andhiswife | I have no fear, nor no one should

Well, this ought to be interesting.

Biffy has been in the back of her mind since her arrival. More specifically, the acute awareness of just how patient, helpful, and kind he'd been with her when she'd first arrived, even in the face of her decidedly unpleasant disposition, has been a frequent companion. Not that she's been wallowing in self-recrimination or anything so dramatic as that. She thinks she handled herself about as well as could be expected, given the circumstances.

But then, she'd had to handle herself. Biffy was under no such obligation. He'd put up with her, anyway.

So, she's been thinking of making some sort of gesture, part thanks and part apology. The upcoming holiday seems as good an excuse as any to actually move forward with it. Her oven is less a mystery these days, and she's managed to churn out a respectable selection of biscuits and pastries. There's no such thing as 'out of season' here, and it feels wildly incongruous to have apple turnovers and cherry tarts side by side, but so much the better, she thinks. It is a treat to be able to put all of her most notable seasonal creations in one basket.

No chocolate, though. She's done some reading on the subject and discovered it's highly poisonous to dogs, and, well. Best not to risk it.

They'd arranged for her to come round his farmhouse by way of a somewhat awkward phone call (he'd been nothing but courteous; she was the one intensely flustered by the whole process of talking to a disembodied voice coming out of a little might-as-well-be-magical box). She'd made no mention of the sweets, wanting them to be a surprise.

It's a rather long walk, but since it's all through the countryside, she hardly minds. Besides, she's used to traveling on foot. She's worked up a bit of a flush by the time she reaches Biffy's farmhouse, but it's probably just as well. Better to pin it on exertion than a sort of pervasive, underlying sheepishness. 'Sheepish' is probably the last thing she ought to be, considering who she's visiting.

And with a basket of sweets on her arm, no less. At least she's not wearing any red.

She double-checks the contents of her basket to make sure nothing's been squashed or crumbled in transit, but she packed it well, and everything looks as beautiful as it did coming out of the oven. A little steam even rises into the chill winter air. Satisfied, she covers them back up, straightens her back, and knocks.

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He could smell Mrs. Baker and her sweets clean through the door and Biffy had to suppress a delighted lick of the lips before he opened the door. "Mrs. Baker, how wonderful to see you," he said with a bright, genuine smile. Holding on to all possible dignity, he did his best to pretend there wasn't a cat under his arm, straining to get free.

"I'm glad you made it without any trouble. Do come in." The living room table was ready with plates and a full kettle of hot water, needing only to be joined by her treats. "I haven't brewed the tea yet. I was thinking you might enjoy choosing the blend."

The cat gives her pause; she definitely wasn't expecting him to greet her with a squirming animal tucked under his arm. She glances past him to where she can just see the table settings, and she's certain she didn't mention she was bringing food, and then she looks at the cat again.

... No. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.

"No trouble at all," she says automatically as her feet carry her inside. Her smile is slightly strained with incredulity as she adds, "I didn't know you had a pet cat."

Please tell her it's a pet and not the main course.

Biffy caught that look on her face and chuckled. Once the door was closed, he set Pawvus down on the floor and he immediately went over to inspect Greta with nose and whiskers. "That's Pawvus. He shares a name, unfortunately, my former fiancé from whom, incidentally, I stole the cat."

He supposed he could change the cat's name but it seemed a little late for a creature who was not the cleverest. Not that he could fault the cat since he had so little sense that he refused to be afraid of Biffy, a rarity from most animals around his kind.

"But please, sit."

"Oh!" Greta's eyebrows shoot up, embarrassed relief quickly giving way to surprise at the unanticipated wealth of information. "I'm, er..." entirely uncertain of how to respond, actually. Perhaps she ought to apologize for the failed engagement, but he doesn't seem terribly bothered by it. Perhaps it wasn't recent, the wound already scarred over. The successful cat theft almost makes her wonder if he ought to be congratulated, instead.

