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 Posted: Wed Nov 11, 2015 8:00 pm
( this is backdated to October 10th )
The walk back was long, if only because Desdemona didn’t know where they were going - the fact that he was unsteady and stumbling the entire way was less of the problem. She wasn’t as tall, but she was strong; from her time in captivity where she’d been reduced to all but skin and bones to now, she’d eaten right, she’d trained, and she’d worked hard and long for the sleek, toned body she had today. No matter which was he sagged, she hardly wavered, just gently supporting and tugging him along the best she could.
It was finding the loft that was the problem. It wasn’t impossible to pry directions out of Fritz, but it took some effort, some patience, and was peppered shamelessly by terms of endearment to encourage him. But finally, finally, they got there, standing before the door with Desdemona still holding his arm.
“We need your keys now, dear,” she coaxed, resting her head lightly against his shoulder - simply as encouragement. Some part of Desdemona wondered if she should even be here, if it wouldn’t have been smarter to have just left him to his own devices in the bar and be on her way. - but she never really considered the option. Was it pity? - was she maybe a little endeared by how broken he seemed? - in any case, she didn’t wholly understand herself (did she want to?), but they were here now.
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Fritz was was, sadly, completely unhelpful on the walk home save for a vague gesture of his hand towards the direction of his loft and a mumbled room number and floor. He was stumbling along ungracefully beside Desdemona, completely lacking in his usual confident bravado, and he was leaning on her probably way more than necessary in order to keep his balance.
By the time they made it up the elevator (taking the stairs seemed ridiculously stupid for a variety of obvious reasons), Fritz was swaying again. He hadn’t talked much on the walk over, and now his hair hung down on either side of his face, curtains of red against his freckled cheeks.
“Keys?” he muttered, trying to distinguish what this word meant. “Keys. Yes. Those…” He waved a careless hand. “Those things.
Fritz fumbled in his pockets for a second and finally managed to procure a set of said keys. There were only two or three on the ring, and a metal keychain of an orange tabby cat dangled from the end. He dropped them into Desdemona’s hand with a flourish.
”Keys,” he said grandly.
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Those things. Desdemona cracked a smile in spite of herself and gave an enduring kind of sigh, shaking her head as he finally produced aforementioned keys and dropped them into her hand with that declaration. “God you’re so lucky you’re cute.” An orange tabby cat. - yes, that was one thing she remember - she did like cats. Irritatingly, the thought beckoned Ash’s image to the forefront of her mind. She shook the thought off and sighed again, trying one failed key first before getting it right and twisting it, allowing them inside.
It was a pretty nice place, really, all things considered. It was bigger than her apartment? - more modern at any rate. Didn’t really matter. She toed off her shoes at the door and with some careful maneuvering managed to shut and lock the door behind them, depositing the keys carelessly on some table as she led Fritz along through the unfamiliar apartment. Idly, she took note of the kitchen - she’d come back to that.
The first bedroom she passed didn’t seem like his, or she guessed it probably wasn’t - it seemed like more of a guest room, more barren - the second one she came across looked more lively, or more lived in at any rate. There, she sat him down on the bed, again being surprisingly gentle - or perhaps less surprising given how much of his weight she’d been supporting on the walk back home.
“Don’t fall asleep on me now, handsome, ” she murmured, brushing his hair from his face on both sides with both hands and tucking it behind his ears, pressing her lips to his again, though it was much more chaste and brief than before. “I’ll just be a second. Okay?” She flashed him a smile and didn’t really wait for an answer before she made her way back out to the kitchen.
Maybe she was being a little invasive, digging through his cabinets and all - but it was for a good cause, fishing out a glass to fill high with some nice cool water. Either way he was probably going to be miserable come morning, but it didn’t hurt to try and help the poor b*****d out a little?
“Fritz?” she called as she poked her head back in the bedroom, half-expecting him to just be slumped across the mattress.
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His loft was comfortably decorated and furnished, rather large because he could afford to have it the size he wanted. It had made sense, with Tolliver here, to have something this big - but now that he was gone, it seemed almost too much for him, the empty bedroom a reminder and a contrast he didn’t need to see. The door was kept shut most of the time, but it was open now, because Tolliver had dropped by to pick something up and had left it propped.
Fritz collapsed onto the bed in his own room and gave Desdemona a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I like sleep,” he said, and the kiss to his lips made the smile at least widen a little, his gaze fluttering.
He didn’t know where she went, but once he was alone, Fritz flopped backwards, closing his eyes briefly as he ran a hand through his hair. Little sounds were coming from the kitchen; he was vaguely aware that she was moving around, and he should probably stop her from snooping into any of his things, but he couldn’t work up the energy. Besides, there wasn’t much of anything to snoop at, unless one counted his identity as Celsus, and even then there was nothing noticeable about that in plain sight.
Fritz did not bother to push himself up when he heard his name. A hand lifted, waved carelessly.
“S’all good, m’all right,” he muttered, his head throbbing. “S’allllllll good.”
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Desdemona couldn’t quite help a smile, her brow arching and giving another light sigh as she made her way back across the room. “Uh-huh. All good. Sure it is.” Idly, she wondered how much of this he’d actually remember come morning.
Although with the way he’d been drinking, memory might be the least of his concerns by the time he pried his eyes open. Great end to a great birthday. “I’ve got something for you, dear,” she coaxed, settling down on the bed beside him, sitting and patting his thigh with her palm. “So you’ll need to sit up for a bit.” There wasn’t really any room for question.
Just to make sure he got the point loud and clear, she reached back and gave his side a gentle prod with her index finger, cradling the glass of water in her other hand. “Don’t make me come over there and lift you; I’ll do it if I have to,” she threatened, although was it really much of a threat?
Thinking of it in advance, she went ahead and outstretched her free hand, offering it to him for something to pull himself up with.
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Fritz did not exactly want to sit up, but Desdemona prodding his side was incentive enough. The bed had dipped as she’d sat down beside him, and he let out a groan of protest, trying in vain to roll away from her - though at the same time, he decided a second later, this was a bad idea, his head spinning with the movement.
“All right, all right,” he mumbled, and reached out, grasping her hand - it took him a second to find it - Fritz hauling himself upright beside her. For a second it seemed he was going to topple over backwards again, swaying unsteadily from side to side - but then he eased out a long breath and closed his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
“What do you have f’me?” he asked, wondering if this was a sense of nausea in his throat or just a sense of growing dread that there would be nausea later.
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Without really thinking much of it, even if he steadied himself, Desdemona went ahead and used the same hand to reach for his other shoulder, coiling her arm around him to try and steady him. Seeing him exhale like that, pinching the bridge of his nose - once it was all said and done she leaned in to press her lips to his cheek; again, chastely, almost sweetly.
“Something good,” she said simply, moving to press the glass into his hands - although she was ready to just do it for him if his hands weren’t steady enough. “Try and drink it all, okay freckles? - you’ll thank yourself tomorrow Fritz, really, ” she coaxed him, wondering if maybe she could poke and prod him into taking a second glass before he dozed off. Depended on how well he took this one, she supposed.
“You don’t go drinking like this often, do you?” She didn’t really expect to get an answer from him, not in the state he was in.
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Desdemona’s sweet kiss to his cheek was either not noticed or just not registered quite yet in Fritz’s brain, his eyes moving to the glass that she was trying to push into his hands. He accepted it automatically, and wrapped his fingers around the cool glass, his mind trying to formulate why she was handing him this and what he was supposed to be doing with it.
Oh yes. Drinking it. That’s right.
Fritz lifted the glass obediently to his lips and took a swallow, wincing slightly. But the water was gentle on his throat, not burning like the whiskey or other alcohol. He took a second swallow after the first and let the cool liquid just rest momentarily on his tongue before swallowing it.
“Nope,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Nooooope. I mean, I like - I like drinking, it’s bloody fun, but noooooope.”
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Desdemona chuckled softly as he finally sorted out the glass and water situation, reaching up once to run her fingers through his hair when she saw him wince, but otherwise kept on standby in case that glass slipped from between his fingers. “Good, that’s good. Just keep drinking like that,” she coaxed him.
