uh, I like it and all. But it’s not that important.” Putain, why did he say that? What if that meant she was less careful with it now that she thought he didn’t care? “Not that-- I mean. Yes. Thank you.” Fuck, what if she was fae? And he just thanked her. And why did she have to reassure him that he was doing fine with a basic social interaction. Sadly, his ineptitude wasn’t the biggest disaster in the room. When she moved the jacket, out hopped a small rodent looking creature. Only it wasn’t a mouse or rat, no no. That was a snicker-snacker. No missing it. “Putain,” he grumbled to himself. “No wonder there were holes.” Out of instinct, Kaden reached for his knife in his back pocket, but his hand hovered and hesitated. Just long enough for the supernatural rodent to scutter off. Shit. But he couldn’t just stab the snicker-snacker right in front of her in her shop. He wasn’t the most experienced with social norms, but he was pretty fucking sure destroying shops with knives was frowned upon. He twisted and turned looking to see if he could find the creature. “Must have been in the jacket. Not sure how I missed that.” Had to have crawled in one night when he was hunting. At least he hoped that was the case. If he had an infestation in his apartment, well, he didn’t want to think about the destruction waiting for him at home. “Did you see where it-- there!” he shouted as he leapt towards a corner of the store, diving onto the floor, trying to clasp the rodent with his bare hands. It skittered just out of reach, running to the other side. Shit. He had to get it or else it could be bad news for her shop. It had definitely gone to the left. Only, when he glanced to the right, he saw it there, too. No, not the original one. There were two. “Uh. Think you’ve got a problem here,” he told her, trying to pick himself up off the floor.

If the rodent-looking creature scared Irene, the man pulling out a knife immediately caused the seamstress to shriek out of surprise and fear. But her attention was quickly drawn back to the thing that jumped off her counter and was not running around her shop. With wide eyes, she pulled her gaze back to the man as she tried to process just what had happened. Irene wasn’t normally one for any sort of judgment, but yes, how had this man conveniently not realize that something like that was burrowing his jacket? Before she could even respond, Irene toward the floor as the creature skittered across her feet to the man’s left. Another yelp escaped her lips as she jumped back in surprise. It was one thing for rodents to be scampering around, but she will not have them messing up her shop. Trying to think quickly, Irene grabbed a broom from the corner and glanced to the right and saw… another one. Confusion etched across her face. “Oh no…” she muttered quietly as she slowly raised her broom. Was this her weapon now or a poor decision of a shield? Who knew. “What are those?” she asked in a soft voice, hoping not to startle these creatures with any sudden noise.

This was a problem. One snicker-snacker was bad news. Two were exponentially worse. And for all they knew, there were more than even that. Kaden started to listen and look for any more signs of them, trying to keep his steps quiet as he ducked down to look at any and every corner. “Snicker--” He paused before finishing his answer. Saying “snicker-snackers” was going to make him sound like he was out of his mind, wasn’t it? And it wasn’t exactly keeping the supernatural a secret at that point either. Putain. “Uh, rodents. Mutated mice. I think.” That worked, right? “They’ll eat through just about anything so be careful.” This whole shop would be in bad shape if an infestation broke out. All the clothes and fabric would never last. He glanced over to see how she was holding up. Broom wasn’t a bad idea on her part. Shit, if only he had his work kit. No nets or cages on him now, unfortunately. “Got anything to trap them with? A basket. A bowl. Anything?” He saw a jar full of pins. This was a terrible idea. “Putain,” he grumbled to himself as he dumped the pins as carefully as he could manage onto the table he picked the jar up off of. “Sorry about that. I, uh, I mean looks like it’ll work.” He caught a blur of motion out of the corner of his eyes and leapt towards it, jar in hand. “Sweep it towards me! Corner it”

Irene watched the man move around expertly ready to attack. She clutched the broom tighter against her chest as her heart pounded loudly in her ears. “Snicker? Like--what, like the candy?” she asked incredulously. Her brow knitted tightly as she tried to keep an eye on even just one of these creatures. “Mutated mice. Wonderful. Thank you evolution,” she muttered under her breath as she took slow, quiet steps through her shop. Rodents weren’t something she was scared of; hell, she’d seen her fair share of very brave rats in New York. This? This should be a piece of cake, though she had no idea what sort of advantages these mutations gave these rodents. Her eyes quickly scanned the room in response to his request. “Uh… how’s this? Wait!” she called out, unable to find a suitable container before the pins were spilled out. Great. But she had little time to process that before she also caught sight of a dashing blur past her. Instinctively, she swept broadly with the broom, the bristles making contact with something, and a loud squeak seemed to indicate she must have caught the rodent. “Coming your way!” she called out as she made one swift broom push toward the man. “Well, that has to be one, right? Is that it?”

“Uh, sort of,” Kaden started. With how often he ran into the supernatural in this town, it was hard to remember how few of the residents actually were in the know. Code said to keep shit secret, he needed to try a little harder. As he dove, he slammed the lar over top of where he’d seen the blur. Only to catch something just to the left of him. Shit. He reached out with the jar again as she swept the lump towards him, capturing the creature underneath. “Got it!” he shouted, keeping both hands on top of the small jar, just in case. There was a sound of something splitting behind him. Putain. He kept one hand on the jar as he twisted to try and look behind him. A table leg had snapped in two and he was certain if they didn’t hurry, there might be less than three legs there. “Shit, shit, shit.” He was making a real fucking great impression here. He had to let go of the jar to get over to the other one. “Uh, do you have a book? Or a weight? Or something? And one more--” He paused. “Maybe two more jars. Just in case.”

Irene's stress levels increased, both from wanting these creatures out of her shop and from the fact that this whole instance was creating a giant mess of her shop. Had these things always been around this entire time? A hazard of her work she never considered before? As the man dove down, Irene held her breath until she saw that he had managed to catch something. “B-book? Um, goodness, I have uh I have a couple of binders of fabric swatches,” she said, frantically reaching for these from the desk in the back. And jars. Her eyes looked for a few more of those, all filled with things like thread scraps or buttons. The priorities now though was definitely in capturing these creatures, so she poured the contents out into an empty box and quickly returned to the man. And then she saw the cracked leg on her table. Oh goodness why was this happening. “I hate to bombard a customer with orders, but please get these things out of here before the rest of my shop is destroyed,” she pleaded.

