2022-04-19 - Heartburn

Evening. The lights are low in 5 Oak's kitchen, except for over the table where Della sits with her laptop, dinnerware set to the side but not yet put away. No music's playing. It's quiet.

The pizza suggestion went out, earlier (as did Una), and now the redhead is on her way home, leftovers in a plastic box that will join the rest of the plastic boxes in one of the cupboards, where inevitably none of the lids will ever fit again. That means the kitchen, booted feet clomping lightly as she makes her way down the passage, into the kitchen, and-- "Oh. Hi, Della." Una looks tired, a bit edgy.

Della's already looking towards the passageway, towards Una, dark eyes reflective in the light. "Evening. How was it?" She looks... less tired than she would have, had she gone, but that's not saying much.

"It was--" Una hesitates. She hesitates visibly, even though she's not actually standing still: she's moving to the fridge, to put away her pizza, adjusting a few containers within it so as to tetris things in exactly the right way. She's still facing the fridge when she says, "You know that thing when you've been lightly ribbing someone about something and-- then it turns out there's a reason for it, and you feel stupid? Even though they say it's okay?"

There's a little pause. "Definitely." Were it a cocktail, it would have a twist of regret, perched there on the thin glass rim.

Una exhales all her breath with an audible whoosh. Then, "Ever watched Ravn eat? Picking away at things, not actually eating anything? It drives me crazy, particularly when it's my stuff, and it's not like I was taking it personally, but... still. I joked about it. I drew attention to it."

And Della can see where this is going; her exhalation's quieter, more of a wince than a sigh. She slides the laptop away from her, half-closed.

Now, finally, Una turns. Just for a moment, she's outlined in the lights of the refrigerator-- and then she kicks it closed with her foot, and the ambient light of the kitchen drops low again. Low, and for a moment, very quiet.

"Yeah," she says. "And I feel shitty even having mentioned it to you, because I don't gossip. But. He said it was fine, I was fine, it's not a big deal. But it's a big deal to me. But now I'm making it all about me, aren't I? Me, me, me."

"You're not making it all about you in front of him, are you," Della says, leaning forward. "You aren't making him deal."

A pause. "... No," Una admits. "I guess I'm not. I still feel shitty about it. I tease because I care, and," she scrubs at her face, exhaling again. "I guess it's a good reminder that there are reasons for things. Usually. Always."

"Sometimes people are just..." well. "Picky. Sometimes a little teasing does help us see things a little differently, sometimes it's good." It doesn't hurt that Una's her housemate, her fellow Fire-traveler, Squirrel; Una's right here. But -- but. "I get feeling awful, though," Della has to say that too. "I'm glad you don't want to hurt someone. How did he seem? I know you said he said it was fine."

Una's nod is shallow almost to the point of invisibility, but there's a bigger dip to her shoulders that suggest she's found some kind of relief in Della's words and understanding. "I think he was fine. He was the one who mentioned it-- not in terms of teasing. But outright acknowledged the not eating. I laughed, and then he explained, and he said it was fine, and he took his pizza home with him." Fine. Totally fine. Una's not worried.

Mostly not worried.

"You won't mention I said anything, right? I'd hate him to think I was teasing him, and gossiping about it."

"Of course I won't," Della's quick to say. "If he were ever to ask me flat out -- but there's no reason why he would. 'Why, Della,'" she affects a version of his accent, but a kind one, "'are you not asking me why I don't eat much, even of Una's loveliest treats?' You're helping me be careful of him, so I don't follow suit."

With a slight smile, "He's perfectly capable of not answering your question if he doesn't want to. Or blaming it on the gloves. Pizza, with gloves."

At least that makes Una laugh, loud enough that she seems to find it too loud, given the quiet dim of the kitchen. One hand covers her mouth, but she smiles over the top of it. "Yeah," she agrees. "That's true. And now I know, so I can... cater, accordingly. Sometimes a bit of knowledge is a good thing."

"'Cater,' indeed," teases Della, her voice low with unspoken laughter. "You know one of his... sensitivities, let's say," and Una didn't say exactly what the issue was, but one can imagine. "No asking the vegetarian, 'Oh, try this bacon, it tastes just like kale!' I wonder if there's any particular food he might feel more comfortable with, though, were it provided."

"I do appreciate that he told you what was going on, though. Not everyone would."

There's the glimmer of a smile in Una's expression. Bacon, just like kale! There's a horrifying thought. She doesn't answer Della's wonderings, but says, instead, "Me too. I appreciate the trust. Not that I wouldn't have stopped teasing with only 'please don't' of course, but... context helps."