Then resisted the urge to roll her eyes, the faint grin still tugging at the corners of her lips. “And you wondered why your adjective was ‘cute’, darling,” she murmured, more to herself than him, knowing he probably wouldn’t hear her anyway.
“Well I hope you’re not planning to make a habit of it. What would you have done if I’d left you alone, huh?” she teased him lightly - and again, didn’t expect much of anything back. But still. Her smile faded a bit. “Have you done it more? - I mean, since your twin got a boyfriend?”
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He obediently kept drinking, half because she had told him to, half because it did actually help a little. His throat still throbbed a little, his head aching, but the water was at least easing some of that.
Fritz didn’t hear the murmur, but he did hear the rest of Desdemona’s sentence.
“I would have just…” He waved a hand again, almost dropping the water. “I like, you know. I would have just laid down on the ground and slept, that woulda been fine, right? I woulda been okay, it woulda been just fine, really.”
Except it probably wouldn’t. Fritz clasped the glass in both hands again, wrapping fingers around the coolness.
“Maybe,” he answered mulishly. “Tolliver drinks a lot, more than me, but I don’t like drinking too much, I just like it off to the side, you know, just for fun, other people just, they go out and drink a lot, but thass not me, nope.”
He was teetering from side to side.
“Bet he goes out drinking with his man friend.”
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Desdemona stared at him long and hard for a moment before erupting into laughter, louder than any of her softer chuckles had been, trying to bite it back, but - “Oh god, Fritz, please. Please promise me you’ll never drink alone again, ” she chided him, more ruffling his hair that time than caressing it. Not that any promise made by him now would really be any damn good. It was so ridiculous it was almost endearing. (Almost.)
Another look was cast his way at the ‘not me’ bit, a brow arched and a softer laugh escaping her. “Uh-huh. Not you at all freckles. Perish the thought.” She held onto him a little tighter, trying to keep him steady, resting her chin lightly against his shoulder - more for comfort’s sake than anything.
“Maybe he does,” she echoed, sparing him a glance. And although she knew it already, she could help remarking, perhaps a little reflectively, “You really have been lonely, huh? - you didn’t have any friends to take you out tonight?” She paused, mulling it over. “Has it just been you and your twin all this time?”
Then, as if just remembering he’d almost dropped the water, she coaxed him again, “Just a little more and then you can sleep, okay? Look, the glass is almost empty.”
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“Why not?” Fritz asked, in a somewhat petulant tone of voice, though lacking any real fire behind it. “I don’t have anyone else to drink with, so I gotta, you know, I gotta drink alone, that’s all I’ve got left, really. This, and some painting rubbish, but, you know, that only gets you so far in life, okay.”
He nodded sagely at Desdemona as though imparting some intense, dramatic knowledge that was also important to someone’s well being - even if it wasn’t really. Fritz lifted a hand and rubbed at his brow, not wanting to think about the comment of being lonely. No, he was not lonely, he was not alone, he had - he had people, he had good people -
You are alone. Tolliver is gone. You are left alone.
“Nope,” said Fritz, rolling his shoulders, and he downed the rest of his water, licking his lips with a satisfied smacking sound. “Nope, I’m just - I’m totally fine, y’know, just fine.”
He held out the glass to her, because he wasn’t quite certain what he was supposed to be doing with it, now that it was empty and of no use to him.
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Of course he didn’t see the way his statements contradicted each other - he was too far gone for that - and Desdemona felt a stupid little pull somewhere between her chest and her stomach as she sighed again, taking the glass from him and setting it down on the table. “So… you paint, huh?” she questioned idly, first. Then looked down and gave a sigh, rolling her eyes lightly.
“Look at you. You’re hopeless. You didn’t even take your shoes off, did you?” she chided him, removing her arm and easing down to help him out with that real quick.
It was from down there on the floor, though, that she stole a glance back up, a thoughtful one. “You know. You could just ask me to drink with you, freckles.” He wouldn’t remember that, naturally. Maybe an offer better extended some other time? If ever. But it’d already been said, so - she looked down as she pulled off the second shoe. “I wouldn’t mind. - you’re pretty fun, all things considered.”
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“I paint,” he said, smiling brightly. “I paint a lot, there’s rubbish all over this apartment, I did the wall over there, too,” Fritz added, gesturing across from the bed, where a large and complex mural overtook the better portion of the space. It was incomplete; the paint tapered off near the right side, but it was a depiction of a skyline - the Destiny City one, to be exact. Extraordinarily detailed, the sun bright against the corner, and there were even people silhouetted in the windows of some of the buildings.
“S’not finished, but I’ll finish it…” He screwed up his face in concentration. “Sometime. I dunno.”
He had no idea where his shoes even were, though, not right now. Desdemona was tugging at his feet, which he assumed was what she was doing, and Fritz smiled benignly at her, swaying a little from side to side.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s good. I like having people to be around. People are fun, people are, you know, they’re fun. I think. Kinda. I wouldn’t know, I don’t have a lot of people close to me, y’know? I have lots of people, just not, you know, people.”
He was starting to make less and less sense, his vision clouding, Fritz’s eyes growing half-lidded.
“No people for me,” he mumbled distractedly.
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Desdemona looked up, her eyes widening as she actually took in the mural for the first time. It’d been there the whole time, but she was only just taking note of it now. Granted she’d been a little distracted, but even so, she didn’t really think there was much of an excuse for missing it. “Wow, “ she breathed out, squeezing his knee warmly before she got up. “I’d hardly call that ‘rubbish’ freckles.” So he was a pretty great artist? - go figure!
She was rushing to her feet again, and didn’t really hesitate to swipe her fingers warmly through his hair at his little admission, if it could even be called that. Whatever it was, it was something - and she saw his eyes growing hazy and distant. “Well then, don’t worry - I’ll be your people then,” and grammar, what was grammar? Desdemona took a breath and sighed. “I mean. Person. If you need a person then I’ll be your person.”
With a flashed smile and a promise that she didn’t really know if it held any water or not, she went ahead and tugged his blankets up for him, an open space for him to crawl underneath, and she grazed her fingers along his cheek, giving him another light kiss. “Go to bed, Fritz. - you want me to stay?” and really, more than any other time, she didn’t expect an answer from him.
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Fritz waved a hand noncommittally at the mural. “S’not great,” he mumbled. “Took me months to do, and it was supposed to be some big, grand thing, and totally wasn’t. Just sorta trailed off at the end, and that’s about it. Wish I could do something more than that, but, y’know, it is what it is, and I can’t do much ‘bout that, jus’ like I can’t do much ‘bout my big gay brother.”
His words were becoming more and more slurred with each sentence, Fritz’s eyes fluttering. He was only half aware of Desdemona’s offer, the alcohol numbing his senses enough that he was now swaying precariously from side to side. She was moving around him, tugging at his blankets, and he thought of the bed, nice and warm, like her lips against his.
He let out a hum and flopped backwards.
“Dunno,” Fritz mumbled, rolling until his face was against his pillow, voice muffled against it. “I dunno anythin…”
And without another word, he fell fast asleep.
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Big gay brother. Oh man, if she had the chance to tell him about any of this later - Desdemona hid a smile, barely managed to bite back a snicker. “Well. I think it’s very great,” she remarked carelessly, but honestly, patting his back once warmly as he settled down onto the bed. Within moments he was clearly fast asleep, which left her with a few options:
Go ahead and crawl in with him.
Go somewhere else in the apartment.
Just leave and assume that was the end of it.
She took some time, tugging the blankets up over him up to his neck, making sure he’d be comfortable - or at comfortable as he was going to get come morning - and bit her lip idly as she thought it over. It wasn’t often anymore that she got anxious or unsure; she sort of just did things without really - there hadn’t been a situation like this before. And suddenly she was standing here in a man’s apartment where she might or might not be welcome come morning.
Just leaving was very much an option. Really, it was.
A frown tugged at her lips as she leaned down, pressing a light kiss to the top of his head along with a sigh. “Good night, Fritz,” she murmured - and finally, she decided. She’d let him have his space. But it was late, and if he got worked up come morning, then so be it. With a resigned nod, rather begrudgingly leaving the softness of his bed, she went back out and settled on the couch. She didn’t really intend to sleep, but somewhere down the line she dozed off, half-draped over the armrest, arms tucked under her chin.
