2022-05-11 - Splash Splash Oops

The water is cold.

One minute running, then jumping, and then completely submerged without having the time to take a giant gulp of air.

Cold and dark. The rush of water surrounds them. The weight of their clothes, their shoes, drags them downwards.

Instinct kicks in. Jules grew up swimming in rivers, lakes, and oceans, the natural bodies of water that surround her hometown. She's more than competent, even has training for emergencies thanks to her long-time summer gig as a kayaking tour guide. She might not be lifeguard qualified, but it's something, and it's training she draws on now.

Ravn's still got hold of her, and now Jules has hold of him, shifting her grasp to sling an arm securely under his armpit and across his chest, drawing him against her own body while she kicks and pulls one-armed against the weight of the water, trying to locate the surface. He's dead weight, and he's flailing in the midst of his asthma attack, though hopefully he'll have enough sense not to fight her. If only she had a mentalist's ability in this moment to yell into his mind, don't fight me dammit.

The spasms in his chest won't give. Ravn's feet kick at the water, and for a moment he's about to panic. Then there are arms around him, and he remembers enough of his own childhood learnings to somehow, somehow, go as limp as you can when you're coughing, coughing, coughing.

The West Coast of Jutland. The Atlantic Ocean, creating treacherous currents and sandbanks. The many narrow Sounds and Belts around Denmark's many islands. The rapid current of the Little Belt near his home, with whirlpools notorious for gobbling up kayakers and sending them on unseen underwater currents, to surface near Bergen, Norway. The tides of the Wading Sea, moving the coastline kilometres in or out, in a matter of hours.

Swimming lessons are mandatory in Denmark for some strange reason.

He's not a strong swimmer. He does know that the greatest threat of drowning while rescued lies in dragging the rescuer down. He makes himself be a ball of coughing, but not of flailing. He's done. He can't rescue himself while his body is cramping up in attempts to expel his lungs. Hopefully, Jules is that much stronger a swimmer. And hopefully, he's not impeding her too much.

Thank God Ravn knows not to fight her. It’s a near thing as it is, given the shock of this splash-landing, the heaviness of their clothes, and the fact that Ravn is significantly bigger than Jules. It takes all her strength to get them to the surface and then strike out for the shore. Her shoes as slip-ons; it marginally helps that she immediately kicks them off.

They will make it to the shore, though it’s a struggle. Jules puts her feet down as soon as she can touch bottom and then works on helping Ravn get upright so she’s no longer towing his dead weight.

“You okay?” Jules gasps out as soon as she can, when she’s no longer conserving her breath for swimming. “Breathe.”

Amazingly, the asthma attack subsides. Maybe it's more scared of Jules than it is of the man whose chest it lives in. She is a fierce woman, small or not.

He falls to his knees on the rocky riverbank. He spits water. He looks -- and feels -- like a drowned rat. It takes a while before he can say anything at all but at least he manages a weak, gloved thumb in a gesture of OK. Alive. All limbs accounted for. It's a good start.

A thumbs-up is good enough. Still alive. And that, at the moment, is all Jules can ask for.

She tumbles to hands and knees, too, exhausted from the ordeal. And not just the physical effort of pulling them both to shore -- all of it. She doesn't say anything, but when she rolls herself into a seated position and hugs her knees, she's shaking.

For a while Ravn does not try to speak. It's far from his first rodeo. Anything but breathing itself may set up another fit of coughing or spasming in his airways. Breathe in. Breathe out. One, Mississippi, two, Mississippi.

He keeps an eye on Jules to not miss anything she might say -- on a range from 'are you ready to go' to 'help, the current broke both my legs'. He pats his pockets for his mobile phone. He opens the pink Hello Kitty casing. He looks anything but surprised that the phone is dead. It's going to take a lot more than a bowl of rice to dry out dunking it in a river.

His teeth start to clatter. It's cold. He's cold. They're both wet and cold. Got to get moving before exposure sets in. He tries, at last, to speak. "We need to get back to town."

Jules isn’t saying a word. She’s just sitting there shivering from shock as much as from the cold dunking they just endured. A small nod acknowledges that she’s at least heard Ravn, but she doesn’t move until she realizes with a start, “Shit, shit, shit, I lost it.”

