[If only he could text the laugh he makes - she makes him smile, their fucked up humor still something to have in common and something to look forward to. He'll head right out to the cabin with pie - and he means pie too. He has half a pumpkin pie in one hand and three quarters of meringue in the other; bag over his shoulder with some beer, smokes and a fat ass joint. She thought he was flirting before? Just wait.]
(And alternatively Ptolemais is glad she can't appear nervous over text, can take her time to answer him and be funny doing it, even flirt a little. It's easier, that's all. It's cold coming in from the lake and the cabin hasn't been heated — she's working on a fire when the verbal knock comes, shuts the little grate to encourage the embers.)
Hi. Holy shit— (The food, the double pie situation?? She takes one for him to free up his hand.) Where did this come from?
Mm, I crashed the Thanksgiving at the tail end - people were boozy and there were lots of leftovers.
[Finch is predictable about food - he grew up without a lot of processed goods, without a lot of food in general, and then spent a long amount of time in jamjars with equally 0 amounts of take out. So yeah, he sees some free pie? The instinct, the gremlin one in him, is to take what he can. Fill his pockets and run. But of course, the instinct to give first dibs to his loved ones trumps that every time, so.]
And on that note, I brought beer too. I accept thanks in verbal adoration and pictographs.
Nice. (Ptolemais was lucky enough to grow up with food always being on the table, easily obtained and never worried over — but now, having been stuck in a transition from the simplicity of childhood to the adulthood of sometimes needing to eat lentils for a week just to make rent? It's nice to get free pie and beer.
There's a plush little table set up by the fireplace that she slides the pie onto, dropping back to her knees to check the fire, add a log.
Soon, it'll be downright cozy.)
You're the best. (While she's jabbing the log with the stoker to make it fit. Good enough? And, as she drags the guard back into place,) Pictographs?
Yeah, feel free to wow me with you stick figure drawing skills.
[He says with a shrug, coming toward the table to start pulling beer cans and bottles out of his satchel like clowns out of a clowncar. He then sits himself down, bag dropped to the ground next to his seat.]
(She sputters, grinning despite her best effort to remain stone-faced.) You're assuming a lot about my drawing skills, dude. (Stick figures... Fucking rude.)
I can draw — maybe not a mean tulip but a passable one.
(Reaching over to take a can, she gestures with her other arm out at the — everything. Wood paneling. Open fireplace. Bougie couches and footstools, armchairs and cushions.) Like my hideout?
(It's not hers, but she's never seen anybody else in here.)
"Shipping" people. Like, fangirling it. It's kind of nice? I've never been in a long term relationship back home, but with him it's... open and easy? He's always supportive like that.
Yeah, (she's sitting up saying it, gesturing at him,) That's exactly what he said. (That he 'shipped it', and she fobbed him off immediately — but she's not going to tell Finch that after he went a little gooey talking about how nice Iggy is.)
[He squints a bit, like he's - wincing a bit at it.]
You know how we were all kind of plucked here? That's not my first time being yanked around like that, I landed somewhere else for a year between home and here. I met him there, initially. But when I came here he didn't remember me? But we still ended up kind of hooked up and... so it's been a while and then... not.
Peony's told me something similar. (And as casually as Finch did, like dimension-hopping is normal and the thought of it doesn't give her the fucking skitters like it does to Ptolemais.)
... Yeah. I thought for a while I should avoid him, too? 'Cause I didn't want to ever feel like I was forcing him into a role that happened naturally once, but y'know... might not be meant to happen twice. I even got advised to stay away. But uh, yeah. Didn't happen.
(To everything. It would have been difficult to try and initiate that again. It would have been difficult, for somebody like Finch, to pretend it never happened. Hmm.
She looks at him again over the lip of her can, and isn't exactly smiling when she says it.)
No. So you're experiencing my natural charm for the first time, lucky you.
[He knows better than to even think it'd be useful to have that roadmap if it were the case - there's too much baggage to knowing and not knowing people to want to wish that into existence. He's quiet for a beat, then:]
... An' I like getting to know you for the first time.
(She watches him for a moment longer before relaxing slowly back into the arm of the couch, satisfied with the answer. Yeah she doesn't understand any of the dimension hopping but she does know he wouldn't lie to her about something this serious.) Lucky me.
(And so she'll drink to that.
... And extend a leg outward, nudging her sock foot into his shoulder.) Any reason you're sitting on the ground like a loner and not joining me up here?
[Said with a verbal roll of his eyes and a smirk, and after he's been nudged he moves - like he remembers his limbs, remembers the space he occupies. He looks at her and then decides to take her up on this unspoken offer, hauling himself next to her. It's close but not too close, and his eyes skirt over her face - lingering.]
(But she pulls back and edits her spot, moving to make room for him to sit close if he wants — which he does, to an extent. There's that raspy, warm tobacco smell, old iron hiding underneath; smoke and blood, the scent that clings to him. Ptolemais relaxes. Slowly, testing waters, she extends her leg back out across his lap.)
