assassin_daddy | Duplicity Inbox

Dessert if you want something besides powdered donuts.

Alright. I'll see what I can do. See you at five.

[And he's as good as his word. He picks something up, and heads over a little early. That's because, even though he knows the apartments in the Up, he knows the general layout and the area the apartments are in, he still needs to watch. Who is going in and out, how many SIN Guards are about, if they seem to be gathering or on their usual patrols.

When he's satisfied himself as to how safe it is, he heads down from the rooftop he's used as his look-out point, and makes his way in. He's still dressed in his clothes from home, for the most part. The big boots, the long dark coat, the eyepatch, he still wears the gauntlet on his wrist. But he seems to move more easily in the city now, the black stripe along his throat no longer something he wants to conceal.

He reaches her door, knocks and steps back, so she can see him through that little spy hole.]

It's Jacob.

Rosita would approve, if she knew; she scouts out any location she's been asked to meet in herself, and making it the apartment assigned to her just takes the middle person out, really. She sweeps regularly for anything she can recognize as surveillance - especially the past few weeks - and today made three passes as she worked on cleaning up and cooking.

Not that it probably looks like she had much to clean up, as she hasn't put any personal touches at all on the apartment. If anything she subtracted a few things, unwilling to have too many decorations or knick knacks around that could be used to hide things she might miss. Currently the apartment is filled with the savory smells of peppers, onions, beef, garlic, paprika, cumin, and chili, seeping out into the hallway long before Rosita has opened the door.

She's free of the sling in the apartment, but her arm is still in a light splint - someething she can pull an unbuttoned sleeve over now, and has. Other than that and being sans hat, she's also dressed like she had been in the woods, in long pants with plenty of pockets and layered shirts, her hair knotted messily up off her neck. Her knife is on her even in her own apartment, and she's pulled on her boots to bring someone she doesn't know well in for the evening.

"Hey," she greets him a moment later, stepping back to let him in past her. "Come on in. Thanks for coming." If she sounds a bit stiff with pleasantries, that's because she hasn't bothered with them for almost half her life now.

Rosita has shared a lot with him, regarding the circumstances of her world, even if not a lot of it was about her directly. Jacob, on the other hand, has told her little about his own. He said he was from London, but his accent gives him away. She might have supposed from the clothes she's seen him in now and during their walk that he's from some time in the past, but nothing has been confirmed.

The truth is, he has always done this, scouted things out, sat and watched for hours, worked out patterns and routes, seen the movement of his target. He can bully his way through guards easily enough, not because of his size but because of skill. He doesn't do that as eagerly now as he did when he was younger.

Thankfully he doesn't have to batter his way in. He does get to wait and enjoy the smell, breathing it in. He doesn't often get home cooked meals, no one in Vrenille's house cooks and in London, they just picked up food when they needed it.

He didn't expect her to cook and that surprise is evident on his face as he greets her.

"If that's dinner, I think I need to thank you." He says stepping in, the box containing the cake he'd brought in his hands.

"I brought some dessert. I don't have much of a sweet tooth, but it's good with tea."

She's extrapolated some things about him, it's true; he said he learned to fight alongside his twin sister from their parents, that it's a family business. He hadn't spoken that fondly of it, nor of actual soldiering, but he'd been very invested in the idea of protecting others in the pit. The accent, yes, the distaste for the city full of people, the dress. He's told her more about himself than she has about herself. It's a fair enough trade given the givens, she supposes.

She laughs, wrinkling her nose.

"Don't thank me yet - my abuela would drag me by my ear if she saw the mess I've made of her food, I'm sure. It might not be edible." It is. She knows that much, even if it's not what she set out to do originally. She reaches for the box.

"I don't... well, there might be some tea anyway. They stocked this place before I moved in. There's coffee for sure. And some lemonade. And scotch."

"It smells incredible, I doubt it's going to be inedible." He assures, although he can't understand why she might want to downplay her talent at this when she seems self-assured in all other respects. But he wonders if it is the memory of her abuela that makes her modest.