She looks down at Pawvus for inspiration. The cat sniffs at her shoe, then all but somersaults onto her foot, rubbing his cheek against the suede while the rest of him flops on the floor. It's entirely ridiculous, and she can't help but sputter out a laugh.

"Well, at least you got a cat out of it," she ends up saying, though her smile is more apologetic than flippant. She doesn't want to start things out on a dour note and oh-poor-you him, but a broken engagement isn't a joke, no matter how lightly he speaks of it.

She's still a little taken aback by the table settings, though in retrospect, she shouldn't have expected anything less. It wouldn't have been very well-mannered to exchange a few pleasantries (and apologies) on the doorstep before scuttling off their separate ways. So she extracts her foot from beneath the cat and makes her way over, setting the basket down on an open stretch of tablecloth. "What sort of tea do you have on hand?" she asks, as if she entirely anticipated this little brunch they seem to be having.

"At least," he agreed. "It's...well. Complicated." That was the safest word, though there was no controlling the touch of melancholy in his expression. But, she was right. At least he'd gotten Pawvus out of the ordeal.

"Be glad he's not decided to welcome you with an offering of dead mouse. He means it as a compliment, really, but I daresay you'd rather tea instead."

After her inquiry as to his teas, Biffy went into the kitchen to retrieve a little spice rack that had been repurposed to hold canisters of loose leaf tea. "I've a friend, Amalthea, who lives her sometimes. You can thank her for the variety." His taste always erred towards the smokier black teas while she preferred floral and fruity blends. Even now with the closed tins he could perceive lavender, rose petals, and chamomile.

It would have to be, wouldn't it? He doesn't speak of it as if they were separated by the whims of the city, which would have been tragic, but straightforward. More to the point, though, it doesn't sound like something he wants to discuss. Which is probably just as well.

"... Ah," she says, looking down at the cat. He's moved to stand near the table, nose in the air as he investigates the scents coming from the basket, eyes slightly crossed. "Much as I would have appreciated the sentiment, it's probably for the best."

She lets out a pleased hum at all the tea on offer, examining the tins. "Oh, these are lovely." She selects a jasmine green, then nods at the basket. "It's a bit of a hodge-podge in there. I'm used to working with what's in season, but that's a moot point, here. You're getting the best of every season."

"He means well, for a cat," Biffy said. His expression was far more affectionate than his words as he gently nudged the cat away from the basket. It was with obvious reluctance that Pawvus scuttled away.

When she opened the tin of green tea, Biffy inhaled its scent from across the table, approving. It was a favorite compromise with Amalthea, floral enough for her sensibilities but bitter and herbaceous enough for his own. Lifting the lid of the teapot, he poured in the water and then gestured for her to add the tea. "Three spoonfuls should do nicely, I think."

Opening the basket, Biffy smiled at the array. Lady Maccon would have approved of such comestibles and he nodded in her stead. "These smell wonderful, truly. All of it."

Greta scoops the tea into the pot, biting back a grin at what a far cry this is from their last encounter. They've gone from a woodland slog to a domestic tea party, complete with charming table settings.

"Thank you," she says, blushing a little at the compliment. "It's nice to know I haven't lost my touch. The oven did take some getting used to, of course." She stops short of admitting that the one in her apartment, now that she understands it, has proven be a lot less temperamental than the one back home. Figuring out how to land on the right temperature was tricky, but once she did, she found that it maintains a steady heat beautifully, without her having to do a thing. She feels more than a bit spoiled by the convenience, as if it shouldn't be so easy.

"Anyway, it seemed the least I could do," she continues as she settles a tea cozy over the pot, so it won't lose heat while steeping. "You were so helpful when I first arrived." And she was... not as gracious as she could have been.

He could not guess the exact reason for her smile but Biffy was glad to see it, particularly after the display of so many emotions at their first meeting.

"I promise you that I'll be happy to help in any way I can. I may be a werewolf but I'm not a boor," he said, smiling a bit wryly. "Speaking of which, since we are in the midst of the holidays, I do have a little something for you!"