This was not the first impression Kaden had planned to make. Granted, he didn’t start off on the best foot so guess he didn’t have much to lose. He’d shifted and let his foot rest on the jar while she went to grab more supplies to trap the creatures, untrusting of what would happen if he left it unweighted. He didn’t want to find out if the snicker-snacker could topple over the glass. At least it couldn’t eat it. Well, it shouldn’t at least. It wasn’t exactly wood or fiber. He looked down. Floors should be safe, too. Right, better get them out quickly. “Thanks,” he said, taking the book and the jars from her. He dumped the book on top of the makeshift snicker-snacker trap and hoped like hell it was enough to keep it there. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the little pest run up and back towards his jacket. “Oh no you don’t,” he said, diving towards it and yanking it away off the counter. The mutant mouse went spinning and flying in the air as the rug was pulled out from under it, but landed on its feet and scurried off. Merde. He’d have to be more careful.

Jars in hand and ready to pounce, Kaden tried to move quietly around to the back of the counter to see if it had landed back there. A flash of fur and horns darted out, squealing towards the table with three legs. “Not today, you little bastard,” Kaden said as he threw himself at the table, crashing into it, causing all sorts of odds and ends to go flying and clattering to the floor as he wrestled to get the jar on top of the creature. All he got was a spool of thread. Good thing she’d handed him two jars. He reached out with his left hand and slammed the glass down, praying he didn’t break it with his hunter strength and heard a squeal as the tail wriggled out from underneath the lip. If it were a mouse or a rat, he might feel a ping of remorse. But a snicker-snacker? He dug the jar down to the floor a little harder before the tail snaked its way back under the container with another squeal. “Got it,” he said, breathing heavily as he pushed himself off the floor.

Irene watched with astonishment as the man moved so expertly. Her eyes darted back and forth between the now-occupied jar and the precarious situation of her table. “Sure…” was all she managed to respond. With her hands now empty and the man chasing after the other “mutant rodents,” Irene’s attention honed onto the jar. She could hear the skittering of the creature, sounds of tiny claws scraping against the glass in an attempt to escape. Leaning down onto her hands and knees, Irene took a peek at the rodent inside, this snicker thing, and let out a small gasp. It looked like a mouse or a hamster but with horns. What the heck was in the White Crest water that mutated the rodents into something like this? Her thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sudden slam from the man, the sound of another jar crashing onto the ground and securing another creature in its confines. “O-okay, what do we do now? I mean, are we supposed to let these go out in the wild? Is there animal control for something like this?” And how dangerous were these things? So many questions ran through her head. Then her face paled lightly at the next thought. Did these need to be exterminated? Despite the trouble they brought, the idea soured her stomach.

Kaden brushed off his pants and arms after standing and taking a look at the chaos around the room. Putain. Not how he intended this to go. Couldn’t even have a simple interaction in a store in this goddamn town. “Lucky for you, I am animal control. Obviously not on duty right this second. Or else, you know, I’d be prepared.” He sighed and pushed his hair back into place. “They’re pretty destructive, as you can see,” he said, gesturing to the poor table. Shit. “Uh, I can, pay for that, by the way. I sorta brought them here.” No clue how he was affording that but tables couldn’t cost that much, right? Shit. “Reproduce exceptionally fast, too.” He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. This was the worst part. People already had bad takes on animal control half the time. He’d been called an animal killer too many times for his liking. And it’s not like he could tell her these were clearly monsters and out himself. No one liked to hear about dead animals and he couldn’t blame them. But these weren’t sweet little mice, these were pests. Abominations. Capable of destroying full houses if left to their own devices. “For now, I’ll take them out of here. They’re definitely not adoptable, though. I’ll do a relocation out in the woods, though.” He hoped she would buy it. There was no way he was going to chance a snicker-snacker infestation in town.

It was the sudden calmness that stressed Irene out even more. Was this it? Were all of them caught in her jars? “You? You’re animal control?” Had he said that earlier before all of this happened? She couldn’t recall. A hand ran through her hair, the other hand almost resting against her damaged table before she spotted the broken leg. She quickly pulled back and sighed. At least that table was a hand-me-down from the previous tenant of the shop, and Irene had been hoping to upgrade to a more customized work surface. “Um, yea, th-thanks, I think,” she said mindlessly, unable to fully assess the severity of these creatures. “Like rabbits. Or rats. And I thought New York rats were damaging,” she muttered to herself. How did those things even scurry onto him and into her shop? “Right, your jacket though. If uh if you still wanted that mended, I can still take that on but I might need more time now because…” her voice trailed as she gestured to her mess of a space.

“Officer Langley, yeah. That’s me. Animal control.” Kaden almost felt like he should apologize for that fact. Almost. He did catch them, after all. “But yeah, like rabbits or rats. Only they’ll eat through your table legs. Uh, anyway, if you don’t mind, I’ll go get something more appropriate to transport them and come back.” He’d make sure to bring a knife with him, too. Maybe a few extra cages in case more of them showed up in the interim. He was about to turn and walk out when his eyes shot back to the jacket, brows raised. Right. He almost forgot. “Oh, yeah. If you can. No rush. At all. Um, thanks, and,” he paused to look around the room, “sorry. I’ll be back soon.”

#writing #wickedswriting #chatzy #threadofheart #irene #something seams off

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deathduty · 3 years

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Sew What || Deirdre & Irene

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Sew La Ti Do PARTIES: @threadofheart & @deathduty (special mentions to Angela Lansbury) SUMMARY: Deirdre strips. Irene does her job and nothing more. They both do what they know best.

Deirdre never considered herself to be a sentimental person. Yet, with her dress torn up the side, she found herself more willing to find the nearest tailor than to get a new one. She’d had the thing since moving to White Crest, and was certain at that moment that no other dress could make her look as good. More than that, though, she had things to do. Places to be. As much as she liked being nude, a torn up dress simply wasn’t acceptable. If she could just get the thing stitched up, however crude, she’d be on her way. “Hello?” The banshee called out, poking her head around the shop, trying to find someone to assist her. “I need–“ and at that moment, as someone emerged, Deirdre waved them down. “Do you work here? I need some help,” Deirdre pointed to the tear in her dress. “Just something to make it presentable enough. Can you do that?”