Or perhaps not. The tool that opened the door to another world doesn’t want to be lost. It has its own agenda. So while Jules may have lost hold of it while swimming to shore, the little carving floats right on up to the rocky bank, so close it nearly bumps against her feet.

"Looks like it didn't lose you," Ravn murmurs and shivers. "You're the family shaman now."

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

Jules will have to work out just how she feels about this designation in time. For now, she just leans forward to picks up the figurine. It’s pleasantly warm, despite the cold, cold waters.

Then she stands, sticking the object in the back waistband of her sodden jeans. “Alright. Where the fuck are we?”

Fortunately, they’ve washed up on the right side of the river. Bayside Road follows the river, not so far above them.

Ravn coughs. Cold, asthmatic, exhausted, shivering. "Close enough to walk home, I hope. This thing didn't survive the swim." He tucks his mobile phone back in his pocket and gets on his feet.

At least it's May. This would have been so much worse in January.

"Okay." Big breath. Jules can do this. "Okay."

One foot in front of the other.

And another in front of the other. One step at a time. Coughing, dripping, shivering. "Might want to get into a shower first thing," Ravn murmurs. "We must be several degrees too cold."

It will take them awhile. Time passes in the movement between one world and another; more time passes as Jules and Ravn slowly make their way north through the neighborhoods, shivering and sopping wet.

Eventually, they make their way to Oak Avenue and the familiar houses that line their block. Jules doesn't bother tramping around to the back. The front entry will get wet. Everything will get wet. They might've dried out some on the walk, but still -- there's a river's worth of water in these clothes.

Ravn grunts his agreement with Jules. Words aren't necessary and his jaw is clenching with cold. He just follows her until they reach Oak Avenue, and then turns to head towards Oak Three and his shower. He has every intention of just sitting in the shower under the warm water, clothes and all, until he can either breathe or he stops shivering. His inhaler, useless. It too has been dunked in the Chehalis.

Time flies. Or does it? Maybe it tumbles like boulders through an hour glass, jamming up and then falling on after the weight of it becomes too much. Coffee? Yes. Harder stuff? Yes. The good harder stuff?

Yes.

Ariadne is busy staring at nothing across the kitchen. Her hands are wrapped around a highball glass of a second two-finger's-worth of good whiskey. Her phone lays on the table, its screen dark and silent. Being buzzed is helping. She's sorely tempted to get drunk, but she drove here. There's no driving back or anywhere she needs to be if she drinks more.

She takes another sip anyways. She's had a cookie or three, but they only pad a stomach so much.

Even with her buzz, she hears odd sounds towards the front. Sitting bolt upright, she looks between Della and Mikaere wordlessly before back towards the kitchen door. It might be a little heartbreaking how she carefully swallows.

Della's leaning against the counter, her head tipped back, given some slight support by the upper cabinetry. She has coffee, just like before, only spiked. With whipped cream. Her hair's down, by now, in a single braid; she has a whipped-cream mustache.

She straightens. "Call?" she says, putting down her mug. "Just in case." It's her house, at least in Una's absence; she'll go to the door, hurry to the door. Maybe she'll even get the mustache off in time.

Is it a good thing, a useful thing, to mentally reach out every few minutes to call out?

JULES? RAVN? If you're out their you better fucking report in!

It doesn't matter if it is or not: that's what Mikaere's been doing. He's still at his place at the table, still working his way through what is definitely not his first drink. Della hurries to the door, Ariadne straightens and stares; Mikaere? He scowls.

Here's the thing. Jules can't exactly respond, at least not mentally. So she yells, right as Della comes down the hall, "HERE." And then, in a more moderate tone, she tells Della, "Ravn went home for a shower." Hello. She's a drowned rat.

Walk into shower cabin. Sit down. Turn water on. Undress later. Just fucking breathe. Hot, wet air. It helps.

Ravn probably should do things like, take his jacket off, or at least take cigarettes, phone, inhaler out of his pockets. He doesn't bother. They're all wet anyhow. There's probably a dead minnow in his pocket too, the way his day has been going.

We made it back, he tells himself. We made it back.

After all, that was his first attempt to open a door back out of the dreamscape -- something which people keep telling him is incredibly difficult and hard to do. It could have ended them somewhere far worse.

"There's one reporting in," Ariadne breathes just loudly enough to be heard. It means she too heard Mikaere at a remove. But where's Ravn?

