come_sailaway | And I'm tryin' my best to believe in the best left in me [OPEN]

Entry tags:

And I'm tryin' my best to believe in the best left in me [OPEN]

Who: Honoria Crabb & you!
What: Mostly memshare
When: March
Where: Memories & the Serena Eterna
Warnings: Nothing really to start off, added as we go
Notes: Feel free to flip me to brackets I am comfortable with either style. The only prompt with any particularly notable risk of death is Prosperity Bridge, and only if things get screwed up majorly.

1. Oh your cryin's a test of the veins, of my fluid beliefs [4v1 fight, day she met Tom Broadfoot]

Gallery, in the dead of winter. New South Gallery Orphanage, or, more accurately the burned down husk of the old orphanage next door. The ground is covered in a thick layer of snow and there are children playing in places they shouldn't be, but none have strayed within the fenced off perimeter that Crabb is currently exploring.

She doesn't notice the arrival of four other adults until they're already there with her, two coming from the same gap in the fence she did and two more coming from behind her. The two men behind her are nondescript thugs she doesn't recognise, but the ginger woman and tall man are a different story.

"Y'know, I'm actually glad to see you two. Felt like I left a job half-done back at the bulletin—"

"Ooh, sounds like fun," the ginger woman taunts, "but I was thinking instead that Cork and the fellas here could go ahead and stomp you into something a little more lumpy. Something to show your boss at City Hall he needs to keep his beak out. And for me?" She pulls out a knife, holding it up like a demonstration. Crabb grits her teeth, already squaring up for a fight that only seems inevitable. "Well, see, I met this Lady back in the pen, and she's paying out large to anybody who can put another scar on that big face of yours. And I'm saving up for a new flat."

It's then that the four legbreakers move, and Crabb has to think fast to avoid getting killed right here and now.

2. When people burn bridges, the rivers, they don't seem to mind [Prosperity Bridge, the night it collapses]

Prosperity Bridge. Eight minutes to nine o'clock.

Prosperity is a hub for the rich socialites of Gallery. Fine dining, high-end shopping, a place to show off and be shown off to; a place for the upper crust to socialise and hold themselves separate from the rest of the city around them. A place that is mere minutes away from crumbling out from under their feet.

Unbeknownst to anyone here tonight, there is already a fight for their lives ongoing in the clock tower. A fight that will ultimately only end partially in their favour, preventing the bridge from collapsing quite as quickly as the Black Note intends.

Well. One person outside that clock-tower knows. Crabb arrives in a skidding frenzy, automobile coming to a screeching stop across from the tower and in front of an employee. She clambers out of the car, looking up toward the tower.

"E-Excuse me! Ma'am you cannot park your automobile here—" The poor employee protests, only for her to shut the door. "Ma'am! I said—"

But Crabb's distracted, listening to a strange, high-pitched eeeeeeeeeee sound coming from above, "Wait. Shut up. I know that sound—" Right then, a spiderweb crack appears between the 7 and 8 marks on the clock, and without a second more to waste Crabb turns and grabs the guy by his collar. "Listen to me. You gotta take me to your manager's office right bleedin' now. 'Cause there's a real good chance this bridge's minutes are numbered."

3. There's a violence I've found, in the regular things left behind [Margrave Ballroom Fundraiser, date with Tom]

The Margrave Building Ballroom. Extravagant and lustrous and filled with members of Gallerian High Society milling around discussing the latest theories about Lavender Jack, the Black Note and frankly paying very little attention to the supposed point of the evening: fundraising for the South Gallery Orphanage.

Honoria Crabb and Tom Broadfoot stand out like a sore thumb, sat where they are at the bar, dressed in police dress-blues and a cheap suit that don't match up to the glamour of those around them. Both even look like they feel out of place, sticking by each other and generally keeping out of the way rather than mingling.

"Cute," Crabb sneers, watching the politicians on stage. "Not every day you see a wolf making nice with a bear."

"Plenty of livestock to go around, I guess," Tom sighs, and Crabb snorts a grim laugh.

4. And I'm tryin' my best to believe in the best left in me [Bastrop Manor] (Sols will hop in to play Ducky, unless someone has any objections to a 3-way!)