Irene sat at her computer, finishing up some paperwork for a few of her orders, when she heard the front door of her shop open. Quickly getting up, she walked out to greet whoever it was and spotted a new face. “Hello, yes, how can I help you?” she responded as she made her way to the front counter. It would be one thing to assume that this person was looking to get something fixed, but Irene had encountered a fair number of strange asks (like “Where’s the closest Pizza Hut?” and Irene had to bite her tongue to not inform them that she was not a map). At the question, Irene leaned forward and noticed the tear on the dress. Her brow furrowed as she studied it before she stood back up. “I can definitely get that properly sewn back together for you. Uh when would you need this by and, perchance, are you… um are you dropping off the dress right now?”

“Right now.” Deirdre said, twisting around to reach the zipper. “And I’ll wait; I can wait. I just need this done immediately.” Getting the dress half off, dangling from her bare shoulders, Deirdre considered that maybe stripping inside a store was not acceptable conduct in human society. It was fortunate then, that she didn’t care about human society. “Here,” she handed the dress off, standing about in her underwear. “Do you mind if I watch you work? I’d be bored otherwise.” Deirdre’s smile was wide, her best attempt at being friendly. The last tailor she had gone to, she murdered. Of course, because he was going to die anyway, but murdered all the same. This tailor was, however, much prettier than the last. And she wasn’t a murderer anymore. For now, anyway. “That won’t be a problem, will it?” She beamed, “I’ll pay double. Triple, even. And I am very pleasant to look at.”

“Wait!” Irene immediately held her hands up before the customer fully stripped right in her shop. She blushed slightly when half of it was already off as the seamstress walked to her desk and grabbed her long coat. “I-I don’t have any spare clothing in the shop right now other than this.” Her arm stretched out, offering it over as she averted her own gaze while her other hand reached for the dress. The moment her fingers found purchase with it, Irene noted that the material was quite nice and thankfully was something she had worked with before. “Oh, um, of course that’s no problem.” Normally, she would have politely informed her customers that she would need at least a day to complete something like this but this didn’t seem too difficult. And the prospect of being paid extra for this wasn’t unalluring… “Feel free to take a seat,” she finally decided with a small smile. Setting the dress down on her counter, Irene quickly began looking for the tear. “As much as that may be true, I’m afraid I can’t look back at you while I fix up your dress,” she indicated with a light tone as she began to pull out some tools from her cabinets. And she had been so caught up in this sudden exchange that only when Irene began to get to work did she realize that she was picking up some strange emotions from the woman. Not strange in the sense that it wasn’t reflective of the scenario but… dulled? Her brow knitted and she tried to shake it off. The last thing she needed was to mess up the dress in front of an audience.

“Oh no, I like being naked.” Deirdre tried to explain, but with a sigh, she took the coat offered and put it on. Humans could be such prudes. This human was fixing her dress though, and so she figured she might as well cover up. Though, at mention of taking a seat, despite knowing exactly what the tailor meant, she hoisted herself on the counter and took her seat there. “A tree branch got me, you know,” she said, offering an explanation for the tear. She smiled wide. A tree branch did not get her. It was, rather, the hand of a dying man, who’d managed to claw at her dress before she could leave. “I’m Deirdre,” she said, insisting on being a nuisance. “Why tailoring? It certainly can’t pay well, and it seems like such an unappreciated art…”

Irene managed a stiff smile in response to the woman’s comment about being naked, but the seamstress really did not want to explain having a naked person in her shop should anyone pass by her windows. A sigh of relief escaped her when the woman took the coat, though tension twisted her stomach once more when she noticed the guest hoist herself up onto her worktable. “Please be careful of the pins and other uh sharp objects on the counter,” she offered tersely as her hands continued to address the garment. “A tree branch… sounds dangerous. If you need any first aid, I have a kit in the back room I can grab.” Irene wasn’t certain she believed that especially as she picked up a dull feeling of smugness that seemed to emanate from the woman. Or perhaps she was really proud to be struck by a tree; Irene was not one to judge. “Lovely to meet you, Deirdre. I’m Irene,” her response flowed automatically from her lips. It was certainly taking a bit of effort for the seamstress to hold her tongue. “It’s actually a family business so I inherited the skills when I was old enough,” she briefly explained.

Deirdre watched the seamstress work, doubtlessly skilled in her work. Her great-grandmother had taught her to sew, still enraptured by the idea that a proper lady must know how to embroider, but she’d only ever enjoyed the feeling of sticking the needle through. “Oh no, I’m okay, you should've seen the tree though, Irene,” she smiled at her own joke, leaning into the woman’s work. It looked boring to her, but there was something about the ability to mend that always caught her attention; weapons never could learn to heal. “Like a duty?” She leaned back, “like some obligation to run this shop? Do you enjoy your work?” Deirdre watched the woman some more, graceful fingers finding what they wanted with ease. “I guess I’m in something of a family business myself…” she trailed off, looking out the shop window at the people passing by, living their own obligations. “But of all the things…” She turned back to Irene, “you’re not one of those people that wish to be a fashion designer, are you?” Not that there was anything wrong with that.

Having an audience while she worked normally wouldn’t distract her, but Irene found herself a little on edge with this woman, probably because she had initially wanted to stand around the shop naked. “Poor tree couldn’t put up much of a fight? What did it do to deserve such ire from you?” she replied with a small chuckle as she tried to imagine such a scene. Her mental image came up with something rather absurd and cartoonish, causing her to let out another quiet laugh. Irene paused, both to check on the progress of her sewing and also to consider the questions. “It was an obligation and now it’s what I know best. I enjoy it as much as one can enjoy their work I suppose. There are good days and bad ones.” Her fingers deftly finished up what she was able to hand-sew before she got up to move to her sewing machine. “Fashion designer? It’s something that’s crossed my mind a few times but it’s not a particular passion of mine. I do have a lot of respect for designers though. The pressure to constantly create something new or avant-garde that hasn’t already been created, I can’t begin to imagine it.”

