Romany is not who she says she is (goddesswisdom) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-06-30 23:30:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, neena thurman (domino), pete wisdom, romany wisdom |
"Your bird is bleedin'"
Who: Romany, Neena and Pete
What: Stitches, slapping and breakfast.
When: Sunday morning, I guess? XD
Where: The Wisdom Residence, home of the vagina room.
Status: Complete
Rating: PG-13 for language and fixing wound stitches
Romany was at the kitchen table, drinking tea and dangling a pendulum over the picture of the boy. It swayed to and fro as she murmured to herself.
After leaving Domino's room while blowing a very large raspberry for a lark, Pete went into his room, rifled through his bag, and changed into a clean pair of boxers (candy-floss and lollipops!) and a old white t-shirt. Then it was on to the kitchen for part two of his plan, getting coffee, with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and his laptop tucked under his other arm. Because he doesn't like his coffee black, unless it's under dire circumstances.
He passed by Romany, giving her one arched eyebrow, hair sticking up like a gutted scarecrow with hay sticking out every which way, and set the bottle and laptop down quietly upon on the kitchen counter. After all, he knew from experience that it was better not to interrupt her while evil was in progress. And that's why he poured some coffee into a cup, in absolute silence.
She carefully put the pendulum away, blinking her eyes as they came back into focus. She glanced at Pete, "I don't know where yet, duck, but I know a direction. He's somewhere t'the East. Maybe a bit North. That could put him anywhere from Nevada t'Michigan and inbetween."
"At least it's not in the middle o' Mongolia in an underground bunker," Pete was murmuring as he started doctoring up his coffee, so he could become functional for the day. Too bad the liquor wasn't a mood lifter, but it helped make things bearable. He was also considering that maybe Dom should hear about this, as well. And at some point, though the thought made him cringe, he'd have to contact Wilson and ask if he wanted to pull a hostage extraction mission. "Cos I've tried t'sneak in and find summat like that b'fore and it was a pain in the bloody arse. Endless nothing for as far as the eye could see. I'll take Nevada t'Michigan, any day. Maybe I'd better bellow for Thurman, so you can tell 'er..."
There were voices coming from the kitchen, which was exactly what Dom was afraid of. She'd started unbandaging her leg in the bathroom to have a look when she noticed one of the stitches had popped, probably due to her being an idiot and hobbling all around the damn world yesterday. She'd been determined to fix it herself, but she really needed some ice to numb the skin first. She poked her head into the kitchen, then started trying to sneak behind Pete, in the direction of the fridge.
"Well if 'e's next door in t'desert it'll be endless nothin' populated with mountains, snakes an' scorpions," Romany replied casually. "An' god 'elp us if 'e's in Utah or Idaho."
"Isn't Utah the epicentre of evil? I've lived with you, so I think I'll survive." Pete asked, looking over for some sugar and seeing...Sneaky Sneakertons there with her distracting ass, which is precisely what he stared at. "Oh, brilliant. Romany believes your brother is somewhere between Nevada and Michigan. Be a luv an' pass the sugar would you? I need carbohydrates." Of course, he was asking her bum and not her face, but that's the way Pete rolls.
"Isn't the whiskey sweet enough?" Dom snerked, reached a hand over, and pushed the sugar in his direction. That hand then went right back into the freezer, where it'd previously been about to grab out some chunks of ice. "Somewhere between Nevada and Michigan. That's great, I'll just start performing statewide searches. You think top to bottom, or bottom to top?"
"That's actually a little spot where Arizona, Utah and Nevada meet," Romany replied, as though she were talking about the weather. "A bit to the west of I-15 in Arizona. Maybe in Nevada. Right 'round in that area duck. Evilest place in the country."
"Brilliant. We can send you in first, sis." Pete was saying, stirring way too much sugar into his coffee, so that it qualified as a liquored up dessert, rather than a beverage. His eyes were very much fixed in a downwardly direction, to where Thurman's ass lived in all it's splendor. He finally answered the search query with a very firmly stated, "I think we should start at the bottom an' work our way up." Uh huh.
