Sweets for the... nevermind.
When: Wednesday, August 17, 2:00 PM
Where: Damien's house
Who: Damien Wayne and Clarice Ferguson
What: Delivery on a promise
Rating: Possible PG for Damien's rude mouth? ^_~
( Clarice wasn't sure whether she wanted to accept his offer of a job, assuming she'd done well enough that he still wanted to offer it. But she did want him to like the pastries. )
Where: Damien's house
Who: Damien Wayne and Clarice Ferguson
What: Delivery on a promise
Rating: Possible PG for Damien's rude mouth? ^_~
( Clarice wasn't sure whether she wanted to accept his offer of a job, assuming she'd done well enough that he still wanted to offer it. But she did want him to like the pastries. )
Comments 12
A small, dark red stain started to form on his left thigh the longer he held himself there, but still he held, fighting the pain until his leg spasmed once and he relaxed completely, body swinging once around the bar before tumbling through the air to land, favoring his bum leg.
Tching at the offending limb, Damien snatched a towel folded over the end of a nearby bench, draping it over scarred, glistening shoulders and dabbing at his face. He limped up the stairs and into the foyer, recognizing the blur of pink and violet through the frosted glass of the window immediately.
'Ferguson.'
Disregarding the back that he was still wearing his gi and the fact that he desperately needed ice for his leg, he opened the door, an air of inconvenience about ( ... )
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The boy was covered with scars. Not just little ones: huge, awful, nightmare-inducing scars that screamed of pain. There was one enormous one crossing his chest that sent chills through her, and when he turned, the one down his spine was worse.
Everything Clarice had thought she'd figured out about him went out the window. Wealthy, indulgent parents, not much socialization, an advanced education - and repeated injury and mutilation? She couldn't make it all add up.
The boxes gave a little crumpling sound as her fingers tightened on them, which called her back to reality. She hastened to follow him, finding her voice. "Oh, I-I'm sorry, I should have called - I j-just meant to leave these?" The stammer in her voice had nothing to do with his brusque greeting, and everything to do with trying not to ask what happened to you???Now that she was alert for it, she ( ... )
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Before he did, however, he limped over to the refrigerator and rummaged for an ice pack, balancing it over the injury on his thigh. Pinched features visibly relaxed. "I trust you had no trouble procuring proper ingredients?" That was the first thing one looked for in a chef anyway, if she did that there was a chance they'd at least be edible.
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The recipe. Right. Taking a seat as she was bidden, Clarice took a deep breath and pushed the boxes over to him. "A little bit," she admitted. "The semolina - you were right, it wasn't easy to get the right kind. And I had to try a couple of different kinds of oils." Should she be telling him this, or should she be pretending it had all been easy? But he'd said she would have to go to some trouble and expense. It was hard to get for a reason, after all. And Clarice was a failure at bravado, anyway.
"Here." Now she dug in her pocket and placed the remainder of his money, neatly folded, on the table. "Thank you. It didn't cost as much as all that." How could it possibly? He'd given her hundreds of dollars. Even with the cost of getting it right, it wouldn't have come ( ... )
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