You don't celebrate Thanksgiving? (He crashed the party for the pie and left.)
[He seems to relax a little bit more when she shows comfort around him, leg across him - his hand resting against her shin. He snorts a bit, then shakes his head.]
Not really - we, my family, we had our own weird holidays so I get the gist of it. But I didn't grow up with it and I didn't know half the people there so... I got the good stuff an' ran. Best way to deal with holidays in my opinion, eh?
(She likes that, the weight of his arm on her shin. It's grounding.)
I mean — I dunno. I haven't been home for the holidays in a couple years. And it doesn't even feel like the holidays anyway... the seasons are backwards. It should be getting hot.
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Go to the cabin? I'll meet you there
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this time I have a full pack of smokes, too
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Knock knock.
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Hi. Holy shit— (The food, the double pie situation?? She takes one for him to free up his hand.) Where did this come from?
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[Finch is predictable about food - he grew up without a lot of processed goods, without a lot of food in general, and then spent a long amount of time in jamjars with equally 0 amounts of take out. So yeah, he sees some free pie? The instinct, the gremlin one in him, is to take what he can. Fill his pockets and run. But of course, the instinct to give first dibs to his loved ones trumps that every time, so.]
And on that note, I brought beer too. I accept thanks in verbal adoration and pictographs.
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There's a plush little table set up by the fireplace that she slides the pie onto, dropping back to her knees to check the fire, add a log.
Soon, it'll be downright cozy.)
You're the best. (While she's jabbing the log with the stoker to make it fit. Good enough? And, as she drags the guard back into place,) Pictographs?
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[He says with a shrug, coming toward the table to start pulling beer cans and bottles out of his satchel like clowns out of a clowncar. He then sits himself down, bag dropped to the ground next to his seat.]
I bet you can draw a mean tulip.
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I can draw — maybe not a mean tulip but a passable one.
(Reaching over to take a can, she gestures with her other arm out at the — everything. Wood paneling. Open fireplace. Bougie couches and footstools, armchairs and cushions.) Like my hideout?
(It's not hers, but she's never seen anybody else in here.)
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Fancy digs. Chez Ptolemais, I like it.
[Beats the back seat of a car, any day.]
I've just been sort of haunting Iggy's room. Maybe I should get one of my own, make my own hideout.
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Yeah.
(Actually—)
Did you tell Iggy about us? (Her tone is so, so casual but she's watching him for his reaction closely,) Or is he that observant?
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[Finch's expression is caught between two different ones, ending up wryly amused.]
He's just really, really perceptive sometimes. A lot of the time. It's just not always what most people'd notice or care about themselves...
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He was really excited about it...?
(You know, in that Iggy way of his.)
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[Snapping his finger, and after a beat:]
"Shipping" people. Like, fangirling it. It's kind of nice? I've never been in a long term relationship back home, but with him it's... open and easy? He's always supportive like that.
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How long have you guys been together?
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[He squints a bit, like he's - wincing a bit at it.]
You know how we were all kind of plucked here? That's not my first time being yanked around like that, I landed somewhere else for a year between home and here. I met him there, initially. But when I came here he didn't remember me? But we still ended up kind of hooked up and... so it's been a while and then... not.
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So — you had to 50 First Dates him?
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[And better for it, honestly.]
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(To everything. It would have been difficult to try and initiate that again. It would have been difficult, for somebody like Finch, to pretend it never happened. Hmm.
She looks at him again over the lip of her can, and isn't exactly smiling when she says it.)
You didn't know me before I got here, right?
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No. So you're experiencing my natural charm for the first time, lucky you.
[He knows better than to even think it'd be useful to have that roadmap if it were the case - there's too much baggage to knowing and not knowing people to want to wish that into existence. He's quiet for a beat, then:]
... An' I like getting to know you for the first time.
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(And so she'll drink to that.
... And extend a leg outward, nudging her sock foot into his shoulder.) Any reason you're sitting on the ground like a loner and not joining me up here?
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[Said with a verbal roll of his eyes and a smirk, and after he's been nudged he moves - like he remembers his limbs, remembers the space he occupies. He looks at her and then decides to take her up on this unspoken offer, hauling himself next to her. It's close but not too close, and his eyes skirt over her face - lingering.]
But since you offered.
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(But she pulls back and edits her spot, moving to make room for him to sit close if he wants — which he does, to an extent. There's that raspy, warm tobacco smell, old iron hiding underneath; smoke and blood, the scent that clings to him. Ptolemais relaxes. Slowly, testing waters, she extends her leg back out across his lap.)
You don't celebrate Thanksgiving? (He crashed the party for the pie and left.)
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Not really - we, my family, we had our own weird holidays so I get the gist of it. But I didn't grow up with it and I didn't know half the people there so... I got the good stuff an' ran. Best way to deal with holidays in my opinion, eh?
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(She likes that, the weight of his arm on her shin. It's grounding.)
I mean — I dunno. I haven't been home for the holidays in a couple years. And it doesn't even feel like the holidays anyway... the seasons are backwards. It should be getting hot.
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