Ice in hand, Dom nodded her head. She was of course completely unaware of the fact that Pete was staring fixedly at her behind while he was saying these things. She grabbed a napkin to put the ice on so she could carry it without freezing her fingers off, then started hobbling back towards the bathroom, waving at the two of them as she went, "Thanks for looking that up for me. We can probably rule out some places in Nevada immediately. I'll use my security clearance to pull up some satellite feeds."
"I'll try to narrow it down further." The older Wisdom sibling watched Dom hobble, while shaking her head like she thought the woman was crazy, "But I need t'give it a rest for a few 'ours. T'energy needs to build back up, y'know."
"That's fine, you do that." Pete was saying, while leaning, and stirring his coffee still, entirely focused on the rearview as someone retreated. And it's really not clear who he was responding to. Or if he knew what he was saying. Because, damn, dat ass.
He was seriously going to have to put in a request for her to put on some trousers or the likes. Baggy ones. Not leather ones. Or vinyl. Or stab-proof. So he could concentrate.
Dom would properly thank Romany later, after she was done pretending her leg was a piece of ripped leather that needed mending. The best way to celebrate self-practiced medical procedures was with coffee and whiskey, after all! She'd talk to her on her return visit.
Romany elbowed Pete. Hard, "Keep starin', yeh eyeballs are about t'pop out. I'm not cleanin' that up."
"Stoppit," he grunted, indignantly, because there was no longer any bum in plain view for him to oogle. His eyeballs were in no danger of rolling across a floor, collecting lint. Not yet, at least. Pete took one sip of coffee....two sips of coffee...two-and-a-half sips of coffee, and then his face took on a pinched expression of deep thinkiness. As though something was off somewhere and...then his eyeballs looked as though they were going to pop out and roll across the floor, toward the bathroom.
He put the coffee down and gave Romany a half-hairpet, half-shove in an away direction, because that's what siblings do. Immediately after, he started to move off toward the bathroom to at least see if Dom needed anything. Besides ice. Because he pretty much gathered by then, that she was moving without the greatest of ease.
Over in the land of the bathroom, Dom was stringing up a needle that had a natural curve to it and was made to sew together leather. It wasn't really that bad, honestly, but the one she'd ripped would need to be re-sewn in through a different puncture point. Which was why there was ice strapped to her leg. She'd taken a bit to admire Moira's work before starting, too. Every single stitch was straight and there'd been an even number of them. All the more reason to put this one back in.
Romany raised her eyebrow, saying just as casually as she had before, "Your bird is bleedin'."
"I've gathered," a very unenthused Pete was saying, as he made his way to the bathroom door and lightly rapped his knuckles against it. He didn't want to do anything loud and jarring, if Dom was in there doing what he thought she was doing. Taking it a step further, he pressed his lips against where the door met the doorframe and said in a low voice that she might hopefully hear, "Neena, now that your arse isn't distracting me like it often does...? Do you 'ave this handled or you need me t'fetch anything or anyone else, for you?"
Go him, for being a smart enough man to let her make the decision on it. He's not stupid, after all. Well, most of the time. And when he's not fixated on hot women and their finer assets.
Romany raised her voice, "While yeh there can yeh ask 'er if she wants t'go dancin' with starkers with me on the interstate next week?"
"I think she heard you," Pete said, irritably, while waiting for a response with an anxious expression on his face.
"Oh good, glad you came by," Dom hissed. One hand was grabbing onto the sink and the other one had paused mid-stitch. The ice hadn't really done much of anything honestly, though it made the whole thing less bloody, "You can go and fetch me a glass of whiskey and some eggs, because Edna is hungry and has a powerful need to not be sober." She paused as Romany's shout could be heard through the house, and snerked, "And tell her no."
Romany got up and started to make some eggs, as soon as she heard the word.
"I think she heard you," Pete said through the door, sounding very unenthused but it was too late to stop her now and he could simply beat himself up for not noticing before she started. He quickly made his way into the kitchen, grabbed the entire bottle of whiskey, nodded to Romany like eggs were good, and made his way back to the bathroom door. "Got you the whole bottle, 'ere. Is this door locked, unlocked, or ready t'be kicked in?" Because waiting was for pussies and he wasn't exactly known for patience, most of the time. Hey, at least he asked?
"It's not locked, no." she completely had this, though. Why did he need to be such a worrier? Silly man, "I didn't need the whole bottle, but I won't complain."