"Abuela is grandmother?" He asks, because that's what he vaguely recalls, but in truth it has been so long since he used anything other than English and German that he's probably wrong. But he wants to make the attempt. "My nain was a great cook. She'd revolve in her grave if I ever tried to cook."

He steps in, noting the fact that the apartment is very bare, very... unlived in. Clearly she sleeps here and eats here and exists in this space, but she isn't living here.

"I'll have anything but coffee. Never learnt to enjoy that."

"It is," she confirms, genuinely pleased with the effort. "She taught all of us, but it's been... a long time since I could just go to a grocery store and pick up everything I need for anything we used to cook together." It's been so long since she needed anything like a recipe that she knows she's missing something - and that's, honestly, the difference. The Rosita of the old world was far less confident in herself, and that's where this particular skill stems from.

"Now, hand me some roadkill and some moldy turnips and watch me go, but -" This is when she's set the box down and glanced inside to see what it is, and she cuts off and looks up at him sharply when she smells the lemon, sees the cake.

"What is this?" she asks, surprised.

"I think she would be pleased that you tried it after all this time. Not only went out and got what you needed, but used what she taught you." It can't be easy, after so long of just managing to survive, to then have so much at your disposal. And then try and put it into practise.

He's not sure what road kill is, exactly, as he's from a time before cars. He does technically own one, parked outside Vrenille's home as he has no where else to put it, but there not exactly much wildlife to hit around Duplicity.

But he doesn't get the chance to ask, because she's opening the cake and he's not sure if he's made a faux par or not.

"You said you like lemon cake. I know it's probably not the right type. But still, you might like it. Its lemon pound cake."

Edited (adding url :) ) 2022-10-23 21:48 (UTC)

Went out and got what you needed is a phrase that feels so cheap here, feels so easy when she's harvested with her hands and a knife in a field, when she's hunted with a bow and a spear; she picked it off a shelf, swiped a card, and carried it home.

But the cake gives her more pause still than that, and it takes a moment or two to sort out what she actually feels about it, to find the corners of her mouth quirking.

"I did say that, didn't I?" She has to dig that particular memory out of a soup of other, far less pleasant ones, but it's easy: lemon cream cake is one of her go to comfort memories from the old world, something that was safe because she knew she'd never see it again in her lifetime. Not like she remembered it. "Thank you," she says, with the warm gratitude of someone who isn't used to others remembering details about her, who isn't used to the small, mundane gestures anymore.

"Just for that, I'm gonna find you some tea bags," she announces, and begins digging through drawers and cabinets in the large kitchen. There's a foil-covered casserole dish and a covered saucepan on the stove, and the aforementioned bottle of scotch on the counter beside her glass of water. She does eventually produce a small box of assorted tea bags, and shows him with a small smirk. "How offensive is this? I still have the lemonade and the booze."

It's cheap and easy for a Dominant, but right now Jacob is in a position where he can't do those things. He can't have a bank account. He can't just buy things freely. He has to have a permission note from a dominant to say he has their authority to spend money he earned. And even then some of the store owners would much rather the dominant be the one handing over the cash.

The other problem is that in Duplicity, there are no farms. There's no clear source of food. He knows some people have gardens and grow vegetables but that's not enough to feed everyone.

Still, not important.

He doesn't think she's going to make a fuss- he's happy to drink water or whatever else she's going to have, but then she starts searching and he feels very bad in a very British way- because he's inconvenienced his host.

But the box she finds isn't too bad - it has a couple of those rubbish herb teas in it but most of the rest looks drinkable. He's even gone so far as to open the little paper envelope containing breakfast tea and yeah- that smells good.

"Thank you. But you didn't need to. I thought it would just be nice, considering you were going to the effort of feeding me. And your broken arm. You... deserved something nice. And, full disclosure: I didn't bake that cake. I can't cook for toffee."

"Life doesn't stop because bones break," she replies dismissively, and sets to closing the cabinet doors she just opened during her search.

"Besides, I have no idea what to do with those, so you're going to have to work out what to do with them on your own. There's a microwave there, or - I can grab another pan and boil some water?" What do Brits even do? Rosita doesn't know.

