[There is shuffling and a small muttered ow as the curtain is pulled back. Hector looks...well he looks like he just woke up. Hat missing, hair tousled and eyes a bit blurry.]
The snowmen aren't here and I don't know a thing about any headless espant-Imelda?
Gracias a Dios for that. I never want to see a snowman again in my life.
[there's still snow in her hair and some of her bones have iced, though that may be difficult to see as she's drenched in mud. She rears back a moment as she sees him like that and the heart she doesn't have fizzes with warmth behind her ribs. She wants to touch his hair, push it back from his forehead, lean in--
Her fingers even twitch to do it but then she remembers she is all bones and that is all said and done too long ago. Instead she shoves a covered basket in his arms and pushes in to dust the snow from her hair.]
Tell me you have some sort of shower in this mud hole.
[He gives a sheepish grin and nods, but he can haul the water. The swamp may be haunted, but the water was at least clear and clean.]
Wait, you actually fight them?
[Then she's pulling up her skirt and he's silently glad skeletons can not blush as he looks at the boot. He's worried, but obviously she'd gotten out of it alright...but he still tsked.]
I am very glad for the ghosts now. They kept most of the snowpeople away....can you fix them?
Of course I fought them. How else do you think I could get here.
[she glances around for a bucket and grabs two, lifting her head at the question] I can fix anything. [before starting out. She is determined to get clean no matter how dirty she has to get to do it]
Y-you fought them to get here? Imelda you didn't have to do that.
[But she had clearly wanted to, and he knew well that what she wanted she would get. He grabbed another bucket, half leading and half following her to the sturdier dock. The land around the shack was more packed down now that he'd actually been working on things.]
It's Las Posadas. [she sounds snappish but doesn't mean to] And while I'm sure you have been to as many posadas as you can stand...
[She presses her mouth closed, feeling a twinge and not wanting to go further than that. But so what? So what if she was lonely and just wanted some company? It's foolish, she knows, and an act of desperation but.... So what. Next year she will be stronger.
She dips the buckets into the water and notices things have improved]
[There had only been one posada in his life. The first one they'd taken Coco to. But he just smiles and hefts the bucket up. A quick glance around a shrug.]
I'm making a house.
[Because homes needed people, and he knew that despite many things, this house would never have that key part to it.]
[his words sting, though she knows he doesn't mean them to, like a biting fly pestering an open wound. She can't help but think of the house they'd made. That he'd left. That she'd struggled with and nearly lost more times that she could count. And here he is making a little hovel, lonely out here in the middle of nowhere and joking about a door.
For a moment the urge to snap at him is overwhelming.
But it's in the past and won't make a difference and would only end in him cringing and apologizing. No more of that.
So she takes a deep breath and swallows it back to where it belongs, then begins to lug the water toward the house]
[Too long. He gives a half-smile at that and shrugs.]
Anywhere is too long when it isn't home.
[He laughs and shakes his head. It was...odd to be simply speaking. Without the gnawing worry that he was walking on eggshells. She had every reason to make him feel awkward, or to make the memory of his stomach twist about as he watched and counted every word and movement.]
Well, I figured it might keep the gators out better.
[and what is home to him? Where does he even live? She feels ashamed that she doesn't know. Doesn't even know who his friends are. Other than everyone he meets and some he shouldn't meet.
Perhaps if they --perhaps when they return she will-- No she will have to. This all over again and explain to her-- their familia somehow. But so long as she doesn't care, they won't. So it's a goal to work toward.
She realizes dimly that Hector said something, though what it was she has no idea. She hums to say that she's heard and sweeps in, grunting at the mud she trails behind her, to dump water into the tub. It will take at least a couple more trips before it is satisfyingly full and she lugs the pails in silence, feeling an odd sort of birdlike nostalgia that she tries to keep down before it rises in her chest. Nothing belongs there.
And then finally there's enough.]
Ay de mi. I need to find a way to get here without bringing half of it with me.
[he takes off her boots, setting them by the door. Then, approaches the tub and starts to undo the buttons on the back of her dress. She freezes as she remembers that Hector is there and then keeps going. What does it matter? He's seen her with more than she's had right now when they were married and there's nothing attractive about an esqueleto without clothes on.
Also this button is not coming undone and she can't turn her hands to get it]
[It is many things, but he still doubts she would listen. Or at the least, that she would hear him.
He snickers though.]
Eh, it just means the swamp likes you. I could show you were the ground isn't mush-
[His eyes widen in his skull and he looks at her back. Yes, nothing but bone but in a moment the swamp shack is gone, and the walls are stucco and the room smells like cinnamon, wood varnish and what ever perfume she had worn. The name is gone in his memory, but the scent oh, that one can never be forgotten.]
Ah. O-okay.
[He closes his eyes, old habits helping him un-do the button before he turns around completely. His eyes still closed, even if the image is burned in his memory from years ago.]