The eggs were cooking quickly - Romany was going for 'just cooked enough not to be disgusting'. Flipping the eggs onto some toast, she made her way towards the bathroom.
Because it's what Petey does, underneath the crusty facade of him not giving a shit. The door opened and it has instantly become a Wisdom Family Affair, as in they now know things are up and are going to be crawling up noses to get a good look at the blood and gore, bearing gifts of alcohol and eggs on toast. Pete gave her The Look, like he was berating her without words, but he didn't actually say anything at all for a few token seconds. He was simply waiting, while holding the whiskey bottle out to her. And that few token seconds of silence was broken by him asking, "You want a fag with that, Mrs. Nordstrom?"
"No, I don't want a fag with that. The ash will get in the wound." She glanced at Romany with her egg and toast and then looked at Pete with his proffered whiskey bottle, and wondered what the hell mess she'd gotten herself involved in just by moving in with them. The hand clenching the sink grabbed the bottle and she took a long sip, before going back to dabbing and puncturing, like two people weren't watching her do this. The Look had been completely ignored for the time being, too. He'd scold her anyway, later, which was fine by her because she'd hopefully be drunk by then.
The eggs were even seasoned and the toast wasn't burnt. Romany was the better cook, after all. She plopped the plate on the sink, "You two enjoy..sticking yeh fingers places or whatever yeh do for fun. I'm goin' to watch the telly."
"Thanks, Romany." Dom didn't want her to think the toast and egg wasn't appreciated. She just thought it was odd it happened so quickly and then was delivered to her like that.
Romany is magic.
Pete's eyes were currently stuck in the upwardly rolled position. Because, his....his something, she was something...was performing bathroom surgery. After all, he wasn't sure if labels apply or not, or if Dom would go running off over the countryside screaming to light herself on fire and get away from him, IF he applied a label to it. Labels probably weren't safe. Because that invited axes to fall and heads to roll, faster than they would, anyway. As for scolding, all she's getting is one of those hissy sounding sighings at, and maybe a statement later. But he knows she can handle herself and he knows she's more capable of stitching herself up, than him doing it for her.
That was why he flat out asked her, "You want me out or in, Thurman? I imagine you don't want an audience, for your home medical fun."
"Get in here and pinch this skin together so I can pull and tie this off." Dom grunted. Her own work wasn't nearly as nice as Moira's was, and she pondered taking some time off to practice sutures on bananas with stolen medical supplies again. It'd been a while.
"Fine, but if you need me t'finish it off, then...bloody feckin' hell, let me know...would you?" Pete put a hand against the door and gave it a nudge so it closed almost all the way. That done he kneeled down and then did as she asked, moving the skin together enough that she could finish it off and get to drinking faster. She did get one of those starings up at, like she could've said something. But that was gone in an instant, and any reprimands were washed out by quiet concern, instead.
"It's almost... done... just need to yank a bit..." she inhaled and closed her eyes for a second, then opened them and inspected the whole thing before tying the thread off in a knot. The string was quickly snipped off and she pressed some gauze against it for a bit, while giving him a look like he really needed to stop looking at her like that. "...listen, I just didn't want you to tell me how my leg was going to fall off again, alright?" To prove she was alright she took a bite of eggytoast, and washed it down with some Whiskey. It was like it was any old saturday morning.
Oh that did it. He gave her The Look again. Pete watched her chew on her eggytoast and drink her whiskey, all while giving her The Look. Because it says it all, and he doesn't have to say too much more, because The Look works in a lot of situations, and it even combines with The Glare pretty well, too. He was leaving The Glare for other moments, though. As he got back up onto his feet again, he gave her a pat on the hip with one hand and let her have at her whiskey.
"Right, well...you'd best rest up then, an' no more walking about or us being unnecessarily frisky until that's better, or your leg will fall off." See there? He did it, anyway.
"But I need to paint, and settle in..." and they still hadn't christened the new place, and that bed was horrible, she needed to go buy a new one, and she needed to start searching satellite footage and... "It's just one stitch, Pete, and it's fixed. See?"
