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

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.

The door that clicks open a little while after Erin gets up is on the opposite side of the apartment to Crabb's bedroom. Whereas, usually, the occupant now up and about may have gone straight to the washroom to begin a morning routine, she is instead drawn out of that routine entirely by a collection of both big and little things.

The sword by the front doorway is a big thing, of course. The way Crabb's door is fully shut rather than cracked just slightly open is something smaller. These and other things lead to the minimum conclusion that they have a visitor, which in turn leads her to the room that visitor is most likely to be.

She clears her throat, when she does come up behind Erin. At which point she is, naturally, already taking in all the significant details of her appearance.

"Good morning, mademoiselle."

Erin certainly makes more sense in human form; swordsman callouses on her palms, old defensive scars up her arms that the tattoos only partly cover, eyes. She jolts at the unexpected voice -

(PAY ATTENTION!)

- and stops herself from reaching for the knife block. Her fingers flex as she turns and -

"Oh!" Erin brightens up Immediately. "Madame Ferrier!"

(Explain fast -)

"You probably get this a lot but I recently got into your books, it's a pleasure." Not an honor, no need to fangirl here. Erin can feel her ears not twitching. She offers a hand out. "Erin Peters, do call me Erin."

Ferrier regards her in that silent but intense way she does, cataloguing the details that paint a picture. An experienced and world-worn swordsman, yes; the instinct to reach for a weapon when surprised does not slip past her eyes. Frankly, the markers of her history aren't even the most interesting part, today. Important, yes, but it's the fact she's dressed the way she is that tells the far louder story.

She steps closer to accept the hand to shake, towering over even Erin's height. "Non, you are certainly not the first to recognise my face from the cover of Berrada's tales, Erin Peters." Hmm. "I did not realise our dear Honoria was... making friends."

Erin can feel herself blushing, and scolds herself silently for looking like a schoolgirl in front of the detective. She's the one doing the wooing! The wooing, damnit! Ferrier gets a shy half-smile. "We only met last night, to be perfectly honest. It's all a little...whirlwind. Uh - there should be coffee soon, I hope I didn't wake you."

Ferrier makes a low hum-like noise. "Not at all. I have always been something of an early riser. The most you have done is draw me away from my usual habits by manner of curiosity. Most of our visitors are clients, not... whirlwinds."

Don't you worry, Erin, there isn't a single bit of Theresa Ferrier that believes Crabb is the person in this arrangement doing the wooing. She knows her far too well to think she would take that leap right now without someone making it first.

(Is it just me or does this feel less like getting sized up by a detective and more like getting sized up by a mom?)

Oh yeah, mad meet the parents vibes here.

(Score one for paranoia!)

...No.

Erin turns to attend to the coffee; the general anachronism of Lost society means she's used these machines before, but it's been a hot minute, and the technology is subtly different in ways that trip her up even with being able to read right now.

"Surprised to find my fierce flower rooming with a living legend. When she said she went private I figured she was chasing missing persons on her own."

The use of a pet name after what is, by reckoning of when Ferrier last saw Crabb yesterday evening to the present moment, less than even 12 hours, certainly catches her interest. She knows all too well how Crabb's last relationship ended, she's witnessed the damage up close for the last several months as Crabb has refused to even once slow down long enough to process it. Whatever this is it's clearly different than Cragen, he used societal expectations and rules to his advantage rather than breaking them outright, but... she must exercise fair caution.

"Mm, we have worked together in some fashion for a few years, now. A case I was hired for here in the city took rather an unexpected turn and she found following it to be a more valuable use of her time and skills than following the constabulary's rules."

That gets a thoughtful sound. "They say angels float because they are too pure to touch the base clay of the earth. I can't help but notice that rich folks here try to float too. Their pets aren't going to get marching orders that help mere mortals."

Erin's not bitter, you're bitter.

She turns her head back to Ferrier with an apologetic grin. "Rich coming from an American, I know, but still."

There's a faintly amused sort of noise. "Perhaps, but you are not incorrect. The ruling class of Gallery are corrupt to the core. Myself and Crabb are but one force attempting to push back against this truth, though recent years and the impact of war have certainly galvanized many others."

"War. You'd think Europe would have had its fill by now. Only been playing that game here since before recorded history." Erin sighs, again. "...But I suppose it's no business of mine. I need to figure out honest work if I'm gonna stick around Gallery. Can't just ascend to housewife form."

"Monsieur Summer is often willing to find work for those who find themselves in need. He has an extensive number of properties even beyond the Margrave and pays more than a fair wage to all his staff. I'm sure if approached he could offer you something." Tell her something she doesn't know, Ferrier. "Though I would make certain that you have talked to dear Honoria first, if you choose to go that route."

"I'll keep that in mind." It's like ascending to housewife form since she's in the building Johnny owns. Then again, this one doesn't know her.

Yet.

"There's the coffee. Crabb probably won't be up for awhile if I did as well as I think - shall we?"

(Breakfast?)

One problem at a time.

Ferrier bows her head in a quiet nod of agreement that gives away nothing about her reaction to the majority of that sentence, though as coffee is dealt with she does comment: "I do hope that you have made efforts toward demonstrating that you have not, ah, vacated more than just her bedroom this morning."

From the look on Erin's face when she stops stirring the sugar into her coffee? No. Good eye, Ferrier.

(How did she guess?)

She's an elderly lesbian.

(Right, that.)

"...I will need to trouble you for a pen and paper."

Erin writes oddly. The bones of very sharp and clean handwriting is there, but she's out of practice; slow to write, letters oddly far apart, and a tendency to press down on the paper in a way that uses too much ink.

Whenever Crabb wakes up she'll find Erin's top on the bed next to her with the note on it, reading:

Honoria, I have a habit of early rising. Coffee should be ready if the pot survives me, which it may well not, and I might step out to quest for food if Mdm. Ferrier doesn't have an idea on that beforehand. Warning you in advance that she met me wearing your shirt, which I am stealing. My shirt now. Yours, Erin.

Ferrier has a subtle but there look of approval on her face, once that matter is taken care of. She has also, by Erin's return, moved to take a seat at the apartment's dining table for the sake of her old knees.

Of course she notes the way Erin writes, and is certainly paying enough attention to note the use of her first name too.

"Dear Honoria's heart has seen enough troubles, in recent times. Much better not to risk her jumping to premature conclusions."

Erin sits herself, returning to stirring her coffee. Sane amount of sugar this time but she still loves it sweet.

"I don't play those games," she returns in a soft voice. "They stopped being fun when I was still a teenager and they're...repulsive, to me, these days. If I want a fling I'll ask for one." Erin smiles faintly over her cup. "You know, I asked her what she was doing walking out with a bad girl like me, and Crabb said she was sick of pretense. I don't think she was mentally prepared to be agreed with."

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

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

no subject

no subject