It's two in the morning, and Crabb and Ducky are waiting for Bastrop to return from a mission, of sorts. Crabb seems fairly comfortable, here, with her police uniform's jacket shed, her tie tossed aside, and her sleeves rolled up where she and Ducky have been playing chess between cups of coffee. Speculative chatter about parts of the case has been most of the fare tonight, though Crabb's found herself drifting more and more into more mundane topics the more tired she gets.

They are the only people in this entire manor, hidden away in the canopy with a giant telescope and Bastrop's tools. The mansion is expansive and silent.

Until, of course, you arrive.

5. Oh this world is a mess [Blue Horsehoe Pub, mundane day]

In this memory, Crabb looks the closest to the Crabb that everyone knows from the boat. No police uniform, no skirts, just her go-to white button down, brown trousers with suspenders and her trenchcoat draped over the stool underneath her. Her tie is loosened a little and she's at ease, at the bar, wielding a glass of mid-tier whiskey and chatting occasionally with the tall, muscular blonde man who serves as the place's bartender.

It's a matter of business, more than it really is about relaxation; Ducky isn't here to come and gather information that Masters has picked up anymore, so while Johnny continues to run the high-society end of things, Crabb's taken to coming down to the Blue Horseshoe to see if there's anything they need to know.

It is, however, still one of the few things she does that comes close to taking any time off, during this stretch of her life. And there's space at the bar beside her.

6. But it's prettier, than what lies beneath [Serena Eterna]

Crabb is trying her best to hide the fact that this 'reality breaking apart at the seams' thing is actually shaking her up more than she'd be proud to admit. There's a part of her that can't help but wonder if this is her doing, at least in part, what with Friday MIA thanks to her actions and after she smudged the sigils in the first place. Sure, there's the whole feeding a corpse to a ghost thing, and who knows what else, but...

So, she's doing what she does best. Bury it in other work. She tries to keep track of memories she's been into or had entered, she tries to see if there's any sort of pattern (not as far as she can see), she even tries to dip back into her project writing up the story of Lavender Jack, but she's still a bit all over the place no matter what she does.

Find her in any of her usual spots around the ship, places like Windjammer or the Drunken Sailor, Tauva, the Library, the gym and sports deck, or just around.

7. Oh where do I go from here [wildcard]

Find me at

bluecitrine or at artisticblueteam#5757/in the discord.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Oh please, like Gallery has any jurisdiction. For that matter merc work isn't illegal, just brutal, immoral, and scarring." The half-grin Crabb gets has no joy in it; getting her gyro, on the other hand, makes Erin light up like a little kid. She takes a bite Immediately and makes a contented noise from low in her throat.

For once she's not trying to provoke Crabb; she's genuinely forgotten in this moment of Receiving A Gyro that Crabb goes nuts for the little sounds she makes.

Crabb might have snarked a little by pointing out the whole stealing things part sounds pretty illegal, but she's distracted first by accepting her own gyro and thanking the owners, and then, of course, by Erin again.

There's that colour in her cheeks yet again, as Crabb's mind drifts in frankly sinful directions that she barely even knows how to follow because, and it must be emphasised, she did not get the talk until the boat.

She's stunned to silence for a moment before she clears her throat and says, "G-Good, then?" and then takes a bite of her own.

There's the swallowing of her bite and the savoring of the flavor before Crabb gets her answer: "You wouldn't believe how hard it is to find good gyros in Maryland. Russian food? Handled. Irish food? On it. Soul food? Endless. But all the Greeks went to fucking Michigan half the continent away and the Turks are in New York. Let's see this river view, Detective."

"Well, we got a few places like this around. And a lot more options besides. Gallery's a nation of immigrants, y'know, and everyone brings a bit of their culture with 'em when they stay."

She leads Erin out towards the river, eating away at her own food as they go. Erin really is getting a glimpse at her old normal, here. Even now she lives in the Margrave she eats street food for most meals, with how much time she spends on the go.

"Hopefully y'all do better than America about it, though that can't be hard. The bar is a tripping hazard in Hell." Erin leans over for a little kiss on Crabb's cheek, and a soft murmur: "It's nice, hearing you talk about Gallery. You really love this town, don't you?"