She presses her back against the fridge door, closed behind her. "I should go up. You working, or?"

"It does. Like -- " but Della stops. Stops, too, to answer. "So soon?" There's another little pause. "Ostensibly. Or, I was before dinner. Since then, it's been side research."

"Side research," says Una, and that makes her laugh. It's not as if she's made a move to go, not even a half-hearted one.

"Mm, yes." One project of which is, "That fellow Jules and I ran into, the other day? -- I still don't know how we missed each other!" because evidently Una isn't the only one who can apologize but still not let it all go, "His family has tracked the boat they came in, to New Zealand, back in the 1300s. There's a dancing video, too... Had you heard about the mermaids?" Della may not pat the nearby seat, but she does close her laptop the rest of the way, smiling upward.

And not for the first time, "It was fine, in the end!" but yes, Una may regret having missed out on some of the more (arguably) exciting events, that night. Still. She hesitates, then pours herself a glass of water, and hoists herself up into her usual spot atop the (clean, so very clean) counter. All of this? It's interesting (and not gossip!), and so she leans in, all the better to hear. "About the existence of the mermaids, yes, but-- specific incident? Tell all." And the rest.

"Apparently, disappointingly, they look more like sharks than Ariel. Which makes sense, and yet." Some of them went for a sail -- actually, I don't know if it was sail or motor, but a boat ride anyway -- and the mermaids went after them, and they had to... stop them." Della leans back a little, pensive. "As for Mikaere in particular, his glow has to do with emotions. Luckily, it seems he has ethics."

Stop them. Una shivers, a little, for that. "I'd heard that they don't like us-- 'shiny people', if you want to call it that. That's comforting, but only in a way, you know? It's not like I want them going after anyone else, either."

"I'm glad to hear it. Emotions, without ethics? That's not someone I'd want anyone hanging around."

"Don't they? Good to know. Actually, that explains," and Della nods to herself: data reassessed. "There must have been other people on the boat, then. People who don't glow." She doesn't say, who aren't us, who aren't like us.

It was an interesting discussion. I suppose he could have been... facilitating... it, and I don't imagine I'd know if he were, but he seemed straightforward. Earnest, even. I'm inclined to take that at face value."

"Allegedly. I don't know why."

Una busies herself with her water, taking first a very small, tentative sip, and then a bigger one. "And now you've done, what was it, 'side research' into him? Not that a person can't hide a lot of things, if they really want to."

"It's true. I'm not a P.I. or anything," though Della looks briefly wistful: "Did you ever see Veronica Mars? ...At any rate, this is pretty basic. No deep dive, just due diligence. He's staying with Ava so that bodes well. Speaking of, what have you heard about her greenhouse? Apparently it's really something. If I knew her better, I'd ask for a tour."

Una's light little laugh answers that first: yes, she's clearly seen Veronica Mars and knows exactly what Della's referring to. "I've not visited her greenhouse, but I know all about it. Veil fruits. Apparently they grow Veil creatures? I'm a little fuzzy on the details of how that works, but I guarantee she'd be happy to tell you about it. Ava's good people. We're really lucky with our neighbours: Ava and Ravn and Aidan, and Kailey and her family are across the street. I like it here."

"Really." Della's eyes shine -- not shine, but -- "Do you know what kind? I'll add that to my list." She nods for those neighbors, too. "Kailey is apparently someone I should talk to, and Itzhak-an-apparently-not-neighbor? and," she names a few more people. "I'd like to meet up with Ariadne again, too. And Leila. If we don't have to go to the hospital to do it, so much the better."

"I don't. I... don't entirely like to ask, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't." Una's smile is a crooked one, but easier, now, that she's vented her spleen (such as it is) and lightened her burden. "Kailey's lovely. Itzhak, too, in a very different way. I still need to take him some cookies. Ariadne. Everyone on your list. I approve of your list. The only person I don't know especially well is Leila, but I'd like to change that, too."

Della tilts her head, making her smile sidelong. "If I do, would you want to know? Assuming it's not private," but how could it be private to Una? "of course."

"I'm sure it's not." Private. To anyone. Una abruptly grins. "I bet she'll be happy to tell you, in detail. Cliff notes, maybe? I don't think Veil fruits are something my garden needs, that's for absolutely sure."

"So she might go on. A woman after my own heart." Perhaps it's that grin. Della nods quite firmly regarding Una's choices for her own garden; then, "How about Cliff notes on the list-people, just to tide me over?" Quite candidly, "I value your take on people."

