"No grapefruit juice," Saxsice repeats to herself, as if logging it away, pouring one of the root beers over ice, then one of the 7ups for herself. The latter is liberally garnished with cherries, then she heads over with the drinks.
"Decent condition, I'd say. A couple teethmarks, but I think all the feet are still intact." Honestly she hasn't looked in a little bit, buried as they are in deep freeze. "You got a travel hatchet?"
The question makes Saxsice freeze for a moment, her whole mind rebelling at the idea of a) being honest and b) asking for help. The resistance is short-lived, though, because Sam can read auras and do magic and shit, and lying is dumb when there's magic involved. Still, the overwhelming feeling is one of shame as Saxsice looks down into her drink. "Yeah, uh. Sorry. Just some -- shit going on with an ex." A pause, a clarification: "Ryan's dad. Turns up every so often like a bad penny."
“Thank you. Orange juice is where it's at. ...as far as juices go, anyway. I like my coke, I like my rootbeer, I like my pepper doctored.” Sam accepted her glass gratefully but didn't yet drink, too busy gesturing (her free hand patting at the air in a sort of wordless 'settle, settle...') and answering. “Yeah, but it's not as bad as it sounds. Normally it lives in my car with my crowbar, but since I thought we might be de-feeting some rabbits I thought I'd come prepared.” She'd learned she'd better be prepared, after the first fish decapitated for ritualized damage-control between points A and B. Weird as it was, she wouldn't reminisce over it---at least, not now, not with the emotion rolling through Saxsice's aura like a red tide. Not that it was really red, but there was some sickly 'offness' in it that brought the bloom to mind.
“Oh. I'm sorry.” But then the elaboration prompted “Oh, shit. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but... I'd like to know, how much of a problem is he? How does Ryan feel about him?”
Saxsice huffs out a laugh at the gesture, straddling a chair backwards, like her frenetically buzzing mind won't even let her sit normally. She pauses a moment to chase a cherry out of her drink with the straw, chewing it thoughtfully as Sam explains the reason for the mini hatchet. She's imagining a tiny tiny one, a hatchet for ants, if you will. "Guess that's pretty convenient to have. That and the crowbar. I got one'a those, but it lives by my bed."
There's another of those pauses, like Saxsice is teetering at the edge of a cliff, and warring between opening up and shutting down. But she breathes in, exhales, lets the tension ebb away. She's not running, here. This isn't a place where she has to lie. She's safe here, and Sam's safe by virtue of being allowed here.
"Uh, he's -- not usually much of one. Just kinda pops up every once in a while when he grows a conscience. Hasn't really been an issue til this time, cause the munchkin lived with my momma, so." She waves a vague hand. "This time, though, I think Luke -- that's his name, Luke -- is tryin' to get into local politics or some shit, and it looks bad to have a secret kid in another state, so. He's tryin' to get ahead of it, I guess?" She rolls her eyes, taking a long sip of her drink. "That's what he said, at least, before I kicked him outta the bar the other night. But now he's making noise about like -- legal shit, and I don't know anything about that."
Then, to the heart of it: "Ryan doesn't know him. So he doesn't like it at all. He hasn't slept in days, scared he's gonna get taken away."
we've come full circle with a godson mentioned to one of YOUR characters
“I hope there's not a story about the bedside crowbar.” It seemed like the sort of thing there would be a particularly unhappy story about, if there were one. Her own crowbar didn't have a story behind it, but it was a very, very useful thing to have during The First Fucked-Up House, which was a hell of a time, if not nearly as nightmarish as the The Second Fucked-Up House... which set the bar so-far for the most fucked up thing Sam (and a homicide detective who, to his credit, did get real cool about a bunch of stuff really quickly) had seen.