Crabb's breath catches at the little kiss, another rush of warmth following soon behind. When they reach the river, she props her elbows on the railings and leans against them, looking out over the water to the other side of the city. This isn't too near where Prosperity used to be, but she still doesn't look along the river, just in case.

Some things just stick with you.

"...yeah, I do. Gallery's home. Everything I do, I do to try and do right by it and the people here, even when others won't. Especially when others won't."

Erin doesn't reply at first; she gazes out over the city in shameless wonder, watching the lights, the flying ships, the way they reflect off the water. When she finally says something her tone is gentle and faintly amazed.

"You don't seem too bothered that I'm not playing nice, Crabb. What's a good girl like you still doing with a bad girl like me?"

Crabb makes a strange noise, turning around on the spot and leaning back against the railings instead, throwing her hands up. "I don't know! Christ, I don't know. I don't know you and this ain't even how this is s'posed to work even if I did and I don't know why I'm just goin' along with it like it ain't weird."

Except a part of her does. She was the one who tried to kiss 'Tom', that night after Prosperity went down. She was the one who kept thinking about touching his face, about if he'd ever let her kiss him or he'd ever kiss her. The dance steps were fun, in their way, and they were how things were supposed to go, but she didn't know how to keep pace. She didn't want to have to follow all these stupid rituals just to be with someone.

She's just never known how to buck the traditions. Even if she'd tried Cragen wouldn't have let her and maybe in that case she should be grateful but—

"I am just. So bleedin' tired of people hiding everything behind three dozen layers of bleedin' pretence!"

"...Yeah, me too," Erin agrees softly. "I know I don't look it but I'm just about...god, I turned forty four last November. In merc years I'm already dead, Crabb. I don't have time to play games. They're exhausting." Erin turns her head and gives Crabb a shy smile. "So let me drop all pretense. I'd like this night to end in your bed, and if you still like me in the morning I'd love a second date. You got thoughts on that?"

Crabb's face goes that most deeply embarrassed colour that Erin knows well, the warmth spreading far and wide, and the only reason she doesn't choke and sputter is that she doesn't try to say anything for a long, long moment. Just squeezes her eyes shut and finds herself wondering if this is some kind of weird dream, except she wouldn't even dare to dream about something like this.

Her hand goes to the side of her neck and she looks aside at the ground, voice quiet and shy and nervous. "I-I ain't— uh. I ain't ever..."

Erin smiles that warm half smile. "You can learn...but it's also not a condition, Crabb. I'll crash on your couch or out in the street and still be back if you wanna see me again."

She means it too. Erin has nothing but time to fall in love all over again.

"I ain't kickin' you onto the bleedin' street." That much she can say without hesitation, she's not the kind of person who can do that to someone when there's an alternative. "You can come back to the apartment. I-I just— lemme— lemme think about it, arrite? We got the walk back and... yeah."

God, how did this night take a turn like this? She couldn't have predicted this in a million years.

"But the street is so comfy." Erin turns to cup Crabb's cheek in a gentle hand, voice going low. "If you're still good with not playing nice, think I can offer you a kiss to think about on the walk?"

That touch-starved part of Crabb melts at the touch in the very same breath as the part of her still patched with hang-ups glances around out of the corners of her eyes to make sure they're definitely, absolutely, completely alone.

(It at least took her three meetings to try and kiss Tom, is she this desperate to be wanted by someone real? Is she this desperate not to feel alone?)

She swallows, breathes, then nods.

Must we blame she who lives in a desert for having thirst?

Erin's kiss is slow, gentle, and anything but chaste; there's a restrained hunger to it that comes out as a soft sound, as a little bite against Crabb's lip.

When she pulls away, Erin's cheeks are pink.

"I'll let you think about that," she murmurs warmly. "Lead the way, Crabb."

This Crabb knows no more about what to do than the Crabb Erin first kissed did—of course she doesn't, it's the same woman. But Erin's lips are soft and her touch is warm and Crabb leans into it, into Erin, all the while barely believing this is really happening to her.

