Just a Little Bent

[andhiswife]

As far as Darrow antics go, this one might top the list for bloody eeriness. At the cottage, they can almost pretend nothing's happened. Between the garden, the chickens, and the staples she always keeps well-stocked, there's no immediate threat of starvation. The power hasn't failed yet, but even if it does, she thinks they'll be able to work around it — neither she nor Anne are exactly accustomed to being without it anymore, but that doesn't mean they've forgotten how to get by.

And surely things will go back to normal sooner or later. They always do, and she refuses to believe that—that whatever this is might be special in that regard.

But it's still unsettling. Even though it only seems to be the locals who have vanished, there were always far more of them than anyone else, and never has she felt the difference so keenly. Whole blocks are abandoned, shops either permanently shuttered or, more often, left unmanned mid-shift: the lights still on, but no one at home. But what she hates most are the littler signs of lives abruptly interrupted. A lone briefcase sitting at a bus stop; half-drunk beverages glued to their coasters by dried condensation; shopping carts left idle halfway down an aisle.

Regan is taking it especially hard, and no wonder.

It would be easier to avoid town entirely, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't tempted. But she can't abide the thought of hiding out in the countryside when there are still plenty of people who need help. Not when her hands still remember how to feed a Village.

So she's stolen a bakery. Or, well... borrowed. She's borrowing a bakery.

It hadn't been hard to find. Even cleaning it up hadn't been too much of a challenge: people had already made off with the displays' contents, so there was little rotten food to be dealt with. Obviously there were no fresh ingredients worth salvaging, but things like flour, baking soda, and spices don't go bad overnight. There's plenty to start with, at least.

Getting the word out had been the bigger challenge. She's texted everyone she can, and Saoirse has made some very colorful signage to post in the bakery windows and in other places around the city, letting people know that there are fresh-baked goods available. She can't imagine charging for any of it, but after the first few hours (and some discussion with Anne), she'd added some signage suggesting that she wouldn't question where any raw ingredients might have come from, if people wanted to bring some.

It's mid-afternoon when she slides two more trays of muffins into the oven, sets a timer on her phone, and then steps out of the kitchen for some slightly cooler air. Her hair is falling out of its bun and she's probably a mess, but it's satisfying to see people eating something she made: something fresh and good that hasn't come from a bloody can.

[ooc: a mini-gathering for the vanishing NPC plot! If your pup knows Greta, you can assume they've received a text; otherwise, there's plenty of signage letting people know there's still one functioning bakery in town.]

Comments

[andhiswife]

"I can't even imagine," Greta replies, shaking her head. Not just the chaos that Anne is predicting, but what would happen if something like this were to occur in the Village. It wouldn't be impossible, perhaps the result of an evil spell of one kind or another. She thinks, with a twist of discomfort, that she probably would've been one of the mysteriously vanished: her disappearance an insignificant fraction of a larger problem. The spell would've been broken by some adventurer, perhaps a downtrodden wizard's apprentice with something to prove, and she would've been restored without any memory of what had occurred.

Not so different from this, then, presuming Darrow plays the part of the spellbreaker, as it inevitably does. Goodness knows the citizenry are good at forgetting whatever the place has subjected them to.

"Just as well it's happening here, I suppose," she concludes. It might not be business as usual, but at least strangeness is something the city's taught them all to accept, whatever form it might decide to take.

She softens a little at Anne's second nudge, reaching over to curl her (slightly floury) hand around Anne's fingers. "I'm lucky to have you," she replies quietly. "Don't know if I'd have the nerve for all this without backup." She might, she thinks — but knowing Anne would be with her had made it a far easier decision than it would've been, otherwise.

[annebonny]

Anne ducks her head down, hiding a soft smile beneath the brim of her hat, behind the curtain of her hair.

"Ah, you'd have done all right," she says, only the faintest whisper of teasing in her tone. She means it; she knows it. She brushes her thumb over Greta's hands, brushing flour dust from her knuckles, then lifts her chin just enough to find Greta's eyes. "But I'm glad I can help."

She is, she thinks. Glad to do something good. Something kind. It's new, strange, different. Good. Good in all the ways Greta is, and new, and strange, and different. She lets her words linger for a moment, then leans close, not quite brushing her lips to Greta's cheek, but just shy of it. As though she wants to let Greta choose whether or not to close that little distance.

[andhiswife]

Greta hums, playfully dubious, even as she lets the vote of confidence warm her. Anne might be teasing her a little, but the joke isn't the idea of her getting by as much as the supposed question of it, and it's impossible not to find that flattering.