To explain his point, he retrieved a slim box from behind a cushion. Not a particularly stealthy hiding place but he hadn't exactly been planning to send her on a scavenger hunt.

"Wh--" she starts, completely thrown by the gift's emergence. But he's already done so much for her - gone above and beyond, really. That's why she came here, to make it up to him, not to--to bask in even more arguably unwarranted kindness. She unconsciously treats him to another rapid-fire emotional display: disbelief, dismay, exasperation, and acceptance chasing one another across her features until she eventually settles on begrudging pleasure.

"You really shouldn't have," she insists, even as she takes the box. It doesn't weigh much, which supports his claim that it's only 'a little something.' Well, it had better be; all she's done is bake for him, and she can just about do that in her sleep. She can't quite help an anticipatory smile as she opens it, though.

There's a note resting atop the folded fabric inside, and she tsks quietly once she's read it, sending a Biffy a look somewhere between 'thank you' and 'how dare you.' When she pulls out the shawl, though, her expression shifts to one of pure astonishment. Is this--goodness, it's silk. She's seen its like before, but never handled it so closely, never presumed to own anything so fine. She lets the fabric flow through her fingers, as soft as flour, then turns to stare at Biffy. "A little something?" she squawks.

It was a flipbook of a reaction and Biffy tried not to smile too much, because he wasn't by any means trying to embarrass the woman. "Just, it's the holidays, and you've been through rather a lot." And then he watched as Mrs. Baker's face went through quite a lot more emotions and he wondered if he'd overstepped his bounds.

Slightly chastened but not at all embarrassed, he explained, "I work at a clothing store and I just can't help myself when I see something that will suit a friend." Truly, if she didn't like it, he could return it but he really had thought that the color suited her and that she deserved a little indulgence. To his mind, everyone did.

"Do you like it?"

Both of those things are undeniably true. She has been through rather a lot. By this point, she ought to be accustomed to going through rather a lot; it's all but been the default for the past month or so. But she's never been through something so difficult or rotten that treating herself to something like this was ever on the table. Even if she could have afforded something like this, buying it would have required more justification than 'I've had a rough go of it lately.'

... Or maybe it wouldn't have. It's hard to say what she might have treated herself to if money was no object, because money always had been.

It's a mild relief to hear he works at the shop this came from - if nothing else, he might have paid less than someone off the street. It still seems a rather kingly gift by her standards, though, and she shakes her head, slow and dazedly.

"Like it?" she echoes again, though a bit less shrilly this time around. "Biffy, it's beautiful." Too beautiful for the likes of her is the unspoken implication. "I--I never would have owned anything like this, back home." It might only be a shawl, but it's the sort of wrap someone would wear over a ballgown, not a simple woolen dress.

"But now you are in Darrow," Biffy said, pouring her a cup of tea and indicating the sugar and milk. Being ostentatious was not his goal but he wouldn't devalue her gift by telling her the relatively modest sum that he'd paid either. It was a nice gift that he hoped she would enjoy. "You can be whoever you want, including a woman who wears a silk shawl."

Ever the dandy, he lifted the scarf from its box and folded it into a triangle so that he could drape it becomingly over her shoulders and finish it off with an understated, but modern knot.

"Would you like to see how you look?"

His reasoning is rather enticing, but she's not sure she wholly agrees with it. She's still herself, no matter what world she's in. One of the potential pitfalls of getting settled here in Darrow is the possibility that she'll get too accustomed to a higher standard of living. Maybe there's nothing objectively wrong with living well, but returning home will be complicated enough without adding 'going soft' into the mix.

She doesn't want to miss this place.

But she doesn't object when he settles the shawl on her shoulders and secures it with a tidy knot, though her expression is more resigned than pleased. "... Yes," she admits, any exasperation directed entirely towards herself.