“Oh, you know how it goes, it looked at me the wrong way…” Deirdre trailed off, grinning toothy and lopsided. She had started the process of trying to think of something else to say, something to make the woman uncomfortable, when she continued. Deirdre’s grin faltered, and from her position nosing into Irene’s work, she leaned back with a frown. She was not so deluded on ideas of passion that she didn’t understand practicality, but the way the woman described it sounded…sad. Or, at best, Deirdre would unknowingly insult her. “What you know best?” She repeated, hoping Irene would correct her. “What you know best and what you enjoy are two different things.” Deirdre stared at her, completely having intended to ruin her day and yet being struck with confusion instead. “Irene,” she began, “is there some other thing you imagined you’d be doing?” She sighed, she could understand duty and she could understand obligation. She could even understand knowing something too well to not make anything of it, but like this? Deirdre stared around the shop, nose wrinkled; was it really worth it? “It’s just an odd way to word your sentence—‘what I know best’ what I know best is murd—“ Deirdre froze. “Uh,” she turned to Irene, “Mur—Murder, She Wrote! The show! Love it. It’s what I know best, but, it’s not…uh, it’s not what I imagined I’d be watching. It doesn’t satisfy my life’s hunger.”

Irene expertly adjusted her machine, her movements second nature after years of working in this profession. As she ran the dress through the machine, she chuckled again. “I have noticed that some trees do make some devious faces.” The playful banter was easy enough to maintain as the seamstress worked, a trait she picked up early on when she had to mend her sisters’ clothes while they chattered away beside her. But then the sudden shift in tone surprised her, almost causing the woman to completely stop in her work. She swallowed hard, her lips pursing into a small smile despite her facing the machine and not her customer. “In the end, it’s all semantics,” she replied quietly before clearing her voice. There were many things she had tickled in pursuing: places she’d considered visiting or even living in, career paths she might have enjoyed, goals she’d like to achieve. “What I enjoy most is making sure my family is doing well and is safe and happy, and this happens to be the way I am able to achieve that.” The fabric slid through her fingers and past the thrumming needle of the machine. Her brow furrowed once more at the way this conversation unfolded from this curious woman. “I suppose that’s a thing about life, though, isn’t it? If Murder She Wrote doesn’t satisfy you, there are so many things out there that might do the trick.” With a satisfied sigh and a more genuine smile now, Irene finished up her repairs, snipped the loose thread from the dress, and held it up to examine. “This should be all good to go and ready for another battle with any tree that gives you the wrong impression.”

Why did it bother her? Long after Irene held the dress out, signaling the end of their little tête-à-tête, Deirdre stood and stared at her. She was dissatisfied; with Irene’s answer, her amiability and her lack of disdain at Deirdre’s general demeanor. It was spiteful. How dare the woman feign happiness in her face? It was tragic. How dare she answer honestly? And then it was pointless; why did it bother her at all? Irene was being practical, smart, safe. What could she possibly find a flaw in? Perhaps it was just that, the perceived perfectionism of the whole thing. Deirdre’s expression soured quickly. “Is that so?” Deirdre got her little inside glance at the woman, watching her words bounce right off. She had no hook, no control; friendly people disgusted her. A saccharine grin greeted Irene as Deirdre yanked the dress from her grip. “I suppose your family are all grateful. Where are they? Out back or…?” Perhaps it was the whimper of feeling blooming in her stomach; sadness, or something like it. “Aren’t you the hypocrite? Deluding yourself into thinking this satisfies you. At least Murder, She Wrote has Angela Lansbury.” From her boot, she drew out wrinkled hundred dollar bills, offering no explanation for either action. One hundred. Three hundred. Five hundred dollars, slapped down in front of Irene. “I’m taking your coat.” She announced with a huff, finding it to be the apology she deserved after Irene ruined her evening with her politeness. “And you!” she jabbed a finger at the tailor, throwing her dress over her shoulder. She stepped to leave, eager to free herself from Irene’s bullying. “If I peel back those layers of lies and professional, am I going to find a woman who fights or flees?”

Despite the muted emotions Irene picked up from Deirdre, she managed to pick up something akin to frustration. From the very beginning, this whole exchange presented to be a challenge. Why was Deidre frustrated when she had bulldozed Irene from the moment she arrived? Her gaze flickered momentarily at the questioning, each interrogatory a sharp, yet familiar, stab. Everything Deidre was saying was not incorrect. In fact, Irene was certain her sisters would likely agree. But, unlike Deidre, Irene made peace with her own reality, a reality she had resigned herself to for quite some time. “My family--my sisters are where they wish to be.” Was that so bad? That she prioritized their happiness over hers? It was her duty, always has been her duty, to take care of the family. As the money slammed onto the table, far more than was needed to pay, Irene made no move to collect it. “I suppose you and I will find out if that happens.” Each day in White Crest forced Irene to face that question: was she here fighting for something or was she actually fleeing? She lifted her head, swallowing hard and finding it harder to maintain a professional front. It was too early in the day for her regularly scheduled existential crisis. “Well, thanks for your patronage; I hope the dress is to your liking,” were the last words, auto-piloted by habit, she managed to say as she finally reached to collect the money dispensed upon her work surface.

Deirdre reveled in the sort of annoyances she could spur in others; she desired to control their reactions to her. If she forced hate, she would beat them all to the punch. But there was a special sort of person she could never crack: those that desired to be polite, kind, friendly. Those who refused to stoop to her level. Those, much like Irene. Her grievance all along might just have been envy. If only she had half a mind to be as optimistic. “I hope for your sake,” Deirdre said as she lingered at the door, “you find out sooner rather than later, the kind of person you are.” Without so much as a thank you, she was gone, and the store fell back into the silence that didn’t know her. One day, Irene would be dead, and her legacy was her own concern. It didn’t bother Deirdre one bit. Not at all.

#wickedswriting #c: irene #sew what #chatzy #threadofheart #i love irene so much #im so excited to see more of her and all of her facets #also sef is great

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willcwthewisp · 3 years

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call to heart | irene & willow

TIMING: current. PARTIES: @threadofheart and @willcwthewisp. SUMMARY: willow runs into her friend irene, while contemplating a strange lack of ghosts in her life.