Her smile softens when Anne looks up at her, and says she's glad she could help. It's a sentiment they both share, and she gives Anne's hand a gentle squeeze. They almost could've pretended normalcy at the cottage, but she knows it never would've worked — that they both would have been climbing the walls if their only occupation was sitting at home, ignoring the mess outside until it dragged itself over their threshold and they couldn't, anymore. Maybe keeping the peace in a commandeered bakery is only a little more urgent, or a fraction more likely to result in some sort of trouble, but god, anything is better than just sitting on their hands.

Anne leans in to kiss her cheek, but pauses a hair's breadth away: close enough for Greta to feel the warmth of her, far enough to require Greta's active participation to close the remaining distance. There's something oddly bolstering about that, as if they should be equal partners even in displays of casual affection — or as if the smallest tokens still deserve to be chosen — and a faint blush colors her cheeks as she lists agreeably into the kiss.

She draws back after a moment, turning to look at Anne directly. Her gaze flickers down to Anne's lips, and she considers leaning in for a proper kiss, but stays herself. Barring the notable exception of their first kiss, she knows Anne isn't given to effusive displays of affection in public, and while the bakery isn't exactly crowded, it's busy enough to not feel particularly private, either. Still, she doesn't entirely like the idea of that just being it, even as the awareness that she can't linger out here forever sits in the back of her mind.

"I should probably head back soon," she says, endeavoring to make it sound like a neutral observation, though there's a sly smile in the corners of her eyes. "You could come with, if you wanted. Change of pace." She lifts Anne's hand and presses a gentle kiss to her knuckles, eyebrows quirked in polite inquiry. "Help with the kneading."

[annebonny]

Anne smiles softly at the kiss to her knuckles, then leans into more of a smirk at the suggestion. "Suppose I could," she says a bit loftily, then straightens up and gestures for Greta to lead the way.

She has started to pick up a few things about baking, and about preparing food in general. She quite likes it. It's comforting, in a strange way. And she's certainly happy to help. Just how much of this invitation is about help, though, and how much is about something else, remains to be seen. She follows Greta into the back, agreeable and unassuming, even if there is still a smirk playing about her lips.

"Where should I start?" she asks lightly.

[andhiswife]

Greta hums, drumming her fingertips against her chin in ostensible consideration. "I could use your help in the pantry, actually," she replies, searching for some justification — as if it matters — and landing on the entirely absurd: "There's, er, something on a very high shelf. You'll see."

She knows how transparently ridiculous she's being, and she has to smother a giggle beneath her hand as she guides Anne back into the pantry. It's a rather large and well stocked walk-in, with a central aisle just large enough to not feel cramped as she turns to face Anne directly, drawing her close.

"I've lured you here under false pretenses," she admits, biting back a grin in a failed bid to pretend at contrition.

[annebonny]

Anne's smirk turns to a softened chuckle at the suggestion she might be any use for a high shelf. She enjoys the little games Greta occasionally plays, and how obvious they are. There is no need for subterfuge here, except for the pleasure of it. She nods dutifully despite her clear amusement, keeping close until Greta stops, turns around, and draws her closer still.

"Have you," Anne replies with a grin, a little flicker of teeth. She settles her hands gently at Greta's waist but makes no further moves just yet, eyeing her thoughtfully from under the low brim of her hat. Lightly, she murmurs, "Not every day I'm caught unawares."

[andhiswife]

Hearing Anne laugh isn't exactly a rare thing, but it still give Greta a little thrill to hear it, as if she's achieved something special. There's a hint of that little triumph lurking in the corners of her eyes as she looks Anne over.

"Well," Greta allows, carefully tipping up the brim of Anne's hat for easier access, "I was very clever about it, just now. You hardly stood a chance."

There's a real risk that she'll just start giggling again if she tries to keep rolling the joke along, but more to the point, that's not why she all but dragged Anne into the pantry to begin with. So she leans in, pausing just a breath away from letting their lips meet — letting Anne choose, this time, to close the little distance.

[annebonny]

Anne tilts her head slightly as Greta adjusts her hat, patient and indulgent. She hums in solemn agreement despite her continuing grin, which only softens as Greta finally leans in. She stops, though, just shy of the kiss, just as Anne had done out front. Handing the choice back to her.

Anne makes herself wait for a moment, her eyes roaming over Greta's features, studying her up close. The little smudges of flour dust here and there, the traces of sweat from a day spent at work. She smells of bread and honey, and she's beautiful.

She hums again, softer this time as she brings them together, pulling Greta in with subtle, gentle pressure around her waist and kissing her as delicately as she knows how. She wants to savor it, to go slow, to let each moment linger as long as they like. To crowd everything out until the world is as small as the space between them.