2021-12-19 - Creaky Old Houses

(TXT to Della) Una : Home today, if u want 2 see house. 5 Oak. Can't miss it. U.

It's the weekend before Christmas and all through the house... actually, there may well be mice stirring: granny Irving was a packrat, and who knows what's going on beneath the layers of belongings that still need to be relocated, piece by piece. Una's made a pretty good start on a couple of the more vital rooms (the living room, the kitchen), but the house is a big one, and there's a lot to go. This morning, she's been tackling the big bookcases in what she's been calling the 'library', but now wanders out into the hallway, covered in dust, checking her phone.

This is right around the time that Jules slams through the door. She's been out on a run, taking advantage of the rare rain-free day in winter, and what she carries back with her into the house is more than a gust of cold air. "Seriously? You seriously fucking think that I want your damn Christmas present? You're unbelievable." Her headphones are in, and she's shouting into the cell phone she's holding up, hot from the run but apparently not so winded that she can't expel whole lungfuls of air.

(TXT to Una) Della : Hi, Una. Out getting coffee, I'll ping when I'm out front. Thanks!

Una was staring at her phone, entranced enough in whatever she's madly typing in to it that she doesn't look up at the sound of the door, but Jules' outburst causes her to stop what she's doing altogether. "Um," she begins, a tracking gaze sliding from the other woman's face to her phone and then, finally, to those headphones. It's only then that realisation seems to sink in, though her eyebrows remain raised. Her fingers are still on her phone, and probably not intentionally touching the keys.

(TXT to Della) Una : Great c u so

(TXT to Una) Della : 🙂

"Listen -- no, you listen to me. When I come home for Christmas, I do not want to you see you. Stay the fuck away from my grandparents' house and stay the fuck away from me." Jules slams the door shut behind her without really looking at it. Her gaze slides up, beyond the phone, and seeing Una standing there, she pauses in her tirade. It's likely long enough for the person on the other end to get an word in edgewise, but she's quick to cut it off, volume lowered by tone still tense and angry. "I have to go." With that, she ends the call and pulls her headphones out of her ears. "My ex called." No apology, just a blunt statement of the facts.

Una plants one dusty hand on her hip, but accepts Jules' explanation with nothing more than a nod. "He's a waste of space and you should block his number," is vehement in a way that is probably general rather than specific to Jules' ex in particular: Una regularly projects an air of being rather less than enamoured of men as a species. "There's someone dropping in to look at one of the other rooms," she adds. "Also-- I found some, um, artefacts, I guess? In the library. Carvings."

Somewhere out there, Della's sleek sedan's a time capsule in motion, not so much what's kicking around the car (though there are flowery, season-inappropriate grocery bags) as what isn't: the small imprint left on the driver's side shade where the garage's remote should have been. The navigation system describes which route to take, which isn't necessarily the best route, but should get her there one way or another. It's not like she was driving, last time she was around town.

"Yeah," Jules agrees, but the fight's gone out of her, exhausted from yelling into the phone. "He's probably going to show up on Christmas even though I told him not to." That's a worry for another day, though. "Oh yeah? Let me get a shower quick, and I'll get out of your way if you want while you meet them. Unless you want me there?"

Sympathetic, Una gives Jules a hesitant glance, but in the week or so they've known each other, she's not been inclined to push, and today is no different. "Well, you'd be living with them too," she points out. "So you're totally welcome to be here. Sweaty or not sweaty. But," a grin, then. "Up to you. It's a big house, so it's not like we all have to be best buddies." She glances at her phone, then tucks it into the pocket of her ancient jeans, their fraying edges patched with woven-through ribbon.

Across the way, the sedan's pulled into place, but its driver isn't going anywhere. Della doesn't even move to unbuckle, or to retrieve the warm handhold of coffee. She eyes the house, and the surrounding houses, which don't look much different than the photos but evidently warrant examination all the same. It's not too late. (But maybe it's too early?)

Jules manages a small, tired smile. "Sure, I'd like to meet them, but I don't wanna step on your toes or anything, since it's your house, your call. Let me get that shower -- I mean, for real, I don't want to put them off with my stink." She turns it into a joke, then adds more seriously, "And I could use five minutes to get my head on straight. I'll be quick and then come say hi." With that, she heads for her room, where she can dump her phone and shoes and grab a towel for the bathroom.