It wasn’t like Willow to be sitting alone in the broad light of the day outside her gallery in plain view of the public. Actually...it wasn’t like Willow to be sitting in public at all. But she’d come into her old gallery in an effort to spark her creative juices, and hopefully get into contact with a ghost or two so that she might paint their stories. She’d tried doing as much within the four walls of her apartment over the last few days, but nothing had come. Or rather no ghosts had shown. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Willow to go an entire day without hearing a ghost, but she hadn’t heard their whispers for nearly a solid four days now. The frequent headaches she’d been getting weren’t making things easier, so it was no wonder that her spirits weren’t exactly the brightest as she lingered on the bench, hoping she might catch a hint of a ghost passing by.

A woman with dark hair was getting close, but Willow took little notice apart from making sure she didn’t brush against the stranger, not wanting to accidentally injure the woman with her telekinesis. Such things were nearly second-hand to her after the last few long months she’d spent isolating herself, taking nearly painstaking care to keep people safe. The realization that the habit had become second hand wasn’t lost on her, and though a part of her was pleased to know she’d lowered the risk of hurting someone through situational contact, she couldn’t help it as another wave of dismay pulsed through her chest. Though she’d celebrated the milestone of subconsciously avoiding others, she couldn’t help but be sad such precautions had to be taken in the first place.

Irene had been so distracted on her phone that she almost hadn’t realized how close she was to bumping into a friend. Well, Willow had been one of the first few friends the seamstress had made when she first moved to White Crest, but it had been a few months since the two had met up again. Life got busy, she supposed, and she certainly knew how hectic her own shop was. But what caused her to momentarily stop was the loud and intense feelings she picked up as she passed someone by. Whatever these feelings were, they were strong enough to pull Irene’s attention away from her text message. Looking around, she quickly spotted a familiar blonde woman that she had just passed.

“Willow?” she called out instinctively, worry preemptively crossing her face as she sensed some sort of disturbance or conflict cloud her friend’s emotions.

The moment Willow heard her name her head shot up in surprise, a spear of anxiety working its way through her chest as she realized there was someone who recognized her. It was always harder when people in public knew her. Generally they didn’t understand why she seemed so suddenly skittish, and literally standoffish, usually placing herself as far from them as possible. But was it worse that she hadn’t even noticed her friend walking by? Was she becoming so numb to the world that she’d begun to cut herself off from it entirely? Looking up to actually take in the features of the woman who’d been passing by, surprise flickered in her eyes as she recognized the woman. “Irene!” Her tone was mixed with a flare of apprehension as well as a tinge of excitement despite herself. Even if she knew she wasn’t supposed to be seeing people, she couldn’t help but get a small rush of happiness when she stumbled across a friend. It was almost enough to distract herself from the sea of frustration that’d been brewing in her gut concerning her paintings. “Um- hey…” she began awkwardly, not knowing how to make up for multiple months of avoiding her friend in person. “How’s it...going?”

A fleeting wince flashed across Irene’s face as she felt that sharp anxiety cross Willow. Sometimes it was hard for Irene to sort out which were her own emotions and which were ones that she picked up on, but this was too distinct and strong especially considering the proximity. The concern only increased, but Irene also felt herself grow self-aware that she had no reason to actually know what Willow was feeling--at least, not without explaining her abilities. “Hey,” she returned, her smile warm as she approached Willow. Something was definitely off. Even if Irene didn’t have her abilities, anyone could pick up on the discomfort that seemed to waft off of the woman. “Oh, um, it’s… it’s going. I mean, life’s been busy, but I guess that means there’s work to be done, right? Something to be grateful for.” Her last words were a half-mutter. Swallowing, she furrowed her brow slightly, head tilted to one side. “What about you, though? I’ve been meaning to reach out again to catch up. How have you been?” Try as she might, Irene couldn’t quite pick up on exactly what was bothering Willow, but it was clear something was just not right. “If you’re free sometime soon, I’d love to grab lunch or coffee.”

“Sure...I mean busy is better than nothing, right?” That’s what Willow felt like when she couldn’t paint the stories of the ghosts she heard every now and then. Nothing. When painting was one of her only vices she had left in her self-isolation, it was hard to stay in good spirits when it up and left without so much as a warning. Plus her lack of ghost interaction meant she wasn’t hearing Kal these days, either. Even when she was alone in her apartment...she knew she wasn’t truly on her own when her friendly neighborhood apartment ghost was around. He’d become something of her best friend seeing as he was the only friend she’d been able to truly hang out with. But now their brief conversations were gone along with all the other ghosts. “Um- I’m fine. I’ve been working at a new job for the past five months since the gallery closed. How’s your seamstress work going, though?” A stab of guilt plunged through the center of her anxiety and despair as Irene mentioned hanging out. It just simply wasn’t possible when Willow was a walking time-bomb. “No, no- it’s my fault we haven’t caught up.” She’d been careful to make sure they didn’t. “Um- I’m not- I don’t really do...public things these days.” Irene deserved an actual answer, didn’t she? Not just constant excuses. “I’m sorry- I do want to hang out.”

Irene brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, chuckling a little sheepishly as she nodded. “It certainly helps pay the bills, lots of uh suits apparently need fixing,” she agreed. She couldn’t bear to mention that she seemed to be tailoring a lot of suits that were seemingly for funerals, or she came across a lot of clothing with odd tears and rips. The emotions she picked up from her customers also left her with various questions at times. If the seamstress had learned anything, though, it’s to ask little questions about things she couldn’t quite understand. But Irene was happy to have work, something she was initially worried about when she first moved here. Then, another flash of guilt from Willow. This one strong enough for Irene to identify--guilt over not hanging out? Not reaching out? Something along those lines. “Oh! Oh, no, if anything the fault is also mine. It’s been difficult to um to sort out free time and--” Her own voice trailed off as she also realized that Irene had been spending her spare time writing to her sisters or trying to dig up anything on her father’s death. “But, um, is everything okay, Willow?” Her brow creased fully now in concern, a hand gently reaching out to her friend. “Here, why don’t we um why don’t we go somewhere a bit more private to talk if you have the time?”

