2020-01-26 - B*8nli

Just shy of a week ago, Anne was released from the hospital into the keeping of Patrick Addington. The details of getting her situated in the apartment are best left glossy, since it was not likely to have been the prettiest arrival - with words like "and whose fault is that" thrown around to counter words like "this is difficult and painful" - but at least he made some sort of effort. Some food waited in the kitchen, and Patrick even signed up for DoorDash so people will bring food (He's not comfortable with this idea of random strangers knowing all his eating habits, but see what he does to make things easy for Anne while she recuperates?), and he doesn't even seem to require that Anne live in the guest room. Like, it's totally guest-ready, but he installs Anne in the master bedroom.

That was like six days ago. The intervening six days have been a mix of attentive Patrick who seems to genuinely want Anne to get better, and irritated Patrick who seems to want her to suffer for her sins. The Patrick that came home from work twenty minutes ago seems to be fence-sitter Patrick, who changes clothes and then tosses take-out menus at Anne. "Pick something. I will go and get it." See above re: still not 100% on-board with these delivery services.

'This is difficult and painful' could sum up many a thing: Anne's current existence. The installation into Patrick's house like she's a temporary fixture rather than a person. Their relationship. But at least he was attentive on the good days and there was DoorDash and Netflix on the ones where he wanted her to suffer. So in the past six days, 'this is difficult and painful' became 'this is challenging but maybe worth the effort' - at least for some things. Definitely not for her foot, which before anybody asks, still hurts. But she's learning to take the highs and the lows and the 'I might kill you if you keep it up' rock bottoms, and she was appreciative of his attentiveness and stubborn to his irritation, and they've made the past six days work. Mostly.

She's at least respectful of his space, but the hiatus from working has left her restless. There's only so many episodes of trash TV to watch and only so many Kindle novels to blow through, after all. So today in particular, Anne's gotten work delivered to her via courier - a small, inconspicuous box of paperwork that fits right there next to the sofa that she's parked on, a scattering of labels and file folders all neatly stacked. She even has an adorable little label maker! Which is going to come in handy when she gets a lapful of take-out menus from Patrick, and her brain starts spinning about how to best organize them. "Hmm," alphabetically? No. By food type and then alphabetically? Distance from the apartment?! She's flipping through the menus, but it's more to organize them in various fashions, rather than really pick what she wants to eat. "What're you in the mood for?"

In his defense, it's not like Patrick himself doesn't have a sort of temporary-fixture quality about his stay in this apartment. Actually. On second thought. Don't dwell on that. That's probably a bigger argument than Anne being a temporary fixture.

But she's asked a question and, now that he's done his Mister Rogers switch from work-clothes to not-work-clothes (it's the difference between slacks and khakis, basically), he leans over the back of the couch, looking at the menus that she's organizing rather than perusing. There's a long, thoughtful pause, like he's really giving this a hard think. Then, "A martini." Has Anne been on painkillers this whole time, or are they just drinking like fish up in here?

Yes, that roll was absolutely slanted for me to win but the point is, Anne notices Patrick's own temporary-ish-ness. Whether or not she's dwelling on it is anybody's guess but we all know that she is and that it's going to be an issue later.

But right now, the issue to dwell on is dinner. Or, rather, the organization of the dinner menus. She's opted to organize based on food type and then alphabetically, because distance wouldn't be an issue if he just used a goddamn delivery service. That done, she tips her head back as he leans over the couch, staring up at him with a sort of lazy smile that evaporates the second 'a martini' comes out of his mouth. "I'm surprised you haven't wasted away into nothing," she rolls her eyes, sits back up, and puts the now neatly organized menus into one of the file folders she's had delivered from work. Misappropriation of supplies at it's finest! "But I don't like martinis. It seems like more of a whiskey-and-pizza kind of night?" Yes, she's prescribed painkillers. Yes, she's chosen to self medicate with booze. It's just a thing you do.

