2022-03-03 - No Veil Corpse Soup

Having had the last two days off to get paperwork sorted and get her personal clinic partly set up, Ava is back to work today. She was in at the break of dawn and has been working non-stop until her body started to get shaky and reminded her that food and caffeine were things that existed and were needed for survival. Her survival anyway. Taking a long break away from the morgue, she decided to have her lunch out in the park, waiting to see if Cynthia would care to join her, but sadly she hasn't seen any signs of the little girl as of yet. So instead, she just takes in the sights of the park by herself.

She's seated on a bench, sandwich in one hand and a steaming coffee in the other, certainly dressed for work in a form-fitted crimson dress and a chunky cardigan on top meant to keep out the chill in the March air. Her ankle high boots have a sharp heel, and match the crimson color of the dress, one neatly displayed as her foot bobs with one leg crossed over the other. To some it might give off the air of boredom. But to others who look closely enough, it is far more peaceful than that. Surrounded in nature, she looks perfectly at home.

It is not yet Spring, and this seems wholly unfair. At least at midday it's warm enough now to be outside and enjoy it (as long as it isn't raining again, at least), and as today the ground is not entirely a sprawl of mud aspiring to be quicksand when it grows up, Ava turns out not to be the only one who's had designs on that bench today. Vyv's brows lift a bit as he strolls into view and finds it already occupied, that appraising look taking in the overall outfit as he approaches, and for good measure the sandwich as well.

One might presume he was also dressed for work, if one didn't already know that his work attire tends to a great deal of white. Perhaps today's just a dark-red kind of day, as the wool coat, small-check gingham shirt, and silk tie all strongly feature burgundy shades, and the grey windowpane check tweed three-piece suit has subtler threads of it through the pattern as well. Chances are it features in the pocket square as well, which surely must be there, though it can't currently be seen. As before, it's all fitted perfectly, either bespoke or so expertly altered as to be virtually indistinguishable. The shoes and the bag he's brought with him are black leather, and in the same hand there's a full-sized umbrella, furled and also black. Prepared, should the day decide to betray him. They so often do.

"The good doctor," he observes/greets as he gets within range of not needing to raise his voice, "I should warn you I do have apple in my lunch today, but I assure you it's nothing personal."

The quiet reverie of whatever silent tune was playing in her head takes a moment to fade, those oddly multicolored eyes focusing in on the here and now when Ava hears a voice. It's vaguely familiar, enough so to draw her attention over towards Vyv. A dimpled smile brightens her face a moment later as the coffee laden hand gestures him closer. A couple of scoots are made, adjusting her position on the bench to assure that there's enough room for two people to sit comfortably and eat. "You must be a very clean chef to not worry about getting anything on these stunning suits of yours."

Her sandwich arm crosses her body as she leans forward a bit, studying him with a slight squint, face etched in mock warning. "Mmm. An apple, you say? I'll prepare myself accordingly. I'm not terribly strong, but if it comes down to a fight, I am going to have to fight dirty," she warns.

As voices in town go, it's one of the more identifiable. Not the only accent of its kind around, but the only one of the few heard much lately. The making of room is noted and acknowledged with a small inclination of the head; he claims the space, setting the umbrella to lean against the side of the bench and settling in himself. Legs cross, and he settles the bag into the nearer portion of the spot between them. "Exceedingly. Tidiness, aprons, and magic." A little wiggle of the fingers with the last one, expression deadpan enough that it's hard to be sure whether he means that or not, and it takes a beat before one corner of his mouth tilts just a fraction upward. "I do wear my whites when working. Which I'm not at present, because as it turns out the world is only metaphorically my kitchen."

The bag is unzipped, a small stack of laquered boxes extracted, and then a thermos. They look high-quality and probably expensive. This does not likely surprise anyone anywhere. "In any case, if it's as effective as advertised I oughtn't need to fight at all. But if one's unwilling to fight dirty then does one really care enough to fight at all? If it's only half-hearted, why bother? Fighting clean is just handicapping oneself." He glances up from setting the thermos down, catching her eye, and adds, "Although should we end up fighting, I of course vote you aim for spotlessness."