“No, no, don’t do that-” Willow began, unable to bear the fact that Irene was trying to take some of the blame when it came to their prolonged separation. This was her fault, through and through. Every time someone so much as insinuated that they’d like to see her she carefully shut it down, or ignored it all together. Her isolation began at square one, and the idea of her friends trying to take agency for it made it feel as if a fist were squeezing around her heart. Just the thought of it made her tired. She’d been so tired lately. Even if the ghosts had been coming around to talk, she wasn’t even sure she would have had the energy to paint. “This is my fault ,and that’s okay.” Was everything okay? The obvious answer was no. She wasn’t sure if she’d been truly okay since the day she’d thrown the spawn with her newfound telekinesis abilities. “I don’t think any of us are one-hundred percent okay,” she answered, borrowing the words from Griffin- the ones he’d said on her mother’s porch. While Irene reached out to her, panic rose in Willow’s throat, and the medium skittered away with pure urgency. “No! Don’t!” In her desperate need to get away from Irene’s comforting hand, she fell off the end of the bench, and didn’t move once she was one the ground. Was this where she was in life? Sitting in the dirt and looking up at her friends with longing and apology in her eyes because she might break them if they so much as brushed against her? “I’m sorry I just- you can’t- you can’t touch me.” Her throat tightened as if tears were imminent. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Irene paused as she watched her friend try to explain or deflect, but whatever it was, she was getting far more concerned by the second. This was definitely not something she could just ignore now, especially not when Willow responded like this. And when her friend stepped off--or rather fell off--Irene scrambled to help her up. The words stopped her almost immediately as confusion mixed in with the worried expression on her face. “What?” Her own voice was barely audible, though honestly, she was far less concerned about how touching Willow would hurt herself and far more determined to get her friend off the floor. “We… we can figure this out. It’ll be okay.” Irene extended her hand again. She could feel her own heart beating in her chest, her own head starting to pound slightly from the intensity of the emotions she was picking up from Willow. If she could somehow calm her down or at least provide an ear, Irene wanted to try and help. “Even if you can’t tell me what’s wrong, at the very least please let me help you before you go on with the rest of your day.”

Willow could feel the careful dam that had keep all her feelings at bay beginning to crack in the face of Irene. There was simply something about seeing a friend who so desperately wanted to help. She couldn’t do it. The secrets were going to eat her alive if she didn’t let them out. If Irene thought she was crazy, so be it. At least she’d be safer away from Willow, wouldn’t she? “You can’t touch me,” Willow repeated, her lips quivering while she tried to hold back tears. The bone-tired feeling that had been plaguing her didn’t help in the least, leaving her to cry like a toddler who was past their nap time...if that toddler had also been left alone for months, and robbed of their greatest joy in life. Shaking her head at Irene’s hand, she scrambled backwards from it as she sat in the dirt, still unable to find the energy to stand. “When people touch me they get hurt. I- I throw them, and break them, and I don’t want to break you too. It’s like telekinesis.” It wasn’t like telekinesis, it was exactly that. “You’re so sweet, Irene and I- I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt someone I care about.” Or anyone for that matter.

Whatever was the source of Willow’s emotions, Irene tried to pick up something that must be tied to it. Clearly she was trying to keep something to herself and that she was clearly worried but, everything was so intense and loud in her head that she couldn’t pinpoint anything. And none of this made sense: not why her friend was acting this way nor her words about hurting her or throwing her or telekinesis. That wasn’t a thing. It couldn’t be. And yet Irene knew better than to be skeptical about supernatural powers as she stood here with her own abilities. “Willow…” She reluctantly pulled her hand back and decided to sit down on the ground beside her. She wasn’t sure what to say or how to help. How could she when she seemed to be facing something that hardly made any sense to her? “That sounds really scary: not being able to touch people without worrying that you might hurt them,” she offered kindly with a small smile as she glanced over. “And it sounds like you’ve been holding onto this for a while.” The thought of anyone, especially those she cared about, suffering alone… it broke her heart. “I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with this.” She let out a sigh as she clasped her hands together in her lap. “If there is any way I could help, even if it’s just by listening or if you want company or anything, Willow, I am here for you.” The unknown was scary and so was handling struggles without any help, but Irene thought maybe this could be a start.

“It’s not your fault,” Willow once again replied in reflex, not wanting her own sorrows to bleed into her friend. As Irene seemed to take her words of telekinesis at face value, she felt the smallest wave of relief wash over her despite still being worried by Irene’s proximity. “That’s just- that’s really why I haven’t seen you.” She couldn’t say what it was about Irene that made her want to finally open her windows and let someone see in for a brief moment. Maybe it was the other woman’s caring aura that surrounded her, maybe it was that she didn’t have the energy to keep it bottled up when she was so tired, or maybe it was that Willow was convinced she’d burst into pieces if she didn’t say something. Giving up on the bench when it looked so far away and her arms were shaking with the effort of holding herself up, she let her body fall backwards onto the ground, resigning herself to simply lying there. “I just- I was dealing with it,” she admitted quietly, even if she wasn’t sure that staring longingly out her window counted as ‘dealing with it’. “But now something else made it so I can’t paint right now.” The ghosts. Where had the ghosts gone? “And that’s- that’s one of the things that made it easier...to stay in my apartment.” Now all she could do was sit in silence, utterly alone while she couldn’t see Kal. “Thank you though,” she offered her friend softly, not knowing how she could properly express her gratitude. Here was Irene sitting on the ground beside her after Willow had ignored her for months. “You’re really such a good person- not to mention friend.”

Despite Willow’s words, Irene couldn’t exactly control what she was feeling from her friend. And yet the last thing Irene wanted to do was to forcefully impose help onto someone who doesn’t want it. It was hard to ignore all of that and that all snowballed into greater concern. What was the point of being able to have these empathetic powers while not being able to do anything to help others? So much of this was hard to understand, but maybe it wasn’t her place to try to understand. But if she didn’t understand, how could she help? Her head hurt from her own mental gymnastics. “That really sounds incredibly difficult, Willow,” was all she managed to softly offer. “If you even want quiet company, I’m happy to simply knit beside you while you do anything else. Maybe that could be enough to help you through… your struggles.” With a sigh, Irene pulled her knees towards her, the movement softly disturbing the dirt beneath them. “You are too. Life can be hard, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that we never have to go through it alone.”