"She's passionate," says Una, and it's so affectionate; clearly, she cares a lot about Ava, two doors down. "Big heart. Who do you want to know about? One at a time."

Della's eyes narrow briefly, considering, before flying wide once more. "All of them." There's her laugh, that much warmer in the light. "Any more on Ava; Aidan; Ariadne -- doesn't she have a dog? -- and Itzhak; Kailey-and-family."

Una's chuckle is a pleased one. "I feel like I should be getting out the whiskey for this," she says, but it's a Monday night, and she's not. (even if it is right there). "Um, let's see. Ava's dating Deacon, who is a police officer, and I don't particularly like him, but I'm trying not to prejudice anyone. She grew up here, and she's pretty powerful. So's Aidan, also a healer, and I think other things too but I don't know him as well. He's... colour. Flamboyant, but not, I understand, gay."

Della slides a look at the bottle -- but, even were it hers, there's the matter of getting up. She rests her elbows on the table instead, chin on hands, not tapping or typing. There's a moment where she could drink it all in and then go straight for the next draught, but instead she gives Una reactions back: "Mm. Police. ... Good to have healers on the block. I wonder if he'd be up for the phone tree. Maybe he's queer of another flavor? Not that cishet men can't be flamboyant."

"Funny how he's color," taking on Una's intonation, "with a housemate all black-black-black. Hardly the first time that's been observed, I imagine. But they complement."

"It's interesting, right? They don't seem all that similar at all, but-- that's how it works sometimes, I guess."

Una wiggles her feet against the cabinet behind them. It's easier, and more fun, when she's not wearing shoes, but the shoes will have to stay on for now.

"Ariadne's got a dog, yes. Samwise. She works at Espresso Yourself with the other Della. I helped dye her hair, a few weeks back. You met her, of course, in the snow that day, as well as at the hospital. She's a marine biologist, and she's--" There's something akin to hero worship in the way Una talks about the other redhead. "She's great. Of course Kailey has bright colourful hair, too. She's part of a triad, I think? Or more than that now, I'm not sure. With a couple of kids. Her toddler's already really powerful."

"Samwise," is almost entirely under Della's breath, but laughter glints in her dark eyes. "I remember the picture. That was lovely. I hope it hasn't faded yet." Given Kailey, "Are you going to do anything to yours, or enjoy it as it is?" Triad. Hm. "The thought of a powerful toddler, though..." Della crosses herself, mostly jokingly. Mostly. "What has the fearsome beast done?"

"Mine? No. No, I'm pretty happy as a redhead, no more, no less." Una lifts one hand to run it through her hair, almost as if to reassure herself that it is still there, still red.

"Story-time at the library. She... illusioned the dinosaur in question into being. It was quite a thing to see. Ravn and I, trying to come up with new rhymes for the book to send the poor, sick dinosaur to sleep, while Ava-the-doctor ministered to its illness."

Has it gotten redder in the past months, somehow? Della gives Una and her hair a quizzical look -- a warm look, a smiling look -- while she's at it, but then...

"Really. Really." She mimes a shudder. "That's one way to entertain the room," at least given that it's a poor, sick (but presumably not with malaria) dinosaur rather than a voracious one. "What does she do when she's not with kids? Or what did she do?"

One could argue that all this faux-summer sunshine has done a number on Una's hair. Or maybe it's that Fire of hers, bubbling closer and closer to the surface. (The quizzical look gets on in return, though not much more, really, than a lift of her eyebrows that promptly subsides.)

"I think she's an artist," she says. "She's another one I don't know especially well. She's... we were in a Dream together. It was based on The Sims, the computer game? And she went off and woo-hoo'd with someone." Una's cheeks are pink.

Della's eyes are so wide, their whites show. "You can't get pregnant in a Dream, can you?"

Una blinks. And stops. And just...

"I hope not."

"I mean, I'd hope it never -- I've never been in a woo-hooing Dream -- but now that I know that some do -- " Della sits back.

"It wouldn't... weird you out, to being having sex with a Veil construct?" Una immediately wants to know. She's very pink now.

Della gets the wide-eyed look again, this time with bonus stop-that-right-now hand in the air, and if she keeps doing this, she's going to freeze that way -- but since it's Una, she saves her the first, sarcastic reply in favor of, "It would. Of course it would." This time the shudder's real.