It would have been a fair point but Biffy had been a dandy and one in the retinue of a particularly decadent Romantic. Denying himself pleasure was not a particular skill of Lord Akeldama's and Biffy had been born into the gentry. He could, himself, admit that he was a bit spoiled and his perspective a bit skewed but it didn't seem fair for Greta to be alone and without some pleasures.

"Come here," he said, opening the door to the nearby half-bathroom and flicking on the lights so she could step in front of the mirror.

"What do you think?"

Greta follows him into the bathroom with the heavy-footed hesitation of someone heading to the gallows, though it's more for dramatic effect than because she actually dreads to see her own reflection. Or if she does dread it, it's because she suspects she'll like what she sees more than she has any right to. She's not the sort of woman who goes about wearing silk, whether she has actual silk on her person or not.

She steps in front of the mirror and takes herself in, her posture shifting unconsciously: spine straightening, shoulders back. Goodness. She could almost pass for a lady, if she wasn't still looking a bit windswept from her walk.

"You have an eye for color," she says, turning the compliment on him because she can't bring herself to preen outright. Still, it's close enough to an admission that it looks good on her, whether she has any business wearing such finery or not. "And knots," she adds, reaching up to touch the simple but elegant tie he whipped up. She turns to look at him properly, one eyebrow lifted slightly. "And I suppose it would be rude to refuse such a thoughtful gift."

Biffy smiled, just a little, not daring to let it go too wide when Greta was so cautious of enjoying it. He only let out a little sigh of relief when she obviously brightened, her happiness going from her face all the way down her spine and to the tips of her toes.

There was just something about putting a person in the right outfit that made them shine. That was one of the things he did enjoy about modern-day fashion. It was less to do with adhering to what came out in the fashion plates and more to do with what suited a person. A proper fit, the right color, just the right drape of something.

Greta looked happy and confident and Biffy couldn't have been more thrilled.

"It's a cravat knot for men, typically, but I think it offsets the scarf beautifully."

"Well, that would explain it," she says, smile widening. Then, after reaching out a little uncertainly to touch his arm, she adds, "Thank you."

It occurs to her that she's not entirely certain what he means by such a rich gift (is he really just being nice, with no ulterior motive?), and that they're standing rather close in a small space, and she prudently withdraws her hand and steps back out into the living room.

"Though it should probably go somewhere safe while we're eating," she says a little too quickly, reaching up to loosen the knot. "Knowing my luck, this would be the day I spill tea all over myself."

Biffy stepped back to allow Greta to exit, following shortly behind so that he could retrieve the thin, flat box that had held the scarf. "Keep it in here, then," he said. "You don't have to wear it at every moment but I'm glad you like it."

Sitting back down, he added more milk to his tea than was strictly proper but he couldn't help himself. These days, his wolfish palate just couldn't turn down a good bit of dairy.

She does watch him a bit carefully for a moment or two, considering whether there might be any link between the rich gift and the broken engagement, but it's not as if he does anything untoward (unless you count the amount of milk he's adding to his tea, which seems a bit much for a green). Greta settles into her chair with a mild mental admonishment; Biffy is kind and well-mannered, and despite the rather unsettling form he could assume, he's shown absolutely no interest in--in devouring her, in any sense of the word.

"Well," she says, looking through the basket's contents, "I think I'd start with this." She lifts out a cherry tart and sets it on his plate. Working with what's in season is what she's used to, and that makes cherries a more distant memory than apples. For her own part, she pulls out a blackberry turnover. "They didn't turn out quite as I expected," she admits. "I think it's to do with it not really being in season. I suppose they'd have to ship them quite a distance to get them from wherever they're growing to here. They're still good, though," she hastens to add, not wanting to give the impression that she's brought him anything sub-par.

"They all look wonderful," Biffy assured her. They smelled wonderful too, even to a human nose. To his, it was a delight of fruits, butter, and caramelized sugar, all the best things for someone who liked sweets.

