Jacob Frye

The finger-gun has him smiling too, despite the darker thoughts that previously consumed him. "Great minds think alike."

But then as she considers what he's asked, he sees the hesitation and the uncertainty. He's not sure of she simply doesn't remember or if she's embarrassed about it, which is what her words indicate, but she is playing for time. And he decides its not something that she has to share, not something pressing.

"It was an idle thought. You don't need to worry. I... never had the choice, right? Most people in my time don't. You get a job in the local factory or in the mine or your dad's bakery and that's what you do." A shrug, to brush it off. "I just wondered why you picked that. It sounds more interesting that factory work. Or bakeries."

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She's not ashamed, although it does feel two steps past obsolete these days. If she wants to make a difference now, she does it directly, by picking up a weapon or a tool and going and doing it with her own two hands. She doesn't read through five dozen obscure volumes of local law and ten dozen failed briefs and try to find the one phrase that will make a difference that hundreds of people before and along with her couldn't find before.

It feels really stupid to let a government take someone she loves, someone hard working and who will be in danger if they're sent back to where they came from, just because 'it's the law,' and to try to make it stop by using words written on paper.

"It was interesting," she allows. She'll give it that. "But I would have liked something that I could use when the dead came back." Dismissive, glad to have something to move onto, to not have to try to explain her mother or immigration laws or racists - although god knows this last isn't new to him by his own admission.

"It's worked out, but I'd like to know what kind of witchcraft makes a freaking cake happen."

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Cant say that I was a big fan. I appreciate what he was trying to say but they paid him by the word. Never pay a writer by the word.

[ Or you'll end up with Great bloody Expectations. ]

I'd love to claim that I did it all myself, but I didn't. Both here and back home someone did all that ground work for me.

New picture?

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"I suppose that to have been better prepared, you'd have needed to know it was going to happen." Jacob muses, "And by the sounds of it, no one did."

Just like a lot of diseases, people can't know when they will hit. Some things are ticking bombs: a thousand people using the same well and without proper sanitation? A butcher's shop without refrigeration. But you can't predict everything.

"There's a lady here, Persephone. She could tell you. She's good with all sorts of bakery things. Used to make biscuits and cakes a lot, back when we both worked for the same bloke." She probably still does, but not on that sort of scale any more.

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"No," she says, quietly. "No one did."

But that's water under the bridge now and they just have to deal with it, which she's excellent at doing. She smiles at mention of Persephone, but chances of her actively seeking this woman out and asking about baking are low. Not nonexistent, but especially right now when Rosita feels at capacity with people she doesn't know and asking them for things, baking doesn't seem that important. She's not likely to have ingredients available anyway when she goes home, and won't remember it regardless apparently.

"Is there anything else you want to know?" He skipped the third question, she realizes, which could be a mistake on the road; in her case though, he's right about her reasons, and they're not on the road.

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She can't put her existence on hold while she's here. She could be here for months, or even years. So what if she isn't going to remember it when she goes back, that doesn't make it worthless. He'd argue that, if she made her thoughts known, but she doesn't, so he can't.

He appreciates he's getting to the point of staying past his welcome, and she probably wants to attend to things that aren't answering his questions.

"No, I think you've covered everything." He says, casting an eye back over the papers on the coffee table. "And dinner was delicious. I'll look forward to the spicy version next time. And maybe... well, maybe before then I'll take my turn in sorting out a meal."

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That sounds terrible. I rescind my offer to try his things. If you find anything you like to read, I'll try that instead.

[He trusted Jacob's tastes in things at least.]

Still takes work to maintain and not let it fall apart. Credit where it's due, love.

Here. Flew up to that big fucker in the Up one night. Been having trouble keeping my head clear, but that helped for a bit. Thought you'd like the view. [He sends a new picture along.]

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There were some books at home that weren't too bad. But I never got as much time to sit and read as I'd like. Maybe you can give me some recommendations for books here?

[ The image comes through and its gorgeous, Chris sat up there with the sky reflected, the buildings spread out below him. He saves it quietly as the background of his phone. ]

I should join you up there some time. It looks incredible.

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I have a few I've enjoyed as long as you're not too particular. I'll bring a few with me later.

Be happy to take you whenever you'd like. It's peaceful enough. Cold though, and getting colder, we'll bring a blanket.

[...]

Date on the ledge of a building?

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A talking blanket?

I was thinking it might be interesting to work out how I can get up there, but maybe that's for another time. If you want to help me up there, that's fine by me. We can cuddle under a blanket together.

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No a sad regular blanket, I’ll just have to talk to you instead

Gods, when you do at least let me spot you or something. Otherwise sounds grand. Maybe you can hold my hand to keep me from falling as I lean over the side. Something different in the thrill of that versus doing it with wings out.

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Ah well at least I'll earn my keep as a conversation partner.

Spot me? You know no one has done that since I was nine years old. You dont have to. But I'll hold your hand. And maybe we can find a smaller drop and ill teach you some leaps.

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Darling I don’t know how tall you grow your buildings in London, but this thing’s a monster and I’d not scale it how you scale things without at least my anti-death magic no matter how old I was.

But I’ll learn leaps from you if you’ve a kind to teach, my dexterity is more fair than the average man, even if it’s nothing to a rogue.

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St Paul's is over 30 of these modern storeys. That I can do easily. But I suppose the difference is foot and handholds. If you want to come, of course you can, I'll never say no to your company.