Ava watches as he settles, taking a bite out of her sandwich, which looks homemade, but delicious, stacked to the nines but with nothing so messy that it's going to come spilling out and ruin her clothes. That's not what you need when you eat in a morgue usually, after all. On the rare occasion that you eat and work, you don't need your condiments slipping out into an open cavity. "Ah, the three truths behind what what makes the perfect pastries," she chuckles once the bite is finished.

Eyes caught, a brow lifts, her expression challenging. "Oh no," she assures softly. "I mean, I understand why you'd vote for it. But that's the very reason that I'd make sure to make as big a mess as possible. It'd throw you into an absolute tizzy, maybe knock you off your game. A girl has to get an advantage wherever she can, right?" A smile tugs at the corners of her lips. "But I might help you clean up afterwards," she offers. "Assuming I win."

It's presumably bad enough being dead without also being accidentally made more delicious. That should be reserved for dead things one intentionally wishes to make more delicious. One hopes that in most cases these aren't sapient.

Do not ask about Veil soup.

"That's quite an assumption." Vyv definitely means the explicit one, though some of the earlier aspects could well be wrapped up in there. A strap's undone on the boxes, then the other, and he lifts the top one to set it in his lap, the lid left atop the other layer. This box is divided in little areas , bento-inspired at the least, and the food within it is arranged as though it might be photographed for a magazine or at least Instagram at any moment. Lovely touches of colour, entirely unnecessary but attractive styles of cuts and arrangement of the resulting food. Nothing twee, but absolutely treated as though it were some sort of art. There's an arrangement of rice and vegetables and a sliced spiral roll of some sort that evokes flowers in spring with a minimum of items whose styling actually counts as 'representational'.

There are also chopsticks. He manages to use them elegantly.

"You wouldn't help clean up if you lost, then? Just leave a mess and go, presuming you were a condition to do so?"

Veil soup would be terrible. Veil Corpse soup might be atrocious.

"It is an assumption. I don't know you very well. I'm only working off of what I have seen of you so far." From the pristine suits, to the shop's color scheme and polished glass displays without a hint of a fingerprint on any of it despite the public frequently going in and out. And now that lunchbox? So perfect and neat. Now that looks delicious, and he can see that thought painted across Ava's features as she watches the lunchbox unfold. "Do you sell these at the bakery? If you don't, you should. You could make a pretty penny during the lunch time rush."

That last question earns a faint smirk. "Don't blame me. Blame the rules of the game. Normally I would be happy to stay and help. That's the kind of person that I am, a helper. However, the rules of the Apple are absolute. They keep the doctor Away. So if you win. I must Away." Her tongue clicks remorsefully. "You see now the peril you have brought upon us."

Bird soup, the packets said. Healed one right up. Tasted of chicken. ...a surprising range of things taste of chicken.

"No one knows me very well. I'm terribly mysterious." The deadpan begs for a sip of something there, but as he hasn't poured anything to drink yet, a bite of the roll-thing will have to do. He chews; swallows. It's like he's put actual practice and effort into making people work to tell when and if he's joking. Maybe he has. Certainly he doesn't seem inclined to either confirm or correct her assessment of what might bother him so far.

He considers the lunch, head slightly cocked as he appraises it. "I don't, no. Might consider it at some point, but it does start moving a bit afield from patisserie. We'd likely need to adjust a fair bit of the flow if we intended to make them when desired, and it might be a bit trickier to estimate ahead..." It's being filed somewhere as 'possibly'. "We do do a bit of salads and such for the lunch plates, sides for the galettes and quiche and other savouries." One of those smaller sections appears itself to be a tiny quiche, the right size and shape for the space, despite the fact that the box surely couldn't have survived anything being cooked in it.