"That is, I think, one of the stranger things to get used to." He gestured to the pastries. "Cherries in winter, fresh cucumbers all year round, and so on." It was, to him, rather marvelous if a bit wasted on someone whose main diet was raw meat. He could only imagine what a baker might do with all of that.

"My former fiancé was terribly fond of turnovers," Biffy admitted, unable to let go of that tiny bit of spite. "And I shan't give him a single one."

"It really is," Greta agrees, shaking her head. She's not sure that she'll get in the habit of baking as she did for this occasion; fresh fruit is still rather expensive compared to the preserves that she'd expect to be using this time of year.

She stiffens ever so slightly when he brings up his former fiancé again, already half-wondering why he might feel compelled to belabor the point (if there is any reason besides the freshness of the injury). It takes a moment for 'him' to sink in, and then she glances up sharply, wondering if she's misheard. But she couldn't have; it's not like 'him' and 'her' are easily confused. She casts a wide-eyed look down at her plate, as if an explanation might be written on the china. "Hi-..." she coughs quietly into her napkin. "Pardon me. Er. 'Him,' did you say?"

Is... is that a thing, here?

Biffy froze, the turnover halfway to his mouth.

"Him," he said. "Yes. Is that a problem for you?" He said it in his gentlest and most impeccably polite tone, which meant that he was guarding himself. For all of its many and varying forms of chaos, Darrow had provided an environment in which the ways he chose to love were seen as normal. He had a horrifying moment of self-loathing that he hadn't had since he was a teenager. It faded and was quickly replaced by a reminder that nothing was wrong with him but certainly someone else might think so.

"I prefer the company of men."

"Prob-...?" she starts, brow furrowing incredulously as she leans back in her chair. It's a startling revelation, to be sure. People don't speak so openly of such things back home (though it isn't entirely unheard of). But the suggestion that she might have a problem with it is bewildering, too - an odd choice of phrase that she hadn't anticipated. His tone is so careful, so polite, and there's no mistaking the implication that having a problem would be comparatively boorish and rude.

Maybe it wouldn't be, back in the Village. When people do speak of such things, it's in hushed tones, wide-eyed over the scandal of it all. But she's not in her Village, she's in Darrow. More to the point, she's in the home of someone who has been nothing but good to her. That hadn't stopped her from fretting over his proclivities, when she thought they might include 'having a little too much interest in her' or 'literally eating people,' but being wrong on both counts ought to be reassuring, not something to fuss over in turn.

If she did, she probably wouldn't be the first. He's gone still, as if bracing himself for a--a problem, and she feels a surge of guilt and disgust at the thought of providing such a thing. She came here to thank him, not make his life difficult.

"No," she says firmly, "it's not." Her voice comes out sounding too loud to her ears, and she softens her tone before adding, "Sorry, you just... startled me, that's all."

Well, this is unbearably awkward.

As sometimes happens under such circumstances - when she feels awkward and ridiculous and wishes she didn't - she begins to giggle quietly to herself. It's not without reason, either; it's an undeniable relief to realize just how wrong she was about his motivations, even if she does feel like a bit of an idiot in retrospect. "Sorry," she says again, burying her face in her hands, hiding her reddening cheeks, "I'm not--I'm not laughing at you, I promise, I just..." she trails off into another giggling spell. He's bound to see the humor, though, isn't he? "I was starting to get a bit worried," she admits, peeking through her fingers at him, then slowly dragging her hands down her face, "because you were being so nice, and I thought you might..." God, she can't even say it, it seems so absurd, now.

If he were a wolf, he thought his ears might have drooped in that moment of indecision. Then Greta took in a breath and declared that it was not a problem and Biffy allowed himself to feel relieved as well. He hated to cause fuss or trouble but he also had a low level of tolerance for cruel things being said about him in his own home. It was a great relief that those interests did not have to cross paths.