Saxsice continued talking, and Sam continued listening. When a pause came, the skin-witch looked... thoughtful. Wheels were turning, almost audibly, behind a smile that suggested someone wouldn't like what she had to say. “I don't know anything about legal shit either, but I know people who do. Sadly, the one lawyer I know is a defense attorney, so he's not who we'd hit up, but Amon and Zeran can find out anything you need. They'd help on the expense front, too, in a heartbeat---and not just cause I'd ask, though I would. Both are big on agency and neither is down with a kid stressed unto exhaustion by the possibility he'll get ganked from the parent he knows and loves for the sake of someone's political prospects. Ryan doesn't deserve that---not that any kid deserves that! But especially not a sweet kid like Ryan. He kinda reminds me of my godson, whose dad is a piece of shit. His mom and I used the plates I stole off his dad's car in a detrimental Tilt to prevent the guy from showing up without warning again. How? Dunno, depends. Maybe his car breaks down. Maybe he's pulled over for a tail-light or speeding and happens to match the description of someone the cops are looking for. Maybe he hits a deer. Maybe a moose hits him. I think they call 'em Tilts because it's like tilting the pinball Game of Life; I know we can slap something together if you want to get into gutter magic. Make things harder for him, easier for you. What do you think? What do you say?”
"Nah, just thought it'd be a good place to keep it." Saxsice realizes then that Sam hasn't seen her apartment yet, and flashes a toothy grin. "Uh, it's a little -- chaotic up there. I know, big surprise, yeah? We can head up there whenever you're done with your drink. Wanna check on the munchkin soon anyways."
Once they solidify this whole Tilt thing. Saxsice is quiet as Sam explains, pressing her lips together and stirring the ice in her glass. Amon and Zeran are a good option for the legal side of things, but that'll take time, and she sure as hell doesn't want Luke showing up and making things messy while they get it sorted out. So: "And it worked? For your godson? You promise it'll work?" There's something very young, almost childlike in how she asks it, vulnerability flickering through the careful mask.
Then she follows it up with: "Cause if that asshole makes my boy cry again, I might tear his face off."
godson will has been running background canon since we shook hands on it
That explanation got a little nod of understanding; by the bed was a good place to keep a crowbar, because you could use it to pull nearby but otherwise out-of-reach items over when you didn't want to get up out of bed to go get them. The option of going upstairs got another nod, as Sam swallowed a mouthful of her own drink; she'd like to see, sure, and saying hi to Ryan would be nice.
But.
There'd be time for nice, a little later. Now, here, in the face of her friend's raw hope, Sam had to share what she'd learned about twisting the odds with scraps, symbology, and white-knuckled want.
“It did work, and while I can't promise, I can push it. A Tilt has to be built up, you know? It's sympathetic magic. Like---like, imagine how you'd prep a voodoo doll, what would make sense in that situation. To just put a picture of someone's face over the thing would be weaksauce. But if you've got their face on it, and you've incorporated a lock of hair, and dressed it in, like, a stolen sock, and made a nametag and tacked it on, you're doing better. It's like that, but with anything that could be a symbolic or associated element---the sort of stuff a high school English teacher would nod approvingly at, no matter how tangential. Does that make a sort of sense? If we stack and stack and stack, we can close the gap on our odds.”
Nodding slightly, Saxsice tilts her head to one side, thinking seriously about it. She never went to high school, but she gets the basic concept. "So like -- stuff that makes me think about this guy? That represents him or whatever? That'll make it stronger?" She huffs out a laugh, setting down her glass, the ice cubes clinking together. "Guess I'll have to find a buncha trash or somethin', huh?"
Standing, she stretches, shaking off the tension like a dog shakes off water. Being vulnerable, being soft is still hard for her. Being confident and chill and fearless -- that's easy. Vulnerability is scary. "Magic's never made a lotta sense to me, so, if you say it'll work, I believe ya."
The trash crack was something Sam half-expected, but it still made her laugh.
“Yes and no, cause we got waaay more to work with than just him---but you get the gist---but also with stuff like... okay, so chickens are actually territorial assholes, right? And associated with protective maternal behaviours, otherwise we wouldn't have the phrase momma hen. And... it's polyester that melts, right? So we find a polyester apron. The worst material to use, yeah, but we can probably find an overpriced decorative one in Homesense or some other decor store with seasonal plates and a wall that's just throw pillows. If we can't find one, I have a friend who can.” Whatever divinity or abomination existed, it had better bless Deena. She deserved nothing less. As someone who was plausibly equal parts Glenda the Good Witch, Dolly Parton, and Elle Woods but as a business major. “So, we melt off the apron strings. That's very different from cutting them; melted stuff is sticky. We tie nine hen's feathers into each string; that's a start... for stuff benefiting you. We'll stack the deck against him, too, but I'm thinking about every angle.”