"We aren't always ourselves, there. That first Dream, I wasn't me," wasn't consistently anyone, "I didn't even know. But Ravn talked about -- "

"Yeah," says Una, who has a definite shudder of her own. Veil creature are not part of her sexuality, thank you very much.

"Ravn talked about?" she prompts.

How to put this: "An alternate universe with the right girl and the right job, being Lost there." No possessive pronouns, then.

"So, implications. One might want to."

"Oh," says Una. Maybe she gets the point; maybe she doesn't.

Maybe she more-or-less changes the subject. "You haven't been in any Dreams as you yet, have you?"

"No."

Which drives Della right back to, "We might get what we think we want, our fantasy; or, we might want what we normally wouldn't."

Una likes to portray herself, increasingly, as more-or-less an expert in Dreams. She's been in more than she can count, now; she knows her stuff.

And yet.

And yet.

She just stares, wide-eyed and more than a little unnerved.

The kitchen light shines on the table, on them, and reflects on the glass of the windowpanes. As low-lit as the room is, they would be bright, glowing bright to those out there in the dark.

Della says finally, "Your Dreams. Is it very different, when you're you -- more you."

Rabbits, nibbling at Una's lettuces. Perhaps some fae. Perhaps worse, but no one needs to think about that right now.

There's plenty of horror right in here.

"Yes," says Una, promptly. "For better or for worse. Knowing that you're you, but still being put in situations that are unlike you. I was a pop princess, in a Dream. Zorro, in another. Things I'm just... not, and having to play the role. Acting. Sometimes it's not too bad, just pretending to be someone else for a little while. Sometimes it's even fun."

Della's nod is slow. Though, "Zorro, I'm to ask you about that story -- but this first."

"Acting. I can see that." And it doesn't inherently seem to be a problem. But...

"I wonder, if we were to... kill... in a Dream," or something else they were averse to. "Would it be easier in this world. At least for some people, like video games, only these are even more immersive."

"No," is prompt; very prompt. Una hesitates over continuing, and finally says, slowly, "Even when you know they're Veil constructs and not real, they still seem real. Ravn, Ariadne and I, we ended up on a ship, and... and it's a long story, but there was a powder ship, and an explosion, and a man who burned and another who got squashed under a boulder, and I didn't enjoy that. It feels real, in the moment."

Della's frowning, now; "And afterwards, when you wake up? PTSD? Does it seem un-real?" That's just the first of it.

"It depends," says Una, slowly. "A lot of the time... it still feels real. I think it's supposed to. It's up to you to remind yourself that it's not real, to give you that mental space enough to cope. The Dream wants you to engage, because it feeds-- or so I'm told-- off your emotions like that."

"And here I thought I wasn't going to need my therapist for a while." Della says it as though it should have been a joke, and then exhales the rest of the way, audibly. "The dolorphages, and all that." She breathes in, and she breathes out. "So it's up to us to remind each other, I guess; which requires knowing about it."

"Are you sure it isn't easier to behave out here the way that you behaved in there. How do you know?"

Una smiles, but it's not really a smile-- there's no warmth to it, no light. "Yes, which requires leaning in to the community. To each other. Waving the flag, when you're struggling. Which," she's rueful, self-aware. "I know I'm not really good at, for one. But I'm trying. And that's half the point with all the cookies, too. Reminding people that this house, this kitchen, is a safe space."

She backtracks, to add, "I guess I don't. Maybe it is, for some people. I can't say for sure."

Della's mouth gets crooked and her brows skew too: wave the flag, indeed. "Good for you. And I mean that. And I'm fortunate to be able to just come downstairs."

"Which, I know, I don't always. Even when I'm here, even when I hear," because sometimes work is work, and her side projects too can draw her in deep. "I still appreciate the invitation, Una, and I hope you won't stop."

"The door's always open," is quiet, but Una's expression is firm and genuine. "Whoever's here, you're always welcome to join. I don't host exclusive gatherings. I hope you-- and Jules-- know that."

"I can't speak for Jules, of course. I'd like to think she does."

"Once I went down late and... it seemed like people might be more comfortable with other people they knew well; I went right back up. Which I don't say to try and provoke guilt, Una," Della is quite firm and steady on that, even as she watches her friend closely. "It's all right. It's more a matter of being there at the beginning, or soon thereafter, or not."

She smiles. "I'm fine with complicated."

Una's mouth gets drawn together, tightly, but she gives a little nod: she can understand that, even if-- even if, "I don't want to make you feel like you can't use your own kitchen," is what she says. "But I can appreciate that feeling. I likely wouldn't join in that case, either."