5 Oak is pretty standard for the homes on this street, if a little more neglected than most: it's not run down as such, but it could clearly do with some loving attention, particularly the garden. New since the photos is the old-but-functional bicycle chained up to the porch.

Una's smile for Jules is warmer, brighter, but she keeps her words short and simple; "Take your time. But definitely join us." Restless energy has her pulling her phone back out of her pocket the moment Jules is gone, glancing from it to the library door, now ajar, then back again. She puffs a breath out, then takes a reluctant step forward.

Nothing happens. Until something does, outside -- the clack, the tap, the close-not-slam -- and then inside, the phone.

(TXT to Una) Della : Here.

Not that she is, yet: dark hair, long camel-colored coat, tall oxblood boots. The bag matches. So does the manicure, fresh enough to have been from this morning, but with a chip in a forefinger anyhow.

And then: walking up the walk.

Jules' car - an old, ice-blue Toyota Camry from the '80s or early '90s, parked out front - probably doesn't add much to 05 Oak's curb appeal.
As for Jules, she heads straight for the bathroom with a change of clothes in hand.

The buzz of her phone interrupts whatever Una was intending to do. What she does do is shut the library door with rather more force than is likely necessary, shove her phone back into her pocket (no read receipt for Della!) and head for the door. She yanks it open, almost catapulting herself out of it in the process (it sticks sometimes, ok) - and grabs the doorjam to steady herself. "You must be Della!"

Behind Una, the library door slides open again.

Della has a smile, a nice-to-meet-you smile, but also one that suggests she'd have liked more coffee than the to-go mug in her hand. "Una. Nice to..." she glances around, though not as far as any (creepy) doors, "meet you. So glad you could be home this time of day, with everything."

Steam emanates from under the bathroom door. Old house, leaky doors.

Breezily: "Oh, I'm not working at the moment-- yet, I mean. So it's fine. Come on in. You clearly found us ok. I mean," Una's laugh is a little wry, "it's not like this town is really big enough to get lost in. So this is us. Like I said, I'm still trying to get it all cleared. My grandmother really liked collecting things." She steps back enough that it's possible for Della to step past her, gesticulating towards the entryway: wide and wood-floored, with doors leading off on both sides, and a staircase leading up. "Jules, my other roommate, is just upstairs showering."

Della laughs too, behind her mug, and her smile flashes brighter as she steps inside; from there she's clearly looking around, assessing, just as though Una had welcomed her into an upscale condo with the latest amenities. Her low heels don't slam the wood, but neither are whisper-quiet. She's here. Though, "How is the hot water?"

The water shuts off upstairs. Jules really is being quick about it, from the sounds of it.

Una shuts the front door behind them both, her smile slipping slightly as she spies the open-again library door. Pushing it back into place, she tells Della, "Well... it's an old house, I'm not going to lie: it's not unlimited. But I managed to take a bath ok, so it's not hopeless." The depth of said bath goes unspecified. "There's loads of space. Living room here to the left, and we're calling that the library on the right."

"Do we take turns?" Again, Della asks it as though it were an eminently normal and realistic thing to do. The living room gets its own glance, primarily for the quality of the light... and the library? She takes a breath - how does it smell? - before walking for the door and whatever adventures might lie beyond (within actual book pages or otherwise). "And about the wifi..." Really, she's apt to look all over the place, from kitchen to laundry to, oh yes, her room. A room. Her room?

A clatter on the staircase announces Jules' return. She's left her black hair loose as it dries and changed into a pair of black sweatpant bottoms and a thin, long-sleeved maroon tee. Socks, because there's no trusting the cleanliness of the floors when there's still so much clean-up to be done. She's left her gray hoodie unzipped as she comes down to meet Della. "Hi!"

The living room would probably be lovely and sunny on a nicer day-- and it has clearly seen a fair amount of de-cluttering, though the remaining furniture is worn. The library has earned its name well, with shelves and shelves of not just books, but also any number of other things, from carvings to shells and sculptures. It smells dusty and dry, the air almost artificially still: like a tomb, recently rediscovered.

