drinking old cheap bottles of wine, sit talking up all night, saying things we haven't for a while Who: Cian & Ash What: Faram's Mass dinner Where: Cian's When: Late afternoon Rating: PG-13 Status: Complete!
Why the hell she was standing here, laden down with dinner and a gift, for Faram’s sake, was beyond her. Neil had kept giving her confused glances all afternoon, which she couldn’t blame him for. She’d practically begged him to come over and make the damn ham - and, ultimately, the mashed potatoes, gravy and vegetable medley after she set the damn cauliflower on fire - but wouldn’t tell him why.
“You can just come to the house,” he’d said, incredulous as he glazed the ham. “You always come over. The kids are expecting you.”
Ash had shaken her head and tried to focus on wrapping the damnable leather jacket. (She’d seen it in a storefront window and remembered the beat up one Cian always wore. His coat had seen better days, so without thinking, she’d gone in, purchased the thing, and by the time she’d come to her senses, she was already home.) “Changing things up this year.”
And fuck if that wasn’t true. She stared at the door, willing herself to message him and get this over with. It wasn’t like he would invite her to stay; she’d drop off the food and present and head home to spend a quiet Faram’s Mass. Alone.
A depressing thought, but it was pointless to dwell on it.
She took a deep breath, set the bags on the floor, and sent out a short message. I’m outside. Open the door.
In response, some ten minutes later, she would hear a top story window open; the owner of the building leaned out and down, in shirtsleeves despite the cold, and regarded her with a mix of exasperation and confusion. “Princess, it’s your day off,” he pointed out. “The hell are you doing here?”
Realistically, he could add two and two. She was laden down with bags, and was that a bow peeking out of one of them? At least he’d had the good sense to send her present (which he shouldn’t have bought, but habits died hard) anonymously; since when had she gotten this brave?
She lifted the bag and looked up at him. “The food is getting cold, Ci. Open the damn door.” If she’d been a mage, she could have just floated the damn things up to him and left, and not have to deal with him any more than she needed to. It would have been the safe, smart option. Instead, she tapped her foot and looked pointedly at the door.
“It ain’t getting any warmer,” she called up to him.
“For fuck’s sake.” It was practically the required response at this point. He could have sent her away. He should have. “Guess I’m pretty hungry.”
With that, he vanished from the window and it shut, but moments later, she would hear the telltale click of the security being disabled. He expected she knew her way up, but he still paced his living space in long strides, one way then the other, as he waited for her to arrive.
The whirring told her it was safe, and she opened the door, kicking it closed behind her. She really should have rethought this: climbing the stairs laden down with packages was not her ideal way of spending the day, but she needed to get upstairs, and so did the packages, so up she went.
At the top floor, she knocked perfunctorily before opening the door. Cian was standing there and she held out the bag of food. “Here.”
He took the bag, watching her with a carefully neutral expression. She seemed to be rethinking her decision to come here. Which was probably wise, but he couldn’t help feeling even more out of sorts at the realization that she expected to be booted out the door. Yeah, his track record on that was crap -- he’d admit it freely -- but he’d let her up, hadn’t he?
“Thanks,” he said, taking the bag. It was heavy and its contents clearly warm. The smell coming from inside told him Ash hadn’t cooked it, thankfully.
“Come in,” he told her after a long pause. “Want a drink?”
He could be civil if it killed him. It was Faram’s Mass or whatever -- he could be charitable (or whatever the hell this was -- self-torment came to mind, but hell, since when had a little pain been a deterrent?).
“Neil cooked it,” she told him, suddenly feeling awkward. “Figured you’d want something you could actually eat.” Her attempts at cooking were well-known in the org; the one year she’d managed to bake cookies that actually looked like cookies, she’d ended up accidentally giving everyone who’d had one food poisoning.
The offer of a drink surprised her. “Water,” she said. “Juice, if you have it.” The last thing she wanted was to have alcohol around Cian.
She was still clutching the bag with his present, which she held out now. “This is for you.”