(This is insane, this is—)

Crabb swallows hard and nods, stuttering out an, "A-Alright," and still wastes another moment staring at Erin's pinkened face before she steps away to lead towards the apartment.

She still doesn't dare hold her hand through the streets, but she seems to think about it a couple times, if how her hand keeps flexing is anything to go by.

Residents have their own way into the Margrave and Crabb takes Erin through there, into the elevator that will take them up to the 9th floor. The Ferriers should both be asleep, by now, she won't have to explain this until morning at least...

Erin barely, fucking barely, restrains herself from nibbling on Crabb the moment they're through the door. Thankfully she's got an excuse to pause near the door and unbuckle her sword, which she leans next to the door along with its sword belt and the many knives on it.

Then it's just a matter of taking off all the hidden knives. Easy!

Roundabouts the eighth knife she realizes this might be a bad look and pauses to flash Crabb a sheepish smile.

Crabb, having only needed to take the time to shrug her coat off and hang it out of the way, does rest her hand on her hip and look at Erin with a brow raised at the sheer amount of knives.

"Y'think you've got enough knives there, Erin?"

"...Listen, I realize this is objectively insane but it started out rational. When you throw a knife you need a new one, and then, y'know, you get taken prisoner a time or two and..."

There ends up being fifteen knives including the ones on the belt. Erin has the dignity to look embarrassed about it all at least.

Muttered half to herself, and very much amused, "...and I thought Caroline bleedin' Divvy had too many knives on her..."

She looks over the stash and then back at Erin's face, raising a single brow, "Y'sure that's all of 'em?"

This gets a long No Answer.

And then Erin kneels down and pulls another knife out of her boot, which she hangs off of her sword's pommel.

Crabb can't help it: she laughs. It's muffled quickly in the edge of her fist, but it's there in her eyes bright as anything as much as it is in the sound. "God's teeth, woman, who are you?"

This followed by a moment where, as Crabb lowers her hand, she can be seen worrying her bottom lip with her teeth and doing some sort of mental calculation. A moment that passes not into another comment, or into uneventful silence, but into Crabb stepping forward to pull Erin in by the front of her dress so she can give this kissing thing another try.

And if that's surprising... well, the internal panic that accompanies it probably wouldn't be.

This time there will be no restraint; Erin kisses back passionately, hungrily, and lets her hands wander where they will. She holds Crabb close, feeling her familiar muscles, gliding down the back of her shirt...

...Boldly squeezing her ass in the middle of the kiss...

The startled sound that slips into the kiss when Erin does that is dangerously close to a squeak, not that it's at all enough to make her break from the kiss. She's a quick learner, Crabb, but then Erin already knows that, doesn't she? And where there was a certain amount of restraint to her during their early days together on the boat, without the possessions, without the feedback loop of nerves, without being as hung up on getting things right... the hunger in her is far closer to how she can be with Erin now, than to someone who's first kiss wasn't even an hour ago.

She only pulls back when she doesn't have enough air to keep going, breathing a little ragged and face a deep, dark colour. She has to swallow more than once before she can find words again, and even then it's only: "—th-this way," as she grabs for Erin's hand to lead her to her actual bedroom.

(Mercifully not right next door to the Ferriers' room.)

Erin follows, smiling fondly, and tells herself firmly that she's not just going to turn Crabb into a puddle without letting Crabb do anything back; she's all confident and shit now, she's got this.

Unfortunately Crabb is entirely too adorable like this, and Erin fails in this promise to herself, with no regrets.

-----------------------------

Erin's still used to rising early from the ship. She gets out of bed carefully, so as not to wake Crabb, and goes to make coffee - she throws on one of Crabb's shirts, forgetting in these early hours of Roundabouts Five A.M. that other people live here.

Odds are high that whoever comes out will find Erin in the kitchen getting the coffee going, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose the sheet music up and down her arms. Erin can't actually read it, but it's Fur Elise. The only reason she's not singing or humming is to not wake Crabb up; there's a dreamy look of happiness on her face.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Feel free to get us to the apartment

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Possibly a fade to black on actual smut I am thirsty for Detective Grandma

XD

no subject