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He slept very soundly.
Which also meant that he awoke very suddenly, as though someone had dumped a bucket of cold water on top of him, Fritz jolting upright. His head was spinning violently, the world around him tilting, and there was really only one thought inside of his head - get to a bathroom.
With a grunt, a hand clapped over his mouth, Fritz threw back the covers, slipped over the side of the bed, and staggered towards the door. He flung it open - it banged noisily against the wall - and stumbled into the washroom, the door slamming shut behind him.
The unpleasant sounds of someone retching were soon audible.
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Desdemona, more by molding than by nature, was a painfully light sleeper. She fell asleep easily enough, but the slightest creak from the apartment above her was enough to make her stir. Even if she knew nothing of who she’d been before, she knew from the way her heart jolted whenever she roused that it had everything to do with her weeks in captivity. It was irritating that things like that still stuck with her, even so long after the fact.
So needless to say, a slamming door was more than enough to jolt her awake, scrambling briefly on the couch before she remembered where she was and what had been and there was the sound of vomiting. “Poor b*****d,” she murmured not for the first time, rubbing at her eyes to drag the last traces of sleep from them before she pulled herself up off the couch.
It was easier to get a glass of water this time, especially since she knew where she left the glass from last night, although she didn’t see any sign of painkillers - must have been in the bathroom, and that was probably going to be a whole thing right there. Taking a deep breath, she waited for the sound of retching to die down a little before rapping her knuckles lightly across the door.
“Freckles? You okay?”
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He did not, at least, throw up for long. Eventually Fritz managed to raise his head, fumbling for something to wipe his mouth with and trying very hard not to think about the actuality of what he was doing. He slumped back, face sweaty, and eased out a ragged breath.
There was a knock on the door. Fritz’s brow furrowed, and this confusion only grew more when a female voice, not Tolliver or Hitch’s, sounded from the other side. He climbed a little unsteadily to his feet and stumbled to the sink, rinsing out his mouth with water and mouthwash and splashing some water onto his face as well before he considered himself somewhat presentable.
He pulled open the door and found a vaguely familiar young woman standing there, looking back at him.
“Er,” said Fritz, his hand falling away as a slightly sheepish expression touched his face.
“Hi.”
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It took too long to answer. But she didn’t press again, not when she heard the rushing water of the sink and some kind of activity from the other side. There was that brief moment of uncertainty where she half-wondered what he’d think of her being there - but at least his expression wasn’t totally unwelcoming. Sheepish, yes, but that wasn’t exactly horror and outrage.
So she smiled back at him. “Good morning handsome.” Without much pretense, she went ahead and held the glass out to him. “Feeling any better? You’ll probably want this. - where’s your headache stuff? You probably need that too, right?”
He’d clearly cleaned himself up a bit, traces of water still clinging to his skin, although his hair looked damp with what could’ve just as easily been water or sweat. As she figured: one rough morning.
After a deliberate pause and beat, her smile shifted from warm to playful. “It’s Desdemona, by the way. In case you forgot.”
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He tried to figure out who she was in the space of time between opening the door and when she spoke, Fritz’s eyes sweeping over her smaller form from head to toe. It wasn’t the sort of interested look Desdemona had wanted the night before (not that he even remembered this), but instead was just a quick, appraising glance to determine her identity more than anything else.
“Oh,” said Fritz, brows raising, and he offered her a weak smile, taking the glass and sipping from it. “Thank you.”
He lifted the glass and gestured towards her in a vague semblance of a toast. “Cheers. But, ah…”
A moment passed, Fritz’s shoulders slumped, a helpless laugh escaping him.
“Bloody hell, I’m so incredibly sorry, I don’t remember much at all about last night.”
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She saw it for what it was, and it wasn’t the best or worst case scenario in this situation, really. “No need to apologize, freckles. I figured as much.” Desdemona’s smile didn’t falter, and if anything grew a bit wider, a bit mischievous. “Too bad though. It was a magical night. That thing you did with your hands was just -” She made a vaguely inappropriate noise for emphasis.
Then it was her turn to laugh, crossing her arms in front of her. “Just kidding. - not for lack of trying though.” She shot him a playful wink and pushed her hair out of her face with one hand. It was mussed from a night on the couch. “You were lamenting about your ‘big gay brother’,” and she threw in air quotes for emphasis, just in case he didn’t realize those were his words, not hers, “among other things - sounded like you’ve had it rough lately, Fritz.”
Desdemona dragged out a deliberate pause and shot him a calculating glance, her smile unwavering still. “Anyway, you were a little - off -” Understatement of the century. “So I took you home and put you to bed.”
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Well, at least she wasn’t slapping him and calling him names, which meant that the night had at least not been terrible. Fritz eyed Desdemona somewhat suspiciously, head tilted to the side as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorframe. His mind was still spinning unpleasantly, but at the very least, he had regained his sense of self somewhere in the midst of waking up, throwing up, and getting up.
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure I did just great work with my hands,” Fritz deadpanned, and he lifted both of the, waggling them obnoxiously. “Painter’s fingers and all that, totally bloody talented.”
He was grinning, but the grin slid away a second later as the topic of his brother came up. A closed-off, irritated expression crossed his face momentarily, and Fritz gave a sigh, pushing his hand through his hair. Something shifted, and then he was back to being pleasant, flashing Desdemona a very mild smile.
“Well, thank you for that,” he said lightly, and gestured for her to move so he could stop standing in his bathroom. “I appreciate that you didn’t just let me pass out on the floor.”
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Desdemona’s smile broadened at that, a chuckle escaping her. “I’m sure, handsome. Especially if that’s -” She motioned to the mural on the wall. “ - any indicator. You must be very good,” and she just let it hang in the air just what sort of ‘good’ she meant, painting or otherwise, that spark of something like mischief in her eyes. (He didn’t remember her praise from last night; seemed like as good a time to repeat it as any.)
Irritated. For a split-second, she wondered if that was directed at her, or solely at himself for having said such a thing. Either way, it was an interesting reaction, one step away from mortified or embarrassed, and Desdemona would be lying if she said it didn’t leave her curious.
She stepped aside fluidly, although made it a point to hang close by, keeping an eye out to lend an arm if he should need it. “Wouldn’t have been a very good end to a birthday, would it?” she said, a bit more gently, still with a smile. “Seriously, darling. How’s your head? - if you’re feeling up to it, eggs are supposed to be good for hangovers?”
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Oh, great, he’d shown her the mural - a half finished piece of artwork that needed to be locked away, shameful and lacking any of his usual finesse, at least in Fritz’s mind. He rubbed absently at his face, and gave Desdemona a look of mild exasperation as she stood there, an eyebrow raised in slight amusement.
“Good, not great,” he said airily, and she finally stepped aside to let him pass. Fritz trotted across the hallway and back into his room, making a beeline for the closet.
She’d mentioned his birthday. He couldn’t stop the wince that passed across his face, Fritz pulling out shirt after shirt, apparently dissatisfied with them all - or maybe he was just trying to have something to do with his hands.
“My head is…” He thought about lying, and saw no point.
“Feels like a train ran over it several times over,” said Fritz cheerfully. “Does that mean you made me breakfast?”
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Posted: Wed Nov 11, 2015 8:03 pm
“Ah…” Desdemona watched him as he walked past, turning to follow a step or two, and this time took her chance to lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest and a kind of bemused smile on her face. “First you play the sensitive card, then the modesty card - still not entirely convinced you haven’t been stringing me along all this time,” she teased.
Her amusement didn’t remotely dwindle as she watched him fish out shirt after shirt, idly shifting her head from side to side in a vain sort of attempt to stretch a kink out of her neck. Sleeping on the couch wasn’t so bad, but dozing off the way she’d done it hadn’t exactly done her any favors.
A surge of satisfaction washed through her at his answer; at least he hadn’t lied about it. “Poor darling; no breakfast yet, but I’ll go do that now,” because that’d been as good as permission. Desdemona pushed herself away from the doorframe. “I’ll have something for you to take for your head when you come out, okay?”