I'd love to. They're very good at distracting you from problems. It's a rush. But we'll start small. The jump is easy, the landing is harder

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I'll give you my company and give the appropriate oohs and ahhs if you scale a smooth building. If you fall, I'll catch you and both be happier for it.

That's usually what I use for flying and for my motorcycle, but I'm always willing to try new ways to get that feeling. I surrender myself to your expert tutelage. You can talk form and technique a bit to me when I come over.

[That sounded very nice, really. Cuddling and talking shop? Feels like the closest they've gotten back to their norm since Jacob woke up.]

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It's not that she's completely unwilling, so much as she's not willing to just throw herself in yet. She's been tricked too many times, she's been fooled into giving over pieces of herself she never had before, she's been convinced to relax and then dumped on her face.

So she doesn't seriously entertain learning to bake from anyone, but he compliments her cooking and she chuckles as she pushes up to her feet and crosses back to the kitchen.

"Let me pack some of this up for you to take with," she says, not a question, but a gift. It would have meant more, back home. "We'll ease you into the spice, just to be safe." And then she glances over and smiles; it's novel, having someone else offer to cook her anything, even if it's not the most solid endorsement or offer she's ever heard.

"I'd eat it," she promises. "I'd like that."

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"Oh. Thank you. You don't have to." He says, pleased with the kindness that he wasn't expecting, getting up to take the empty plates and the glasses into the kitchen. He csn at least make himself useful by setting them in the sink and beginning to wash them. "Sharing food is a kindness people don't understand much here."

He smiles, shaking his head.

"I won't cook. But I know some great curry places in the Down. It's not quiet Indian food, but it's very, very close."

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"They've never had to wonder where their next meal is coming from - not really." Even poverty, just outright not having the money to buy food that still exists nonetheless, is different from there being nothing. Rosita holds the tupperware out to him when she's done loading it up with what she thinks she and Jesus won't eat between them.

"I haven't had much curry, and not for a long time. That'd be... nice."

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He nods, because that is what he understands the future is like. Food is in abundance, something that seems to him incredible, woth the population being as big as he's told it gets. Here is like that, the shops always seem to have food. The unsettling thing is that no one knows where it comes from.

Its part of the reason he wants to try to grow something. Keep some chickens. Something. If they sign this contract, if he gets Hollow, then perhaps that's possible.

"Thank you. For the food. And the company. And talking the contract through. When we sign it, I'll bring curry."

And woth that, he will leave her, give her some privacy and walk back to the Down, turning over the events of the evening in his head.

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It's two more days before Rosita sends him another text - Bring the curry. I have the final copies. - and a time to meet up at her place again.

She's there, a bit more put together herself - dark hair sleek and brushed back out of her face into two low ponytails, a loose but feminine cut henley, tailored jeans and her ever-present knife - when she lets him in but the apartment no messier and largely unchanged, which would make the one change there is a bit more glaring in comparison even if it weren't brightly colored and completely different from everything else about the decor. On the coffee table where they'd gone over the contract before is now a very small, very limited collection of items including half a dozen marigolds and skulls cut out of neon orange, blue, and pink paper on a string around a shot glass half-full of amber liquid and a lit tealight candle.

"Hey - come on in. I hope you were serious because all I have is chips and canned corn."

Edited Date: 2022-11-05 07:00 am (UTC)

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The little display on the table doesn't escape him, taking it and all three little changes in. He's looking for dangers and hiding places and exits, taking them in even as he steps into thr room and holds up the two bags.

"Curry, as madam requested. There's one that's spicy chicken and one that's fish. And there's rice and bread, cheese and peas and something with potato."

He has got the menu in his pocket with what they actually made up for him, in case she wanted to know exactly what things are, and he's happy to help set the table or grab dishes as needed.

"Do you want to sign first? Or after?" He asks, wondering if it will feel more celebratory if they eat afterwards.

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"Let's get it out of the way," she decides. Halfway between official and not - they won't have turned it in yet after all, they can still rip it up, but it will be signed.
It will be finished that far at least.

"Here," she offers the clear counterspace for the food, then nods to the table with two neat stacks of papers. "Contract's there. Deeds for the house and the pub are underneath. I already talked to Vrenille."

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He nods, setting the bags of food down- they're boxed up in silver trays with lids labelled with the contents, the bread wrapped in paper. There's also a litre of lassi, which he's never had before but the lady at the takeaway offered him because he was such a handsome submissive. He'll tell her that and dish up the meal after things are signed.

"You've been busy then," He says, coming to the table with the papers, looking over them to see how the things they've agreed have been written up, interested in the wording.

It's while he's waiting for her that he glances toward the coffee table again, the flowers and the... alter that's been set up, pondering it.

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She's taken care with the contract, transposing the notes they both made and agreed on into the official document rather than notes scribbled in the margins - and she even left his British spellings where he changed them. Vrenille was similarly careful with his wording on the ownership of the properties, arranging for them to be transferred over to Jacob's care - as gifts, since this is the only language the city will recognize - in the event of his contracted Dominant's disappearance. The only difference there is it says Rosita Espinosa where it once said Vrenille.

She's done all she can. She doesn't rush him, doesn't crowd him, only nods - "I like being busy." - and moves over to take the chair he doesn't.

"I've been thinking since we talked, and - I think this really will work out best for all of us. I think it can. I want it to." She's looking over her copy for the thousandth time it feels, so she doesn't notice him eying her ofrenda, clicking the pen idly in her hand.

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