Easter Dinner

Sneaky streetrat.

Even still, there was a tension settled around her shoulders, the line of her jaw, that was practically visible. A hot shower had helped, but not completely – the massage he granted her took care of the rest of it, which was a good thing, as the waif-thin street rat had plans. She doesn’t have much in the way of things to contribute toward this relationship – if that is what to call it, maybe co-habitation? Friends with benefits? Something… – so does what she can. Today that involved kicking him out of the apartment for a while, by ‘forgetting’ to pick up something to drink for dinner. Of course, since she’s not legal, she’d have to send him anyway, right? Right.

She had started dinner early, while he was still home, and even made him help – peeling potatoes, getting them into the pot and on the stove to boil… cracking and peeling eggs after they were hard boiled, helping him chop green onions, celery for potato salad as she got the small spiral cut ham into the oven. She had made herself home in his small kitchen, comfortable now asking him to reach a dish that’s a little out of her reach, as well as directing him on what to add for the salad, and have him open the relish jar for her. It’s not hard to see Mama Joyce in her as she moves… it’s almost as if by seeing her now, he can see her a bit of her then.

After she shoos him out for “some wine or somethin! Ain’t matter, I just ain’t able to buy it… please?” does she open the one bag she wouldn’t let him look in. She takes out the contents, and soon the center of the table holds a small Easter basket, with plastic eggs filled with M&Ms, cadbury creme eggs, chocolate and yes – jellybeans too.

She hasn’t had a decent holiday in forever – no holiday to speak of in well over a year. Sometimes, it’s the little things that help make a place to stay into more of a home.

Sneaky little streetrat, indeed. Persistent little lawyer though he was, she outstubborned him.

True to form, he noticed the tension. TRue to form, he wanted to know why she was so tense, and truer to form he didn’t ask. Not yet, anyways. Because, well, he did ask. Because he would ask, and when it came to Maija he always, always asked and he always, always noticed. Funny, really, how they could fall into patterns of behavior, as though they were comfortable with each other. He chopped onions and, true to form, he took directions well. And, almost surprisingly, he was adept at dodging people in a kitchen-setting.

He had never peeled potatoes.
Little brat.

William was shooed out the door to go buy wine, or .. something. He almost protested. “What do you want, what do you like?”
Ain’t matter, she couldn’t buy it. This was where he came into play.

And so, he was shooed out of the house.

And came back about forty-five minutes later. Through the front, to the kitchen, muttering something in French about confusing reds and what-have-you.

“I don’t know what I got, but aparently, it’s supposed to be good,” he said. The herald to his arrival.

He came back in, bitching, and she turned from the stove where she was pulling out the ham – it wasn’t overly large, just enough for the two of them plus leftovers for a couple days, because nothing beats a ham sandwich when you’ve baked the ham yourself. He’s muttering in French, and she turns to just blink at him, until he switches to English and explains what he’d brought home. Her face is flushed from the heat of the oven, from the act of putting dinner on the table – adding a green salad to the mix so it seems almost healthy, plus fresh made rolls, still warm. Lips curl into a little smirk, as she turns to face him.

“Sure it’s jus’ fine. Ain’t like I’d know the difference anyway. S’somethin arrived for ya.” She nods toward the table, the basket, and the folded over page from her journal tucked under it. Ain’t much, just a sketch she’d been working on while he was at work. It’s more detailed than others he’s seen, as she’d taken the time to add the details, watching him and making sure that the likeness is as realistic as she knows how to make it. It’s of him, mostly, the details reserved for his face, his frame – though there is a shadow that could be her standing nearby. At their feet – the earth curves, and slides away – as is fitting, as they will rule the Earth, after all.

At his core, Maija had learned that William was many things. And being a spoiled, entitled brat was one of them. he complained, and could complain with the best of them. He liked sleeping in, he cursed his job, and he said bad, awful things in French. He skipped the language barrier a few times in front of her, made no attempt to hide the fact that he spoke more than one language, but didn’t seem to treat it like he was bragging. It was just a fact of life.

The bitching, however, ceased in a moment when he saw the basked. He grinned a little, going to investigate the little candies and goodies and what-have-you. The picture was what caught his attention. He looked at it and seemed more-than-impressed.

“We should distribute these as promotional materials,” he said. He grinned and seemed all too pleased with it. There was, after a moment, quiet reverence. “I should get this framed.”