She turned to make a quick stop in the bathroom for the painkillers on her way to the kitchen, but couldn’t quite resist glancing over her shoulder and smirking playfully. “Honestly, freckles, if it’s that hard to choose, just ditch the shirt. You won’t hear me complaining.” She laughed and turned, waving over her shoulder as she went off to start doing what she’d said she’d do.
Once she’d gotten the ibuprofen and laid it out on the table along with a fresh glass of water - she’d give something else to drink with the eggs (his fridge wasn’t as woefully understocked as some she’d seen) - Desdemona took a minute to pull out her cellphone and make a quick call, and as she expected, she got her sister’s voicemail.
“Hey Poppy,” and she kept her voice quiet. “Just letting you know I’m okay. Spent the night with a friend. I should be back later. Probably. I think there’s still some waffles in the freezer - please make sure you eat. Call me if you need me. Love you~,” and she cooed the last part before hanging up, stretching again, and setting to work on some fluffy scrambled eggs.
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“Okay, but,” said Fritz, pulling his head out of the closet to look at Desdemona, his arms full of clothing. “To be fair, I’d gotten completely souced last night, and therefore anything I say and did is entirely subjective to a different interpretation.”
He ducked back in, rifling absently as he heard her footsteps begin to fade away. Fritz supposed he could have told her that he didn’t need her to make him breakfast, but he wasn’t about to pass up on that opportunity for someone else to do the work for him this time. His head was spinning unpleasantly still, and he suspected he might have to make a trip back to the washroom if he wasn’t careful.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” he called after her, voice a little muffled, but he sounded amused. Fritz finally gathered together some semblance of an outfit, which consisted of a pair of khakis and a belt, a plain gray teeshirt, and a dark blue button down sweater over that. He slipped into the bathroom to run a wet comb through his hair, just so it wasn’t stupidly tangled, and then stared at his reflection in the mirror, his hands braced on either side of the sink.
He looked still the same. Red hair, freckles, green eyes, glasses. But there were dark shadows beneath his eyes, not just evidence of a night getting toasted, and he could see the weariness heavy on his own shoulders.
Fritz straightened, sighing, and then stepped out, flicking the light off as he padded to the kitchen.
“So accomodating,” he said lightly, almost teasingly, as he reached for the water and the pills, unscrewing the latter. “I’m grateful for your continued assistance in the cause of resuscitating me.”
He bowed dramatically, arms outstretched, and then popped two tablets into his mouth, downing them with the water.
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She had, by now, pulled out the various things she needed, eggs and milk and seasonings like salt and pepper, and Desdemona had already mixed them up in a bowl and set up the pan and all those delightful things like that. She’d learned from Elle how to do this - and hadn’t really had to use it herself until Poppy had joined her in the apartment, bar a few lackluster attempts somewhere in the interim. She’d gotten much better now, though; this and a few other very, very select things, she’d more or less mastered, and there were some other things she could pull off with her cellphone all but glued to her face.
“So I’ve been told,” she teased back as she finished up oiling the pan up, glancing back at Fritz just in time to see his bow - and she arched a brow, cracking a smile and even a short laugh at his flamboyant bow, shaking her head. “Cute. But are you crazy freckles? Go sit down before you make yourself sick again,” she chided before turning back to the eggs, pouring them out into the pan.
This time, with her back turned, her smile was hidden as she asked, playfully, light as a feather, “So, subjective you say. - is that your way of disowning the bad things you might have said, handsome? - and what interpretation should I give the part where we kissed?”
Glancing back over her shoulder with a playful wink, just in case he didn’t realize she was kidding - more or less, anyway - she added, “Oh! And do you want anything with these eggs?” No big deal.
--------------------------------------------------------------
He just snorted, taking another large swallow of water. “I’ll be fine,” said Fritz, which seemed to be a mantra of his own. But he slid into a chair anyway, and slumped down into it, relaxing back against it. He was perfectly content to let Desdemona do the work at present, idly smoothing his fingers up and down the glass as he tilted his head back to stare absently at the ceiling.
His gaze, however, slid sideways a second later, an eyebrow rose. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him that they had probably kissed, in spite of not remembering that - or anything else other than just a haze of blurry colors and sound and images.
“I’m sure I said all sorts of tosh,” Fritz linked his hands together behind his head, arms bent at the elbows. “As for absolving myself of any responsibility, well..I was completely sourced, like I said, so...okay, that’s not really an excuse, but I assume you knew I was getting tossed when you came up to me.”
He flashed her a grin.
“Nah, just eggs is fine, however they’re cooked is good with me.”
--------------------------------------------------------------
Desdemona smiled as she worked at making the eggs - almost done now - because even if she didn’t look back, she could imagine from his tone the way he was probably grinning. “Cute tipsy ginger alone at the bar? - yeah. I pretty much knew what I was getting myself into.” Or she thought she did anyway. “It’s really too bad you don’t remember though,” she teased as she turned off the heat and began scooping some of the eggs off onto plates - because of course she’d made herself some. Might as well. “You had a funny line, I had a better one - good time.”
She took the plates and turned, setting them both down on the table, forks already embedded in the fluffy yellow of the eggs. That playful glint in her eyes, she went ahead and patted him gently on the head, mindful still of the headache. “Gotta say though freckles, if you’re that good at kissing ‘sourced’, then you must be making some ladies very happy.”
Then she moved away again to fetch a couple more glasses. “What do you want to drink? - I don’t know that water and eggs are such a great pair, but I don’t know if orange juice would agree with you right now - oh!” As if just realizing that she was having some massive oversight, she laughed, “Coffee. Tea. Whatever. You drink either of those, cutie?”
--------------------------------------------------------------
Fritz let out a mock groan.
“That’s me, tipsy ginger,’ he said, and would have rolled his eyes, but the very idea hurt his head a little bit. “Next thing you know, I’ll be told I’m some sort of soulless….something or other, isn’t that what they say about gingers these days? That we’re all just kind of soulless?”
Sadly, he did not think it was entirely untrue in his case, though none of this reflected in Fritz’s tone, which was light and amused. He ran his fingers idly through his hair and blew out a breath that caused his bangs to ruffle around before falling off of his forehead. Desdemona had stepped over, patting his head, and he waved a hand.
“That’s for me to know, and the ladies to wonder about,” said Fritz airily, and he lowered his hands from his head and leaned forward again, raising an eyebrow.
“You mean, what would I like to drink from my own kitchen?” he asked dryly, and got to his feet, padding over to the cabinet and rummaging around, pulling out a cup and saucer a moment later.
“Tea works for me, maybe some orange juice.”
--------------------------------------------------------------
“Souless or a Weasley,” she called back over her shoulder rather cheerfully. So she’d been told, anyway. The girl who’d led her back to Harry Potter after her corruption had vanished, probably purified, and reading the books had become something of a sore spot since.
She snickered, pushing her hair behind her ear - it’d grown a little since her corruption, almost down to her shoulders now. Desdemona reminded herself not for the first time that she really did need to get it cut. One of the best things about having shorter hair was it made the mass of hair she had as Amphitrite much more manageable. Much of a bungle as the whole train operation had been, at least she hadn’t been one of those corrupts stumbling over her own hair the whole time. “And here comes the mystery card. You play a mean game, freckles.”
Then it was her turn to roll her eyes, prodding him lightly in the side and making a face at him. “Fine, if you want to get technical about it. You didn’t need to get up though,” she chided, even as she went ahead and headed back to the fridge to fish out the orange juice. “By the way, very English ginger? - leaning towards Weasley, darling,” she teased lightly as she poured out two glasses. Personally, she was more of a juice drinker than coffee or tea. Though if she had to pick, she avoided coffee when and where she could - she did some unhealthy things sometimes, like when she’d taken smoke from the pixie girl’s mouth or when she drank a little, but Desdemona tried not to do too much that could undo all the work she’d done pulling her body back together again after her captivity. She’d worked too hard to let it slip away from her now.
She opened her mouth to say something. Then shut it again, fiddling with her bottom lip idly between her teeth. “So. Safe to assume you’re not from around here, freckles?” It was a bit of a lame conversation starter, she knew. But Desdemona honestly felt a bit as if she knew too much and too little at once, if that made any sense. She knew all about his brother, his loneliness, his birthday, things like that - but the basic stuff? Not a damn clue.