There was a lot to do and he knew that, but she had been up and around and cleaning guns and pacing and...there's an entire list in Pete's head (along with some self-guilt) of things Dom shouldn't have been doing while she was on the mend. Because this...that he's staring at, that she was indicating with her 'see?'...was not qualifying as mending. Pete tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly while his cheeks went puffy. It was good internal stress relief. So was liquor and cigarettes. Which he'd start in on, because that really was it's own form of breakfast and constituted a meal. "You can do those things but you have to accept some help. Or else you're in bed, searching satellite footage. And that's it." He held up both hands to her like nope, no more, you can't protest, he's not having it, get well soon, please!
Dom's lips thinned into a line. She was about to argue with him, but he was doing that thing where he wouldn't be argued with, and honestly, she was glad that one of the two of them was putting their foot down. Because if it was up to her, now that she had a vague location, she'd probably not bother resting until everything was settled. Then her leg really would fall off probably, and Moira would call her a bampot again. What did that even mean!?. "...Alright, alright. You win." I so un-love you.
And I un-love you right back, all over your face, b'cos if I didn't, I wouldn't be saying it or putting the foot down right now.
"You're bloody right I've won, b'cos someone has t'tell you no. That gives you a pass t'tell me no at some point, also." Because it was only fair and she had special privileges to do so. As long as her leg didn't fall off. Not that it would stop him from finding her insatiably sexy, but he'd also be calling her Bob and Hoppy and all sorts of names that would probably get him shot. That's what happens when one gets involved with someone who was their BFF and they'd been involved in dangerous situations before. "You want help out t'the table so you can finish your breakfast, or would you prefer to limp along on your own? Maybe you can drag yourself across the floor, by your teeth."
"I could, you know. It wouldn't be the first time," Dom snerked, while rebandaging her leg up, then looked up at him with one of those looks that might imply she has more emotions for him at the present moment than she's comfortable with. For her, that involved letting herself to be more vulnerable than normal. That, in turn, leant itself to admitting she needed some help. "... I could use a hand, actually. If you don't mind."
The look she was given in return was pretty much a mirror reflection, coming from someone who spent too much time being wary of developing those sort of fee...fee...caring about anyone like that, for a good long while. But, without a word and without making fun of her, Pete silently held out one hand to help her up, and nodded like he was upto the task. "Don't mind at all. Better than a swift kick in the arse while you're using your teeth to pull yourself along. Helpful in it's own way, but I'd rather not be sleeping in the dog house. Cheers."
Oh. So romantic.
Romany shouted from the other room, "It sounds like yeh feckin' in there keep it down! I'm watchin' a lot of hot sweaty men swingin' 'rounds bars and shite." Pause, "I love gymnastics."
"Keep that up and you'll be sleeping there anyway," Dom quipped, cheekily, while rescuing the the food and whiskey. She let him guide her to the kitchen, then barked out a laugh at Romany's commentary, "We're NOT fucking, you'll KNOW when we are."
"Wot she said," Pete added, making sure she was sitting comfortably at the table with everything she'd need to keep her there for a while. But he also made sure to murmur under his breath so only Dommy could hear him, "I left my guns in your room. I'll be but a moment. I'm goin' t'shoot me sis an' bury her in the back garden."
Coffee, whiskey, eggy toast, and a newspaper. She could even see the gymnastics from there. Not a bad place to camp for a bit! "Make sure to shoot her in the vagina room," she looked up and kissed his arm, before helping herself to some coffee.
"Yes, dear," he said, giving her a kiss on top of her head and a rub of his hand on the back of her neck, before he pulled away. Of course that sweet moment was shot to hell via a very large canon, the moment he raised his voice and barked out, "I'm going t'kill you in the vagina room, you feckin' wiccan tart! Do you know how t'do Sunday Roast? I want some! But not that shoe leather rubbish that mum used t'cook, b'cos I don't want t'lose a tooth tryin' t'chew it!"
Ahh. It's just like home.
It was a realm Dom was completely unfamiliar with, though she wondered how much of that - was it really a cult? Seriously? - How much of that had happened, and if it had been anything like being a part of a family. Either way it probably didn't hold a candle to living with the Wisdoms. She didn't know if it was charming or horrifying, and settled on some mixture of both. Romany was great at eggs. They definitely had enough freaking cow for her to make some roast, maybe it'd even be good.