Home to shower. Boat does not have a shower he'd want right now. Three Oak. Grabbing her phone (this makes it into her jean pocket somehow), the barista then ditches her whiskey post-haste. She enacts an unapologetic near-faceplanting on the kitchen floor saved only by palms slammed to the floor before she manages to get out into the hallway.

The chair continues slowing in its one-legged pirouette...and clatters to all fours again.

"Be right back!" Somehow, she manages to not run over Della or Jules, but she does bounce off the front door's frame with an audible "OOF FUCK!"

There she goes, across the lawns, and she's beauty, she's (not really) grace, she manages to not eat grass as she skids towards the front door of Three Oak. Front door, thrown open. "Ravn?!" Barge right in, won't you? Shower. Listen for water. Go away, pleepchooing grandfather clock, she doesn't need your help right now. "Ravn!" Bathroom. Shower, running water. "Ravn?!" Bathroom door flings open. "Ravn?"

Over her shoulder, yelled, "They're back!" Della can tell Ariadne the Ravn part when she's close enough, surely -- or, wait, Ariadne knows, she's going, she's gone. (Thud.)

Just now, drowned rats get hugs. Big hugs. Possibly also some accidental whipped cream.

"Jules Jules Jules come in." Which will be easier when Della gets out of the way; she tugs. (And plans, even now, to lock up.)

Mikaere? He stays where he is. He watches Ariadne go, nodding approvingly as he does, but he? He stays where he is, still nursing what's left in his glass, still shaking off whatever demons are still haunting him.

He can wait.

Della hugs; Jules clings to her like her life depends upon it. "I'm sorry," she begins, and then the shaking starts all over again. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry." It's all she can say at the moment, again and again, as she starts to cry. Della probably can't tell the difference, though, between the water from the river and the dampness from her tears.

There's somebody talking and making noises and walking around and it's got nothing to do with Ravn. He's in the water. The water is warm. He'll be able to breathe again. Soon. Until then, nothing else matters. Somebody else's problem.

He can't fix everything. Usually, he can't fix very much at all. He can't even breathe.

He's dimly aware that he's not as conscious as he'd like. That the limited availability of oxygen makes his brain shut out anything but the one thing that will fix the problem: Hot steam. He sits in the shower cabin, arms around his knees, eyes closed, soaked under the hot water, and counts.

One, Mississippi. Two, Misssippi.

Don't startle the deer.

A thought there and gone in her whiskey-addled forebrain. Ariadne knows it's Ravn -- somehow -- if pressed, she wouldn't be able to explain, but the dark color of the silhouette in the shower cabin speaks to black clothing.

"Ravn." He's not responding. Cold seeps into the bathroom as she forgets about the open door and pulls aside the curtain. First things first, ABC: airway, breathing, circulation. Can't check airway, he's curled upon himself under the steaming water, still in his clothes. Breathing: yes, his back is rising and falling, but she doesn't like the sound of the wheezing. That makes her gut cold.

"Ravn, it's Ariadne. I'm right here. I'm here, emberem, you're back." How calm she feels. It's weird. "Keep breathing for me." God, she wants to hold him, hug him, but that'll be like fire and he doesn't need that right now. Instead, she slumps to one hip and offers out a hand near to where his line of sight might catch it if he opens his eyes. It means her sleeve is going to get wet. Whatever. "Keep breathing. In...and out. In...and out." With emphasis, she echoes her own breathing pattern. Each sigh does smell a bit like whiskey.

Fishing her phone out of her pocket, she tries texting buzzed and one-handed to Della: Got Ravn, in showr. How Jules?

Della, well. She hugs Jules back. Jules, who isn't like Normal!Jules, but who on the other hand may not be like Possessed!Jules either, and it's not as though Della hasn't hugged her through tears before. Never mind the locking for now; she focuses on giving the other woman what she needs, not asking what she's sorry for, at the most seeking to pivot them inside.

(Though there may be a part of Della, a small part, who recognizes that staying on the front porch might be good for water containment. There's so much water.)

Her wrist vibrates. She gets half a look at it, murmurs, "You're here, you're home. Ariadne's got him. You're home." She doesn't yet reply.