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“I’d rather be a Weasley than soulless,” said Fritz with a snort, just as there was a loud and disgruntled sounding meow from the corner. He glanced down and saw Crook winding his way around his ankles, tail sticking up as he purred, clearly wanting to be fed. The cat food dish, however, was almost entirely full, save for a tiny hole in the middle from where he’d been feeding.
“I’ve already fed you,” Fritz informed the cat, who looked meaningfully up at him. “And I’m always a mystery, darling.”
It was not untrue, either. He kept a deliberate line between himself and the others, even the ones he was closest too - if there was even anyone that he was close to. Outside of Tolliver, those of the Court knew him best, perhaps - the Princess, as well as Virgo, in spite of it having been so long since he’d seen either one of them. Chronos had always been able to tell when he was down, but she was special, and he was not. He would not let his own insecurities drag anyone else down with him - and begrudgingly he had to admit that Hitch probably knew him better than most as well, though this was entirely accidental.
He stood at the counter and fixed himself a cup of tea while Desdemona rifled through his fridge. His gaze slid to the side, an eyebrow raising as Fritz set the kettle on the stove, making sure the lid was secure and the water level right before he spoke.
“I’m from Leavesden,” he said, fiddling with the dial and turning it on so that the burner began to grow hot. Crook was still purring impatiently at his heels, which he ignored. “Moved here a few years ago with my brother, our parents are still there, though.”
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Desdemona was just wrapping her fingers around the container of orange juice when she heard a distinct ‘meow’ resonate through the air. She almost started, a little too quickly peeking around the door of the fridge to see the bundle of fur winding around Fritz’s feet. Much as she favored her composure when she could keep it in check, there was really no stifling the small gasp of delight that escaped her lips, her eyes lighting up as she ducked back behind the door to finish what she’d set out to do.
It’d been months now since she’d seen a cat (a normal cat, not any of the talking ones), not since Elle had left and taken her cat with her. Desdemona didn’t remember anything of Natalie Roux or her life surrounded by animals, cats especially - her father had always had the softest spot for cats, and his daughter had inherited it - but her adoration for them was one thing that had remained intact through her corruption.
So there, that was probably the motivation behind the cat charm. Cute.
She smiled, quietly tickled by Fritz’s comeback. “Of course you are, freckles,” she said in just such a way that it hugged the border between flirtation and skepticism, taking a moment before she opened the orange juice properly to brush her fingers lightly down his upper arm. Then Desdemona set to pouring out the orange juice, quietly relieved it wasn’t one of the pulpy ones. She could drink them and all if she had to, but she’d never be a fan. (Not consciously, her gaze kept drifting back to the cat trying to placate his human for more food.)
“Leavesden. Never heard of it,” she glanced back at him from the corner of her eye before moving to place the container back in the fridge again. “What’s it like? - do you miss it much?” There was genuine curiosity in her voice, followed close behind by a laugh as Desdemona shut the fridge again, shaking her head. “Sorry. You’ve probably been asked that about a million times by now, haven’t you darling?”
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Crook was a large cat, though not exactly fat - just large in sheer size, paws heavy on the ground. A brindled black and brown creature with dark eyes and a long, sleek fluffy tail, with long fur that needed constant brushing, otherwise he would get mats. Still, in spite of that, Fritz adored the damn cat, even if Tolliver had never really cared for him (the fact that he was mildly allergic also did not help).
Desdemona’s excited intake of breath was not missed. Fritz’s brows rose in mild surprise, amusement evident on his face. Her fingers on his arm made him smile a little, but he turned back to the kettle after a second, idly messing with the stovetop settings to make sure everything was the right temperature.
“A mystery and an enigma,” he said grandly, as Crook pawed at his ankle impatiently. “And apparently a cat scratching post.”
Crook meowed loudly at this. Fritz turned around so that he was facing away from the counter, leaning back against it with his arms folded across his chest.
“I don’t miss it too much, England weather leaves quite a lot to be desired, especially London,” he said mildly. “It’s always raining there, or overcast, or dim or gray. I’d much rather be where there’s a lot of sunlight, it’s a helluva lot more cheerful than that sort of dreariness. There’s a lot to do in Leavesden, though,” he added.
He gave a shake of his head.
“I don’t mind so much,” Fritz said, with a shrug, and then, half hiding a smile, he said, “You can pet him, you know, he’s friendly.”
--------------------------------------------------------------
Desdemona tried to catch herself, but scratching post earned what was undeniably a flat-out giggle, pressing her hand lightly to her mouth to try and keep the sound in check. She glanced over at Fritz as he turned, and took a sip of her glass of orange juice as he spoke, savoring the citrus flavor in her mouth and musing whether or not she should have taken the chance to use some mouthwash. Not like she’d slept much, but -
“That makes sense for you - you look like you belong in the sun,” she mused idly, with a smile that left it ambiguous as to whether she was still flirting or just praising him. Maybe a little of both. She cupped the orange juice in her hands for a moment, and her grin was more thoughtful. “Still. That sounds nice.” She’d always enjoyed the rain. - as far as she could remember, anyway. Not much of an always, really.
Her brow arched curiously. “Things? Like what? - shopping, theater, that kind of thing?” There was really plenty to do here, but… aside from the great hidden war and all, was Destiny City pretty typical? She hadn’t really known any other place enough to judge.
Desdemona didn’t get flustered or anything when he called her on it - instead, she blinked furiously once or twice as she sat down the cup, flashing him another sideways glance with a playful smile. “It’d be a bit rude to pet your p***y without your permission,” she teased. Then, a bit more softly, with a light bite of her lower lip, still smiling, she added, “Can I?”
But he’d really already given his permission, so it was a bit silly to ask again. So she ducked down onto the floor on her knees, not at all hesitating before offering her hand to the cat to sniff. Once Desdemona was sure he was okay with her, then she smiled brightly, lavishing the cat with pets and cooing praise. “Oh aren’t you just a handsome little guy. Just like your daddy over here - don’t tell him though, you’re much cuter,” and she said that in a stage whisper, laughing softly, stroking his cheek and generally just fawning over him. Finally, she glanced up at Fritz, “What’s his name?”
--------------------------------------------------------------
He couldn’t quite figure out what she meant by that - belong in the sun. Especially since that was about the last place that Fritz actually felt he should be, so far away from the brightness and the light that it was almost overwhelming sometimes. But he also was not going to let that show at all, always burying things beneath the surface, keeping everything underneath the bravado and the confidence.
No one needed to know anything else.
“Theater, yes,” said Fritz, tapping a finger against his arm. “I used to go to the theater or to the cinema a lot, or to the parks, they have some really nice parks. It’s just a nice, quiet area, but I don’t miss that, I like the noise of the city.
He opened his mouth and then promptly shut it again before turning back to the stove. “Haven’t got one of those,” said Fritz blithely. “You know, they have them online, if you need one, all sorts of sites.”
He was clearly trying to hide a smile as Desdemona moved to his cat. Crook purred lovingly and eagerly, immediately abandoning his useless owner and trotting over to the girl that actually was paying more attention to her, winding around her legs with his long tail flicking this way and that. Fritz reached for the sugar and pulled it over, padding to the fridge to get the milk.
“Crook,” he said lightly, shutting the door and moving back to the counter. There was a pause, and then he said, a little too innocently,
“Short for Crookshanks.”
--------------------------------------------------------------
“So what I should be taking from all this is that you’re truly a man of the arts, am I right?” she said in her usual light, playful way with the hint of a smile. “How romantic.” Really though. “Honestly though, that sounds nice - I can’t imagine living outside of the city myself,” she commented idly, “But it must have been a nice place to grow up.”
Or so she supposed, anyway.
Then, Desdemona’s smile was playfully wicked as she carelessly shot back, “Speaking from experience, are you dear?” with a playful wink.