Pete's Bedroom - Was now known as the Vagina Room.
Not for long, because he was going to get his inner artist on and paint it. And if it was him painting? It probably would resemble some Jackson Pollock brain and blood spatter mess, only with a muted blue-grey and the remains of some pussy pink underneath.
"Romany?! Feck it, I'll cook the bloody roast," he said, after he got no response, since his sis was perving on gymnasts. He did disappear long enough to get Dom's laptop and set it up there on the table for her, and then set to work fixing himself some toast (burnt) and egg (barely warmed so it was still runny like snot). That was all while he was drinking his spiked coffee.
Indeed, living with them was interesting. If by 'interesting' one might instead mean 'dysfunctional.'
Romany was too busy watching the arm porn to think about that kind of roast. Wait. Pete cooking? She flailed and ran into the kitchen to get to work on dinner.
He can cook. Badly. Poorly. But it still qualified as cooking. And that was the reason why he got into a slappy flappy hands fight with his sister, with the freezer door open, like she missed her window off opportunity to touch the roast. There was a lit cigarette clamped between his lips and everything, while slap fighting. Like a pro. And a boss.
Romany slapped back at Petey, "Get away from the stove, yeh'll burn it. I'll do it the way grammam used to." Grammam was the only sane member of their entire family. Pete and Romany included.
"Oooh, the way Grammam used to do it," Dom hit send on a message to Kitty, and leaned back in her chair a bit to watch them, "Dear old Grammam, it's a pity she never taught our Pete how to cook. I miss the old bird." She wiped an imaginary tear from her eyes.
"She taught me...ouch...ow ow ow...feck you, m'getting holy water an' dousing you with it," Pete was saying, hunched down and one arm bent up to protect his head and his cigarette, as his other hand went on a slapping spree onto Romany's back. Hopefully it left several big red handprints there, because she was an expert slap fighter. He was already having to take big drags off the cigarette because he was in real danger of losing it. "Stop encouraging her, who're you cheering on, anyway? Rommy only knows 'ow to cook, using satanic cooking methods."
Romany just grinned, "Neena, Grammam tried to teach 'im to cook. 'e sent her to 'ospital."
"Did you really?" Dom looked highly interested in this tale. She picked her coffee mug up and toasted Romany with it, "Go on, how did this happen?"
"I did not, you tart...s'not my fault she ran out of oxygen in 'er tank that day." So sayeth Pete, right before one hand went SMACK and landed right on his sister's butt. He smugly smirked at her while smoking, like take that, asshat.
Romany wriggled her butt into his hand, "Careful Petey or people will talk!"
He didn't leave his hand there! Gross! Pete made a face at her like she was nasty and lost his cigarette when he winced like 'eww.'
Romany wins!
Dom just looked between them while still trying to decide if living with them was charming or horrifying.
"Ahh, you fecking bitch," Pete growled, picking up his cigarette and...smoking it again. There was at least two tiny drags left on it. He wasn't about to waste them.
It's probably a little of both.
Both, definitely both, "Get out. I'll 'andle dinner!"
"I'll help her!" Dom announced, with a big, reassuring grin.
"Oh, wote'er the both of you. I have stake in precisely one third of this venture, so I'll invade my one third of the bloody kitchen all I'd like," Pete announced, like the king of his domain. Don't like it? Tough. The monarch has spoken. He tucked his laptop under his arm, and took up his now cold runny egg and burned toast and cold, spiked coffee. Off to the kitchen table he went, sitting down, with his head held high, like he hadn't just lost a slap fight with his sister. At least this time he hadn't had lost because his hair or ear was pulled on. On went the power to the laptop and he began to poke at it with one index finger, while eating that mess he called breakfast.
Meanwhile, Dom started on the spiked coffee portion of her breakfast, having finished the regular coffee portion. While starting to pull up satellite feeds of Nevada.
And Romany? Began to slave away in the kitchen. And enjoying it. She even pretended like she was using magic on the roast! It was going to be a nice slow cooked one too.
It was almost normal.
Almost. And hell only knows how long it would last, before implosions, dismemberment, bullets, bombs, fire, screaming, demonic possession, and stabbings happened.
Tuesday.