Should Mikaere rush out to Jules about now? It may be that he's feeling uncomfortable, guest in someone's home, not boyfriend or partner, but merely-- simply-- the man she's been sleeping with. Maybe it shows in his expression, the uncertainty and indecision, not that there's anyone there, now, to see it. He's alone in someone else's kitchen, his shoulders easing their relief now that he knows everything is okay.

He does, finally stand. He does, finally, set down his glass, and take a few steps down the corridor. It's probably not enough.

He's out of place. Not out of time, but--

Jules lets Della guide her in. Her breathing's ragged, but the longer she stays there holding on to Della, the more she's able to steady it instead of just gulping in air between her apologies.

"I'm sorry." This last, final one is addressed to Mikaere, as Jules lifts her chin and looks at him over Della's shoulder.

She pulls herself away from her housemate, finally, with the statement, "I need a hot shower." She needs more than that, but first things first. Her mind is clicking into gear. One: warmth.

Two: somebody get her a damn drink.

Eventually, the wheezing subsides. Air becomes easier to force down Ravn's throat. His bronchies warm to the idea of uptaking oxygen, his lungs to distributing it.

It starts to dawn on him that one of the hands in the shower isn't his. He looks at it. It seems familiar.

He's not at the point yet where he's going to try to have a conversation. He reaches out and curls a gloved hand around it -- squelch!. He doesn't dare to try to talk yet. At least he's no longer shivering. Just shaking a bit, and that's another problem entirely. The anxiety of near-drowning is going to have a party for a while now because whoo-hey, so much ammunition.

He raises his trembling hand up, with Ariadne's, and places it against his temple. Maybe she'll understand. Maybe she won't. Either way, he hasn't got the air to spare.

Squishy gloves are admittedly not attractive, but for the moment, it doesn't matter. Just another thing that goes squish. So do sea cucumbers if you poke them hard enough. Thanks, buzzed brain.

A last glance at her phone. More one-handed texting to Della: Asthma was bad, good now. Jules okay?

Ariadne then manages to get the strap of her purse off from about her shoulder. It's set by the phone and then she too just clambers into the shower cabin as well. At least the water's warm. She thinks maybe she gets what he's trying to say. Legs angle around his seated frame in turn while she reaches with her other hand to frame his face. Forehead to temple, there we go, never mind the runnels of hot shower water down her face. Her hair will soaked. Everything will be soaked. Whatever redux.

"Right here, I'm here. You're here. Keep breathing," she firmly if quietly tells the man. "Jules is fine." I think. She hasn't heard her phone go off yet. "Della's there, Mikaere's there."

Now Della can lock the door, and another small part of her is surely wondering about the back door, is that locked, are they okay --

"Wipe your feet," she instructs like that'll help, but that's what the rug is for, even for bare feet. She aims to squeeze out her friend's shirtsleeves and hems some, her hair, but the jeans are a lost cause --

Her hand grazes something in Jules' pocket, something that sparks --

"Mikaere, would you make coffee? Warm food -- frozen burrito?" Della isn't a mind-reader, but that's the next step, the next thing to do, next. "You take your shower, I'll get you some clothes," warm clothes, cozy clothes, especially if they're the first things that leap out of Jules' closet at her. "Go, go." She'll herd her friend up the stairs if she can, answer Ariadne's text when she's able: Wet, cold. Showering. Glad you have him.

Another: No answers yet.

"It's not your fault," says Mikaere, gently. His arms are not-quite outstretched, as if he'd like to dive in to the holding of people, but doesn't dare to do so; he'll have to wait his turn. He'd normally be so quick to respond, to take the lead-- but this is not his space, and that leaves him still adrift, just standing there.

At least until Della's suggestion pushes him into action. "Warm food," he promises. "Yes. I'll be here," and maybe that's for Jules, a promise he can make to her, even from where he stands, out of immediate reach.

"I've got it."

I've got you, maybe, but that can go unspoken.

For a while, Ravn just breathes, trying to stay in control of the spasms. Gradually, reality starts to reassert itself, along with the realisation that if not for Jules, he'd be floating face down in the Bay now.

Like so many others before him. And with the death and murder rate of this town, he'd be ruled just another accidental death. A suicide, perhaps. He'd be on Ava Brennon's slab and autopsied because that's standard procedure here, in this country. And then his family would be notified back home, and he has no idea whether his body would be flown home for burial, or he'd be put to rest here, to join Mr Jankowski in haunting St Mary's Cemetery.