“Aren’t you just the sweetest little fellow,” she murmured warmly, rubbing his cheek and stroking at the base of his tail to make it arch, stroking at his chin if he liked it - finally rising again, but not moving away without going to his dish and helpfully nudging the bits of dry food into the center of his dish. “There. Now that’s more like it, ” and Desdemona couldn’t help laughing as she went back to fetch the glasses of orange juice to set them on the table. “Good god, you really are living the Potter life a little aren’t you? - Crook is a good name though,” and she turned her gaze back to the cat as she settled down at the table, crossing her legs and playfully purring, “You’ve gone and stolen my heart you little devil.”
Then her eyes were back on Fritz again, her brows arched. “How’s your head? - still hurting, darling?”
--------------------------------------------------------------
“Well, I am an artist,” said Fritz, with a light laugh. “I suppose you could call me a man of the arts, though artist is a lot shorter and easier to say. If you want to make things more complicated, though, then have at it. But to answer your question that wasn’t really a question, yes, it was a very nice place to grow up in, though as I said, I prefer it here to anywhere else, including Leeds.”
He wave a hand dismissively in Desdemona’s direction, a smirk on his face. “I don’t give out my trade secrets, luv, just my shining, sparkling advice.”
Crook was unbelievably delighted to be paid attention to, regardless of what Desdemona was doing. He was purring up a storm, and then meowed eagerly as she pushed his food into place, immediately sticking his face into the bowl and snarfing up as much as he could in one swallow.
“I only wish I was living the Potter life, it would mean I get to play with magic,” said Fritz airily as the kettle on the stove gave a sharp whistle and ignoring the sheer irony of this statement. He moved towards it and double checked everything before grabbing a hot pad and wrapping it around the handle, sliding the kettle onto a free burner, steam issuing from the spout. He gave it a minute to cool down and then picked it up again and poured hot water into his cup until it was full.
“My head’s fine,” said Fritz, which was mostly true. Fineish. “Tea?”
--------------------------------------------------------------
“Even with all the craziness here - this city must really have some kind of magic for you, huh?” she mused, only vaguely alluding to the greater war that went on beneath everyone’s noses. Really though, it was more conspicuous by now not to mention it. Almost every day, reports of terrorists and this or that were flashing by on the TV and the radio, all the sightings and attacks and everything else.
She snickered with a playful roll of her eyes. “Wow. And charmingly modest when you’re sober.”
Get to play with magic. Hah, if he only knew. She sat there and watched him prepare the tea, the top leg of the two swinging idly, her hair half hanging in her face before he asked, and she answered with a playful smile, “Aw, so now you’re serving me? That’s sweet of you freckles - and sure, why not.”
She waited, though, until after he’d set the kettle down to get up again with a bit of a flourish, padding across the floor back towards him, arms crossed over her chest and brow arched skeptically. Because Desdemona didn’t really know that she entirely believed him. “Darling. Can I see your hand for a minute, please?” she asked sweetly - not that she really waited for him to answer. She just went ahead and took one rather lightly by the wrist with one hand, and with the other, she pinched down firmly between his thumb and index finger. “There. Is that better?”
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Posted: Wed Nov 11, 2015 8:07 pm
Fritz opened his mouth and then promptly shut it again before he said something truly damning, either to himself or someone else. Magical was certainly one way to put the goings-on here in the city, and he was often at the center of it, veritably drowning in it sometimes, to the point where he could practically feel it clawing up and down his throat. The weight of his responsibilities pressed down on him like a physical heaviness upon his chest, often making it difficult to breathe.
But he wasn’t going to think about that right now. Fritz continued in his preparations for tea and smiled indulgently over his shoulder at Desdemona, eyes twinkling.
“I’m absolutely humble when the occasion calls for it,” he declared, fetching a second cup from the cabinet and pouring steaming water into that too. Once the kettle was set down, he made a movement to reach for the milk - but Desdemona had stepped up towards him, and was now looking at him expectantly before she grabbed his hand. Fritz stared at her, his brows drawn together in confusion, and then let out a little hiss as she pinched.
“Ow! Hey - “
But some of the fogginess seemed to have eased from his head, and Fritz’s mouth opened and then shut again, once more looking like a goldfish.
“What did you just do?” he asked warily, almost suspiciously.
--------------------------------------------------------------
“I’d believe it,” and even if she was still using the light tone of teasing - really, he wasn’t wrong. Desdemona had seen more than enough evidence to prove it, and she’d known him less than a day. Right place, right time though she supposed - or wrong place wrong time, depending on how one chose to look at it. She took it as a good thing, even if he probably wouldn’t.
She gave a cheeky, knowing smile as she held up his hand and gestured fluidly the juncture between thumb and forefinger with a flourish of her other hand. “Well, darling. Magic. Little did you know you bought home Destiny City’s most powerful witch. Behold my power.” Desdemona paused for a second for effect, wiggling her fingers before laughing, shaking her head and releasing his hand again. “Pressure point. I used to get a lot of migraines, so I picked that up.” Which actually wasn’t a lie, for a change.
Then maybe a little abruptly, with a quirk of her brows, she traced her fingertips curiously over the line of a faint scar on his wrist. “Crook? - art project gone wrong?”
--------------------------------------------------------------
Fritz flexed his hand idly, still watching Desdemona as though he couldn’t quite figure out if it was some sort of trick or not. His fingers still seemed perfectly fine, as did the rest of his hand, however. Nothing was out of place, and all she’d done was sort of pinch him kind of and his headache, while not gone entirely, had lessened significantly from such a seemingly innocuous gesture.
“Huh,” he said, Fritz frowning slightly, more out of thought than anything else. He lifted his hand and absently smoothed his fingers over the same spot that she’d just pressed. “Interesting. And highly useful.” A grin touched his lips. “Maybe you are more than just a pretty face.”
There were fingertips on his arm, on the inside of his wrist - and Fritz felt a frissure of something not quite panic, but instantaneous wariness wash over him. He did not let it register on his face, instead just offering Desdemona an easy, relaxed smile as he extracted his arm from her grasp.
“Mysterious pirating life,” he deadpanned, as he turned back to the tea, Fritz carrying both cups and saucers over to the table now. “I could tell you all about it, but then I’d have to kill you.”
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Still looking more than a little smug about Fritz’s reaction to her trick, Desdemona smirked. “Maybe? Oh darling, you don’t know the half of it,” she teased, poking at his shoulder to emphasize her point. Really, though - even if she knew she was pretty, she still quietly relished hearing it. Not just for the attention, but for knowing that nine months ago, the last thing that would’ve called her was pretty.
At the explanation, she offered him an arched brow and upturned lips, amusement visible in her eyes as she trailed to the table after him. “Pirate, huh? Gee, ” she flopped down in the chair again, arms still crossed over her chest. “And here I thought you were just the pretty face.” Desdemona waved a hand dismissively in the air as she turned towards the plate, checking to make sure the eggs weren’t too cold - thankfully not. Cold eggs were no good period. “Although I hate to break it to you darling, you can try. But as dashing of a pirate as you must be, witches beat pirates every time. It’s a given.”
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“I keep stepping right into those, don’t I?” said Fritz, rolling his eyes good naturedly as he sat down across from Desdemona at the table. He picked up a spoon and idly stirred his tea, reaching into the center, where there was a lazy susan, and spun it once to pluck up a little jar of honey that was sitting next to the napkins. Pouring in a few drops, Fritz made sure to mix it well, and then lifted his cup to his lips, taking a sip.
“Pirates are way better than witches,” Fritz informed her, as he dug into his own eggs. “I hate to break it to you, but you’ve been sadly misinformed.”
--------------------------------------------------------------
“Not my fault you’re good at stepping in it, darling,” and her smile came easily, sweet at the honey he’d dropped into his tea, and she cradled her own mug between her fingers, liking the warmth of it. Elle had liked tea. There was still a fair amount of it back at the apartment, even if Desdemona didn’t really drink it very often. Having it now kind of reminded her of her lost friend, caretaker, whatever exactly Elle was to her; it was kind of a bittersweet feeling.
She held up a finger in the air, and the playful glint in her eyes had not diminished in the slightest. “I can literally tell you right now at least three reasons why witches are better than pirates. First off, “ she waved the finger with a certain kind of resolve. “Magic. I don’t think I really need to say more than that. Second, “ another finger, “Black cats. You, being a cat fan, can appreciate this. Third, “ and the last finger, “Male witch is wizard. Sooooo. I mean, you’ve got Johnny Depp, sure, but we’ve got Harry Potter. Not to keep pulling the Weasley card or anything, but,” it was almost too easy.