“I’d like that..” Willow began, able to think of nothing better than having a nice and quiet moment with her friend. “I really would I just- I’m not willing to risk you getting hurt.” The only full-proof barrier she had between throwing someone, and splintering them into pieces was distance, and even though the air in her apartment was reaching levels of stifling while she was trapped with only her thoughts— she simply couldn’t bring herself to put others at risk for her own sake. “Maybe we could...call or something?” But how could you sit in silence and the comforting presence of someone over the phone? It wasn’t the quiet of someone’s company that was the part lending its peace. It was the act of being, existing in a space with another conscious and sentient creature that was the unique and human experience of existing together in a shared space. A phone call wouldn’t work, and Willow knew it. She was grasping onto straws that had already slipped through her fingers, but she’d do it to at least help assuage her friend’s worries. “I should- I should go. I’ve already been here too long and-” Her bench wasn’t safe anymore now that someone was here. The ground wasn't even safe with Irene sat on the dirt beside Willow. “I’ll call you like I said, alright?” It wouldn’t be much, but it'd be something. All she could do was hope that it would be enough.

#// it's fine it's all fine #:---------)#chatzy #wickedswriting #ch:irene #call to heart #horse girl

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kitsunealex · 3 years

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@threadofheart

The mimes are a mystery in this town but from what I've learned so far, many seem to not trust them.

Are mimes rather common in this town? I can understand why people may not trust mimes; why would you trust anyone that you barely ever talk or see?

#Irene #c: Irene #Online

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threadofheart · 3 years

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Bookstore Breakdown ; Morgan & Irene

Timing: one month ago Location: local bookshop Parties: @mor-beck-more-problems & @threadofheart Summary: A zombie and an empath walk into a bookstore Content: none

No matter how heavy the weight of Morgan’s sadness grew, she could always depend on a bookshop to lighten her load. She wasn’t the first woman to invent retail therapy, but the comfort didn’t come from taking some new thing home with her and waiting to see how long it would take the edge off. In a bookstore, there were trap doors into hundreds of other existences, and if she looked hard enough, Morgan was bound to find one that would take her away from her own. And stars above, the more she thought about the year she’d spent in the grave, the more she wanted to slip away. The problem was, sometimes books didn’t lead her away so much as they brought her right back to herself, staring down the wounds and sores she was desperate to ignore. So here she was in a bookstore, holding a book away at an awkward angle so she wouldn’t cry on it as as she read, I think I will always be lonely/ in this world, where the cattle/ graze like a black and white river--/ where the vanishing lilies melt, without protest, on their tongues-- She closed the book, thinking that maybe she didn’t need to continue expanding her collection of Mary Oliver after all, and shuffled blindly back to the shelf in the poetry section where she’d found it, and knocked into a woman trying to go about her own bookshop afternoon in peace. Because of course she did.

“O-oh. Sorry about that,” she sniffled, smiling sheepishly. “I uh...got really swept up in the...pages. Probably shouldn’t read while walking.”

On the days Irene had off, she tried to explore a bit more of White Crest at each chance. However, it was also so easy and so comfortable to revisit the places she already knew and already liked. There was a charm and safety to it in contrast to the looming strangeness of this town. One such place she quickly found upon her first arrival to town was a local bookshop. A part of her didn’t want to purchase more books in the event she decided to move; having more on hand meant the eventual move back to her sisters would be a bigger hassle. But, Irene also did not want to ignore the calling of a book that she wanted to have. Plus, this bookshop seemed to attract few customers at time, meaning Irene had a far easier time navigating it without feeling and hearing too many emotions.

Just as she rounded a corner in hopes of searching for a vintage copy of Cummings or perhaps a signed copy of any number Vuong’s works, her shoulder smacked into another’s. “No, no, my apologies. I wasn’t quite paying attention either,” she smiled briefly. But as she looked up, a curious revelation quickly hit her. Despite the apology and the sheepish behavior before her, she couldn’t sense any of it. “Are, um are you okay though? I think I might have rammed into you a lot harder than I expected.”

“Wha--? Oh.” Morgan tried to scrub her face again, but it felt like she was just spreading her tears around. At least she didn’t have any blood flow to turn her face all blotchy. “You didn’t do anything, really. I’m just having...a day. Or...a time, in general.” She tried to laugh it off, dismiss it. The pain she was carrying wasn’t something she could talk to a stranger about even if she wanted to. Looking for an out, she peered over at the books the young woman seemed to be interested in. “Are you a big fan of poetry?” She nodded toward the shelf the woman was standing by. “Ocean Vuong is really good, if you haven’t tried him before. I um--have a few other favorites, obviously.” She hefted the stack of books in her arms. “Poetry is great for comfort when you only have the energy to read a few pages at a time. Just gotta make sure you prescribe yourself the right one.”

Irene nodded sympathetically, or at least she did her best to convey that expression. At the same time, she was sure that she didn’t pick up any of those feelings from the individual opposite to her. In all honesty, ever since arriving to White Crest, most emotions she felt seemed duller and harder to pinpoint. It made her wonder if her powers were failing her. And in this instance, that worried her a little more. Either something was wrong with her or something was strange with this person she was speaking to. This whole situation was unsettling.

“I completely understand. I’ve had a handful of those myself, especially lately,” she responded, a small wave of her hand. Almost thankful for the change in conversation, Irene perked up a little with a small smile. “Ocean is one of my favorites,” she remarked. How had she picked that up so easily, though? “I wished he did more readings but beggars can’t be choosers.” Her eyes quickly surveyed the stack of books in the woman’s hands and figured she must be a big reader. “I’d be happy for recommendations if you have any. I find that I reread what I already enjoy. Are you big on poetry yourself?”