Saxsuce nods slowly, her very literal mind having to contort a bit to consider things like metaphor and luck, much less the idea of toying with such things. Werewolf problem solving was waaaay simpler: something bad happens, bite the thing until it stops happening.
But this situation was squarely in "human world problem" territory, and much worse, was getting dangerously close to swinging in Luke's favor. Saxsice didn't think the man or his wife would hurt Ryan, not physically. They weren't monsters like Saxsice’s momma had been.
But they wouldn't love him. Not the way he deserved to be loved.
So: Sam's methods were the best ones. Biting people wouldn't work as well in this situation. Saxsice hopped up, hands on her hips as she looked around. "Well, my place has a ton of weird shit, I'm sure there's stuff we can use. It ain't far, if you wanna head there now."
Was that a measure of uncertainty in Saxsice's aura? It seemed to be fading, but even if it were flaring, Sam would've continued, confident. Tilts... didn't click for everyone, even if almost anyone could build and implement a Tilt. The prerequisites were pretty basic---you had to be affected by a Tilt someone else constructed before you could Tilt on your own, and you had to be aware-enough that the world was weird, but symbolic components were the speedbump-slash-stumbling block in explanation and execution. Trying to spit out the right words, in the right order, to get the how and why across wasn't always easy (even if it was much more DOABLE than explaining what she did one her own, uninstructed) but Sam didn't care, because she'd seen and could show results.
“Sure. Odds are I'm still going to end up with a weird little shopping list, but I do have some States cash, I just don't know where anything is in the city. But I'm also thinking... grape jelly, an egg, vinegar and not balsamic.” As she started to list things, Sam's gaze wandered, settling at a spot on the floor. There wasn't anything interesting to look at there, but Sam wasn't really looking, anyway. “Do you remember what kind of shoes, and what size, your ex wears? If we can print out any articles about his political aspirations, even an 'about me' blurb from some pre-prepped candidate website, we can use that, too. We're going to build something to shore you up, and a separate little something-something for him, and I don't know what all we're going to incorporate just yet, but we're gonna get this good.”
"Not balsamic, right." Saxsice nods emphatically, hands on her hips, like she has the foggiest idea what balsamic is. She's sure Sam will know when she sees the bottle (dusty, abandoned, shoved in the back of a cupboard above the stove) what sort of vinegar she has, and if not: "There's a good bodega a couple blocks away, no biggie."
Sticking the empty glasses in the sink behind the bar (which, unlike the one in the apartment, is always mildly full), Saxsice pauses to double-check the locks on the front door of the bar and wave Sam towards the back. The walk takes them past the various doodads she's picked up over the years -- dartboard, pool table, the freestanding video game that had first introduced the two. There's a door at the back of the bar with a standard "EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY" sign above it, and a scrawled handwritten sign taped on it that adds "seriously if u go out this way ur banned i'm sick of resetting this damn alarm".
Frowning in thought, Saxsice pushes open the door with her hip. "Uhhhhh, bigass polished ones. Maybe a little bigger'n mine? Leather. Fancy. Rich-guy stuff, y'know."
The lego-like linking of associations, stand-ins, and superstition abruptly derailed as Sam paused to tilt her head at Saxsice, bemused but optimistic. "What's a bodega?" At the end of the question, she was up to limp after Saxsice, interested in both seeing her living space, and a good thirty-minute scrounge through whatever weird stuff the werewolf had squirreled away. Saxsice had called it weird; that was promising. Maybe worrisome, mostly promising, also prompting the question how did what they considered 'weird' differ?
By whose standards, Sam wondered, was the shoebox (holding locks of hair, skin scraps, paint chips, stolen buttons, and some baby teeth she'd bought) beneath her bed weird?
Anyway, "Eh, we can work with that. But also maybe the black shoestring licorice should go on our little list. I should probably be writing this stuff down..."
"Uhhhh, like a store, but on a corner. Small, usually has a deli in it. Good sandwiches, shitty coffee, the whole nine." Saxsice pushes open the door, revealing a back alley with a heavily-graffiti'd dumpster, some old boxes, a few stray cats (who all hiss at her approach and bolt), and a set of rickety stairs that wind upwards, hugging the side of the building. At regular intervals along the stairs are potted plants (all dead), old bikes, various other bits and bobs.
