Jul. 16th, 2014

bossymarmalade: james sawyer gets a fishbiscuit (fishbiscuit)
[personal profile] bossymarmalade
Ollie scrubs his hand up through the back of his hair as he waits for Mar’i to let him in. It’s not significantly warmer in San Francisco than in Star, so he can’t even pretend that’s the reason for the flushed feeling that’s making him a little overheated even in t-shirt and jeans. He wraps his hand a few times over in the strap of the cloth grocery bag he’s holding, the feeling of the fabric digging into his palm calming him down a little.

Mari takes a bit to get to the door, but when she opens it up the reason is clear: the apartment floor where the open floorplan leads from the tiled kitchen towards the doorway is flooded with thick bubbles. “Dishwasher’s broken,” Mar’i says by means of greeting, even as Poppy zooms by, devouring a line of bubbles in her wake.

Ollie pauses before he comes in, slinging the bag he’s holding (carefully) onto a table before rubbing his hands together. “Okay,” Ollie says briskly. “You got a spare mop? Or hell, even a broom, or some rags? Doesn’t look like the Lizard Queen’s being much help with the cleanup.”

Mari glances over to where Poppy is now rolling in a pile of bubbles near the offending appliance. “Well, I guess they just didn’t have dishsoap on her homeworld,” she shrugs, motioning to where she’s already begun to towel up some of the mess. “There’s a mop in the coat closet, too.”

Ollie bustles over to the coat closet and fetches the mop, swirling it in vigorous figure eights over the bubbly floor. “You need a new one?” he asks, nodding at the dishwasher. “You should get your landlord to replace that thing /and/ pay for cleanup. Only fair to compensate you for loss of use and the mess.” He ducks his head a little, grimacing; he can hear the grampa style ‘stating-of-the-obvious’​ words coming out of his mouth, but can’t seem to stem the flow. “I brought you some ramen,” Ollie blurts, eager to change the subject. “I figured you might not have much energy for cooking.”

Mari laughs a little and shakes her head, tossing down a towel near the dishwasher and moving it with her foot. “No, it’s actually my fault. The lid fell off the dish detergent while I was pouring it in and way more went in than I wanted. Besides, it’s only on the tile, so I’m not too worried.” She glances over at the bag, tilting her head curiously. “Spicy ramyun?” she asks, not even realizing how she naturally lilts the word away to a different pronunciation, a different language—the one more familiar to her.

"Tonkotsu, and I ordered it spicy." He pauses in swishing the mop around to grin at her. "I saw that movie Tampopo a long time ago and it made me think that good ramen has to be made from pork bone broth. Also it made me look at eggs in a brand new way."

Mari blinks and continues moving her foot circularly. “Tampopo?” she repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Should I watch that?”

Ollie gives her an impassioned look. “Oh, Mar’i,” he says. “Yes, you should. If you can find it anymore, you definitely should.” He slaps the mop down in a few places, flattening the bubbles, and then leans on it as he looks at her again. “I didn’t mean that stuff I said to you that time,” Ollie tells her, his voice doing the strained, rushed thing that it does when he’s anxious about something and feeling embarrassed. “I thought … I dunno, sweetie, I thought you might be drugged or possessed or something. I thought you might not be you, so I was aiming for the gut.”

Mari snorts. “I can find all the Asian films, man, I have the magic torrent touch.” She pauses then squints. “Don’t tell Bruce I’m torrenting on his tech. That might look bad.” But as Ollie switches so suddenly—a common motif in their interactions—her face changes subtly, shifting a bit darker and quieter as she listens. “You definitely know where my gut is, then,” she says finally, not quite facing him as her foot slows in its path. “But I said some shitty stuff too—tried to throw Dinah at you—and I’m sorry for that, too.”

and light it up forever )
bossymarmalade: the blessed virgin mary in pinks and blues (queen of heaven)
[personal profile] bossymarmalade
Damian stands in the courtyard of the gardens, still for a moment as if he’s lost and not sure which way to turn. He finally moves forward into the bed of irises, vibrantly violet beneath the midday sun, and plucks a handful from the soil, roots still dangling beneath their stems.

Bruce is dressed in what can only be described as Sunday Morning Church wear: the suit is less clean cut, less metropolitan than the things he wears on evenings out or even to the office. The wide lapels and the simple.. blackness of it all accommodates but not by much. The shirt is starched and pressed, his shoes shined to a dull gleam, and he watches the young man standing in the gardens for a moment, not stopping him when he rips the flowers from their bed, knowing that Alfred, their warden, wouldn’t try to stop him either.

Damian approaches Father with his bundle grasped in one fist, an assortment of flowers selected at random. He stares down at his own blurry reflection in the tops of Bruce’s shoes. “On commercials,” he explains, lifting the flowers up, “it appears customary to provide mothers with a bouquet on this holiday.”

Bruce nods, and reaches out to push his hand over the rounded top of his son’s head, ruffling the short, dark locks before he settles the weight of his touch on his shoulder. He looks down at him, and smiles, softly, for a brief second. “It is. We can also pick her up some chocolates or something else that will keep, in case she comes around to see it.”

Damian murmurs “Okay,” focused on the pressure of Father’s hand upon his head, content to permit it to distract him for the fleeting seconds before it’s displaced. He hears the car idling on the drive that terminates at the garden lane, and he walks alongside Bruce to meet it. “Will you go to the graves today?”

Bruce walks in silence with Damian towards the car, thoughts flickering through his mind before he nods, belatedly. Alfred doesn’t open the car door for either of them; he is in the front seat, also dressed in his own formal clothes: a black similar to Bruce’s, yet somehow, more finely pressed, more neatly cut. Bruce opens the door to the Bently for Damian, before moving around to the other side to climb in, where he inquires, voice oddly gentle: “Would you like to come with me?”

thou too our queen shall be )
bossymarmalade: bubbles and hearts (happiness for fifteen cents)
[personal profile] bossymarmalade
Alfred holds the boy’s hand steady in his own, as they move the tubing of icing along the top of the cake: it was a decent enough job for a double layer, cream filled confection, and Alfred was pleased, his voice warm: “That’s it. Just a touch of pressure, not too much.” He steps back, wiping his hands on his apron as he moves around the Wayne Manor kitchen with ease. An animal in his natural environment.

Bruce stands behind the boy, watching Alfred, his expression barely contained: the smile tugs at the edges of his lips, from where he sits, sneaking a green bean from the casserole to the side of him.

Kate has been invited to Wayne Manor, which feels a bit odd, but then again, she always feels a little bit like a fish out of water on a day like today. She paces in the library a little, stares out at the just-about-to-bloom garden for a long moment or two.

Ramsey has what is definitely the worst icing handwriting but delights in this task, since Alfred uses the metal icing tops, which seem far more legitimate than Momma Julie’s store-bought plastic ones. Although, of course, Ramsey loves his stepmother too, and has ensured that a giant bouquet of flowers — bought on Peter’s credit card — will arrive at their Canadian home.

Bruce comments, as he watches Ramsey, a diffused sense of pride making the edges of his words honey-warm, sunshine bright: “Your cursive is getting better.”

Alfred leans in, as he walks past Bruce, “..but your stealth could use a touch up, sir—you’ll ruin your appetite,” and he pushes the casserole away from the man, patting him on the arm as he walks to the oven.

Kate wanders out of the library. She’s spent enough time now living in this place that she no longer gets lost in the main corridors, has little fear of their dark corners, and she can smell dinner cooking all the way from here through some alchemy of Alfred’s. Kitchen. Coffee. This she can do.

unmixed and heroic joy )

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