She finally stops moving and shakes her head as she settles on a stool at the island since there isn't a dining table.

"I appreciate it. More than you probably know, so. Just take the thanks, and the tea, and we'll call it good to be going on with. Deal?"

"Oh, no doubt. But for someone like you? It must be a complete pain in the arse not to have thar arm in play." He can imagine how frustrating it is- he's broken limbs before.

"Alright, I'll accept that, thanks and tea are worth more than their weight in gold." He says with a smile as he starts making the tea. Hopefully there's a kettle somewhere, or he'll just boil water on the stove like they do at home. Either way, it won't take him long, and it's easy enough to grab a mug.

"What can I help you with? Grabbing plates, carrying anything?" He asks, as he let's the tea bag seep in the boiled water. Maybe he should just ask why she wants to see him. He is curious, extremely so, but so far there's been a few little distractions that have stopped him asking.

He'll wait. If she doesn't let him know over dinner, he'll ask. His gut says that's what she wants to do and if that's sohe won't rob her of the chance to talk as she'd planned.

"I tend to make it a pain in everyone's ass," she chuckles ruefully. "I'm not a good patient. I haven't been since the fall." Which is amusing with how often she tells other people to sit down, to do as Siddiq says, to take a minute when they have a minute to take.

"Plates are there," she nods to the pair sitting beside the stove top. "Guests go first. There's rice in the pot, and... it was supposed to be beef enchiladas, but I can't really roll them right just now, so it's enchilada casserole. All goes to the same place anyway, right?"

She tucks hair back out of her face, uncharacteristically uncertain about food that's supposed to be anything specific - about things she recognizes, things from the old world. She shakes her head. "Just help yourself and have a seat. I went easy on the heat. If that was wrong, maybe if there's a next time I'll take a potshot at your tastebuds."

"You were a good patient before?" He thinks probably not. But maybe it was less of a problem then that should wouldn't sit back and heal.

He takes the plate, but then pauses because he's pretty sure she won't be able to hold a plate and the laddle, even with ab arm out of the sling.

"Ladies first. Yes yes, you'll tell them when you see them. You tell me how much is enough." He says, assuming you put rice down first. That was how Henry did it, and he was Indian, so he knew more about rice than the rest of them.

"I've never tried either of these dishes." He admits to her as he removes the lids. There's something apologetic in his tonebut there's excitement too. "I've had some Indian food, and some other things since I came here, but this isn't something we have back home. Not in my time anyway."

"Yeah, I was," she says simply, shrugging. Back when doctors were in every corner, in every hospital in droves, when drug stores had medications on every shelf and more in tubs in the back besides.

Not important. She pushes back up to her feet and comes over to help when she realizes he probably doesn't know what a tortilla is.

"I'm fucking starving, so load 'er up," she says, but reaches to take over the spatula from him.

"That's rice with tomatoes, garlic, onion, peppers, lime, and chili," she explains, and then shows him how there are corn tortillas layered through the beef mixture, the vegetables, the red sauce, the cheese. "And normally all this filling is rolled up in the tortillas, then coated in the sauce and topped with the cheese. Tonight you just get a pile of food." She cuts it like lasagna, and can't help but smile a bit at how mad her grandmother would have been, how she would have accused Rosita of being made lazy by these Americans.

"You like spice? Heat?"

"Pile of good sounds marvellous." He counters, taking an interest in all she says. While Rosita's grandmother may have disapproved, Jacob is clearly delighted by all of this, how much sense it makes go have piled everything in like a layer cake when you're tired and recovering from not only being kidnapped, but with a broken arm to boot.

"Next time, I'll try to help you with that." He says, meaning rolling things up and preparing things the traditional way. He'd like to learn. He should learn to feed himself. It's been long enough.

"I like it when it's not just there to hurt you." Jacob says, "But I think the heat I'm used to is different from this. It smells very different."

There is something more citrus in this, probably from the lime she's told him is in it. The flavours he remembers from Henry's cooking are more earthy.