“Why?” his bewilderment must have showed for a moment -- why the hell wasn’t he more guarded around her? -- before he shuttered his expression once more and said, “Never mind. Thanks.” He took this bag in his other hand, thinking of the package he’d had sent to her house and feeling about as uncomfortable as she looked.
Fuck all, anyway.
He reminded himself to move, walking towards the open kitchen area and setting the bag of food on the counter before starting to unpack it (the bag with the bow remained, conspicuously, set aside for the moment). Going for plates and forks (two, just in case she assumed he was about to kick her out), he told her, “Water or instant coffee. No juice, sorry.”
“Water is fine,” she told him, slightly taken aback. So far, this entire visit hadn’t gone according to plan. Instead of wondering whether or not the plague did something funny to Cian’s head, she moved forward, uncovering the bowls of mashed potatoes and vegetables. She’d brought the ham in a cake carrier - Neil had balked when she’d reached for the foil - and undid the sides. Steam rose and she breathed a sigh of relief; at least it wasn’t cold.
He poured her water, then, after a pause, his own. It was what he drank at home most of the time, when he wasn’t drinking coffee to keep himself awake an extra hour or two. “Got leftover soup, too, if you want it,” he said after the silence had stretched out too long. “Pretty good soup, actually.”
He still couldn’t find it in himself to be an asshole to her, as it turned out. Fucking inconvenient, this was.
“You’ve got to have something better than this to do tonight, right?” he finally said. He couldn’t be an asshole, but he’d at least use honesty to his best advantage. “You’re actually into this Faram’s Mass bullshit. What are you doing here, princess? I’m not dying anymore, in case you haven’t noticed. I even have homemade soup in my kitchen.” For him, a serious step up in the world.
“Went to mass this morning,” she told him. Neil had mentioned a particular way of slicing the ham; was it with the grain or against? Fuck, she should have written it down. “I’ve got nothing going on the rest of the day.”
She could probably head over to Neil’s, play with the kids and spoil them with chocolate and candy, but, strangely, she would rather be here. With Cian. Even though he probably didn’t want her here and she was making him uncomfortable. She hadn’t expected to stay; she knew she should probably just leave.
“Just wanted to drop this by,” she told him, stepping away from the counter. Her water sat untouched. “I’ll get out of your hair, though.”
“Do what you like.” Not really an invitation to stay, but likely as close as he was going to come.
He began filling his plate for something to do with his hands. “Might as well eat before you go, if you’re going. There’s too much here for just me.” Which she had very well known bringing it up; it seemed like she’d prepared to stay even while assuming she’d been told to go.
She wanted to say if you’re sure, but bit it back. Instead, she grabbed the plate he’d pulled out for her and put a little bit of mashed potatoes on it, followed by a healthy serving of the vegetables. She glared at the ham, but Cian had already started slicing it, so she waited until he was done to put a slice next to the potatoes.
Plate and fork in one hand, she grabbed her cup of water and exited the kitchen, taking a seat on one of the barstools on the other side of the raised counter. “Point was for you to have leftovers,” she told him. “Figured you could use a homecooked meal. One that isn’t poisoned.”
“Guess I’ll have to trust this one isn’t. You wanted me dead, you could have just waited it out.” He followed her and sat, two stools between them, as though space was a barrier (it wasn’t). “It’s good.” And it was -- definitely better than anything he could have had brought up.
And this conversation was, honestly, pathetic by even their standards.
He could stretch the silence with chewing only so long. Finally, he heaved a sigh and angled a sideways look at her. She seemed like she didn’t particularly want to be here, but then, she hadn’t walked yet, either. “One-time deal, right?” he asked finally. “For the holiday. You’re not going to start hovering again, are you? Truce’ll end pretty damn quick if you do.”
Ash smiled and shook her head. “Don’t worry. Sleeping in the chair was the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever done. Next time you try to catch your death? You’re on your own.” A lie. She knew - he did, too, probably - that she’d do whatever she could to help him. Story of her fucking life, really.