When he does try to speak it's very simple. "Should. Get dressed."

"But it is." Jules' fault.

Beyond that, she's mute, following Mikaere with her eyes until Della gets her moving, gets her up the stairs. She follows directions, peeling off her wet clothes -- wet jeans are a bitch to get out of -- and leaving them in a soaking pile on the bathroom floor while she waits for the water to heat. It's so slow, in these old houses. As soon as it's lukewarm (and still warmer than her), she climbs in and just stands there under the spray of the water.

She leaves the bathroom door open. Caring who comes in or out is so not a priority.

And for a while, Ariadne just sits there, slowly getting as soaked through with water. It's more pleasant because she's buzzed, though the ebb and flow of her own emotions is more difficult to control. At one point, probably out of sheer stress, a tear or two blends with dampness from shower splash. Her own inhale shudders in and leaves far more calmly. Okay -- it's out of her system.

Ravn speaking startles her, in a way; she's close enough where the flinch will be easily felt. Pulling her face back, she searches his own. The humidity has made her mascara run a bit, but oh well. Raccoon smoky eye is sexy, right?

"Tell me what to get, I'll go get it." She's sure she can find which room belongs to him. The closet will be mostly monochrome. Once told, there she goes -- though after stripping down to bra and underwear. Pragmatic? Buzzed? The result of both. Guess Aidan's getting an eyeful if he manages to walk in on this fiasco.

Della still gets a text back on the fly: No answers either. Finding clothes.

Quick as two shakes of a (very buzzed) lamb's tail, there she is again, with dry Ravn clothing. Her own are a puddle on the bathroom floor.

Della sees to it that Jules is settled in the shower, as much as she can be right now; then comes -- along with a thumbs-up emoji for Ariadne -- the clothes-finding, the towels-finding. Socks. All the mundane things that can help a person right herself.

(If she had the laundry equipment on the same floor, she'd warm up a towel, Jules' clothes. But she doesn't. So she can't. So she thinks.)

She's left the bathroom door ajar; now she returns to put towels on the toilet tank, clothes over the towel rack where they won't risk falling, herself against the wall, looking away. "Lots of soap," she instructs gently. "Soap, shampoo, all of that. Wash it all off." Mostly it's the sound, the rhythm, of her voice.

Mikaere meets Jules' gaze for as long as he can, his expression insistent, in its quiet way, of her innocence-- or, if not that, then certainly her lack of complicity.

It's only once she's out of sight that he returns to the kitchen. Happily thing, really, that Una keeps the freezer well-stocked: there's more than just a frozen burrito in there; a whole frozen casserole, even, which even Mikaere can put into the oven at an acceptable temperature (even if he does need to take out his phone to quickly recalculate temperatures... Fahrenheit what?).

There's more whiskey, too, not to mention plates and silverware and everything else that may be necessary. It at least keeps him busy, while he's otherwise being so completely unhelpful.

For once in her life, Jules is good about following instructions. Soap, shampoo, rinse. Right now, someone telling her what to do is completely welcome, as mundane as these things are.

Finally, she's warm. It's still awhile before she wants to turn off the water, though, and climb out of the tub. It's safe in that little rectangular space between the tiles and the shower curtain. It's a space where she doesn't have to talk, doesn't have to explain herself, doesn't have to think.

But the hot water won't last forever. It's probably that which gets her moving and cuts through the inertia, which has her reaching beyond the curtain for a towel.

Most of the clothing Ariadne finds is likely monochromatic. Or maybe that should just be most of what she picks.

As it happens, the bedrooms -- of which Ravn's is one -- share a walk-in closet. Meaning, there's a perpetual war being fought. Ravn's clothes -- the black army on one side. Aidan's -- anything but, on the other. Every so often, something sneaks on to the wrong shelf. Some of the shirts have been breeding, producing t-shirts in dull shades.

He pulls his blazer off. It's ruined.

He kicks his boots off. It's going to take effort to save them.

Jeans and shirt -- those, at least, just need a wash. He leaves all of it in the shower. Clean in the morning. Aidan will forgive him, he's pretty sure of that. Also, he's the one who does most of the cleaning, anyway.

All he wants is to get to bed and sink into blissful darkness and not think about how close he came to drowning or to being lost and destroyed in 1850.