She reaches for the label maker, putting fingers to the keys to type out: TAKE OUT MENUS. "You should get some pictures for your walls," she notes idly, 'cuz in spite of the mention above about how that would be an argument for later, well..

The flow of normal conversation would require that Patrick ask how Anne got this stuff here, and they would have a mundane chat about it, but that's the kind of thing better left off-camera. For now, it's enough that Patrick briefly takes note of all this stuff she had delivered, gives it a bemused frown, then accepts its presence without further questioning. "That's because you're a heathen," he says of the martinis, messing up her whole label by jabbing H-E-A into the machine before Anne's able to stop him. He straightens from the back of the couch, heading off at the mention of whiskey-and-pizza to note, "Sounds very healthy." Leaving her to manage the food (pizza delivery is an acceptable subset of food delivery, so no grousing), he's off to pour drinks.

"Of what?" For the walls. Honest question, he truly seems to have no idea what ought to go on apartment walls other than paint.

"Actually it's because I have taste - hey! No touching the label maker!" Anne frantically bats his hand away with a stern frown back up to him, giving him side-eye as she holds the label maker protectively to her chest. "There are few things I hold sacred in this world, Patrck. The label maker is one of them," she warns him, then sets it back down in her lap. She should probably scrap this label and start again, but instead she just prints it out and applies it to the file folder with the menus. The 'TAKE OUTHEA MENUS' folder is tossed onto the table before she reaches for her phone to work on ordering the pizza through an app or whatever.

And while she does that, she looks over her shoulder to watch him back in the kitchen, lifting a brow. "I don't know. Like, a couple of paintings, or pictures you took that you like? Something that makes it look like you actually live here, and aren't just.. taking up space temporarily," she frowns at that last part.

Patrick is this close to credibly pretending not to have noticed Anne's little frown, distracted by pouring out whiskey - honestly, he's not just making them shots, he's making proper drinks in here - when he answers back, "You realize that's what I do at work all day, of course." Like that's the WHOLE AND ONLY REASON the apartment still looks like it's been intentionally de-personalized. "We don't all like having our work come home with us." While she's over there having fun with label-makers, nerdy nerd nerd.

"Besides, I'm rather fond of the," he lifts a glance around the room, lands it briefly on Anne and her stupid little frown, and then he's back to paying attention to the drinks, "clean aesthetic. How do you feel about absinthe?" He probably should have asked before he was 90% done in here, but at least he gets around to it before delivering a super-potent cocktail until invalid Anne!

"I was getting restless, and if I don't bring it home with me, it's just going to build up and overtake my entire office," Anne defends her little box and file folders and label-maker, which she pat-pats adoringly. It's okay, label maker. He doesn't mean it. But the stupid little frown on her pretty little face maintains, dragging a touch deeper at his excuses. "And I'm not suggesting you turn this place into a museum, Patrick. It's.." She holds onto the thought for a moment as she watches him talk of clean aesthetics and absinthe, and to go along with her deepening frown now is a touch of sadness and irritation in the gleam of her blue eyes.

"It's like you could up and leave to go back to Chicago tomorrow and no one would know that you even lived here. Or that you left at all," the words comes out in a quick tumble and it's clear that she's frustrated by them, which is why the follow up is a stiff shake of her head as she turns to fuss with her things. "Never mind. What's this about absinthe?" It was the safer conversation. "Isn't that the stuff in the movies that's sprinkled with cocaine and makes you see fairies?"

Oh yay! This old axe is back for grinding. "Ah, well. Seeing as no one seemed to notice that I left at all the last time," and by 'no one' he means Anne specifically, just going by that previous composure vs alertness check, "it seems prudent to prepare for that eventuality. History somethings itself?"

Patrick recoils when she starts talking about cocaine and fairies, blinking at Anne dubiously. "Perhaps in nineteenth century Paris, but in twenty-first century Washington state? It's just licorice-flavored liqueur." Why is he always making some sort of whiskey-cocktail when they wind up arguing about old issues? You know what...