Also, "And don't ever feel like you can't invite people here, too, if it comes to it. Post-Dream, or for any other purpose."

Della's own smile shows up again, especially in her eyes. "How did you guess I might go there," she says.

Circling back, "If I'm ever starving and feel that way, I'd like to think I'd think to tromp loudly and give warning at least," though that can't be a guarantee, only a hope. And to see if she can bring one of Una's real smiles back out, "Something subtle like, 'Hungry, hungry, I'm so hungry, I'm going to eat some yummy-food-oh!'" half-sung to a marching air.

The half-singing, the words; all of it conspires to make Una laugh, too. "You do that, you'll definitely break any tension," she promises. "And we'll all giggle, and probably be grateful for it. Seriously, though." Seriously seriously.

"Mmm." Della's got that sphinx look to her, all but for the laughing eyes.

She tips her chin at Una; she considers.

Version one, speculative and pleased to show it: research mode, possibly collaborative.

Version two: softer, head tilting with a certain friendly... wistfulness, maybe.

Then version three: stretching, arms up in the air, afterwards moving to slide out of her seat and stand. "Speaking of hungry, maybe I'll nosh just a little bit more," Della says with teasing, sideways slyness. And put her dishes away, too.

"There's cookies," says Una, with a flash of a smile for Della that acknowledges, too, the reality of the situation: there are always cookies in this kitchen. "And now there's cold pizza, too, for that matter. I wonder if I should put a pizza oven in, out the back. Not that it's not nice to have the excuse to go out occasionally."

Not that having perfectly acceptable coffee at home prevents her from buying coffee at Espresso Yourself at least a couple of times a week.

"Don't tell, but I feel like..." significant pause, "yogurt." Della's the one who gets it, the one who finds little containers with unusual flavors and tries to manage plastic-and-glass guilt by recycling. Another of those sideways smiles, and a little clinking later (and a pause by the fridge), the dishes are stowed.

"Look at us, reminding ourselves that it isn't real! All the mental space for us." Laptop and yogurt (tropical fruit this time, with turmeric and a sprinkle of urfa biber) and spoon all ready to go, right there on the table, Della offers the counter-perching redhead (Squirrel, perching?) a side-arm hug.

"Which reminds me..."

Una, perching. Squirrel, perching. At least Una hasn't pulled up her paws or started chewing on anything, though Della's side-arm hug draws a watchful, ever-so-slightly wary glance.

"Yes...?"

Such a glance is enough to consider the offer denied; in lieu, and with a glance of her own, Della steps back. Her tone remains cheerful enough: "Do you happen to know when Jules' birthday is? When is your birthday?" Hers was spent ringing in the New Year with a cold; this isn't a hint. "And is there a second bureau you'd be all right with my borrowing at present?" Not for a present.

Una's expression is, just for a moment, apologetic. Or possibly confused? It doesn't last: mostly because she's frowning, then, in clear response to Della's question. "Mine's in September. The 14th. Jules-- I'm not sure. I don't think I know, actually."

The frown lingers. How has she gotten by living with Jules for four months without this coming up? Unfortunate; uncomfortable.

"Mm-- I'm sure there is. You need more space?"

September. Della's brows draw in, speculative; "14th, got it. And tell you what, I'll ask her; why not."

She's over gathering her laptop and gear when she looks back at Una again; with a touch of humor, "Just more storage that isn't boxes." Which will get flattened and saved, for when she moves. "But, funny," finally she explains it, "I was wondering about asking that of you."

Una's fingers curve around the edge of the counter-top, and she's frowning-- again? still-- as she wonders, "Why?" Beat. "Anyway, there's definitely a spare one in the other room," the bedroom no one's using, "so we can absolutely move it. Honestly, Della: anything you need."

Della visibly considers; what she comes up with is, "I... hm. It seemed like the thing to do," and her one-armed shrug -- shrug, this time -- isn't very concrete either, for all that it's an attempt to be helpful. "Thanks. And what a relief we don't have to get it up and down the stairs, right?"

"Okay," says Una, letting it go. She exhales, just lightly, allowing the line of her shoulders to relax again. Breathing. Calm. Happy. "Look, I'm a very capable person, but... if we need anything from the basement, we're hiring help."

That curves her mouth into a broader smile.

And when she relaxes, Della notices that too -- even if she's also easing up. "Maybe by then we'll have some hulking neighbors," she teases, "Who really have a yen for cold pizza. Night, Una."

She doesn't wish her pleasant dreams. No Dreams at all.