And then she turned red and began to giggle, explaining herself in half-words until Biffy was the one sitting there with his eyes wide. With his own lack of interest, it had never occurred to him that his gesture might be perceived as anything but friendly. If anything, he had expected by now for it to be rather obvious. He was hardly a pink or a poodle faker but Biffy had been assured that he dinged on the 'gaydar' of anyone blessed with a pulse. And many without.

He began to giggle too, unable to suppress his laughter into his own hand. "My goodness. Oh, Greta, I am so sorry. No, please..." Everything was so terribly awry that he had to laugh. Not at her but at the comedy of manners they had blundered into.

If she were to further her own defense, she might emphasize that it was an exceedingly rich gift by her standards - far beyond anything any friend has ever given her. And that's to say nothing of how... atypical... it is to hear of such men back home. But she's feeling too entirely silly for self-defense. It's all she can do to prop herself up with an elbow on the table (poor manners, but never mind that) as she continues to giggle helplessly.

"You must think me such a fool," she groans, turning her face into her hand in equal parts amusement and mortification. Despite everything, she can't say that the news is a complete and utter shock. In fact, it rather explains a few things. No wonder he looked so surprised by the misunderstanding. She's the one who had no idea what was going on.

It took far too many continued bursts of laughter before he could contain himself. Biffy shook her head and reached out to take her hand, squeezing it in an entirely friendly and platonic manner. "I assure you," he said, still choking down a few errants giggles, "I don't think you're foolish in the least."

It was only that he'd gotten used to being obviously and blatantly queer that he was caught off-guard. The times he had had to explain himself in Darrow were far outnumbered by the times he simply hadn't.

"And even if I were inclined toward women, I would never presume I was owed something just because I had given you a gift."

She returns the squeeze, grateful for the gesture now that it's so blessedly uncomplicated. His verbal reassurance is a little less convincing, if only because it's broken up by giggles. She still feels a bit foolish - not so much because she honestly thinks she should have guessed the truth before he told her, but because it has become so abundantly clear how different things are here. Biffy's openness about his preferences - and his clear, initial bewilderment over the misunderstanding - speak to a world in which such things are both common enough and obvious enough that most people don't need it spelled out for them.

"No, of course not," she says to the second bit. Granted, she's learned firsthand that one can be handsome, well-mannered, considerate, and charming, and still leave 'honorable' somewhere along the wayside. But she believes him. It doesn't seem like the sort of thing he'd go out of his way to emphasize if it wasn't true, given that he's already reassured her that her virtue is perfectly safe, regardless.

She pulls her hand back and recovers her fork. Her cheeks are still flushed, but at least she's regained control over herself. "It is a very nice gift," she says, making a pointed gesture with her fork. "If my husband were here, he'd be more than a little bit indignant." His absence still hurts, a persistent ache beneath her breast, but she can't help a wry smile at the thought of what his reaction to that shawl might be.

Biffy thought he could guess a little at the play of emotions on Mrs. Baker's face. It was not dissimilar to the mix of wry amusement and poorly-hidden longing that had often crossed Alexia's face when she allowed herself to think of Lord Maccon. She was not a gentle woman, was Lady Maccon, and so showing tenderness did not come easily to her but if one knew where to look...well.

He imagined it was a little bit the same with Greta.

"If he does he appear, I will be happy to assure him of my lack of intention," he promised, his own smile turning a little wistful. "I still have quite a few photos on my phone of Dorian and myself. I...haven't been able to make myself delete them, though perhaps I ought."

It's a gallant offer - and a rather hilarious mental image. Her poor husband would barely have time to stop huffing over what an inappropriately rich gift the shawl was, and then Biffy would toss out his personal preferences and really flummox him. She can see it so clearly.

But she probably shouldn't be entertaining daydreams of what it would be like if her family joined her here. It's a recipe for disappointment and sorrow if they don't - and guilt if they do, as if she might have wished them into Darrow. Part of her (a rather treacherous part) thinks it might not be so bad, that it would all be easier if they were together, no matter which world they were together in. But even if they both showed up tomorrow, that would just kick off a round of fretting over who might get sent back first. Darrow would hold the power to separate them - again. Better for her to just go home; that's much more straightforward.

