2022-03-13 - Burnt Hair, Coffee and Buns

Those footsteps, emphatic, aren't taken at Della's normal pace; even when she's in a hurry she leans towards the light, the considerate, the adult, and these... these aren't stomping, they aren't some musical rhythm, but they're somehow freer. She's changed from nightwear to nightwear, a fresh gown without the smoke and sweat (though there's still plenty of smoke in her look-for-real hair), her robe loose; for all that attempt at humanity, there's a wild look in her eyes.

She stops, too, on the threshold. She doesn't call out to Jules, doesn't say her name, but she's looking (and looking and looking), her head slightly tilted. She doesn't have eight eyes.

The footsteps don't break through Jules' reverie, but when Della appears, there and present in a new, undeniable way, the raven-haired young woman looks over with an abrupt cock of her head. Jules doesn't so much see auras or the glimmer or what have you, so much as feel them, the weight of that power making the bearing of their person just that much more. She takes Della in, all of her, the seeable and the sensible, and then beckons her in. Takes her under her wing, so to speak.

"Get some coffee," she invites. Her throat is still a little rusty. She clears away the croak. "Come sit with me." On the counter, at the table, on the floor, wherever.

With Una, Della was all words; here and now, she's silent, with a lift of her chin for a nod. No countertop for her, but she'll lean against it, nearby.

...And then pause, laugh at herself, and go back for the coffee after all.

"Jules," she says, only she might as well say, "Raven."

Una's slower to move, though both women will hear the pad of her steps down the creaky stairs when she does. She's washed her face, wrapped her robe tight around her sleep-wear, and looks remarkably wide awake (though maybe that's thanks to falling out of bed). "You should take a proper look at the garden, after," she says, aiming for conversational as she pads towards the coffee pot. "Not so much a 'micro climate', after all."

Her glance at Jules is a little hesitant: a little appraising.

(A little Squirrel-like, too, the way she clutches the mug she's picked up so close to her chest.)

The way Della stands -- leans -- near Jules, now, is somehow more comfortable: not in the manner of someone who's been up deliciously late, or for that matter had a long night's rest, nor even someone who intellectually knows she was warned when she hadn't known she needed it... but someone who feels Spider's somewhat enigmatic security. Raven had warned Spider; but also, Raven had risked the axe's bite and the Skookum's bite. (If ravens sometimes eat spiders, that's not relevant here. At least, not yet.)

She smiles over her own coffee at Una the mug-clutcher, the tilt of her head acknowledging -- but still she'll have to see. (No words, true, but also no expletives. At least, not yet!)

"Morning." A touch of knowing humor is there, even in that single word. Jules is happy with the silence between them, first herself and Della and then as Una appears. It's not quite a comfortable silence. It's a waiting silence. She looks at Una, thoughtful. It's not the earlier guardedness after their first shared Dream.

Finally, "Quite the night, huh."

There's a low whoosh of breath from Una: an exhale that speaks to relief, no doubt twice over: she's no longer keeping secrets from poor Della, and Jules is willing-- at least superficially-- to talk. This morning rules.

"Quite," she agrees, settling with her coffee on one of the bench tops opposite Jules. There are cinnamon buns to warm up, but... not yet. Now's the time for talking, and coffee. "More... No. Less participatory than some. But also not. Is that... Jules, is that how the story goes?"

"Understatement much!" from Della of the Half-Burned Hair. Apparently that's what Jules gets for speaking: more words! "'Less participatory'? 'Story'? Direct phrases, please." She doesn't tap her fingers on her mug, but only because she's holding it tight.

"One of them." Jules isn't eager to dissect all the details, but she'll grant this. "Stealing fire -- it's a native legend. You know, like 'How Raven Stole the Sun.' It's almost always Raven in the stories I grew up with, not Coyote. There didn't use to be any coyotes on the Olympic Peninsula. They're invasive. There used to be wolves here instead, before they all got poisoned. So I guess Coyote legends are invasive, too." Participatory? Una can handle that question.

Una exhales, but she's busy listening to Jules, and nodding quickly to the information offered. "Invasive folklore," she says, in a voice that suggests she wants to laugh, but-- won't. Doesn't. "And you were Raven."

But that's statement, not question, and seems to be without particular agenda. The redhead hesitates, turning her attention back to Della in a way that is almost-but-not-quite hesitant. "Do you remember... the desert. Three women in a bus. Van. And it was less a story that was being told with us, and more... we were in charge of ourselves? Do you remember, Della?" Una remembers.

Oh, that story. That kind of story. That kind of storytelling. "Invasive coyotes," Della semi-repeats along with Una. "Invasive stories." At least the Coyote part of it.

Her lips press together; then, her tongue flicks out and she rubs her lips together against the dryness, in a way that will not help but is all that she, at the moment, has.

"That... rings a bell." A cracked bell. "Bits. I don't remember being in charge."