“Lately?” Morgan asked, sniffling through her tears. But the woman was trying to avoid making a social nuisance of herself by crying in public. Something Morgan should probably stop doing, one year dead or not. And poetry was a nice, safe topic. “Oh, you’ve met him? That’s amazing. I don’t remember the last time I went to one.” She looked down at the stack of books in her arms. “I thought some retail therapy might make me feel better,” she admitted. “My main hustle is teaching literature to lower-division college students. Poetry is more of a personal, comfort thing. I don’t know all that many authors, is what I’m trying to say. “Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong” is one I really liked recently. Naruda and E.E. Cummings and Keats are all nice. And my girlfriend and I have a thing for Mary Oliver. My girlfriend grew up on a farm, surrounded by nature, and I uh...well, she just knows how to make you feel better, without making you feel silly for being sad. And since I’m sad, chronically, that’s really nice. She makes everything sound so simple. It is a serious thing, just to be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world.” Morgan’s voice wavered as she quoted the poem. She just couldn’t seem to help herself today. Her grief wouldn’t make itself quiet or appropriate. If her body couldn’t have a funeral, it would demand a scene. Morgan swallowed thickly and blabbered on. “Do you have anything you read for comfort? Since you’ve been having a time? And I’m sorry, by the way, that it’s like that for you. It’s hard, isn’t it? Carrying things and keeping on, making yourself as fine as possible?”

Irene imagined that seeing people cry was unnerving for most, but she never felt that way. Tears so often twisted her heart, aching to comfort. However, what did unnerve her was not picking up any emotions from the woman that usually came when one cried. It was as if Irene was listening to chatter at a coffee shop--side conversations, coffee clinking onto saucers, fingers tapping away on computer keyboards--and then looking at a particular person talking but noticing that no sound came from them. That was what she likened this situation to be. And it made her uncomfortable. Conflicted.

Forcing herself to focus, she nodded lightly with a small smile. “I don’t know what it is, but sometimes there are days that are particularly overwhelming and I find that I don’t know what to do other than… well, burst into tears,” she admitted with a small laugh. “Just once quite some time ago. I wish there were poetry readings here in White Crest. It’s one of the small things I’ve missed since moving away from a big city.” Her eyes widened before Irene’s features softened into a warm smile. “That’s absolutely beautiful; I hope that stays close to you.” The question caught her a little off-guard, forcing Irene to think for a moment before responding. “I suppose I… well I let the emotions take over, give the process and the emotions their time, and then do my best to pick myself back up again. I do find journaling and knitting helps though. Keeping my hands busy seems to keep my mind busy.”

“Just once, huh?” Morgan said, forcing out a self deprecating laugh. “What’s that like?” She deftly wiped the corners of her eyes, still laughing silently at herself as if it would make the whole thing less embarrassing. She listened to the woman explain, and to her visible disappointment it was...exactly what she already knew. Exactly what she was afraid of and exhausted of.

She swallowed thickly. “What, um-- stars this is too personal, but I’m already--” She gestured vaguely to her tear-stained face. “What do you do when you’ve done that a few times already? I mean...not about the same thing it’s just… it gets to be tiring eventually, right? Keeping your chin up, holding out hope, and all that. What if…” You’ve been picking yourself up again for forty years and you don’t know if you can do it again? What if staying down is easier and safer? Morgan’s lips trembled. She couldn’t speak those words into being. They might root inside her. They might become true. She sniffled, trying her best to swallow down another wave of tears. “I don’t know. You’d think people would have invented an easier way by now, huh? Something different to shake things up, maybe?” Her body might be able to knit itself together, but the rest of her hadn’t been destruction-proofed and was so tired of breaking.

Irene smiled fondly at the memory of the reading. “There’s just something so much more meaningful when poetry is read aloud. You can hear all the intended pauses and intonations and emphases.” She chuckled and hoped the vignette served as an appropriate segue and distraction from the fuss of emotions.

It was both a blessing and a curse that Irene couldn’t feel this woman’s emotions. Clearly it would be overwhelming for her, and instead it was just slightly off-putting. “Well…,” she chuckled slightly to herself before letting out a slow breath. “I’m not an expert in these sorts of things, so I must preface that my advice should be taken with a grain of salt, but in moments like these, I like to remind myself of who I love, what I love, who loves me, maybe make something with my own two hands to remind me that creation is possible at the tip of my fingertips.” Gingerly, Irene reached over and held the woman’s hand in hers. “It’s… it’s not easy to feel like rock bottom is all there is, but I promise it’s not.” She swallowed before releasing her hold and dropped her hand to her side. “I also find that a warm drink lifts my spirits. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love to buy you tea or coffee or hot chocolate.”

Morgan fought the urge to grimace. Her girlfriend was in New Zealand and they only managed to get out a few sentences during their hour-long phone calls. The girls she was taking care of were gone and driving themselves into the ground at various rates. The hot days were here and she hadn’t sweat or gotten a sunburn or a single freckle. She never would. And the craft she’d spent her living days studying was now unreachable. Tea and coffee and hot chocolate were just memories, and hazy ones at that, because who really thinks they’re taking instant green tea for granted? But this woman, who Morgan was sure she had patronized long enough, had no way of knowing that. And there were flowers in the garden that Deirdre and Bex had planted. It would be a shame if she killed the pink and yellow saplings with missing them.

She withdrew her hand before she could collapse into any more pieces and backed away, her stack of books still clutched to her chest. She’d get them all. It didn’t matter one way or the other. “That’s--so kind, it is, you are, and extraordinarily patient with strangers, but I can’t, and you deserve a nice day anyways. But I appreciate it, I just--” Am way past company, apparently. “I’m sorry.” She rushed toward the checkout counter and prayed to get lost in the crowd.

Irene knew her advice wasn’t a one-size-fits-all, but hopefully it would at least be somewhat helpful to this stranger. Maybe she said the wrong thing after all… maybe she was only saying these things to prolong this interaction, to figure out why her abilities weren’t working around this woman. But that was selfish and Irene immediately felt that guilty pang. “Wait--” she tried to call out but instead, she was left standing there at the corner of two bookshelves. Blinking, she tried to comprehend what had just happened. Looking down, she recalled that she was supposed to be looking for something to read but she had gotten so preoccupied. In a scurry now, Irene quickly wandered the bookstore in search of someone, anyone, in hopes of picking up any sort of emotion other than her own mild panic. In a matter of minutes, Irene sensed annoyance wafting towards her. After all, anyone would be annoyed by a woman frantically rushing between bookshelves. Okay so she wasn’t broken. She let out a small sigh now and a small hope that the stranger she had just met would feel better.

#wickedswriting #morgan #f;morgan beck #/kat is a delight to write with and i always just wanna give morgan a giant hug ;-;#bookstore breakdown

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