Damp clothes in the shower, damp clothes on the bathroom floor -- Aidan must be forgiving indeed.

Looks like Ariadne's surviving by body heat under the covers in the end. She thinks to steal a towel off one of the hangers and wrap her hair against chill, at least, after drying herself off as well as she can. Whiskey. Such the ruiner of kinesthetic prowess. She's sure to fire off one more text to Della before both disappear beneath the covers:

Ravn very tired, resting. Things good as can be. Will check in before going home tonight.

The phone is then set aside on the bedside table and she cuddles in. "I've gotcha, bud, rest now," she murmurs into his damp coppery hair. "You did good. Rest now."

A towel which gets handed to Jules.

By now, Della's wrung her housemate's discarded clothes out into the sink. Not that she'd touched the figurine again, not with bare hands; that got wrapped in a washcloth and set aside, along with anything else that might have been in Jules' pockets. Della's texted Mikaere, too: that she's keeping tabs on Jules in case she falls, and does he need anything. That sort of thing. Later, Ariadne will get updates as necessary too.

Here and now, "There's another towel, there. You've your clothes. I'll step out."

And read, and half-smile. As good as can be. That, that's good.

Mikaere's fine-- his texted reply will reassure Della of as much, too. Jules is fine. That's the important thing. Unfortunately, once the casserole is in the oven, there's not so much for him to do to occupy himself. Nothing but pacing: back and forth, back and forth.

Sometime else's kitchen. Someone else's space.

Drinking more won't help, not really, but it fills the time.

Jules moves like an automaton. Towel, check. A second one for her hair. Then clothes. A soft pair of fleecy not quite sweatpants, not quite yoga pants. A lightweight baby blue sweater.

Somewhere along the way, she takes off the sodden bandages from her upper arm and discards them in the trash.

Finally, she's ready to step out, wet-haired but warm. After a hesitation, Jules picks up the washcloth-wrapped figurine and takes it along with her; it can't exactly stay right there on the counter, now can it? It's time to tread downstairs then, slowly, light on her feet, and not particularly wanting to meet anyone's gaze.

Having changed into dry -- and less omg-casual -- clothes of her own, Della's gotten the bread out, but that's about it for sides; she's retrieved Jules' gear, putting it near where her housemate usually sits, a quick text having noted that she can drop Ravn's by later and Ariadne should let her know.

That table? Even if Mikaere hadn't already taken care of it, it's set now for three.

Una would hover next to the oven waiting for the reheating to be done. Mikaere? Look, isn't it enough that he got it in the oven in the first place (and not just the microwave) and at an acceptable temperature? He's back at the table, nursing his drink, when Della returns. She can set the table-- she can do everything, really, at this point, except for the way that he's watching her with wary, hopeful eyes, tracking back to the hallway at regular intervals in preparation for Jules' return.

"Hey," he says, at the sound of Jules' approach. It's neither accusatory nor questioning: just a statement. Hey.

"Hi." Jules shuffles her way in, taking in the table, the place settings, how all the items previously on the table have been moved elsewhere. She stops by the cutting board to pull off the top from her box and drop that damn little figurine back inside. Then, instead of sitting, she comes to stand alongside Mikaere at the table and reach for his drink. "May I?"

This once, this once he's gotten away with just sitting there, but rest assured, it's going in his eval.

Della has a quiet smile for her friend, and for certain she's observing what's going on with that box. But she doesn't butt in; the most she does is lean to see if the oven timer's been set, or whether that needs doing too.

Mikaere relinquishes his drink pretty readily, without a word. It takes him a moment more to start snaking his arm around Jules' waist, the hug that isn't quite a hug but may still try and draw her up against him anyway.

(Oven timer? What's an oven timer?)

So Jules plucks the glass away from Mikaere and drinks. Just a sip -- it's strong -- but one sip will be followed by another. She leans her hip into him, shifts the glass from one hand to the other, and settles the nearer one on his shoulder.

Only after a few sips and a few long quiet seconds does she break the silence. "I'm a fucking idiot."

Della checks her watch, does some mental calculations, doesn't interrupt yet. She also doesn't disagree. Or a-gree.

"No," says Mikaere, though he's holding tight to Jules, that arm looped snugly in place. "It's not your fault. The important thing is: you're safely back. Both of you are."