"And I'm afraid we don't have any sort of heat in English cooking at all. Probably because spicy things don't like the wet and the cold."

"That's why I spared you this time," she chuckles, supervising the assembly of their plates until she's satisfied, considering his offer - that he'll help her. She wants to take another crack at this, at making it taste exactly like her abuela's, because this batch doesn't. She has no idea what she's missing.

She'll have to try again, so she nods. "Sure. I won't even twist your ear or smack your knuckles," she teases, but it's fond. She loved her family, when she still had them. It feels nice to have this connection, even if she simultaneously cautions herself not to get attached.

"We'll ease you into it," she decides, going back to her stool, taking her water since Jacob has volunteered to help bring over plates. "I still remember which peppers are the hottest. I won't let them hurt you."

"Small mercies," He says as she teases him about twisting his ear. "But I think you're more than capable of making grown men quake with that sharp tongue of yours."

She isn't physically a big woman but he is in no doubt that she could hurt him. But she could probably also castrate him with words alone if she put her mind to it. Best not to upset her.

The plates are set down, and he goes back only to collect his mug of tea, adding a little milk to it and then join her at her table.

"You're a hero." Jacob laughs as he sits, picking up a fork. "Hopefully I won't need saving too often."

Then he digs in, tentative at first, but none of the ingredients she'd listed sound too exotic. Beyond the chili and the lime. And as he'd expected, its delicious, with just that little bit of smokey warmth.

"If that's what you want to believe, I certainly won't stop you."

For all her disparagement of the final dish, of it not matching what she remembers or what she was taught, Rosita has gone hungry far too many times to balk at putting away hot food. She holds off for the first few bites, not staring at Jacob but paying attention anyway in case he does have questions, in case she's grossly overestimated his ability to withstand even the mild chili powder she did put into the sauce and the rice.

But he keeps going and it's the only signal she needs, in turn, to straight out demolish half her plate before she slows down enough to remember where they are. She sets her fork down and picks up her water instead, and nurses it for a moment to give herself time to focus, to organize her thoughts.

"I wanted something nice first, regardless," she says, finally letting herself pick her fork back up again. "But I talked to my friend a few days ago. Who, apparently, has been talking to Vrenille. And the two of them have been discussing the two of us."

She watches as she works on gathering another forkful to see if this is ringing a bell for Jacob, too, or if it's completely out of the blue for him.

Ah. There it is.

He had wondered, but he wasn't sure exactly what the discussion had been like for her and her friend, or if she'd simply laughed the suggestion off. It seems like she hasn't, if she's invited him here.

"Vrenille and I have talked." He says, carefully. It wasn't an easy conversation. How could it be? There some hurt there, some pain, despite how much Jacob is trying to be sensible.

"They were playing match maker. I don't much like it when people go around behind my back." He says as he pauses and sets his own cutlery down. It's good, he doesn't want to stop eating, but this discussion needs his focus.

"But I guess in the instance it's from a place of concern."

"Mmhmm," she agrees, and can't help but quirk her crooked smile because she'd had the exact same reaction to the idea that Jesus was talking about her and making decisions behind her back - even if she's not entirely surprised. Jesus gonna Jesus.

But she can nod with confidence, anyway, that it is from a place of concern. "It is. And he's annoying about it sometimes, but Jesus is good at seeing opportunities. They want to help."

She sets her fork down, too, and sets her chin on the back of her loosely curled hand, watching him more openly now.

"Enough about them though." For now. Things are still complicated with Vrenille and if she and Jacob have any hope of any kind of partnership, that's definitely going to come up again - but not now. "What do you think?"

He takes the opportunity to pick up his mug, hot and steaming, letting his fingers be warmed against the side. He's broken his fingers countless times, and the cold makes old pains ache, and it is getting cold in Duplicity again. Subway, the housing for submissives who have become Duplicity citizens, doesn't have heating.

It doesn't have much of anything, but the lack of heating is what he notices most.

"I think it could be benefit us both. If you can stand the idea of it, and it isn't something you find abhorrent, I have no qualms. But there are some things I would want to have written in to any agreement."