"Yeah." She was Raven. Jules looks down at her coffee. It's half-gone, now, and she hops down from the counter to refill it, stopping at the fridge to add a splash of milk.

"I never thought any of this was real." She says it while her back's to them. It's easier, that way. "Everyone's got their stories, and it's important culturally, but you know, actually meeting a spirit or assuming their powers? People who want to do a spirit dance nowadays are usually just looking for miracle cures."

Explaining for Della is important, but Jules: Una's attention fixes itself upon Jules (or at least upon her back), and she swallows. Perhaps it's only now, really, that she's connecting all the dots for the other woman, and how this must feel-- or at least how she can imagine this must feel. "But it is real," is what she says, finally, trying it out for size. "Or-- it comes from something real, maybe. It's all connected to real, because real is... well, real is kind of wishy-washy sometimes."

Beat. "I can't imagine."

Della's heard of spirit dances, at least? Her gaze considers Jules' shoulders, the line of her back, in light of the everyday tasks of pouring, refilling, replenishing. Sheltering. "'Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey.' Real... a real... but the same?"

Jules shuts the fridge and turns, this time opting for a chair at the table. "Wild, right?" The phrase from Della makes her smile, just a bit. "They call it, what? A Thin Spot, here. Where time and place go a little crazy. Where you can visit the spirit world. Or get sucked into it, more like." She's struggling to verbalize it for Della -- but for herself, too. "They say if you don't want to deal with that shit, best to leave while you still can. I guess it likes to...hold on to you."

"Ravn calls it the 'Hotel California' speech," puts in Una, sliding back off the countertop now so that she can take Jules' spot at the fridge, fetching out the tray of cinnamon rolls from yesterday's bake. "'You can check out, but you can never leave', after a point. That's an over-dramatisation, of course, but... it does."

She glances back over her shoulder. "Ravn's a good person, for questions. He knows a lot more than I do, anyway."

Reference for reference, Della's smirk is a sideways creature.

But: "I don't like getting sucked in." As if that weren't already plain. Della likes to be in charge, though not necessarily to be the boss: to weave her own web. "Why don't you leave? Either of you. House or no house." Houses can be sold, or rented. Or abandoned. (Though that would be wrong.)

"Because this is where I belong." It's that simple. Jules is firm on this point, versus the halting quality of some of her other answers. "I'm not gonna get run off by some asshole spirit. Besides, my people have been dealing with this stuff for years, by the looks of it. So I should be able to handle it, too." Those cinnamon rolls catch her eye. Yes, please. "Makes me think maybe I should talk to my grandparents about all this, though."

Una opens up her mouth to answer, but Jules gets in first, and so she waits. Besides, it gives her a moment to get the oven turned on, and those rolls ready to go in. When the other woman finishes, she straightens, glancing back at them both-- and reaches to reclaim her coffee. "You should. See what they think. For me... for me it's community. I spent twenty-five years in Seattle, and yet within three months, I have more of a community here than I ever did there. Going through this stuff... it brings people together. We look after each other. Some of it sucks, but... people here have my back, and that matters. We're stronger together."

Della's nod is slow, hair falling forward over her shoulder -- just on that one side, the non-burnt side. The other is bare.

"I'd miss you guys," she says. "I... I don't know."

"Ravn, our neighbor Ravn? The teacher?"

Cinnamon rolls.

"Do you like it?"

Cinnamon rolls.

"Yeah, our neighbor Ravn. Not Raven." Jules tries to turn it into a wisecrack. She lets the other question pass, though. It can float right over to Una.

"That Ravn," Una confirms, leaning her butt against the oven, though it is, of course, as unseasonably warm around this end of Oak Avenue as it has been for a while.

"I..." She hesitates over her answer to the other question (thanks for that, Jules), and frowns. "Sometimes. Yeah. Most of the time. I'm not going to lie: the Veil is kind of out to get us. But... parts of it are amazing. It's interesting. And for the first time in my life, I feel special, because I was born with this, and... most people aren't. So I'm going to use the power I have, and help keep the darkness at bay and... okay, that sounds ridiculous and corny, but it's true."

"How do you know you're born with it?" Della wants to know. "Because underappreciated redhead saving the world is in all the books, but I'm more of a fan of the radioactive spider -- " she stops short, laughs. Moving on, "Jules and I both count as brown girls -- women! -- and I don't know if that's allowed. Two." More than one.

Jules smiles a bit at Della’s assessment, joking back, “The Veil got woke.” Her smile fades, though. An earlier question is still troubling her, and she picks at it, like a zit. “Honestly, I don’t know where else I’d go or what I’d do. Taholah,” aka the res, “isn’t exactly buzzing with opportunity. But I wouldn’t know what to do somewhere else, like Seattle. I can’t afford to live there. At least here, it’s more like home. And with all this, it seems like maybe there’s a point to it all. Like I can do something here that isn’t just wasting my life.”

