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[OPEN] Moving
Who: Angel and Y'all
What: Moving Day and the Surrounding
When: Early December
Where: Yeah!
Warning(s):
1. So take your shaking bones
Eddie leaves on the ferry on a cold misty autumn morning, and Angel spends longer waiting for him to return to the farmhouse than it'll admit to afterwards, keeping a kettle warm on the stove for afternoon tea until the water's all boiled away and it's clear that how many lumps Eddie takes in a cup is irrelevant now, irrelevant ever again and Angel still doesn't want to admit it until it has to.
It has to.
And taking care of the farm, the bees and the temple all by itself just isn't going to be possible, it's not, even if its heart was hale and whole and beating in sync with Eddie's still, so something has to give.
Something has to.
Angel decides that it is going to move.
There are appointments with town hall to discuss possible new houses and apartments and townhouses (not homes, yet), and discussions of its beehives being transported into town, and paperwork to be filled out in a heavy, stiff, blocky hand as it figures out the work of transition, hoping that living in the city will be a replacement for the bustle of clucking hens and the nagging goat and it's going to need to get a stable situation set up for Arcadia, if the horse will forgive the relocation.
Angel is alone.
This is not work to be doing alone.
And that's before we get to the process of packing, of sorting through the debris of a life and a love and the twinge that reminds it that it can't cry every time it comes across a favored book or a shirt that still smells like Eddie, and that twinge is deeply painful enough to make it stop moving for seconds, perhaps minutes before it finds something to push it past inertia, even as it feels like some vital spark inside it is guttering and dimming.
This is not work to be doing alone.
2. And step out on your own
A sign on the bulletin board:
HELP WANTED MOVING. STANDARD PAY OFFERED: PIZZA AFTER WORK COMPLETE
3. Oh, the winter never stops
[This is your wildcard. It was meant for you.]
What: Moving Day and the Surrounding
When: Early December
Where: Yeah!
Warning(s):
1. So take your shaking bones
Eddie leaves on the ferry on a cold misty autumn morning, and Angel spends longer waiting for him to return to the farmhouse than it'll admit to afterwards, keeping a kettle warm on the stove for afternoon tea until the water's all boiled away and it's clear that how many lumps Eddie takes in a cup is irrelevant now, irrelevant ever again and Angel still doesn't want to admit it until it has to.
It has to.
And taking care of the farm, the bees and the temple all by itself just isn't going to be possible, it's not, even if its heart was hale and whole and beating in sync with Eddie's still, so something has to give.
Something has to.
Angel decides that it is going to move.
There are appointments with town hall to discuss possible new houses and apartments and townhouses (not homes, yet), and discussions of its beehives being transported into town, and paperwork to be filled out in a heavy, stiff, blocky hand as it figures out the work of transition, hoping that living in the city will be a replacement for the bustle of clucking hens and the nagging goat and it's going to need to get a stable situation set up for Arcadia, if the horse will forgive the relocation.
Angel is alone.
This is not work to be doing alone.
And that's before we get to the process of packing, of sorting through the debris of a life and a love and the twinge that reminds it that it can't cry every time it comes across a favored book or a shirt that still smells like Eddie, and that twinge is deeply painful enough to make it stop moving for seconds, perhaps minutes before it finds something to push it past inertia, even as it feels like some vital spark inside it is guttering and dimming.
This is not work to be doing alone.
2. And step out on your own
A sign on the bulletin board:
3. Oh, the winter never stops
[This is your wildcard. It was meant for you.]
no subject
"It's a very good thing, then," he begins, leaning over to grasp for Angel's hand, "that man is beside from a mere animal."
And this, its knuckles, he kisses.
no subject
no subject
“What a miracle it is, to have met you.”
-
What goes on the stove is stew. A big pot of sausage, bits of meat, potatoes, root vegetables, carrots, onions, herbs, salt. Something that can be kept on the fire, something that means Angel doesn’t have to worry too hard about working out feeding itself for a while. Mulcahy doesn’t cook fancy, but he does cook cheap and filling with enough taste to pass.
Mulcahy really is a workhorse. He was always meant for the priesthood, but this is proof that he lights up in labor. He moves about the kitchen with an air of assuredness, humming as he goes, as he chops and asks Angel to help chop, as he scrapes more things into the pot. There is nothing better than this. Than helping where he can see.
no subject
"These carrots small enough now?"
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Mulcahy turns back to the pile of potatoes he's been chopping (skin on, he tolerates no waste). "This sort of stew was very common on my dinner table growing up, and we were very humbly poor indeed. The ingredients changed sometimes depending on what was cheap and available--" a lot of the meat became offal when everything crashed in the 30s, if he could get his hands on it at all, "--but it was reliable, and we could afford it. And if the icebox ever broke, we could just keep it simmering on the stove, which we'd have on anyway if it was cold."
So naturally, he's sharing a childhood family recipe with Angel.
no subject
"What was your family like? Did you have brothers or sisters? I used to wish I'd had a brother, or parents. Anyone else who would get what it was like."
no subject
"Oh, I had a mess of brothers, but I was always closest with my sister, Catherine. We had quite a lot in common. I boxed, she played basketball, I learned piano, she learned saxophone... we even joined the ministry together. She became Sister Maria Angelica. Though she gave up her vows eventually--to have a child of her own."
There's a soft delight in his voice that isn't often there. He loves her. He misses her. She's one of his few unsullied memories of home, deep home, back before the war. Before even the ministry. A solid, steady line tracing through his whole life, even now as he goes on with only the warm memory of her.
no subject
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It, because he hadn't got any confirmation on sex by the time he was taken away. Or... maybe he just doesn't remember. ... Hmnh.
"It'd be five or six years old by now, I believe."
no subject
It's about the same age as Angel, but he's not about to point that out aloud right now.
no subject
He scrapes his pile of potatoes into the pot.
"I wish I remembered if she sent me a list of names she was considering. Or her spouse's name." A soft huff. "Or if I left a letter for the child to read in the future, in case I didn't manage to meet it myself. I like to think I did."