Saxsice points upwards. "Probably got a pen somewhere in my room. You good with the stairs? They look gnarly, but they'll hold my wolf-y ass just fine, so we're safe." Apparently "living close" quite literally means "living above". Can't beat that commute.
“Oh, okay. Been through plenty of those, just not heard that name.” The sort of stop that kept her ass alive during the four cross-country drives she made each year. Back to the Knife once in the summer, then back to Manitoba; back for Christmas, and maybe delaying enough to spend New Year's in Edmonton before returning to Porcupine River for the icy and exhausting now-we-go-back-to-the-grind grumbling through January, February, maybe March. “I should re-graffiti that dumpster next time I'm over. You could join me; it'd be fun. And yeah, we're good. I'm just a little slow-going, but it's not due to any trepidation.”
"Bodega, corner store, mom n' pop shop. All kinds of names." Saxsice pauses by the dumpster to pat it affectionately, chuckling a little. "I do like a bit of graffiti, even if I can't see all the colors. You'll just have to tell me if I'm doin' it right."
She bounds up to the second landing, then pauses, that softly vulnerable look on her face again. "Thanks for -- doin' this, too. I'll pay you back somehow, promise."
“As long as you're being relatively safe and having fun, there's no doing it wrong. Like sidewalk chalk, only with a much more satisfying sound effect.”
That pause and look back had Sam pausing in turn, momentarily unsure of the shift in attitude... but that only lasted until Saxsice spoke again. The thanks alone cemented Sam's certainty. Her answer came with the warmth and friendly regard Saxsice already familiar to Saxsice, but there was something else, there, too---in her answer, in her eyes, in her whole bodily attitude; an adamant insistence just shy of whatever it was that made adepts what they were. “It's fucking hard for people to get the help they need, when they need it. Gets harder as you get weirder. I want the occult underground to be a place where people can get help for whatever's come up, and as far as I can reach? It's gonna be. I'm probly gonna come to you to ask a favor someday, so I'm not worried about payback. Odds are I'll be having you help me help somebody else. That said? It's a pleasure.”
The solemnity abates somewhat, replaced with Saxsice’s warmth, her chin propped in one hand, elbow on the banister. "Well, as soon as you need anythin', you just holler. I'm all about one favor for another, y’know?"
Then she's hopping back up the stairs, pausing at the top to look out towards the view of the water -- and peek through the window in the door. "I think the munchkin's asleep -- TVs still on. He's a light sleeper, so we gotta be a little quiet, yeah?"
That answer got a grin. “This is why we're friends. Partly. The rest is I like your vibes and the cut of your jibe.”
Sam continued climbing; Saxsice had plenty of time to survey the situation, though it wasn't like stairs were a struggle, just hard to hurry on. “Can do. I'll just follow your lead unless I spot something I think I can use?”
Saxsice grins right back, lopsided and a little shy. She's got lots of acquaintances -- kind of comes with the territory, owning a bar and all -- but actually friends? Not really. "I like your vibes too. And the cut of uhhhh everythin'." Cue a vague handwave.
Once Sam reaches the top landing -- sharing it with Saxsice, a grill, an old rusty bike and the deep freezer that's presumably full of rabbits -- Saxsice opens the door, careful to be on the quiet side.
The apartment is the same warm chaos as the bar -- trinkets and items spread across the counters, splashes of color in the form of scarves and paintings and various knick-knacks. But the hardwood floors gleam, and there's sunlight pouring in the windows. True to Saxsice’s assumption, the TV is on low, and Ryan is asleep on the couch, curled up like a puppy under a quilt. Saxsice’s whole persona softens the second she sees him, tiptoeing over to settle on the couch as well.
"There's my guy," she murmurs, stroking back her kid's hair as he instinctively snuggles closer to her. "Hey, sugar."
“Of everything? That's high praise.” Though she kept grinning, Sam left it at that, to come in after Saxsice as quietly as she could. She didn't follow far, loitering a few steps past the threshold (after carefully, quietly shutting the door behind her). She wanted to give Saxsice a minute to do what she was going to do, and give herself a minute to just take in the space... though she looked to the Kings at Saxsice's soft remark. It was sweet to see mother and son in a moment of peace, and seeing the warmth with which Saxsice regarded her kid was like stepping onto a sun-soaked patch of carpet barefoot, but for the heart.