"The apple keeps the doctor away, it doesn't drive her away. If you're close enough to create a mess I need imminently to deal with, then it's already failed. And therefore any such peril is clearly overstated." The chopsticks touch lightly against the rice, a thoughtful little movement rather than actually taking some. "I suppose it's also worth wondering what the upper and lower bounds are. An apple a day keeps the doctor away. If a day is skipped, does it work again the next day an apple is involved, or does it require multiple days to establish it as each day? And is it one or more, or one precisely? Might using two or three apples cancel the effect? These proverbs will go around being annoyingly imprecise."

"No one?" Ava wonders with a tilt of her head. "Quite mysterious then. Do you prefer it that way, to not truly let anyone in?" She peels off a bite of her sandwich as she studies his profile thoughtfully. She nibbles at it, finishing off the bite before her next question. "Or. Is it a test? To see who might be willing to work for it?" Another little twist of lips. "Then again, you could simply be teasing me with dry humor. You could have a loving husband or wife at home with three children and be the most doting person in the world for all I know." There's a single shouldered shrug.

She studies his lunch again for a moment. "Well, I know I'd pay well if you ever do so. Let me know if you take the idea for a test run. Though, I imagine your salads are tasty, as well. I'll have to grab one next time I'm in for pastries."

All the word play has her considering. "You would be an excellent wordsmith should I ever have to make a contract with a faerie. Those are all fantastic points. Proverbs do have a tendencies to be left up to interpretation." Another bite of sandwich as her eyes narrow in thought. "I suppose if you've missed an apple or two within the past few days, I'm probably safe from disaster."

Quite, agrees that little inclination of the head in return as she ponders and Vyv sets the chopsticks down to open the thermos and pour himself a drink. Coffee, today -- possibly not as gourmet as hers, depending what she's gotten her hands on today, but something smelling appealing. Good coffee, at least -- actually, the same sort he sells at the shop. Tea is where they get fancy there; the coffee options involve whether you'd like to add sugar and/or milk or, if feeling decadent, cream. He, apparently, does not.

"It is interesting seeing who's inclined to put in effort," Vyv allows; it feels perhaps a touch broader than the precise context. "And who pays attention." Now there's one of those tiny twitches at the corner of his mouth. "I'm allergic to doting. I have a note from my mother excusing me to spend that time in the library instead. But yes, all right, I suppose by all appearances my boyfriend understands me fairly well." A sip of the coffee, and a faint nose-wrinkle, the drink probably not the culprit: "I really can't abide children, though. Noisy and sticky and almost inevitably terrible conversationalists. On the upside, I'm unlikely to be forced to deal with them much unless the Other Side gets more unpleasant ideas or Grandmama acquires abilities no power in the universe ought ever allow that woman to have."

He eats in no hurry, but with quiet appreciation of the food; no talking with his mouth full, but the bites are small, so they don't take long. "Try the pear and goat cheese galette. It's a favourite." Of his, of the clientele? Of someone's, anyway. And one might guess comes with a salad at lunch, by timing.

The smile at the suggestion he'd negotiate well with faeries is a small one, but clearer than the mere hints that more often arise. "I enjoy words," he grants. "...and one of my sisters is a lawyer. Has always been a lawyer, since long before she was aware there were laws. One learns self-defense." He picks up a bite, but pauses before eating it. "How did you decide on coroner?"

"Ah, you see! Not so mysterious. Beside, all people are worth the effort of getting to know. Especially the ones who have the walls up." More sandwich is peeled apart and nibbled at as Ava watches him with a knowing sort of look in her eyes when he mentions that there is at least one person in his life who knows him. "I'm willing to bet that you also tolerate, and perhaps even enjoy your boyfriend's doting as well. Despite the claim of allergies. It's all a matter of finding the proper style of doting that suits the person. It's not the same from one person to another, after all. Some people love cuddles and foot rubs and shared bubble baths. Some prefer someone who know when to bring them their favorite tea and biscuits and sit quietly next to them by the fire place as they both enjoy their favorite books."

Talk of children earns a smile from her. "I adore children, myself. I find they're fantastic at conversation once you know how to speak to them. They aren't for everyone, though." There's no judgment there. "And they are very sticky, almost all the time," she laughs.