"Well..." Una's frowning, now. "I think it's just being sensible, you know? Thoughtful. I don't think we need to be too, um, proscriptive? And there's a powder room down here, too, at lea-- oh, here's Jules. Jules, Della. Della, Jules."

Della's is blown out, but her smile ticks up a notch when she sees, "Jules." Maybe it's their color-coordination, with that tee and her leather. "Nice to meet you - of course, considerate is good." One thing not coordinated: there's no glimmer to her, unless... no, none of that. "Una's just showing me around," because of course she is, of course they are, and that library might be tempting but at the same time - she tugs at her collar, has another swallow of whatever elixir she's got in that mug. "You're new too?"

Jules has a smile for Della, too, but there's something thoughtful about it as she takes in the potential third roommate. They might match, but in color only; none of Jules' clothes look this sleek, this fashionable. This moneyed. "Yeah. I'm gonna start classes at Bayside in January. What about you, you already live here, or just moved?"

As the other two get acquainted, Una turns back to tug the library door closed again, and this time carefully tests the handle: secure. What she won't see as she turns back again, and what may be missed altogether, if Della is facing Jules, and if Jules isn't paying attention, is the shadow-- incorporeal and indistinct-- briefly visible, crossing from living room to library.

... and then the door is open. Again.

Classes have Della looking pleased, somehow; but, "Just moved. Mov-ing, really; I haven't been here since I was a kid. It was a spot of luck, seeing Una's ad," not that there mightn't have been other options, but here she is. She certainly doesn't remark on the shadow, not even a flicker of notice in those dark eyes. More coffee!

As Della responds, the flicker of motion catches Jules’ attention. Her gaze slips from Della to look past her, and her brown eyes go wide. It’s only for a moment, though, before she refocuses on the newcomer. She’ll sound a little distracted, but her response doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh yeah? Where are you moving from? What brings you here?” A glance towards Una — did she see? Jules tries to make eye contact with a little tip of her chin upward, indicating the library.

The library has been bothering Una all day, so maybe it's no surprise that Jules' chin tip immediately draws her attention, brown eyes following the line of her vision, her head turning, and... ah. Her gaze stays narrowed, and unlike Jules, she's not so good at covering it: "It's, um, good... that you saw the ad. It's such a big house." Her cheeks have gone pink.

"Change of scenery," says Della, with an eloquent lift of her brows: eyes widened but lips pursed, all of it wry. Instead of keeping them here all day - focused on her, anyway - she just names a large city quite a distance off; "Working remotely, though, so as long as the net stays up, I'm good." Una's blush has her smiling slightly, attempting to reassure - however misdirected - "And quite a challenge. So! What's next?"

“Cool,” says Jules, still a little distracted. “Well, welcome to Gray Harbor. Kind of funny for me to be saying that, since I just moved here too, but...” She shrugs lightly. This time her look to Una is more deliberate. “Una, did you show her the kitchen yet?” Not the library.

Una latches, gratefully, onto the security of two separate lifeline conversational threads, and gestures hurriedly further down the hallway. "No! Not yet. The kitchen, that's the most important. And there's sort of this room with loads of glass, like a... conservatory, is that what you call it?" She may as well be standing guard, where she is, next to the library door that's still closed, and the indistinct shape that-- no, it's gone. "And the wifi! You asked about that. It's pretty good too."

Della had gotten to glimpse the library, after all; what more does one need to see? She continues where Una indicates, friendly, polite, without spare soul bared (there's just that chip, on nail instead of shoulder; there's her missing ring). "Conservatory, yes. Light's so wonderful this time of year... Do you like plants too?" She doesn't wait for the other two, just explores with that easy stride of hers, more coffee before sliding off her gloves.

Jules lingers, bringing up the rear. It lets her peek into the library as they move along to another section of the house, to see what she can see. “Not now,” she mutters under her breath. It could be rhetorical, but there’s a pointedness in her tone, quiet as it is. Then she follows along, listening to the others’ conversation.