He needs to make her aware of those, just put it out there. He's only had contract with people he loved. He'd never been in this position, needing one for convenience. It brings to mind the things Vrenille said, about the Submissive having an equal amount of control.

"I'm sure you do as well. I expect some of them are the same points, truth be told, but we need to put it out on the table before we do anything serious."

It's tricky to even know what to say, what to offer; what's most important to her in the context of a contract? She can put on an act for everything else, but this involves another person. This involves another life, and as she's seen happen - as she's been told - they do have the potential to really fuck things up for each other.

And Rosita does not have the best track record when it comes to working with other people. Not the worst either though, and she rubs her fingertips together in a fidget she's not entirely aware of.

"I have a rough draft I've been working on here and there. Just something off the generic one they hand out, a starting place." She smiles briefly, but it's one of the dry ones that doesn't reach her eyes: "I was working as a paralegal before the world ended, if you'd believe it. Never thought I'd be using that skillset again."

She doesn't move to get it yet though. "I'd want it to not be miserable for us if at all possible, and ideally we wouldn't fuck each other over intentionally. I'd want as much wiggle room as we could hammer into it - I don't trust easily, and I don't see that changing any time soon, but I don't need that fucking things up for people. For you. So, honestly, as little as I can manage to change about your life is good for me: sleep with who you want or don't, work where you want or don't, live where you want or don't, and if I can swing the titles to your places with whatever I have saved up then I will, and they're yours."

She raises an eyebrow - his turn.

What she says is sensible, and very much what he was hoping to hear. She's mentioned before who that she doesn't trust anyone, and if he'd had her life, perhaps he wouldn't either. As it is, he simply nods to her statements, accepting the information, and appreciating the honesty.

"I don't intend to fuck anything up for you. We both need contracts, and more importantly, we should all be trying to look after each other. I know that's not an easy thing to do when you don't know other people's motives, and you don't trust them as far as you could spit, but we were all brought here by the city, and we have to try and be united against them."

He knows that's a big ask, and maybe she'll think it's too simplistic a view. Maybe it is, but it keeps him going.

"I think we've got some fundamentals in common- I want you to be free to do what you want, who you want, where you want. I want some freedom for myself, to have my business and my friends, and not be at anyone's beck and call. I will do everything I can not to get you in trouble. I can't pretend I'm a saint, but I don't think you are either." He pauses, at the mention of housing.

"I have a place, in the Up. It's called Broken Hollow. I think I mentioned it before. I want to live there. I don't much like these buildings. But I don't know what will happen, about the Arena. I'm sure Vrenille will let me have Hollow and the Eagle. Or at least, they transfer to you. I can't own them. Ever. But the Arena is his, by rights. "

The thing is, he sounds like someone she used to know - but also that she used to know a lot of people, and that's part of the problem. So many people are temporary. So many causes only last as long as the thing that united people in the first place, and that's good, that means Rosita has been on the winning side far more often than not - or at least the surviving side - but it also means she's seen how everything breaks up after. How it just vanishes.

She has done the most amazing things in her life, united with others for a reason, or against some enemy or another, or both; things she would have never imagined she could do in the life she used to have. As the person she used to be. She did a lot of it by following Rick Grimes, and now - it's an easy line, easy to say and easy to believe in and much harder to hold - here's someone else saying they have to look out for each other. Band together. Have each other's backs.

But Rosita knows not everyone will make it, and she knows you can't trust everyone to have your back the way you have theirs. She doesn't disparage his comment, but it's also blatantly obvious she doesn't quite buy in either. She just listens.

She just nods.

"Live where you want or don't," she says again, because she does remember him talking about it, remembers how he's felt his affinity shifting away from the city. She gets that. She glances around the suite, a place she was assigned and that she appreciates as a locking door and a place to stash the things she hoards, but that she feels no attachment to, that can be taken from her as simply as it was given. "I don't have anything here. Even before the old world fell for me, I didn't. So I don't have anything to prioritize over something you want."

She presses her lips together, considering that. "And he's attached to it?"

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