i have your love and i'm taking it with me

[northseaflotsam]

It gets lonely, that's all. There are times when Rachel, as much fun as she is, can't hold his attention; he's always listening past her for some other voice, breathing her synthetic-lavender scent and missing the tang of salt and earth. If anything, it's worse than it was before: memory that had blurred is sharp and bright again, and he wakes in

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[thespaewife]

The music may not be especially nostalgic, but the rhythm of the knock at the door - Ratatatatattata! - probably is. Especially when you add in the thunk of an impatient kick at the door frame from a work booted foot.

When Mordred opens the door, Clar is standing on the other side, a paper bag of groceries in her arms.

[northseaflotsam]

"What in the name of--" He stares at her a moment in sheer bewilderment.

[thespaewife]

She shoves the groceries at him. "Fucking dumbass. Dropped off the world. We're having soup."

[northseaflotsam]

He catches the bag reflexively, falling back a step. "Well, I'm glad one of us knows what's going on."

[thespaewife]

She brushes past him, patting his elbow on her way by. "Kitchen," she says, pausing to locate it, and then striding neatly off, rolling up her sleeves as she goes.

[northseaflotsam]

"Clar--" He pauses to kick the door shut, and follows her swiftly.

[thespaewife]

"Good," she says, "I need knives. Stockpot. Couldn't find you."

[northseaflotsam]

"Do I look like I own a-- I've been here for ten years, Clar, I know you have the phone number." He sets the groceries down on the counter, pulls out a drawer.

[thespaewife]

"Couldn't find you. You weren't in the world. There were planes." A stockpot is a basic necessity of life, you'd better have one. "Cutting board too."

[northseaflotsam]

"Thou'rt a plague, woman." In pure, old-fashioned, broad Orcadian. His eyes are sparkling.

[thespaewife]

"Tch," Clar says, and starts to scrub her hands clean. "Kettle." In the same.

[northseaflotsam]

Mordred just watches her a moment, the smile rising irresistibly, before he starts to rummage in the cabinets.

[thespaewife]

Clar finishes washing her hands and scowls at the paper towels. Stupid artifacts of twentieth century ingenuity and lack of thriftiness. "Dishcloths?" she asks, meaning Where Are They? Not, Do You Have Any?

[northseaflotsam]

"Behind you."

[thespaewife]

Not a word, mister. Not a word.

She dries her hands. "Haven't been eating right," she says. She can tell, because he's protesting that he doesn't have a stockpot.

[northseaflotsam]

"And you have, I suppose." He straightens with a resounding clang. Here, have your stupid pot. "Bread and milk for a solid week."