His last question has her looking at her hands. "I always wanted to be a doctor and to heal people. When I started doing my rotations, and seeing what it was like in all the different areas I realized pretty fast that I was going to have a very hard time not wanting to use my gifts to help pretty much everyone I came in contact with. Child with cancer? Healed. Abuse victim with a broken arm? Healed. Old woman having a heart attack? Healed. I was much younger, and it was going to cause problems. I knew it." Ava sighs. "But when I got to the morgue-- it was peaceful. Quiet. There wasn't any sad eyes pleading for help, needing for me to fix them. It was already too late." Her hands spread. "Plus, from there, I could help the town cover up a lot of the stuff from the government that needs to be hidden that the Veil may not get to. Hide the stuff from some of the agent and officers who, for some reason, the Veil just doesn't work on. There have been a few over the years."

She smiles. "I do still have my own little clinic so that I can help people. I have better self control now. Plus, it's a good place for folks like us to get healed when they need it."

'Not so mysterious'? "How very dare you." It's so flat it would probably give his crepes a run for their money. Vyv doesn't look as though he's 100% behind her 'all people' claim, but nor is he inclined to fight that one. For now. "I'm allergic to doing the doting, not being doted on," he clarifies, "That's fully acceptable. Preferable, even. Really far more people ought to actively adore me. Ideally to my exact specifications. It would save so much time and effort." For him. It would probably save even more time (if not effort) for others if he went on to note what said specifications are, but alas (or thank goodness), he does not.

The meal continues to disappear at a perfectly reasonable and polite speed while she answers his question, a small nod as she goes through the various situations she was there to try to heal... and could, albeit with the odds of questions being asked likely to start increasing every time. "Ye-es. I can see the issue. Bad enough when doing your best isn't enough. Potentially worse if it is." He gives the impression of an academic sort of understanding more than an empathetic one, but it beats a blank stare, right? Or certain types of judgement. Perhaps that's being reserved for other things. Children, for example -- though her current assertions thereto merely elicited a dubious look and a murmured, "Better you than me." Unpredictably sticky creatures under their own power; can there be anything worse?

"You're not plagued too often by ghosts?" He's been here long enough to suspect that could be an issue in a morgue, at least for some. "...also regrettably prone to stickiness, somehow. And occasional attempted murder. I'd expect some could still muster up the sad eyes."

"How very dare me, indeed. Calling you out so completely," Ava retorts with an amused smirk behind another bite of her sandwich. There's a little hum of acknowledgement as he clears up the matter of doting and the acceptableness of being doted on rather than being the dote-y. A hand presses to Ava's lips until she finishes her bite, hiding her smirk. "Ah, I see," is finally managed. "Then there's nary a moment where you dote on your boyfriend, then? I find that very hard to believe. I think you very much would like others to believe that to be true, so I'll pretend to believe it front of others. However, I don't think you are as cold as you pretend to be, and I'm sure your boyfriend is very dote worthy, and so you do your part."

Her eyes sparkle as she watches him. "But, I won't bust your cover," she promises, crossing her heart. "Ghosts, surprisingly, haven't been a big thing in my life. I never used to see them until recently. It's very strange. I kind of thought something was wrong with me that I never saw them, to be honest, but I saw my first one not so long ago, here in this park. A little girl named Claudia. Strangely enough, I had prepped her body for burial a long time ago. I didn't really recognize her at first."

Her eyes drift for a second towards the ice on the lake. There's a little blink before she turns back towards Vyv and smiles softly. "But that's the only one I've met so far. Perhaps I've been lucky? Or unlucky? I'm not sure?" Then her phone is chiming and it startles her for a moment. "Excuse me," she murmurs before answering. "Doctor Brennon." There's a handful of quick, clipped responses, all very professional before finally, "All right. I'm on my way."

An apologetic look is offered. "I genuinely hate to cut this short, but we caught a body and apparently it just can't wait. We'll catch up more again later, I hope." She quickly wraps up her things and tucks it all away before offering a finger wiggle goodbye and hurrying off in the direction of the hospital.