Hayley Radcliffe is strictly hands-off (glovedup) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-05-24 20:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | rogue, werewolf of london |
Who: Will and Hayley
What: Checking in on Will and food offering
Where: Lab at Monarch Industries
When: Afternoon-ish today
Warnings: Woobly Hayley and ridiculous amounts of adorable
Returns from vacations were supposed to be joyous, Hayley thought bitterly as she flicked a pinch of salt into the boiling pasta pot. She had expected to text her friends and e-mail her coworkers, have a few “welcome backs” and “I missed yous,” then go back to work the next day and let things go back to normal. She certainly hadn’t expected any crises, though in hindsight, she should have known better. After all, it was Orin Monarch, the king of senseless drama. And Will’s unfortunate problem meant that she should have expected something of this nature. She should have been prepared for this. She’d been through worse, after all. Bigger crises, bigger drama.
So why did her stomach hurt so much?
Her “hellos” to Evie and Mr. Sablier had been rushed and frantic, with a few scattered half-hugs as the valet so kindly took her suitcase into her room – which was tenant free, she noted. Though she reminded everyone she knew that she was from Texas, Hayley was a Mississippi girl at her core. Her mother was a nervous feeder, the sort of woman that cooked when things were difficult. When her big sister was waiting to hear back from colleges, Hayley had to take extended bathroom breaks during dinner to avoid being overfed. And though she did her best not to think about her family now, this little habit was leaking into her, compelling her through the motions as she cooked, cooked, cooked.
By early evening, she had filled three large Tupperware containers, and there was still some left over for Evie and Mr. Sablier. Hayley loaded the containers into a large tote bag, slinging it over her shoulder and leaving the apartment without a backwards glance. She was a woman on a mission, a missile with a singular target. It didn’t occur to her to ask for Mr. Sablier to send her with a driver, or even to call for a cab. She just left the Aubade and walked, skirt fluttering against her knees. At any other time, she’d have taken this opportunity to whine about the chill and her inadequate attire. But she was far too wrapped-up in worry, panic, and confusion to make the connection between her California-ready outfit and the goose bumps on her skin.
Eventually, after seeing several buses pass, Hayley boarded one that took her straight to Monarch Industries. Her head was still spinning as the doors opened, depositing her on the sidewalk in front of the building. Nose wrinkled, she brushed a flurry of silver hair from her eyes, though it soon drifted down to tickle her cheeks again. Constant exposure to sun and salty air had turned her hair into a voracious monster that curled, kinked, and fluffed in all directions. And after she spent so much time leaning over a boiling stove, Hayley looked very much like a fuzzy Q-tip with wayward tendrils brushing her cheeks and neck.
Face red, she walked determinedly into the building, her flats making barely a sound as she approached the doorway to the lab. The secretary waved to her, earning a flustered half-smile and return wave. The woman asked her a question, something about her vacation, and she replied impulsively. She later wouldn’t remember what she’d said, but it made the secretary pause, brows high, before returning to her work. Hayley would feel guilty, and placate herself with the reality that the woman had likely heard far worse during her time at Monarch Industries.
She scurried down the stairs to the lab, hugging her still-warm cooking close to her side. The gauzy fabric of her dress was barely protection from the heat that soaked from the Tupperware containers to her skin, though she didn’t notice. She was focused on spilling out of the stairwell and finding Will, wherever he might have been hiding. She didn’t even think of how she must have looked, face tan with sun and hair wild. Her gloves stretched clear up past her elbows, meeting the fluttering sleeves of her loose dress. She absently adjusted the belt that sat low on her hips, flinching as her tote bag caught on the buckle.
Pushing through door after door, she finally found him, working away as she expected. She expected him to look a bit pale, even fragile. She’d seen him after a moon, and felt that she was prepared for anything. But even at a slight distance, she could see the angry burn that ran from his jaw down to his shoulder, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. Eyes wide, Hayley gasped, pressing a gloved hand to her mouth. Orin had mentioned silver, but she hadn’t made the connection. Not really. Now, staring at the burn, she took a few steps forward, brain filling with cotton.
“Will?” she whispered as she dropped her hand, immediately biting down on her lower lip. Her stomach hurt again, and the redness on her face wasn’t diminished by her tan. Maybe later, she’d realize it.