Safeguarding more moments like these? Absolutely was gutter magic was meant for---all intent and association and scraps-made-symbols, since the first time a parent slid a protective charm beneath the crib, or a hand drew a circle around a sleeping pet, or the door or the chair or the mailbox of an absent friend had something added to hasten them home.
The sweet moment holds for one second, two, almost seems like it's going to continue -- then Ryan jerks upright and awake all of a sudden, going from cuddled up to on alert, both hands clutching in the fabric of the couch. The softness is replaced with the scent -- and perhaps the sight -- of fear, saturating the air within an instant. Saxsice winces, moves her hands away, holding them up where her kid can see them.
"Hey, darlin', just me. Just mom." She wants to shield this part, the effect of her ex's reappearance on her kid. Her son, who's looking at her like he doesn't have a clue who she is or where they are or what's happening. It isn't embarrassing, it just -- hurts. This part hurts.
Ryan blinks a few times, hands loosening as he comes back to himself, as he remembers to breathe. Saxsice scoots a little closer, reaches out to smooth his hair back, exhaling in relief when he doesn't flinch. His gaze flickers over to Sam, taking a moment to place her. "Sam's here too," Saxsice confirms. "Didn't mean to scare you, munchkin."
Saxsice flinched; Sam winced, both at the flash of fear and the poor woman's reaction. Knowing she was a werewolf undoubtedly coloured the though of like a kicked puppy but that didn't make it entirely untrue.
"It's just me, and I'm just chillin'. Mind if I sit, too?" Sam gestured vaguely at the arm of the couch (the best place to sit) furthest from Ryan, expression mildly hopeful. It wasn't that she wanted to sit so much as she wanted to help reassure the kid, at least a little, and putting him in control of the space seemed like a way that might work.
Ryan looked between the arm of the couch and Sam a couple times, the gears almost visibly turning in his little head. He'd migrated to holding onto his mother's arm, fingers knotted in her loose sweatshirt. Finally he nodded, glancing up at Saxsice with a silent question.
She immediately shook her head. "You don't gotta talk, it's all good. No pressure here." Towards Sam, she rolled her eyes, elaborating a little: "My momma was big on "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am", and didn't really get that sometimes people don't feel like talkin' for a bit. Different rules in my house, though."
There's all kinds of hurt in the comment, a cruel and ugly backstory that Sam can likely parse out. But Saxsice scoots over a little, pats the arm of the couch. "Pull up an arm, plenty of room."
“Man...” But what could she follow that stall up with? Even as she leisurely stepped over, letting her limp slow her a little more than it otherwise would, Sam gave up and let her mouth run on its own. “Ryan, I'm going to tell you the same thing I told one of my best friends, early on in our friendship. I mean it just as much now, talking to you, as I did then, cause it's a truth: I'm just some asshole, you don't have to listen to me. Running along those same lines? You'll never have to talk to me. You don't even have to look at me, if you don't want. If it's come to that, I'd really appreciate a thumbs up or a thumbs down in response to yes-no questions.”
As she spoke, Sam made her way to and settled onto the couch arm she'd indicated. “Flip side? Whenever you do want to talk to me, you're welcome to. Whether that's during a visit like this one, an email, even a collect call. It's all good. I'm a people person, so I like when someone wants to talk to me, but... I also dislike pressuring people, so there's no push. I promise.”
As she speaks, Ryan tucks into his mom's side, watching Sam quietly, a much-too-solemn look on his face. His hair's all sticking up from sleep, and Saxsice absently smooths it into place, ready to move her hand away if he isn't ready yet. She hopes Sam can feel her silent appreciation for not making a big deal of things, for letting her jumpy, traumatized kid be jumpy and traumatized for a moment. There've been a lot of good, big steps in the last year, but there's still a lot buried deep.
Finally, when Sam stops, Ryan considers for a moment, then nods slowly, indicating his understanding. Saxsice exhales, fluffs up his hair a bit. "You wanna stay out here and chill with us?" He makes a face. "Go to your room, gotcha. Be right back, Sam." They stand, her arm around him, his legs a little wobbly. There's a pause, and Ryan looks very much like he wants to apologize, fix things.
But it passes, and they make their way to the small hallway off the big main room, sidestepping boxes and piles of things. There's plenty to look at in their absence -- random animal bones on the counter, a container of pure white fur, assorted sticks.