"It kind of is." Jules doesn't let that stand without contesting it. Her guilt is too close to the surface to not claim culpability. "I didn't think," she continues. Her voice remains steady until the last remark: "Ravn almost drowned."

So that explains the wet clothes.

Della, quietly: "What happened?"

That's all. (But the casserole!)

"You didn't intend to be possessed," Mikaere points out, so very evenly. He's looking upwards, now, in an attempt to meet Jules' gaze. "I'm not going to claim any of it was a good thing, but-- you didn't intend for it to happen."

Jules' fingers clench in Mikaere's shirt when he mentions that word. Possessed. Down goes the rest of that drink, though she doesn't yet put the empty glass down. "It doesn't matter," she answers, making herself look him in the eye. "Still happened because I was stupid. I should've known better."

It's a relief to look away, even if she's still standing right there, maintaining physical contact. "We fell in the river," she tells Della.

Well, okay. "Which river?" Della asks. Let Mikaere deal with the blame game; she's looking at practicalities. "How did you get un-possessed, and is it likely to happen again?"

There's the faintest of tugs from Mikaere, as if he's attempting-- without forcing -- to draw Jules into sitting on his lap (and not, let's be very clear about this, in a sexy way). "Should you have?" he wonders. "It's not like you knew that was going to happen."

If he weren't still trying so hard to keep Jules' gaze focused on him, so that he can impress on her how serious he is in not laying blame, he might acknowledge Della right now. Alas.

Not much (any) resistance from Jules. She resettles on Mikaere's knee, back against his broad chest. This too is comfortable, a different kind of safe. It also means she doesn't have to look him in the eye without actually having to avoid it. "The Chehalis," she tells Della. As for the rest-- "I don't know."

Jules does not want to talk about it. That's very clear from her deliberate subject change: "Is the food ready?"

The Chehalis.

As for Jules' question, Della lifts her brows Mikaere's way.

Mikaere has a lap full of Jules now, Della: what is he supposed to do, hmm? His arm wraps all the more snugly around her.

"I think it should be," is what he says. There's a little note of apology in the way he looks at Della... but only a very small one.

Jules is pretty damn unhelpful in this moment, because she doesn't have any inclination to move. Not yet. Maybe when there's food in front of her. In the meantime, she considers the small droplet of liquor at the bottom of her glass. This is an unacceptable state. She leans forward far enough to pluck the bottle of whiskey from the center of the table and gives herself a generous pour.

"There you go, then."

Della doesn't check.

Della refreshes her coffee (if with a surreptitious touch to the box along the way), deliberately turns on the ball of her foot, and walks out.

Moments later, a door slams. (It's the closet door.)

Footsteps: swiftly, quietly up the stairs.

At least she waits until Una's due to be off shift before texting her: Jules is home from a scary Veil trip with Ravn. They're dry now. Text Jules and Mikaere if you need anything. I need a nap.

And: <3

Mikaere-- such a man!-- blinks after Della, utterly at a loss.

"Uh," he says.

He might need to steal back some of that whiskey, though he doesn't, yet.

Jules winces.

A minute later, when the door slams, she flinches.

"Fuck," she mutters under her breath, chased with the whiskey that she wordlessly surrenders to Mikaere, even without his asking. Now she slides off his lap and stands up to go retrieve the casserole from the oven. From there, she can go through the motions: turn off the oven, cut the casserole into portions and plate two. She slides one in front of Mikaere and sits down opposite with her own plate. Jules isn't really hungry, though, and she just picks at it before giving up altogether.

Jules trades her fork for her phone, finding it among the things piled on the bench, and shoots off a quick text to Della that she doesn't expect to go answered: sorry. Then she turns the phone off altogether. She's had enough for today, no more communication please.

All that's left is to look across the table at Mikaere and plainly ask, "You staying?"

"Do you want me to?"

To which Jules replies rather dryly, "You have to ask?"

"I didn't want to assume. Of course I'll stay, though."

He might-- might!-- be less easy about this, if he had any idea of the potential for Una's Wrath. As it is-- he merely smiles at Jules, a little lop-sided, a little rueful. "You're safe. Everything's okay."

Is it?

Jules doesn't have an answer. Better not to think too hard.

And to scoot Mikaere out the door in the morning before he meets Una.