“Guess I’ll try not to get the plague again. Damn inconsiderate of me, I know.”
“Really. You should fucking know better.”
Something that might have been the ghost of a smile slid across his face before disappearing. “I’ll make a note of it. Also of the fact that my chair trumps a giant fucking thing with three faces, four arms, and as many swords.” At her look, he shrugged and said, “Word gets around.”
“Hard not to,” she said, moving the food on her plate around. That she didn’t have to fight that thing was something she was thankful for; it had been hard enough keeping up with everything else coming at them. Throw in whatever the fuck that thing was? She doubted she’d be here if she’d been that unlucky.
“Heard anything else interesting?” Her tone was neutral. She still wasn’t sure if he’d heard anything she’d said before she’d left - she didn’t think so, but she didn’t know. Doubtful he had if she was sitting here and not out on her ass in the cold.
“Depends on what you qualify as interesting.” When it was important enough, his poker face didn’t fail. He thought about what he’d hear (thought he’d heard?) in his delirium. Better for them both if he pretended he’d imagined it. “Sasaki’s gunning for council. Going to be trouble.”
And business was a safe topic -- best to stick to that, he decided.
“Sasaki?” She thought back to the gala, how he’d hunted her down backstage. She hadn’t mentioned it to Cian, but now seemed as good a time as any. “Chatted with him a bit at the gala. Didn’t know he was gunning for council.” If she’d known that, she’d have probably been more polite.
Oh, who the fuck was she kidding? No she wouldn’t have.
“He approached you?” Immediately, Cian was on alert. Sasaki had no real reason to go after Ash -- he’d probably realize better than most that her role in the org wasn’t crucial enough to bother killing her for it, and Cian had made a purposeful show of indifference towards her to ensure no one went after her to get at him, either. Still, if the Dragons wanted to collect a full complement of Wildes...
“I’d steer clear if I were you,” he said. He itched to order her to stay the fuck away, but sensed that an order would probably have the opposite effect.
Aisling frowned. “He found me during intermission. Not sure if he was looking for me or not, don’t much care, really.” She shook her head at Cian’s carefully worded request - how much self-restraint did it take to not just order her to keep away? “No worries, Ci.” She took a bite of her food; it really was good. One of these days, Neil would teach her how to cook. Once he got over losing his eyebrows, anyway. “I don’t make it a habit to hang out with Fumiya Sasaki.”
The rest of the Dragons steered clear of her; really, Fumiya was the only one to worry about.
“Any projects we got in the works that need funding?” she asked, clearly changing the topic. If he wanted to continue it, he would, but never let it be said she wasn’t trying to keep this evening pleasant. “Won a shitload of gil, courtesy of Albrecht.”
“Probably,” he said. “I’ll look through what we’ve got moving, get you a list, if you really want to put the money back in the pot.”
This was -- strangely -- almost nice. If only it wasn’t so damn uncomfortable and disconcerting to be sitting here and having a conversation without shouting at each other, he’d probably have enjoyed it. As it was, he kept wondering what the hell he was supposed to say to her when they weren’t fighting. He barely remembered how to talk to her, apparently, even if he had seemingly elected to try.
“Ain’t got anything else to do with it,” she pointed out. It wasn’t as though she needed it - he knew that better than anyone - and she’d already donated more to the orphanages this year than in previous ones. Good for the kids, crap for the city since it was her involvement in the shit that had been happening that had padded her coffers. “Might as well put it to good use.”
She glanced at him for a second before moving the food around on her plate. This was strange. They weren’t the type to sit around and just chat; why she was still there was beyond her. “So,” she started, paused. What did she want to say? If she pointed out he was acting weird, it might start a fight, and then she’d have to leave. Maybe that was the best thing to do right now. “Gonna stop pussyfooting around me, or you gonna keep acting like the ghost of some nice guy possessed you?”
“No idea what you’re talking about.” The reaction was knee-jerk, and the statement was such a bald-faced lie that even his perfect poker face couldn’t sell it.