Then she leaned back against her chair, mug still tucked in her arms, and laughed softly. “Although I’ve got to concede that the pirates have the whole rugged good looks thing down, as shown by yours truly,” and she nodded to him. “But freckles, I’ve got a say, for a secret pirate, you sure don’t know how to hold your liquor. Isn’t that part of the basic job description?”
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Fritz leaned back in his seat, his brows raising as though to say by all means, enlighten me. He remained silent while Desdemona spoke, and spent the next few minutes doing nothing but eating the remainder of his eggs - which, in spite of being slightly cold, were still pretty good.
“Okay, fine,” he said with a laugh, lifting his hands in a gesture of relenting. “I will admit that all of what you said is pretty much true, so okay, I might have to concede on this one.”
He pushed his newly empty plate away and relaxed with his tea cradled between his hands, Fritz crossing one ankle over the other. The look he gave Desdemona was kind of amused - but also, strangely enough, accompanied by a flash of irritation that seemed to settle into his eyes before it dissipated again. He took a sip of his tea and let the heat ease down his throat before he answered.
“Depends on what sort of job we’re talking about,” he said lightly, but some of the mischief had gone out of his voice. “And what kind of liquor.”
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“Might, maybe, pretty much - just learn when to admit defeat flat-out, freckles, and we’ll be just fine,” she teased lightly - although really, she was more pleased about making him laugh outright than being right or wrong. After the miserable mess he’d been in last night, she took more than a little satisfaction in it now.
But then there it was again, that flash of irritation she’d seen before - and Desdemona arched her brow again, debating to herself for a moment or two whether she wanted to acknowledge it this time. It really wasn’t much of a debate. She shoved the last bite of her eggs into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and regarded him curiously. “You look a little mad,” she remarked, lightly as ever, but she’d eased in, elbows on the table and chin propped on her hands. “Did I offend you? - I didn’t mean to. But that’s the second time you’ve given me that look.”
She smiled at him, less of a tease and more of a genuine smile. “I’m sorry if it bothered you. Really.” Desdemona bit her lip and looked down at the table briefly, then back up again, and really it was a play at being more coy than she was. She didn’t want to risk putting him too far on the defensive. “I kind of hope you’re annoyed at me, though - you didn’t do anything wrong, you know. I’ve met many worse people at bars, Fritz.”
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“I’m not mad,” was the instant - and automatic - response - which was true. He wasn’t angry, but the remembrance of just how he’d spent his evening was not pleasant, and he found himself irrationally bothered by her blase attitude towards it. She didn’t know why he’d been there, even if he’d given away more than he cared to. She didn’t know that that had been the third night in a row he’d gone out, trying to drown every part of himself in alcohol that burned down his throat, or that he’d come on his birthday because he hadn’t had anywhere else to go, because his own twin brother would rather have spent the day with his boyfriend than him. She couldn’t know that he’d lost the majority of his friendships, or at least, the fractured semblances of friendships, that he carried the weight of their losses significantly on his shoulders, that he was being suffocated by the heaviness of it all.
“I’m not offended, either,” said Fritz, as he got to his feet and carried his dish over to the sink. He stuck it in and turned his back to Desdemona, teeth gritted against the frustrating wave of sheer [incompetence that washed over him. The fact that she’d met even worse people than himself was neither a comfort, nor a particularly desired offering.
What was he even doing? Sitting at a table, drinking tea and laughing with a girl he’d almost thrown up all over the previous night, and acting as though the world was not trying to collapse in on itself, on him. Fritz braced his hands against the sink and then reached over and twisted the knob to turn the water on, starting to rinse his dish.
“Well, I suppose that’s that,” he said, his voice deliberately casual, but it came out sounding strained all the same. “I’m sorry for making you come all this way, just to have to deal with a drunken mess like me. I’ll finish washing up, if you want to get out of here.”
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She didn’t know all of it, no. But Desdemona had learned some things last night, and more than Fritz probably realized - he couldn’t have remembered. He’s left me, and he and his boyfriend are probably out celebrating right this second - and they’re all happy and cute and stupid together, and I’m here. Apparently he doesn’t care anymore. I just want not to feel. I wouldn’t know, I don’t have a lot of people close to me, y’know? I have lots of people, just not, you know, people. Her stomach did a wholly unreasonable little twist at what he said, especially the last part, because she could hear the strain in his voice, and -
She sat there for a moment in silence, mulling over her options, although there really weren’t many to choose from. Desdemona was a lot of things. But if this whole ordeal had proven one infallible truth, it was that she was not unfeeling. And like it or not, maybe, just maybe, she’d gotten herself just a little invested. With a sigh, she rose from the table, taking her plate and pacing over towards the sink. As she leaned around the redhead to set the plate in the sink, her hand fell to his arm, although she did not look directly at him - instead, stealing a glance from the corner of her eye as she faced the sink.
“Fritz?”
Desdemona bit her lower lip, a habit she’d kept from her old life, although she’d never know it.
“I’m sorry.”
Her tone betrayed that these were not words she often said. They felt thick and uncomfortable on her tongue.
“I had fun with you last night. Really.” She paused, resting her free hand on the countertop. “And now. I’m having fun with you now.” Neither statement was a lie. Her lips curled in a slight smile. “I like you Fritz. If you want me to go or whatever, that’s fine, but, I mean,” Desdemona shrugged her shoulders and finally turned her head to look at him. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve always wanted to be friends with a pirate.” Her smile took on a light edge of playfulness. “And maybe you don’t remember, but I did promise to go with you next time - for drinks, I mean.”
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He heard Desdemona get up, heard her move around the table and come to stand beside him with a hand on his arm. Fritz did not look at her, and continued to scrub at the soapy plate in his hands, though by now, it was more clean than half of his clothes. He moved the sponge over the surface in deliberate gestures, trying to get off invisible specks of dirt or lingering food, his expression quite calm.
Her apology made him wince, almost imperceptibly, just a flicker of his eyes. He wasn’t sure how to take it, so he said nothing at all in response.
How could she possibly be having fun with him? He was not exactly the greatest company in the world, especially recently, and now he had to deal with the repercussions of having let his guard down, pouring out his soul - or at least, some part of it - to a complete stranger who would not and could not understand the sheer weight of everything that he was going through. And Fritz did not want to give that weight to anyone else, because it didn’t belong to anyone else except for him.
“Yeah, well,” he said, and his voice had adopted a strangely twisted, falsely cheery tone to it as he continued scrubbing. “Your definition of what’s fun seems to need a bit of reworking, luv, maybe you should find elsewhere to get your jollies off on.”
He flashed her a brief grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes, and his gaze never quite connected with hers, instead moving back to the plate in his hands.
“Sure. Drinks. Right. Maybe next time I’ll actually remember them,” said Fritz.
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Desdemona glanced down briefly at the plate in his hands, and then back up at him, her lips pursed for a moment. “Honey. You know. You don’t have to pretend you’re happy if you’re not,” she murmured, squeezing his arm. (It was a little surprising when she did - not like she was doing it to flirt this time, but she felt more muscle than she’d expected. Maybe it had to do with the art?) “Okay, okay, maybe fun isn’t the best word choice -” Considering. “But I enjoyed being around you. You’re a nice guy Fritz,” and that didn’t seem like a poor choice of words at all, in her opinion; that was one she wouldn’t back down from. “I’d like to see more of you.”
Enough was enough with that goddamn plate though, really.
She sighed and reached up once to ruffle his hair near the edges before reaching for his chin instead, trying to coax him into looking at her. “Hey. How about you let me finish this up darling? - you keep washing this and there won’t be much of a plate left,” Desdemona said in a voice that was anything but unkind, flashing him a smile.
Then, the smile dropped a degree or two, but softened at the edges. “Do you want me to tell you about last night? - I never asked you.” That had been at least half the motivation for her apology. She’d just assumed he’d want to laugh it off and move on, but - “Or we could just start over. Or I could go, if that’s what you really want.” She shrugged her shoulders lightly. “You already know what I want, so it’s up to you, handsome.”
