andhiswife | (no subject)

Greta spends most of the morning in the kitchen.

Sort of absurd, really, given the preparations being made across the city. But they've been working on the cottage for weeks, now — fortifying both magical and physical deterrents, getting Aggie's animals settled and comfortable, stocking up on whatever they might need based on every miserable eventuality she could envision — and it's belatedly occurred to her that if all goes according to plan, what she'll mostly be doing is just... hosting. She's told everyone she can think of that the cottage should be a safe harbor, and while she doesn't expect all of them to come by, or to stay for the whole evening, she imagines the ones that do might be wanting more than just a brief rest and some first aid.

So she bakes, wanting to get it done early enough that the wind will have time to dispel any tempting scents well before the siren sounds. Wanting to give herself something to do besides wringing her hands, or checking and re-checking everything like a madwoman, or lecturing Saoirse about the importance of not doing anything foolish.

Later, as people begin to arrive, she focuses on making sure they're comfortable (or as comfortable as circumstances allow). There's a large pot of soup on the stove and fresh-baked goods for anyone who's managed to keep their appetite, and plenty of tea in the cupboard. By the time 6PM rolls around, she's half-tempted to bring out something stronger, for all that this seems like a terrible time to impair her own judgment. The heavier stuff can wait, she decides, until they've all made it through this, ideally unscathed.

When the siren sounds, she's standing on her front stoop, brow furrowed at the city skyline, windows tightly shuttered behind her and arms folded tightly across her chest. What a stupid bloody excuse for a holiday.

[ A gathering post for anyone who might be riding out the Purge at the cottage, either temporarily or for the whole evening. If Greta knows your pup, it's a safe bet you've been invited or otherwise made aware, but anyone without evil intentions should be able to safely bypass Magnus' wards and make it onto the property for a respite. Open forever! ]

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He shrugs and looks toward the city. "The usual sort of shit you'd expect on a day like this. A lot of looting, smashed windows, that sorta thing. Spike and I have stopped a couple assaults."

So far, he hasn't seen anyone dead or dying. That counts for something, but then, he's probably just missed it. In a city the size of this, he figures it's got to have happened or will at some point.

Greta nods, oddly reassured by the report. Last time this happened, she was even farther removed from the city proper than she is now — and, perhaps, more solidly protected. All she could do was let her imagination run riot with what might be happening further afield. Now that it isn't so far afield as it could be, there's some comfort in hearing that most of the mayhem Sweeney's come across is... well, forgive her for thinking so, but a bit ordinary. The criminally inclined, it seems, have less vivid imaginations than she does.

Which won't save any shopkeeper's windows, of course. You don't need to be creative to do inexcusable things to people. The city will be a mess in the morning. But at least it feels a bit safer to believe that it'll still be standing.

This also means that having Sweeney here feels a bit less like an indulgence she shouldn't encourage, as if he ought to be out in the thick of things in case he needs to defuse a bloody bomb or something. "Are you hungry?" she asks. "I could bring something out, if you like. Or you could come sit for a moment."

"Yeah, I'd come in for a touch," he says. "Spike's out prowlin' your property, so we've got that extra bit of protection for awhile 'til he gets bored and comes bangin' on the door, tellin' me to get my ass in gear."

He grins at Greta as he climbs the stairs, his beer still in hand.

"Kids're holdin' up okay? I know Saoirse was out there buildin' traps last time I ran into her."

"And if we hear a bunch of empty cans falling over, we'll know Spike's found one of them," Greta replies with a wry smile. She hadn't let the girl booby-trap too much of the yard, if only because so much of said yard is occupied by Aggie's animals, and the last thing she wants to deal with on top of everything else is a panicked horse. But she also hadn't wanted to forbid Saoirse from doing anything that might be helpful (or anything that might keep her busy while Greta herself was too distracted and worried to be as reassuring as she might have liked). The few things the lass has set up won't harm so much as startle and perhaps embarrass. Any friends, she imagines, will forgive the indignity; any enemies deserve no less.

"But they're all right," she says as she ushers him indoors. "Regan is keeping an eye on her camera array, and Saoirse's entertaining herself as best she can." Greta's ready to step in on that front if she needs to; there are worse ways to while away the hours than letting Saoirse attempt some very ambitious nail art on her.

"Hate that this government pulls shit like this," he admits. Sweeney is a god of violence and war and blood and luck. But he's a god, eternal, immortal, and Regan and Saoirse are just kids. They shouldn't have to deal with it, they should be allowed to be just kids.

He doesn't say shit like that to anyone, really, outside of Spike and Greta. He's lost a lot of people over his years here in Darrow and he knows he'll keep losing them, until he's the one being lost. But Greta knows him better than most, better than almost anyone. She won't be surprised he cares that much about the kids.

Sweeney is, perhaps, uniquely well-suited to surviving a night like this one — between what he knows of battle and his uncanny luck, she has the luxury of not needing to worry about him. But surviving it and enjoying it are two very different things. Part of her wonders if the violence lands near enough to war to sustain him, but it feels in poor taste to ask. Better to simply appreciate his willingness to voice his disgust with it all to her in the first place, which she recognizes as an opinion he might not air to just anyone. She reaches over to give his hand a brief, appreciative squeeze before leading him into the kitchen.

"It does seem to go against the purpose of having a so-called democracy in the first place," she replies drily, fetching down one of her larger soup bowls for him. "Normally it takes a monarchy to subject so many people to such a stupid bloody idea."

Perhaps she's giving the general population too much credit. There was no vote on the Purge that she was aware of (and she is fairly diligent about these things), but even if there had been, the locals might have collectively and inexplicably gone for the daft option, anyway.

"Though even a King usually has the sense to set his people against a neighboring Kingdom, not their neighbors on the street," she adds, nodding him towards a seat at the table as she fetches a spoon.