Re: May's Cottage: May & Rory
You could say the same thing about me. [This was agreement on his part, and Rory nursed the heat in his mug while he scratched at the irony of that tattooed cross upon his arm. He hadn't asked much of her, although assuming a place to stay was likely asking more than enough, more than he had any right to ask anyone. The fact that she hadn't thrown him out on the mercy of bigger and badder things? Rory figured it was only because he'd kept good and clear of her. Honestly, he didn't know much of anything about the woman, except for the way she smelled. Rory knew the scent of her, and of this place, intimately. It was the only real beyond-human gift that he had, unless one was willing to count apparent-immortality(which could feel as much like a curse as anything). He knew May's smell. It went beyond garden dirt and rosemary, it went beyond loose tea and the lye in her soap.
The room that Rory stayed in? It had absorbed Rory's own scent. Soured dog fur and sweated-out whiskey. There was the lingering ghost of American cigarettes, even if he knew better than to smoke indoors. But the rest of May's place? It was so rarely breached by Rory that it was like a sensory ocean of her. It smelled more Spring than Spring. Green and wet or dried and herbal.] I'm not so good with the uh… hints. [He drank from the mug again.] So you're just going to have to come out and tell me when you want me out of here. [Not that he was trying to push her in that direction any. The idea of sleeping in the gutter? A load of his bollix, frankly.]
You got any whiskey in this place? [The question was sudden, but he figured that it didn't hurt to ask. An Irish tea was Irish tea for a reason.]