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"Decent condition, I'd say. A couple teethmarks, but I think all the feet are still intact." Honestly she hasn't looked in a little bit, buried as they are in deep freeze. "You got a travel hatchet?"
The question makes Saxsice freeze for a moment, her whole mind rebelling at the idea of a) being honest and b) asking for help. The resistance is short-lived, though, because Sam can read auras and do magic and shit, and lying is dumb when there's magic involved. Still, the overwhelming feeling is one of shame as Saxsice looks down into her drink. "Yeah, uh. Sorry. Just some -- shit going on with an ex." A pause, a clarification: "Ryan's dad. Turns up every so often like a bad penny."
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“Oh. I'm sorry.” But then the elaboration prompted “Oh, shit. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but... I'd like to know, how much of a problem is he? How does Ryan feel about him?”
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There's another of those pauses, like Saxsice is teetering at the edge of a cliff, and warring between opening up and shutting down. But she breathes in, exhales, lets the tension ebb away. She's not running, here. This isn't a place where she has to lie. She's safe here, and Sam's safe by virtue of being allowed here.
"Uh, he's -- not usually much of one. Just kinda pops up every once in a while when he grows a conscience. Hasn't really been an issue til this time, cause the munchkin lived with my momma, so." She waves a vague hand. "This time, though, I think Luke -- that's his name, Luke -- is tryin' to get into local politics or some shit, and it looks bad to have a secret kid in another state, so. He's tryin' to get ahead of it, I guess?" She rolls her eyes, taking a long sip of her drink. "That's what he said, at least, before I kicked him outta the bar the other night. But now he's making noise about like -- legal shit, and I don't know anything about that."
Then, to the heart of it: "Ryan doesn't know him. So he doesn't like it at all. He hasn't slept in days, scared he's gonna get taken away."
we've come full circle with a godson mentioned to one of YOUR characters
Saxsice continued talking, and Sam continued listening. When a pause came, the skin-witch looked... thoughtful. Wheels were turning, almost audibly, behind a smile that suggested someone wouldn't like what she had to say. “I don't know anything about legal shit either, but I know people who do. Sadly, the one lawyer I know is a defense attorney, so he's not who we'd hit up, but Amon and Zeran can find out anything you need. They'd help on the expense front, too, in a heartbeat---and not just cause I'd ask, though I would. Both are big on agency and neither is down with a kid stressed unto exhaustion by the possibility he'll get ganked from the parent he knows and loves for the sake of someone's political prospects. Ryan doesn't deserve that---not that any kid deserves that! But especially not a sweet kid like Ryan. He kinda reminds me of my godson, whose dad is a piece of shit. His mom and I used the plates I stole off his dad's car in a detrimental Tilt to prevent the guy from showing up without warning again. How? Dunno, depends. Maybe his car breaks down. Maybe he's pulled over for a tail-light or speeding and happens to match the description of someone the cops are looking for. Maybe he hits a deer. Maybe a moose hits him. I think they call 'em Tilts because it's like tilting the pinball Game of Life; I know we can slap something together if you want to get into gutter magic. Make things harder for him, easier for you. What do you think? What do you say?”
awwww full circle :)
Once they solidify this whole Tilt thing. Saxsice is quiet as Sam explains, pressing her lips together and stirring the ice in her glass. Amon and Zeran are a good option for the legal side of things, but that'll take time, and she sure as hell doesn't want Luke showing up and making things messy while they get it sorted out. So: "And it worked? For your godson? You promise it'll work?" There's something very young, almost childlike in how she asks it, vulnerability flickering through the careful mask.
Then she follows it up with: "Cause if that asshole makes my boy cry again, I might tear his face off."
godson will has been running background canon since we shook hands on it
But.
There'd be time for nice, a little later. Now, here, in the face of her friend's raw hope, Sam had to share what she'd learned about twisting the odds with scraps, symbology, and white-knuckled want.
“It did work, and while I can't promise, I can push it. A Tilt has to be built up, you know? It's sympathetic magic. Like---like, imagine how you'd prep a voodoo doll, what would make sense in that situation. To just put a picture of someone's face over the thing would be weaksauce. But if you've got their face on it, and you've incorporated a lock of hair, and dressed it in, like, a stolen sock, and made a nametag and tacked it on, you're doing better. It's like that, but with anything that could be a symbolic or associated element---the sort of stuff a high school English teacher would nod approvingly at, no matter how tangential. Does that make a sort of sense? If we stack and stack and stack, we can close the gap on our odds.”