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He tensed, almost immediately, at her touch, as though it had burned him somehow, Fritz flinching like he’d forgotten Desdemona was there. It was both a combination of her words and her presence that had him now paling briefly before a steady red flush came creeping across his cheeks, turning the freckles darker as a stony expression appeared. It was not like Fritz to let his guard down, and yet -
- and yet.
His hands kept moving on the plate, scrubbing almost viciously now.
“You wouldn’t know if I’m happy or not, would you?’ said Fritz, still in the same falsely cheery voice, and the water was hot on his hands, soap around his fingers. “And no, thank you, I’ve got this covered, I’m just trying to, you know, get a spot off, it’s a rather stubborn spot, just won’t do to have it messy before I put it away.”
Did he want Desdemona to tell him about last night? The answer was both yes and no, and Fritz bypassed everything else she’d said about him being a good guy, or a nice guy, and instead just reached for the bottle of soap again.
“I doubt there’s anything interesting to tell,” he said, flashing her a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “I got smashed, almost threw up on you, and you very kindly took me home, which I appreciate.”
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His reaction puzzled her - but less in the way of doe-eyed confusion and more in the way someone might gaze intently at a puzzle, eyeing the pieces she’d already lined up and trying to see where and how the rest could fit and just what sort of picture they formed. Maybe that was part of the appeal, a little? - was that where the investment stemmed from? It was easier to rationalize it that way than to simply accept that any part of herself was simply concerned, even if some part of her knew that was the case.
There was little reason why Amphitrite should be interested, and Desdemona was, had always been, more of a mask than a true persona.
“You don’t sound happy,” she said, not exactly unsettled by the odd false cheer in his voice, but more - if she was being honest, again, concerned. “And your hands are turning red, darling. Please.”
Desdemona’s brows furrowed slightly as she shook her head - and like the expression before, she took note of the way he overlooked her kinder words, settling instead to focus on last night in a subtly self-deprecating way. “That’s not really how it went,” she said, keeping a hand on his shoulder at least, trying to draw his attention away from the plate and the steaming water in her own subtler way. “For one thing, you did not almost throw up on me, dear. I got you home and got some water in you first. You got stumbly, yes, but that was fine.”
She bit at her bottom lip for a minute. Then, quietly, she attempted, “You talked about your brother a lot. - your twin - how much you missed him.”
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“I don’t sound a lot of things,” said Fritz, and he flinched again at the sound of her voice, at the darling, at the fact that he usually called people that just on a whim, because he loved people, loved being around them because they made him forget that he was not worth their time and their affection or really anything at all. He made no motion to stop the washing, though he slowed a little, not quite the same manic scrubbing he’d been doing a minute ago.
Desdemona’s hand did not feel reassuring; it was like a weight on his shoulder, just another weight of the world pressing down onto him. Steam had started to rise from the sink, and the water was hot, though Fritz hardly felt it, his fingers squeezing the sponge so that soapy water spread over his damp skin.
“Well, that’s something, at least,” he said cheerily. “Wouldn’t have wanted to throw up on you, that would have been bad.”
He would normally have winked at her. Maybe grinned, and he kind of was, except it was terribly forced, and did not quite seem like it was filled with any sort of humor whatsoever. Fritz added more soap, until there were white, foamy bubbles taking over a good majority of the small sink, lathering his hands and the plate.
You talked about your brother a lot. How much you missed him.
There was a sharp clatter. Fritz had dropped the plate, his hands braced on the edge of the sink, his shoulders suddenly tight with the tension that stretched them sharp and taut. They were hunched, shaking slightly, and for a moment he said nothing at all, soapy fingers clenched hard on the metal rim.
“Get out,” he said, and it was through clenched teeth that he spoke, the voice unfamiliar, like it wasn’t his own, like he was not even aware of the words that he was speaking. “Don’t - you don’t know anything about me, or my brother, or - anything, stop trying to overanalyze me and just - just get out.”
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Desdemona prided herself on some degree of composure; but when she was caught off guard, and she rarely was, it took her right back to the place to powerlessness she’d been in what felt like a lifetime ago. The clatter of the plate, so loud and sharp in the heavy air, made her gasp, drawing back, every muscle rigid and her posture dropping instinctively into a defensive position. Not that he would see it; Fritz was clutching at the sink, his shoulders shaking, and Desdemona felt for perhaps the first time a prickle of something that might have been dread seeping through her.
The harshness of his words made her first wince, slightly, but then she willed herself to morph the gesture into a narrowing of her eyes. “I’m not trying to overanalyze you, freckles - I’m trying to be a friend. I’m trying to help you.” She was, on the other hand, keeping a tight hold on the words she was speaking, trying her hardest to keep her words simple, clean, polished. There was no venom there. Not even as she added, “I don’t know anything about either of you that you didn’t tell me yourself, Fritz.”
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On some level, he was aware of a small prickle of shame that he was doing this - that he’d made Desdemona startled of him, that he was being impossibly rude, but he couldn’t stop. The more overpowering senses in his head were the ones that kept him moving forward, because anger was so much easier to deal with than the crippling sense of inadequacy and pain that clung desperately to his heart so that every breath was like trying to swallow knives.
She still hadn’t left why hadn’t she left. Fritz’s tense posture did not ease in the slightest at Desdemona’s words, and his gaze was focused on the still running water that was sending waves of steam billowing up into his face and into the kitchen before it dissipated. His fingers clenched, then unclenched on the metal rim of the sink, as though willing himself not to use them in some terrible way.
“Forget anything I said to you, then,” Fritz snapped, and the words came out harsher than normal. He reigned it in, giving a hollow, bitter laugh. “I may have told you some things while sauced, but you don’t get to tell me what you think they mean. You don’t know me, or my brother, or anything about my life, so stop pretending that you do, and just...just leave.”
He’d lost the fight in his voice by the end of it, the words coming out quieter, more subdued. Fritz picked up the plate again and resumed scrubbing at it with slow, precise movements, none of the stiffness having left his shoulders at all.
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Desdemona stood there in silence for a moment, processing everything about him, from the harshness of his voices to the way his fingers curled and uncurled at the edge of the sink. And for a terrible moment, she felt a sudden urge to push - and she wasn’t even sure why, but she almost wanted to make him angrier. Wanted to drive him further away from that painfully forced cheer he’d been hoisting around until then, wanted to break his ill-fitting facade into dust.
But she also didn’t exactly want him to hate her, either. Whether or not he already disliked her - hate and dislike were on two different planes of existence. And in spite of the flare of something that felt both alike and very different from her typical sadism as Amphitrite welling up in her chest, she still liked him. Maybe more now than she had before.
“Okay. If that’s what you want, Fritz. I told you I’d leave if you wanted me to.”
Her tone was soft and deliberately ambiguous, neither sad, defeated, probing, or challenging.
In spite of that, she did not turn on her heel and walk out the door. Instead, spotting a pen and a pad of paper, Desdemona made her way towards that, hastily scrawling out her name and a few key digits in a rather elegant sort of penmanship, making sure it would be clear and easy to read. When it was finished, she rose, drawing in a slow breath. “When you’re feeling better, freckles - you should call me. I’d still like that drink - and I’d still like to be friends.”
She flashed a smile at his back. “I don’t really care for pretending either, you know.” Ironic thing to say, given how much of Desdemona was a lie. In this context though, in this moment, it couldn’t have been much more true. And even though he claimed she didn’t know him, which might be true, she did not expect as she turned and walked from the apartment that he would call the number she’d left behind.
Which was why, as she stepped into her shoes and out into the cool morning air, shivering lightly in her shorts that were made more for bars than for an early fall morning, as Desdemona walked quickly down the street and out of sight, she left an insurance policy behind:
A tiny black wallet left sitting inconspicuously on the kitchen table, filled with traces of the lie that was Desdemona: ID, one seemingly real that put her at eighteen, and another ID (much the same at the first), passable but clearly fake to the knowing eye that put her at twenty-one, a few cards, a few photos of Desdemona and her ‘sister’, and more cash than she really should have been carrying on her person for a night at the bar.
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