And he was damned serious about it, too.

He paused, briefly, then looked at her. “You.. wow… thank you.”

And truth be told – she likes it when he talks in french, and complains, and mutters. It makes him all the more human. Kinda like that little boy grin he gets when he sees the basket of candy, and the sketch.

Truth be told – that sketch has her more nervous than if she was shitting a rainbow of skittles for the whole world to see. She watches his face, and how thrilled it makes him, and she ducks her head a little, her hair sliding along the line of her jaw, hiding the little smile from him – because that is her way.

“Ain’t all that.” she says, because that’s how she sees it. But that he sees it as more is obvious, and well, makes it worth it. A bony shoulder lifts in a shrug, and she clears her throat. “I got work, sorta. Ain’t like, steady n shit, but under the table, and no questions asked.” Or well, not many. “Ona the Trueborns that live at the hood – she’s an artist, asked me t’sit for her. An’ since it’s a holiday an’ all, it worked perfect that we should have a good dinner, an’ some candy n shit. S’all.”

S’all, she says, as if she didn’t happy spent 2 hours shopping to make sure she had everything she needed. It does explain why she was so late coming home the night before, though, doesn’t it?

A pause.

“Well, I should have gotten a better bottle of wine, then,” he said.

She explains her work and, for his part, he was interested in whatever it was she was saying. He paused for a moment. William paused and seemed to take her in as she spoke about work. One of the trueborns at the brotherhood was an artist. Is an artist. Something like that. Asked Maija to sit for her.

And, though it was a holiday, he knew that she was going to be sitting still… with some trueborn woman who may or may not have been the most composed of creatures, for a period of time while she worked. But she did all of that, got a job, and it was something inconsistent, but it paid.

“I… Wow, how much is she paying you? Is it worth it? Who was it?” as if he would know.

Is it worth it, how much, and who? The answers to those questions all will likely explain just how tense she was when she came home last night.

“I ain’t even know why she wants to draw me – ain’t like I’m some hot shot model or nothin. She paid me $200 t’sit for her last night. As for worth it…” She pauses, and actually gives the question thought. He knows bits of her past, he knows that a female Trueborn near destroyed her along with her father, and he knows how hard it is for her to be in their presence at all.

“She ain’t done nothin’ that weren’t professional,” she says at last.. “but that ain’t to say it were exactly comfortable. Ain’t help that she’s a Lord. She asked questions, an’ I answered, but she ain’t pry too much – least not last night. Tol’ some story bout treatin kin nice since they – trueborn – gotta sleep sometime. I dunno.” Her brow furrows lightly, before she rolls her shoulders once, as if to smooth away the reminder of the tensions there. “Name’s Mrena. She knew th’cowboy.”

The one in the front of her Journal that she followed to Chicago, of course.

He had been hesitant, he had been downright concerned. He was almost on the border of protective, on the border of a White Knight complex. Of all the things he had been born with, it seemed that a protective streak might be one of them. Alas, he did not have an athletic bone in his body so it made being protective with anything other than words and sanctions a little difficult. Trueborn didn’t listen. And he was no Philodox to hand down their law.

She ain’t done nothin’ that weren’t professional.
And relief.
But that ain’t to say it were exactly comfortable
Understandable.

She mentioned the story, and for his part William almost developed a half smirk. “She’s right, though who knows what a Lord’s getting at when they decide to impart wisdom… she say if he was okay?” The cowboy, that is.

She sets their plates at the table, and then, after a moment’s pause, moves toward him. She hesitates just before she touches him, because it is still new, this thing between them. After a moment, though, she lifts her hand, and smooths it over his heard, feeling the beat underneath, steady and strong. “I ain’t know what she meant by it, behind it, ya know? But she ain’t touch me, or hurt me.”

Yet. That’s unsaid, but there. Yet.

Maija looks up at him, a brief little grin of amusement slipping over her lips. It almost lingers. “Ya know I ain’t completely helpless, right? Ain’t much I kin do against a trueborn bent on hurtin me, but I won’t do nuthin what ain’t in at least semi public, an’ I’ll keep my blade at hand.” Not that it would really help – but those are the things she can do.

As for the cowboy. “She said he’d been here, an’ likely will come round again. She’s sure he’s allright – ain’t heard nuthin otherwise.”