assassin_daddy | Duplicity Inbox

He thinks about that. What would you do with a belt buckle.

"I'd use it like a knuckle duster, myself. With the prong between index ad middle finger. That's a punch that'll send someone reeling." It's a good idea too. "The belt itself? Depends how thick it is, how strong. Good for strangling someone. And obviously as a makeshift restraint."

The options are listed, ticked off. Anything and everything can be a weapon. The fork she used to eat her cake, take an eye out or stab them in the neck, or the thigh where the major artery is. The sofa cushions can be used to smother someone. The cake shoved into their mouth to choke them. It's easy, really. Especially easy when you've been taught since childhood to think that way.

She had to grow up, she says. He wonders what she was like before, when she was training to do all this legal work. Does she even remember that old life?

"Why did you choose to be a paralegal?"

She flashes something that's almost a grin, miming a bullseye with a finger pistol pointed at him and her thumb on the trigger: "That's exactly what I did. I just needed it to work long enough to put someone down and get my hands on their gun, and that's what happened. Back when there were still bullets anyway."

Rosita is not a large person so her belt is lightly functional at best; it holds her knife in place but that's about it. All the same it's always double-pronged and sturdy, with a buckle the width of her palm.

Then he asks a question that catches her... not completely off guard, but the way she blinks about it when she's readily fielded other questions about walkers and survival and things most people would consider much harder subjects is probably more telling than she'd like. Most survivors don't talk about the old world anymore. There's no point unless it's a skill that carries over.

Although apparently, now it does. "Oh, uh. It's... it might be complicated. And feels stupid now," she hedges while she tries to find her metaphorical footing again.

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."

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."

"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.

"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.

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."

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."

"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."

"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."

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.

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 2022-11-05 07:00 (UTC)

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.

"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."

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.

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.

"The devil makes works for idle hands," Jacob agrees, looking up at her from the pages and giving her a bright grin. He too likes to stay busy, it's in his nature. He's never been able to sit still for too long, although as he's grown older he's managed to get into less and less trouble.

His attention goes back to the papers, and he reads through them before he finds a pen to sign with, before handing that page to her so she can also sign.

"I hope so. I want... this to be beneficial to both of us. Not only keeping you out of jail I mean. I enjoy your company."

Rosita snorts at the line about the devil and her hands, but she doesn't argue; her mother used to say something similar, she remembers, but Rosita has seen a thing or two about what the devil gets up to and it has nothing to do with laziness. So she favors Jacob and his grin with a tolerant smile, though her amusement bleeds through around the sides, and slides the paper over in front of her to add her signature beside his.

"Well, I am delightful," she allows, blowing on the ink before setting all of it aside. "I almost feel like there should be some of those bottle poppers or something. Some champagne. ¡Salud!, you know?" She glances towards the bags he brought, then back at him. "Don't suppose anything in there explodes?"

It's not really about laziness, more about mischief makers, like himself, who if not doing something useful would probably put their wits to making pranks for others. Still, it's not important, and he's almost completely grown out of that now. There is, alas, always work to be done and that has to be his priority.

"You are, and I won't have anyone say otherwise." He agrees, and although she might not have meant it, he does. It's not so evident in his tone, unfortunately.

"No, but-" He says, and pauses, moving to pull a hip flask out of the inside pocket of his coat, "If you did want something, there's whiskey in here. The Scottish stuff." He adds, because the stuff that is made in America is... not the same. He'll be polite. "The only things that I know explode are explosives, and I don't think we should opt for that."

"Just ready to go for celebrating, huh?" she chuckles, teasing. And she does eye it for a moment, because good god she does want a drink. She hasn't been around this big of a selection in years, and hasn't been in a position where anything more than a mouthful or two was a wise decision in longer - but now she has a better reason than general common sense to turn it down, even if that reason slips through her fingers a little more each day.

"Meds," she says instead, since she's already explained it once. "But once I'm off 'em, watch your back. I have a tolerance to reclaim." She does get up to get herself a bottle of something sparkling and nonalcoholic she plucked off the shelf at the grocery store, and she does raise a glass of this to his flask.

"I'll see you at the Eagle when you're off them." He says, accepting the explanation as she has given it before, only a couple of days ago. He's not sure how long she'll need them but she knows best. Hopefully no longer than necessary, those things can be as bad as the bottle as far as he understands.

He will gently knock his flask against her bottle, taking a sensible swig, and then capping it. Drinking is only something he wants to do with people nowadays. But he will fetch the plates and the food, so they can eat, letting her do whatever she needs to do with the papers.

"Was Indian food something you had much before?" He asks, putting down rice on both plates and some of the bread too, moving them to the table and then putting the silver trays down too so they can pick at what they fancy.

She carries the pill bottle with her, sometimes, to shake as an extra punctuation to her refusal of alcohol; it's still as full as it was the day she was handed it, unwilling to chance it. At least these days she doesn't regret that decision, mostly: the pain is constant but at such a low thrum now she can ignore it readily if anything else is going on - like a toast she readily participates in.

Still, she lets him grab down the dishes, and only trails over after she's slipped the papers into an envelope to deliver tomorrow morning first thing. She follows her nose, peering curiously down at the food.

"Once," she admits. "It was a long time ago though, so let's go with no. What is it?"

"Alright, you're an Indian food virgin." He says woth slight amusement, and then adds "Not that this is Indian food. Its about as close as I've found in the city. And its good."

"So rice- I think it's probably different from the rice you have, a different variety. Then we have chicken curry, which is like a Tari Wala, and fish curry, and I don't remember the name of that one. The dish with peas in is Mutter Paneer, the white cubes are cheese. It's the most amazing sort of cheese I've ever had. The fried, spicy potatoes are... something aloo. And bread. Naan, it's called."

He brings over the bottle of lassi too, "This is yoghurt, but made into a drink with mango. I thought it might be nice for dessert. Or if it gets too spicy for you." He teases, sitting down to eat with her.

"There's probably going to be left overs. But all of this is good the next day too."

She recognizes the bread, although she doesn't remember it's called naan until he says it; the curries all look similar and smell fantastic, but she doesn't know those words at all. Nonetheless she's happy to let him dish it out, until he makes the comment about spice and she snorts.

"I'll do my best to keep up," she assures him, picking up her fork. "It smells amazing. Which one's your favorite?" She's assuming it's here, since she didn't have a preference.

He knows she'll be fine with all of these dishes, none of them are too spicy to have actual flavour and they aren't a patch on what he's actually eaten in India when he's visited his sister and Jayadeep.

"My favourite of what they make here is the paneer," He admits- and that's what he helps himself to first, the paneer is soft and smooth, the peas add a pop of freshness, the spice it's cooked in warms you from the inside out. It's simple and delicious. "After that? The fish. But in India? Its all a hundred times better."

He'll let her help herself to whatever she fancies, the fish is creamier than the chicken but the spice has sunk deep into the white flakes. It's almost too good to be true.

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