The sound he made was something between a sigh and a groan as he scrubbed his hand up over his face and his hair. “Fine. All right. I figured the least I could do for someone who risked her stupid hide for my sake -- which was fucking dumb, by the way -- was stop deliberately provoking her.”
After all, they both knew he baited her on purpose at least half the time.
“You want the truce done, I can probably summon up the temper to show you the door.” His chuckle was entirely devoid of humor. “Never had much trouble with temper.” Getting into it, anyway.
Ash smiled. “Dumb, but it worked and you’re alive. That was the point.” For a lot of different reasons. “Anyway, you haven’t been nice to me in more than a decade, so it’s weird. Usually, we’re at each other’s throats right about now.”
Not that this wasn’t a welcome change, but. There was something about this that felt nice, but out of place. He was being honest, so she might as well be, too. “It’s nice.”
He shrugged awkwardly and focused on his food. “Yeah, well, guess it’s serving its purpose then. Happy holidays.”
And this would be the only gift he’d willingly own up to.
He didn’t say don’t get used to it, because he couldn’t really say how long the cease-fire would last. Though…
“Anyway,” he said, “I guess I figured it’d been long enough that we could stop dredging up ancient history. We’re adults -- we don’t have to annoy the shit out of each other every time we talk. Maybe we could try cutting back to one time in three.” It was almost a joke, but more likely defense mechanism against the strangeness.
Better cordial colleagues than… whatever the hell this was. He could manage cordial.
She turned to look at him, clearly skeptical. “No one’s been dredging up old history, Ci, but if you’re willing to play nice, I can, too.” It would be a welcome change not trying to figure out what way he was going to blow. To actually be able to sit down with Cian Wilde, talk business, and not have to worry about some screaming match… That was going to be heaven.
If they could keep it up. Old habits died hard, and even if he was the one offering it, she knew that she still made him uncomfortable.
But, in the spirit of compromise, she lifted her glass. “To us not ripping each other’s throats out two out of three meetings.”
He almost said, to you not being an idiot so I don’t have to try ripping your throat out, then, but it would sort of defeat the point.
And aside from her ridiculous heroics, she hadn’t pissed him off lately, anyway. He ignored the bit about dredging up old history; she had been the one who’d kissed him after flying off the handle, but that wasn’t a fight he wanted to have tonight, either.
Restraint was the word of the day, apparently. Fucking Pharists would be so proud.
“I’ll give it a try if you will. For whatever that’s worth.” You didn’t really toast with water glasses, but they did it anyway.
Ash shrugged. “I’m all about getting along,” she said, taking a sip of her water. “And, in the spirit of being nice, I’m sure you’ve got plans tonight, so I’ll head out.” She didn’t particularly want to go - she didn’t have anywhere else to be or anything to do - but it wouldn’t be shocking if he and one of his blondes had decided to do something.
He could have told her that his plans for the night had mostly included coffee and papers, but that would be skirting a line he didn’t want to cross. So he told her, “Sure. Thanks for the food. Beats leftover soup.” Even if the soup had been pretty good, and the kid’s gift likely (definitely) came with fewer potential pitfalls.
He didn’t look at the package -- the thought of opening it and playing nice was a little hard to stomach. He’d unwrap the present once she left. Eventually. Like maybe tomorrow, when he was done feeling like an idiot.
“I’ll tell Neil you liked it, then,” she said, standing. She grabbed her plate and glass, slipped into the kitchen and rinsed her dishes before placing them in the sink. “I’ll show myself out.” He’d set the alarms as soon as she was out the door, she knew. She grabbed her coat, shrugged it on, and headed out the door, pausing to wave goodbye to Cian and smile.
It wasn’t until she was at the crystal that she realized he hadn’t opened his gift. Oh well, she thought. He’d either open it or he wouldn’t. Not her problem anymore. The rest of her way home was filled with thoughts of a warm bath and sleep; it really was a cold night.