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Standing, she stretches, shaking off the tension like a dog shakes off water. Being vulnerable, being soft is still hard for her. Being confident and chill and fearless -- that's easy. Vulnerability is scary. "Magic's never made a lotta sense to me, so, if you say it'll work, I believe ya."
Says the woman who can turn into a wolf.
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“Yes and no, cause we got waaay more to work with than just him---but you get the gist---but also with stuff like... okay, so chickens are actually territorial assholes, right? And associated with protective maternal behaviours, otherwise we wouldn't have the phrase momma hen. And... it's polyester that melts, right? So we find a polyester apron. The worst material to use, yeah, but we can probably find an overpriced decorative one in Homesense or some other decor store with seasonal plates and a wall that's just throw pillows. If we can't find one, I have a friend who can.” Whatever divinity or abomination existed, it had better bless Deena. She deserved nothing less. As someone who was plausibly equal parts Glenda the Good Witch, Dolly Parton, and Elle Woods but as a business major. “So, we melt off the apron strings. That's very different from cutting them; melted stuff is sticky. We tie nine hen's feathers into each string; that's a start... for stuff benefiting you. We'll stack the deck against him, too, but I'm thinking about every angle.”
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But this situation was squarely in "human world problem" territory, and much worse, was getting dangerously close to swinging in Luke's favor. Saxsice didn't think the man or his wife would hurt Ryan, not physically. They weren't monsters like Saxsice’s momma had been.
But they wouldn't love him. Not the way he deserved to be loved.
So: Sam's methods were the best ones. Biting people wouldn't work as well in this situation. Saxsice hopped up, hands on her hips as she looked around. "Well, my place has a ton of weird shit, I'm sure there's stuff we can use. It ain't far, if you wanna head there now."
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“Sure. Odds are I'm still going to end up with a weird little shopping list, but I do have some States cash, I just don't know where anything is in the city. But I'm also thinking... grape jelly, an egg, vinegar and not balsamic.” As she started to list things, Sam's gaze wandered, settling at a spot on the floor. There wasn't anything interesting to look at there, but Sam wasn't really looking, anyway. “Do you remember what kind of shoes, and what size, your ex wears? If we can print out any articles about his political aspirations, even an 'about me' blurb from some pre-prepped candidate website, we can use that, too. We're going to build something to shore you up, and a separate little something-something for him, and I don't know what all we're going to incorporate just yet, but we're gonna get this good.”
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Sticking the empty glasses in the sink behind the bar (which, unlike the one in the apartment, is always mildly full), Saxsice pauses to double-check the locks on the front door of the bar and wave Sam towards the back. The walk takes them past the various doodads she's picked up over the years -- dartboard, pool table, the freestanding video game that had first introduced the two. There's a door at the back of the bar with a standard "EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY" sign above it, and a scrawled handwritten sign taped on it that adds "seriously if u go out this way ur banned i'm sick of resetting this damn alarm".
Frowning in thought, Saxsice pushes open the door with her hip. "Uhhhhh, bigass polished ones. Maybe a little bigger'n mine? Leather. Fancy. Rich-guy stuff, y'know."
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By whose standards, Sam wondered, was the shoebox (holding locks of hair, skin scraps, paint chips, stolen buttons, and some baby teeth she'd bought) beneath her bed weird?
Anyway, "Eh, we can work with that. But also maybe the black shoestring licorice should go on our little list. I should probably be writing this stuff down..."
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Saxsice points upwards. "Probably got a pen somewhere in my room. You good with the stairs? They look gnarly, but they'll hold my wolf-y ass just fine, so we're safe." Apparently "living close" quite literally means "living above". Can't beat that commute.
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She bounds up to the second landing, then pauses, that softly vulnerable look on her face again. "Thanks for -- doin' this, too. I'll pay you back somehow, promise."