"The Veil is equal opportunity," confirms Una, with a laugh that holds the faintest twinge of awkwardness: yes, okay, she's the white girl, and they're not. "But yeah-- the not wasting your life thing. That's a real thing. And I..."

The oven hums, warming her ass. Una pauses. "I don't know. I don't know what I'd do, if I were back in Seattle, and half of me is convinced I'd be missing out. On everything: the community I've built here, as well as the rest. But if you decide you need to turn tail and go, to somewhere where... you're less likely to fall into Dreams, Della. Well. We'll understand."

Della slants Jules a wry smile: yeah, that must be it. She folds her arms, then, all but for the occasional sip of coffee; it holds her in, and holds in, too, the privilege she has: not many possessions, true, and money still caught up in her and her ex-wife's house, but money. Stocks. Connections. There are places she could go. Community? "Good to know," she says for both of them. But, "Jules... what is that point, what do you think you're doing? Real question. Are you 'keeping back the darkness' and all that, too? And how do you guys know who the bad guys are?"

Again with the hard questions. Jules sits there, frowning and furrow-browed. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s part of what these...things are trying to tell us. What it means to show up in the Dream, or the spirit world, or whatever, as Raven. That’s what people believe—that the spirit world doesn’t just give you powers, but it can give you answers. Guidance.”

More coffee. More thinking. “I think I should tell my grandparents about it and see what they say.” She looks somewhat shy, equal parts guarded and anxious, when offering her next words up: “Maybe you should come too, since you were there too. If you want.”

Una's experience of Dreams has been very different to Jules', and the way she opens her mouth? It may come across for a moment as if she's inclined to argue this interpretation.

(Are you serious, Jules? We get these Dreams mostly to humiliate and hurt us! They feed off that! It's--)

But she's smart enough, and perhaps thoughtful enough, not to say that out loud. Maybe, after all, that interpretation is wrong. Maybe Jules is right.

(And maybe, too, she needs to sit down and shut up when it comes to someone else's belief system.)

"I'd love to hear what they have to say," is what she says, evenly and with genuine interest.

Della's nod is slow: she's listening, even if she hasn't yet bought in; she'd like to think that—"Yes. Yes please."

Answers would be great, but grandparents are always good.

"Let us know when you want to go? I can... move things around. For almost whenever." She adds after a moment, "I've been pretty holed up here."

There’s a moment, when Una looks like she might object (and Jules sees it), when Jules’ expression closes, shutters. As if she should have known better and is steeling herself against hurt. It means she still looks cautious, and now a bit surprised, when her invitation is accepted. “Okay. I’ll give them a call. Maybe next weekend? I need to check with them. Make sure they’re okay with it. A lot of the time, stuff like this is secret. I mean, the general outlines not so much, and it’s not like you can’t Google it. But the details, people don’t share those.”

And Una sees that, too, and feels bad: that's visible enough in the downward cast of her expression, the twist of her mouth. It's obvious, too, in the determined way in which she agrees, "That'd be great. If they're up for it. I know... I understand that it's secret, and sacred and special." All the 's' things. "And I don't understand it. But I'd like to learn more, so that I can... try."

That's probably as much apology as Jules is likely to get, but Una's expression does, at least, make it seem genuine.

Della is already nodding, more quickly this time, certain: "Confidential. Absolutely." Her glance at Una doesn't linger. To Jules, "It'd be a relief."

A last sip finishes her coffee; she twists to put the mug on the counter behind her and pulls out her phone. "And meanwhile, Ravn. What sort of a man is he? Biases? We've run into each other, of course, but it sounds like this is another thing where you two know a lot more." Della keeps it matter-of-fact, as though it's on the same level as a pancake recipe. (Not a beloved grandparent's beloved recipe, either, just something plucked off YouTube.) "What should I know about him?"

“Okay.” Jules accepts it all at face value. A quick smile for Una, even. They’re good.

“He researches this stuff,” is how she describes Ravn. “Sometimes he gets a little know-it-all about it, but he’s a good guy. He’d probably die for the chance to talk to my grandparents, too.”

Una returns that smile. Her relief is-- well, palpable. Good. They're good.

"He probably would," she says, with a laugh. "He's had my back, more times than I care to mention. He... knows a lot, but mostly from a Euro-centric perspective, which is not surprising, really. He's... helped me work through a lot of this, and understand it better."

"Would he try to take over?" Della asks, the tilt of her head uncertain: is Jules implying maybe taking him along? She's relaxed a little again as the other two make up, more visible in tension's absence than anything before. "Anything to avoid? If one of you give me his number, I guess I could do a 'So, about this weird stuff' text. Better than dropping by."

“Maybe? But I think he would also want to listen. Soak it up like a sponge.” Jules is considering it, enough to say, “I’ll think about it. I think I offered to take him up to the res awhile back. My phone’s upstairs, but I can give you his number later.”

"He's a good listener," is Una's-- loyal-- opinion. "And he's interested in things. But--"

There are cinnamon buns to be had, too, and more coffee. Serious conversations can be continued later.