"Why am I always making some sort of whiskey-cocktail when we wind up arguing about old issues?" He shrugs, mystified.

Anne does a bit of recoiling, too, along with a whole bunch of uncomfortable shifting. "That's not fair. It's not like I didn't notice," and it was obvious that the accusation hurt. She keeps her eyes averted now, back to the clean walls and the de-personalized house, her movements stiff as she puts her label maker in the box along with her excess filing folders. "And we're not arguing," she says a little tersely. "But you can always make an absinthe-cocktail instead if it'll break up the pattern."

With a lean, she shoves the box out of the way, turning afterward to stare back at him. Her jaw's tense, her shoulder's squared; she's absolutely primed for a fight. But she's not yelling at him. Yet. "You know, it's really hard to believe that you mean it when you say you're staying this time when you're telling me you're preparing for eventualities and get mad at me for doing the same."

"Is it not?" Fair, he means. "That must be frustrating." Check it out, during all this, Patrick has managed to create some quite good cocktails. He brings one to Anne, explaining while he holds the thing down to her, "It's called Sazerac. If you don't like black licorice, then I'll pour you a lovely glass of water instead." Because this is whiskey and absinthe and cognac and star anise (and it honestly sounds dis-fucking-gusting but he probably likes it a lot).

Since he's come all the way over here to bring her a drink, he may as well linger to tip a finger under her chin, settling very serious gray eyes on unfairly blue ones. "I'm not hanging pictures on the walls of this apartment just so you believe me when I say that I don't have one foot out the door. You can either take my word for it, or you can keep worrying about it. I know which way I'd lean." Assuming she doesn't throw that drink in his face, he will at least lean down and kiss her.

'Cause he likes her. Even if he's terrible at it.

"No, it isn't," fair, she means. "And yes, it really is," frustrating, she means. "You're not the only one with letters that didn't get sent and things that should've been said but weren't and--" she trails off from the rambling not because he puts a drink in her hand, but because he lays a finger under her chin and turns her eyes up to his own. There were a lot of things that weren't fair, and this was definitely one of those things - that he could stop her thoughts in their tracks with one look, that she could still get lost in his eyes even when she was so very mad at him. "It's not about the pictures on the wall.." she starts, and then fails again.

Because maybe she doesn't know what it is all about. But she knows she likes him and she knows she likes this, the weight of his lips against her own. The sigh that follows might seem just a little huffy, but only because of the way he makes her feel so mixed up - like at this moment, where she wants to yell but she wants to be with him more, which is why she leans up into him and winds her arm around him, to keep him right here for at least a little while.

Patrick settles as comfortably as Anne's stupid injuries, the sofa, and two cocktails allow. Oh, and apparently he's sat on the label-maker, which now prints out a nice label that says 'B*8nli' - and don't try to figure out if that MEANS ANYTHING because it doesn't, that's just random keyboard-mashing. He peels both the label and the maker out from under him, puts them gently down on the coffee table so Anne doesn't have to lose her mind about the label-maker again, and is now finally able to enjoy sitting down. And gasping as if stunned by her unfinished thought. "It's not?!"

But seriously, he taps the end of her chin just once before releasing it, brushing a follow-up kiss to the corner of her mouth. "It is for me. I don't feel like hanging up pictures, so I'm not going to do it. As difficult as I know this will be for you," with another very serious look at her. "Don't read into it."

There would be sooooo much side-eyeing and rabbling about his carelessness around her label making if it weren't for the fact that Anne was fully appreciating the kiss in the moment. Thus, by the time the kiss is over, and the label maker is over there safe and sound, and she's over here still feeling the warmth of his breath, she didn't have the fight in her to snip at him for almost breaking her previous. She does have the fight left in her to roll her eyes at his gasping though. "I don't read into anything," she mumbles in defense of herself, and then proves the opposite by leaning forward to snag the label he made with his ass and eye it critically.