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That pause and look back had Sam pausing in turn, momentarily unsure of the shift in attitude... but that only lasted until Saxsice spoke again. The thanks alone cemented Sam's certainty. Her answer came with the warmth and friendly regard Saxsice already familiar to Saxsice, but there was something else, there, too---in her answer, in her eyes, in her whole bodily attitude; an adamant insistence just shy of whatever it was that made adepts what they were. “It's fucking hard for people to get the help they need, when they need it. Gets harder as you get weirder. I want the occult underground to be a place where people can get help for whatever's come up, and as far as I can reach? It's gonna be. I'm probly gonna come to you to ask a favor someday, so I'm not worried about payback. Odds are I'll be having you help me help somebody else. That said? It's a pleasure.”
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Then she's hopping back up the stairs, pausing at the top to look out towards the view of the water -- and peek through the window in the door. "I think the munchkin's asleep -- TVs still on. He's a light sleeper, so we gotta be a little quiet, yeah?"
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Sam continued climbing; Saxsice had plenty of time to survey the situation, though it wasn't like stairs were a struggle, just hard to hurry on. “Can do. I'll just follow your lead unless I spot something I think I can use?”
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Once Sam reaches the top landing -- sharing it with Saxsice, a grill, an old rusty bike and the deep freezer that's presumably full of rabbits -- Saxsice opens the door, careful to be on the quiet side.
The apartment is the same warm chaos as the bar -- trinkets and items spread across the counters, splashes of color in the form of scarves and paintings and various knick-knacks. But the hardwood floors gleam, and there's sunlight pouring in the windows. True to Saxsice’s assumption, the TV is on low, and Ryan is asleep on the couch, curled up like a puppy under a quilt. Saxsice’s whole persona softens the second she sees him, tiptoeing over to settle on the couch as well.
"There's my guy," she murmurs, stroking back her kid's hair as he instinctively snuggles closer to her. "Hey, sugar."
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Safeguarding more moments like these? Absolutely was gutter magic was meant for---all intent and association and scraps-made-symbols, since the first time a parent slid a protective charm beneath the crib, or a hand drew a circle around a sleeping pet, or the door or the chair or the mailbox of an absent friend had something added to hasten them home.
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"Hey, darlin', just me. Just mom." She wants to shield this part, the effect of her ex's reappearance on her kid. Her son, who's looking at her like he doesn't have a clue who she is or where they are or what's happening. It isn't embarrassing, it just -- hurts. This part hurts.
Ryan blinks a few times, hands loosening as he comes back to himself, as he remembers to breathe. Saxsice scoots a little closer, reaches out to smooth his hair back, exhaling in relief when he doesn't flinch. His gaze flickers over to Sam, taking a moment to place her. "Sam's here too," Saxsice confirms. "Didn't mean to scare you, munchkin."
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"It's just me, and I'm just chillin'. Mind if I sit, too?" Sam gestured vaguely at the arm of the couch (the best place to sit) furthest from Ryan, expression mildly hopeful. It wasn't that she wanted to sit so much as she wanted to help reassure the kid, at least a little, and putting him in control of the space seemed like a way that might work.
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She immediately shook her head. "You don't gotta talk, it's all good. No pressure here." Towards Sam, she rolled her eyes, elaborating a little: "My momma was big on "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am", and didn't really get that sometimes people don't feel like talkin' for a bit. Different rules in my house, though."
There's all kinds of hurt in the comment, a cruel and ugly backstory that Sam can likely parse out. But Saxsice scoots over a little, pats the arm of the couch. "Pull up an arm, plenty of room."
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As she spoke, Sam made her way to and settled onto the couch arm she'd indicated. “Flip side? Whenever you do want to talk to me, you're welcome to. Whether that's during a visit like this one, an email, even a collect call. It's all good. I'm a people person, so I like when someone wants to talk to me, but... I also dislike pressuring people, so there's no push. I promise.”
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Finally, when Sam stops, Ryan considers for a moment, then nods slowly, indicating his understanding. Saxsice exhales, fluffs up his hair a bit. "You wanna stay out here and chill with us?" He makes a face. "Go to your room, gotcha. Be right back, Sam." They stand, her arm around him, his legs a little wobbly. There's a pause, and Ryan looks very much like he wants to apologize, fix things.
But it passes, and they make their way to the small hallway off the big main room, sidestepping boxes and piles of things. There's plenty to look at in their absence -- random animal bones on the counter, a container of pure white fur, assorted sticks.
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cw: non-specific child abuse mention
Re: cw: non-specific child abuse mention
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finally a good sam tag thank u 8 pm coffee
we doing itttttt
this friendship cannot lose steam
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