Her smile fades into more of a sympathetic wince. "It would be hard, I suppose." The camera on her phone is such an astonishing novelty that her own gallery is currently full of random pictures of her own apartment. Most of them would, she suspects, be considered rubbish by anyone who values the artistry of photographs, but she's still stuck on the mere existence of them. It's incredible that she can call up a crystal clear image of her own kitchen counter, even if it is off-center.

She can imagine how much more valuable they would feel if they were of anything - or anyone - important.

"I never... well, we didn't have cameras, and even a little portrait would have been expensive. I don't have any likenesses." She twists her wedding ring thoughtfully, one of the few tangible reminders of her husband that she has. "I'm not sure if having one would make me feel better, or..." she trails off into a shrug. It might just as easily be worse, with even a perfect likeness being a poor substitute for the real thing.

"We photographed very well, he and I," Biffy said, clearly allowing vanity to rush forward and overtake sadness. He put on the appropriately silly and flirtatious look to complete the picture.

Nodding, he thought back to the cameras of his own time. Photography had made leaps and bounds by his own time. A Mr. Maddox had just made photography easier than ever in the 1870's but Biffy realized now that it was still an art barely out of the cradle compared to photography as it was now. "In my time, we had to use glass plates for every shot and we had to stand in front of the camera for what felt like a frightfully long time."

He smiled, recalling a photograph he'd seen in a book where a mother sat perfectly still, crisply captured, while the baby in her arms was little more than a blur.

Seeing the sadness in her face, Biffy reached out to take Greta's hand again. "There are many artists in this city. I know of one, Grantaire, who is more than a fair hand at painting and drawing. If you'd like."

Greta snorts inelegantly at the little pose he strikes. She can only imagine that Biffy would have characteristically good taste when it came to photography, as well. Of course they came out lovely. She almost asks if she can see one - if for no other reason than so she could recognize this former fiancé and avoid making a fool of herself twice - but she doesn't want to dredge up any sorrow-tainted memories. Besides, she already knows the fellow's name, which is probably enough.

His next offer is a kind one, and she immediately regrets the wince it provokes. It's just that she's finally emerging from the lonely gloom that's hung over her since her arrival. Thoughts of her family don't immediately send her into crying jags or bouts of desperate activity. Maybe it shouldn't be such a relief to be getting past it, but it is, and she can't imagine that sitting down with an artist and trying to describe her husband's face in painstaking detail would help on that front.

God, what if she couldn't even get it right? What if she's already forgetting little details that her eye would notice but her tongue couldn't define? If the best case scenario would see her with a picture that may or may not just make her feel terrible, anyway, the worst case scenario would have her feeling like a monster for failing to even get a picture worth keeping.

And she can't bear considering the same for her son. She's been away from him now for about as long as she'd had him in the first place. That first week or so, she'd hardly been able to take her eyes off him; he was so beautiful, so perfect, and she'd been determined to memorize every detail. But they grow so fast; he'd changed even over the little time she'd had him. How much of what she remembers is really him, and how much of it is the vague, chimerical idea of a baby that she'd spent years wishing for?

She gives Biffy's hand a grateful squeeze, but shakes her head. "Thank you, but no. I think... I think it would just make things harder."

And that's about all she trusts herself to say without ruining this lovely meal they're ostensibly having. She sits up straight, then takes a steadying sip of tea as she regains her bearings.

Ah. Biffy understood then that it was a bit of a misstep. Sometimes reminders were just more painful than healing. He knew, himself, how it could be. Weren't they just discussing his own mementos? He smiled apologetically and sat back.

"I understand how that might feel," he said. Then, very deliberately, he found a new subject. Greta had brought him a wonderful gift and they would not properly appreciate it while they steeped in sad memories like overbrewed tea. If they did that for too long, they were likely to become tannic and Biffy so hated the thought of having an unpleasant aftertaste.