"But," she holds up a finger to stall his argument, then peels off the paper on the back of the label to expose the sticky stuff. "If I was reading into things - which I'm not, but if I was," her unfairly blue eyes turn back up to his gray ones, looking rather serious herself in the moment. "It would mean a lot. That you're willing to give me your word on this." And then she sticks the label on the chest of his shirt, pat-patting it into place and thus labeling him 'B*8nli'.

Eye-rolling is all the rage. Patrick jumps on the band-wagon, pitching his comment into his drink; "You read in to everything." He's pretty sure she's reading into the fact that he needs a big drink after that, and that he has to go chasing the little scrap of paper off the back of the sticky stuff so it doesn't get lost in the sofa-cushions, stuffing it in his pocket to be disposed of later.

And he's POSITIVE she's reading in to his answering, "On what? This new brand? Because..." He trails off, teetering a palm uncertainly while he looks between his B*8nli sticker and the oft-mentioned blue eyes. "Honestly? I'm quite set on P.T. Addington. It will be very hard to change." <-- And that, she'll read into that, for suresies.

"I do not," Anne stubbornly defends, frowning around the rim of her cup as she takes a big drink of her own. It makes her wince, the taste of it - not in a 'omg this is disgusting' sort of way, but in an 'omg this is really strong and maybe I shouldn't have had such a big first gulp' sort of way, and there's a bit of coughing as he goes chasing after loose paper and leaves her rolling her watery eyes. "Name the last thing I read into. And you can't mention the pictures on the walls because that doesn't count, I have a very good reason for feeling the way I do about that."

Those oft-mentioned blue eyes trip down to his new label and then back up, and while she's on about not reading into things, she proves him wrong with a wrinkle of her nose. "Well, good, because I don't want to change you," she snaps. The next words are softer at least, quietly spoken: "I'm quite set on P.T. Addington, too."

"God, no." Patrick's not going to name the last thing she read into. "The whole point is that I wish you would take things at face value now and then, instead of pawing through the subtext all the time. Why would I rehash an argument that only existed in your head." He sniffs distastefully at this notion, and - while she's cringing at the strength of the drink - takes a sip of his own, to chase away the unpleasant savor of arguments past. The tail-end of that sip ends with a pull at the corner of his mouth, an honest-to-god smile, though it only lasts till he's putting the drink aside.

"It's hard to quip cleverly when you're being sincere." Kissing, then. That will have to fill the time for a bit.

"Okay, so for one? I don't have arguments that exist only in my head," Anne is all about proving Patrick right today for some reason. Blame it on the alcohol. Which she takes another sip of - it's actually good, all things considered, and it doesn't even have cocaine in it! - before she stretches to set her cup down to free up her hands. This will be important later. "And I take a lot of things at face value, I just.." rabble rabble, she was about to launch into a whole thing and then he has to go and do that. He has to go and give her an honest-to-god smile.

Damn him all to hell.

"Well one of us has to be sincere every once in awhile or we're just going to keep going aroun - oh," Kissing then. That would have to fill the time for a bit. She breathes that last sound into his lips before she wraps her arms around his neck (thus the importance for the free hands!). She'd climb into his lap, but this boot makes this exceptionally difficult - thus, she's gonna tug him down into her, so it's a good thing he put his drink away too.

Patrick spent hard-earned XP on that cocktails skill, that shit better occasionally be deemed 'actually good.' Bonus fact: this drink isn't served on the rocks, so it's not just sitting there, becoming an undrinkably watered down mess while he's busy being sincere at Anne in his own way. It would have been a very detailed example of his sincerity, too, despite the boot, since he's doing a fine job of peeling her clothes off but you know what everyone in this scene forgot?

There's a pizza on the way. So it's time for a knock on the door and DO YOU SEE WHY PATRICK DOESN'T LIKE DELIVERY SERVICES?! DOES IT START TO MAKE A LITTLE MORE SENSE NOW?!

Anne doesn't bother putting her clothes back on when the pizza guy comes, if only 'cuz she's gonna eat pepperoni off of Patrick's pepperoni in a sec here.