There's safety in numbers, and safety, too, in Jules minding the library, while Una minds the glimmerless newcomer. "I don't know a lot about plants," Una admits. "But I sew, and the light's great for that, when it's out. I've never lived anywhere with so much space, so it feels really luxurious." The sidelong glance she aims at Della seems to be reminder of something, because she adds, "Of course, I know the house itself is not all modern and shiny... and then there's the hot water limits, and... I mean, it's full of junk." It could almost be read as a half-hearted attempt to talk the other woman out of the place. Very half-hearted.

"Oh, what do you like to sew? My..." Della trails off as she touches the wall, fingers pattering along it and then look, kitchen! "People I know sew, but I'm not up for more than a good mend." Here's the real inspection, less the linoleum and more the appliances, and she manages to find one of the mismatched mugs to hold up for its cute little saying. Instead of asking whether those appliances work, "What do you - you all - like to cook? Do you have a rota, or is that too proscriptive?" She brings the word back warmly, barely a tease at all. "I imagine it's simpler just the two of you," if less financially stable.

“I’m not really that good of a cook,” Jules says with a wrinkle of her nose. She glances to Una, trying to take her cue from the actual owner. Does she want Della, what with the unresolved library shadow issue? “I mean, my idea of dinner the other night was poutine down at the boardwalk.”

The kitchen, too, is old-fashioned, but everything is spotlessly clean (but yes: lots of eclectic mugs hanging from hooks, plus a whole hutch of dishes, many of them part of a fancy-looking matched set, and all the crystal and... the way Una looks around, she may as well be in heaven, though surely none of this is new to her).

The trouble with Una is an excess of enthusiasm, and perhaps a hint of out-of-sight-out-of-mind: now in the safety of the cosy kitchen, all is well. "I make a lot of clothes. Re-make, a lot of the time." She gestures down towards her jeans, and continues without really pausing for breath. "I like to cook, too. We've been," a glance at Jules, "mostly doing our own thing, but I wouldn't mind sharing more of of that. It's much more fun to cook for more than one! Most of my food isn't fancy, but it tends to be tasty." Even if she does say so herself.

"Poutine's good," this Della agrees, though the Della-of-before might have brought out the qualifiers, and if this is heaven for Una, she can relax in the coziness. And cleanliness. Perhaps it's reassuring her. "Tasty is good," comes with a brighter smile. "I can also fend for myself if it comes to that... but your clothes! I'd like to hear more about that," if on the way to seeing more, more, more. (Not just the refrigerator's contents, though she's given those a passing glance along the way too, just for anything unusual that jumps out at her. Figuratively.)

“Yeah, it was pretty good,” Jules says, but her mind’s not really on the poutine, no matter how magically cheese-curdy it may have been. She goes stock-still, listening: poised and alert, not just casually still and leaning against the door frame. “Hey, can you guys excuse me for a sec?” She pulls out her phone, as if there’s something there that needs attending to, and slips back into the hall. With her phone still out, even once she’s out of direct line of sight, Jules pauses, listening.

“Aw shit,” Jules breathes, keeping her voice low. Louder, she calls back behind her, “Sorry, that was harder than I meant!” She starts stalking down the hallway then, heading back towards the library and its inevitably open door. “Alright. What do you want?”

In the kitchen, Una jumps as the door slams, but she's quick to throw words into the gap in conversation. Lots of words. "It's mostly thrifted things... take them, rework them. A lot of people just get rid of things that still have lots of life left in them, and I like to put them back together. Differently, often, because who wants to just mend, when you can do something more fun?" She's pink cheeked again, and just-short-of-babbling. "I'm hoping to do more, now. Here. It was harder in Seattle -- that's where I'm from -- because I had to work so much to make rent."

The refrigerator -- which works, given the waft of cool air when opened -- is reasonably well stocked, though backing up Una's comments from earlier, there's nothing fancy there; Una's more of a ground beef girl than steak.

Jules steps into the library, but only just. She stops there and cocks her head, listening. “You got something you want to say?” she asks, addressing the air. She waits expectantly several seconds, then adds more slowly, “Or show me?” With the question posed, she moves beyond the threshold, prowling along the shelves and towards the window.

