This is not the way Sheila remembers Easter. Of course, in her time one spent the entire day in church on your knees, praying for the Resurrection
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He gets a curious head-tilt in response. "Aye," she replies, taking a bite of the muffin, then the pancake. She looks up into his eyes and Ash looks like he's battling a severe case of indigestion. "She is not ill?" His concern has triggered hers.
It's not that he doesn't get along with his mom, not really. She has the sort of pragmatic toughness mixed with maternal tenderness that comes from raising two kids on your own while working to make ends meet. It's just that he hasn't seen her in quite a while, and, well.. it's awkward.
See this look, Ash? The last time you saw it, Sheila called you a 'blackguard' and ripped a handful of hair out of your head.
She's only slightly less inclined to do it right now.
"Ashley, I am not..." She opens the odd leather bag Fiona bought her at a Valentine's Day sale and takes out a small looking glass, then fusses with her hair. "I am not garb'd fittingly, and..." She sees a woman dressed decently if not becomingly, and a large hickey on the right side of her neck. She glares down at the jeans and sweater she donned, expecting a semi-casual breakfast.
Then she just glares at him. And points at the hickey.
"If ye had, I would have worn a dress." She tries to fix the collar of the sweater to better cover her bruise. "In my time, a suitor presented his lady to his mother with the full household in attendence." There was also a feast. At least Ash remembered that part.
"I resemble a squire come back from play at the field. 'Tis not ladylike a'tall."
Ash's mother is required to like him, as far as Sheila's concerned. Sheila, she could take or leave. Or refer to as 'the whore' in the family Christmas cards. She tilts her head. "And how doth ye know this? I am the woman besmirching thy repuitation." She still has no idea how modern relationships work.
If he had to hazard a guess, Ash would say that his mother decided to drop in on them unexpectedly precisely to see what his girlfriend was like when she wasn't dressed to impress.
He's not sure he even wants to try explaining this to Sheila, however.
"You look like a lady no matter what you're wearing."
... He doesn't really expect this to go over well, but it's how he sees her, anyway.
"And my mom was the one who found me the morning after I got drunk for the first time. I hardly think you need to worry about my reputation."
A small smile tilts Sheila's lips. "Thank ye." She stuffs the mirror back into her purse. "We make a fine pair. Ye've a bruise 'pon thy forehead." She shakes her head. She won't get into his scowl and the fact that he's slouching. "Tis a sepparate situation. Gentlemen did not keep the women they are greengowning in their living quarters in my time. Thy mother knows what to expect?"
More thoughtfully, she adds, "Ashley, does thy mother know of thy...Chosen status?"
It is possible his mother knew from birth he was special. Not THIS special, though.
Sheila's eyebrow raises. "Kind of? Ashley, if..." She gestures toward the buffett table, "one of these poor fellows becomes a demon in the midst of our breakfast, how shall ye reconcile it to her?" She's semi-sympathetic to the situation, but some ease really would be appreciated.
She would still try to kiss it, anyway. He's special to her. AND "special," but nice enough not to mention it.
Ash's mother is a tall, thin-boned woman in her mid-60s, her grey hair liberally streaked with strands of white. Her age may show, but she doesn't look the least bit frail.
"Nothing. Hi, Mom."
She gives him a look that clearly states 'you're not fooling anyone, young man' as she takes her seat.
Sheila immediately sits a little taller in her seat, then smiles pleasantly. "How do you do?" Her British accent is a thousand times more plummy when she tries to sound modern.
"I'm fine..." she looks at the girl and immediately realizes that Ash never told her the girl's name. Fortunately, she's almost immediately distracted by her son's appearance. "Hold that thought. Ash! You've got a smudge on your forehead..." She licks her thumb and immediately reaches across the table. While she reaches over to fix his face, she looks Sheila up and down, her expression neutral.
Ash is getting a Glare for not telling his mom her name. "I am very pleased to meet thee," Sheila says, in a small voice. Does his mom even know that she's British?
He's being more tolerant of his mother than he is for Sheila's fussing; Sheila makes note of this as she drinks some apple juice and watches the show. When Ash's mother finally releases him she sits back and admires her son.
Her exhalation combines love and disbelief. "My little man owns a hotel," she smiles. "I should sue that school; they tried to make me put him in remedial reading. And they said he had a bad memory..."
Sheila chokes on her drink but masks it as a cough, she nervously eyes the woman and lets out a creaky laugh, her legs tightly crossed.
Ash's mother watches her for an uncomfortable minute before asking her son, "So...how did you meeettt..." There is blatant name-fishing.
"Remember when I told you my mom was coming to town?"
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"She's meeting us for brunch."
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She's only slightly less inclined to do it right now.
"Ashley, I am not..." She opens the odd leather bag Fiona bought her at a Valentine's Day sale and takes out a small looking glass, then fusses with her hair. "I am not garb'd fittingly, and..." She sees a woman dressed decently if not becomingly, and a large hickey on the right side of her neck. She glares down at the jeans and sweater she donned, expecting a semi-casual breakfast.
Then she just glares at him. And points at the hickey.
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... Or tell Sheila, apparently.
"You look fine. Besides, she's gonna like you anyway."
He's perfectly confident about that. It's HIMSELF he's worried about.
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"I resemble a squire come back from play at the field. 'Tis not ladylike a'tall."
Ash's mother is required to like him, as far as Sheila's concerned. Sheila, she could take or leave. Or refer to as 'the whore' in the family Christmas cards. She tilts her head. "And how doth ye know this? I am the woman besmirching thy repuitation." She still has no idea how modern relationships work.
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He's not sure he even wants to try explaining this to Sheila, however.
"You look like a lady no matter what you're wearing."
... He doesn't really expect this to go over well, but it's how he sees her, anyway.
"And my mom was the one who found me the morning after I got drunk for the first time. I hardly think you need to worry about my reputation."
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More thoughtfully, she adds, "Ashley, does thy mother know of thy...Chosen status?"
It is possible his mother knew from birth he was special. Not THIS special, though.
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Yes, Ash, that's totally going to put her mind at ease.
Sheila might be less impressed if she knew that bruise was from whacking his head on a shelf at work. He's "special," alright.
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She would still try to kiss it, anyway. He's special to her. AND "special," but nice enough not to mention it.
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"I'll deal with that if it happens."
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"Deal with what?"
Sheila's eyes creep sideways to take in the newcomer.
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"Nothing. Hi, Mom."
She gives him a look that clearly states 'you're not fooling anyone, young man' as she takes her seat.
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"I'm fine..." she looks at the girl and immediately realizes that Ash never told her the girl's name. Fortunately, she's almost immediately distracted by her son's appearance. "Hold that thought. Ash! You've got a smudge on your forehead..." She licks her thumb and immediately reaches across the table. While she reaches over to fix his face, she looks Sheila up and down, her expression neutral.
Ash is getting a Glare for not telling his mom her name. "I am very pleased to meet thee," Sheila says, in a small voice. Does his mom even know that she's British?
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Her exhalation combines love and disbelief. "My little man owns a hotel," she smiles. "I should sue that school; they tried to make me put him in remedial reading. And they said he had a bad memory..."
Sheila chokes on her drink but masks it as a cough, she nervously eyes the woman and lets out a creaky laugh, her legs tightly crossed.
Ash's mother watches her for an uncomfortable minute before asking her son, "So...how did you meeettt..." There is blatant name-fishing.
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