"These days, I'm a bit ashamed to say that the majority of the photos I take are of the cat. I may be becoming one of those Cat Parents," he admitted, exaggerating the last two words with equal parts despair and humor. It wasn't even a fib; he and Pawvus had become oddly staunch companions in the last few months.

"But perhaps I ought to take a photograph of these wonderful pastries before we devour them."

The subject change is tidily done, and she's grateful for it. She can't help grinning at the thought of Biffy trying to get the cat to cooperate for a photo session. He seems so exacting, and Pawvus, sweet as he might be, strikes her as a bit of a duffer.

"That's still more impressive than my photo collection," she admits. "I think about half of them were by accident, and the rest are just of," she flaps a hand illustratively, "anything. It's so strange, being able to capture a perfect little piece of what you're seeing and then keep it."

Her eyes widen when he suggests taking a picture of her baking, and she lets out an involuntary little squawk of embarrassment. "Oh, that--it's just food," she protests, equal parts flattered and perplexed. It's not as if she went out of her way to make any of the pastries pretty or anything. They look well enough for what they are, but not anything to write home about - or immortalize on camera.

"So?" he said, smiling. "Half the paintings in famous museums are of plates of food." Perhaps it was an exaggeration as Biffy was not so well-traveled as he'd have liked but the last time he'd been in the National Gallery, he'd noticed more than a few still life paintings of food. Social media, too, was rife with images of delectable meals, or at least his Suddengram feed was.

Taking out his phone now, Biffy shrugged. "Why not take a photo of something enjoyed?" Despite Greta's protestations that what she'd made wasn't anything special, Biffy strongly disagreed and he made sure to turn the volume up so that she could hear the snap of the camera sound effect.

"I'm not much an artist anymore, but I think it makes for a wonderful picture." He turned the camera around so that she could see the photo he'd taken of his plate with the teacup next to it.

Greta shakes her head slowly, though she can't help but smile. She can't speak for painters, never having actually met one before, but if she had to guess, she'd say they pick food as a subject because it holds still and doesn't get bored or complain, not because it's inherently worthy of being gawked at decades later.

Granted, a nice, symmetrical loaf will sell quicker than a wonky one. She's always taken some measure of pride in her work, and she's been at it long enough that she doesn't often pull a hideous wreck out of the oven. But back home, food's primary value was in the nourishment it provided, not how it looked. Even a hideous wreck would eventually sell to someone hungry enough, provided it was just ugly and not inedible.

Well, two can play at this game. And it's about time she had a photo that actually means something to her (something besides 'goodness, photos are a thing,' anyway). Greta pulls out her own phone to take a picture of Biffy taking a picture. The sound is turned off, in her case. She hadn't wanted the device to interrupt their visit; the idea that she ought to be reachable when she's not even at home is still foreign to her. When Biffy turns his phone towards her, she returns the gesture with a pleased little smile.

"It did turn out nicely," she has to admit. It's a compliment to his photography skills more than her own baking. "And now I have a picture that isn't just of my counter-top or something." She tucks the phone back into her bag, feeling rather pleased with herself.

Biffy turned just in time to see her phone get put away and he gave her a broad smile. "Warn me next time," he said, tapping one of his cheekbones. "If you use the flash, my eyes reflect and ruin the photo." It wasn't always true, depending on the brightness and the angle, but they did seem to blaze back when photographed with a modern camera. He doubted that shot would be a problem, since he'd been looking elsewhere, but it might give her a fright one day.

"I ought to return the favor," he said, holding up his phone. "Then I can attach it to your number." Before she could stop him, Biffy quickly snapped a candid photo of Greta as she was in the moment, smiling and looking just a bit mischievous and pleased with herself.

The resulting photograph was suffused with the warmth of her expression and Biffy showed her again, quite pleased with himself.