"'Transformational works,'" Della muses. "It sounds as though yours is more arty than my tinkering." She'd looked after Jules, but not with particular attention; perhaps the slam's just not a surprise. "Your... grandmother? left some lovely things." Not that she's opened the hutch, but her gaze has taken them in, lingering as her fingertips might have liked to. "I could stay here forever, but - where next? Upstairs? Laundry?"

"'Transformational works,'" repeats Una, quite as though she finds this a satisfyingly high-brow way to put her little projects; she's pleased. "My grandmother. I never actually met her, so I don't really know where any of it came from, but... it's lovely, isn't it? Um," she pauses, glancing around the kitchen as if she's lost the train of her thought, though there's a momentary lingering glance at the door. "Well, the laundry's in the basement, downstairs, but there's not much to see. It's more modern than what's in here, anyway. Upstairs... you'll want to see the room." Not that she moves, not towards the closed door, nor anywhere else at all.

The electric hum running through her has Jules taking a sharp gasp. Her eyes go wide, and her breathing starts to come quick and shallow. “Oh God please don’t eat my brains,” is her hushed plea. Who she addresses is an open question - the house’s presence, or her own, more personal ghosts? “I said I’d stay here and try to work this out, whatever you are, but please don’t drive me mad.”

"You never met her?" Della, surprised - and then briefly stricken, a shadow of her own that's not focused on Una at all. She moves, to the outside door to peer at the backyard. "Then let's just do the laundry at the end," assuming they get that far. Her nose doesn't quite touch her reflection's. "She's left you a story. ...Three stories," has stories' worth of humor as she turns away, and if Una won't start for the inner door, she will.

Jules can’t help it. When the books hit the floor, she shrieks. Not loud, but certainly startled, wildly looking back towards the hall in sudden fear — or hope — that the others heard and will come running. Will they or won’t they, she does dart over to pick up the books and turn them over to look at their titles.

Una's, "Ha," is cheerful enough, and was probably intended to be followed by an explanation of some kind, but she's forestalled in that by the sound of Jules' shriek through the door, and that really does push her into motion: towards the door, towards the sound. But at least she's thoughtful (not to mention quick-witted) enough to suggest, "I bet she saw a spider." Everything's fine.

"You think?" Della worries, chafing behind the redhead, somewhere between 'get out now' and 'don't run to spiders.' "Are there many spiders? She doesn't seem very... shriek-y."

"Spiders make me scream," says Una, with a shrug, as she leads the way back into the hallway. "I've not seen any here, though. I'm so sorry about this. I promise we're usually very calm around here! -- Jules? Jules, where are you? Everything ok?" Of course the library door is open. Of course it is.

No comment from Della about spiders and her screaming, but she loosens her grip on her coffee just enough that the cardboard stops protesting. "Are you all right?" she calls out, but more quietly; she doesn't live here, she's just visiting.

“I’m fine,” Jules replies as they come join her. She’s mostly got herself under control by the time she’s in sight. “Just tripped over these.” She holds up the books, but quickly, then looks for a place to put them — a place she’ll remember, where they won’t immediately get reabsorbed into the house’s clutter. Assuming the ghosts are obliging. “Caught me off-guard.”

Una's gaze is searching, but she's clearly not going to question Jules' explanation in front of Della. So she pastes on a smile, bright and cheery, and gestures towards the stairs: "Bedroom next, I guess. Finished with your call, Jules? Coming up with us?" It's a good thing the rest of the house is completely normal. Nice, even!

Della's own smile is warm with relief; "Una had me wondering," said as though the woman were particularly clever rather than calling her out, "about spiders. What's your policy on spiders, Jules?" And can they go up the staircase now?

“Yeah,” Jules answers, setting down the books for later on the too-handy side table. “Just Christmas stuff.” She’s perfectly happy to leave the library behind for now. “Catch and release - Lord, sorry, that came out wrong. I don’t like to kill them. The world needs spiders too.”

"I know they're useful, but-- ugh. Jules, you can be designated spider-dealer-wither, if we end up with any." Una leads the way: upstairs, to where there are four good-sized bedrooms, plus the bathroom, and a hatch-in-the-ceiling attic that can go (for today) unexplored. Really, it's just an ordinary house. Everything's fine.