[she can tell just by the slight stutter he's having a moment.]
Idiota [but she says it fondly] Stop being so sentimental. We're too dead for that.
[and she didn't feel anything herself, not a tug of anything close to longing as she feels him undo it. That would be absolutely ridiculous]
I'm nothing but bones and more bones with nothing inside. [except memories and bitterness perhaps, but they both know that. She manages the rest herself, keeping her hair up for the moment before getting into the water. It's clean at least and if she closes her eyes she can pretend it's hot-- but the temperature hasn't mattered in a very long time]
[He says it lightly, with a half teasing smile on his face. But he quickly shakes his head in reaction to the rest of it all.
Nothing?]
We aren't just bones, 'melda. We're memories; cherished thoughts you know? People don't remember nothing.
[He is still turned around though he does sit on a chair and looks out over the swamp.]
Me? I work. Either at Torchwood just delivering things that living people can't touch, or working with Profe on his shows. Sometimes I'll go stand in the plazas they have in Fayren and listen to the stories.
That's true. I was stunning that young. I'd forgotten what I'd looked like. [she turns in the bath to rest her arms and chin on the edge of it, watching him, his back turned.]
I didn't think I noticed anyone was attractive back then. [save for one.
Her smile fades a little. Not all memories are cherished ones. She knows that. And she knows she is cherished, though she doesn't think she should be at times.]
People don't just remember one side. [but that makes little difference here] If all I were was a memory, it would be easier. Or maybe I'm a memory of my own.
[she doesn't know how it works. She listens to what he does and smiles more. It's so easy to forget with him. It's too easy. That's why she has to keep on guard, always. To know that everything will end in heartbreak and disaster as always it does.
[He does snicker at that, the memory of sunlight catching on dark brown hair, or how shadows dances across bare, dark skin. He gave a small, happy sigh.]
Of course you don't remember just one side, people aren't just one thing.
[Hector sucks in a breath, his vertebrae clacking together as he sits up straight.
It had been nearly a century since he had heard that nickname. Each syllabus weighing with so many old and long unrecalled memories. He swallowed, trying to shake himself up.]
Why do you even have those? [she's not surprised necessarily, though does wonder why he keeps them around.]
Don't wash my dress. You're not a servant. [and she doesn't want him to. It's too strange. Too much like a lo seinto gesture and she isn't here for that.
She sighs a bit and rests her chin on her wrist a moment, even that small pleasure coming to an end.
Oh well.]
I've worn it before but it doesn't suit me.
[she waves a hand and gets out of the tub, finding a soft cloth nearby to dry her bones on.]
[she can picture it, somehow. Both amused and a little horrified that he had to stoop to that so she just ends up feeling a little sad for him.
After all, who is the one to blame for driving him to this life-- this tiny little shanty.]
So I'll take them home and wash them and give it back later. Before you need it. I'm not having you wash my dress. [and she isn't going to wash it like this, though she has done that sort of thing before a very long time ago and nothing she wants to dwell on
She pulls on the skirt but its ridiculously long on her.]
Ay I'm going to drown in this. [and how will she keep it out of the mud]
You know, I'll just wear the old one back. [there's no point in trying to save any dignity right now. Anyway, who would care if she had it or not?]
[she folds her arms at the laugh, and nearly loses the skirt so she has to tug it back up again. Her ribs are exposed in the process but so what]
I look ridiculous.
[and she levels a look at him]
It's because you could never decide to stop growing. I don't know how you managed to get so big.
[she'd always liked that about him. That tall lankiness of his. Getting an idea, though, she pulls the skirt up over her ribs and holds it in place with an arm, with nothing else to use.]
There. This will do for now. [she's not going to ask him how she looks and instead chooses to take a seat, looking around from the gift she'd given him on his birthday]
There's half a second where his hands twitch when she moves. Memory served to have him worry that she would purposely drop the skirt. There wasn't anything really to look at but...it was a principle and he was still fumbly.
And he would always blush and stare in awe at his wife.]
I have a spare bit of rope?
[He still snickers though at the idea of that image before clearing his throat and looking towards the swamp.]
I...er, yeah! There's some ah, tequila left?
[And the basket, which was currently holding some herbs to dry on the small porch like overhang he had. The journal though was carefully stored in the trunk, wrapped in plastic to keep out the damp.]
I...have to thank you for that. I just, couldn't think of how to say it right.
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Re: 12/18 6pm
The snowmen aren't here and I don't know a thing about any headless espant-Imelda?
12/18 6pm
[there's still snow in her hair and some of her bones have iced, though that may be difficult to see as she's drenched in mud. She rears back a moment as she sees him like that and the heart she doesn't have fizzes with warmth behind her ribs. She wants to touch his hair, push it back from his forehead, lean in--
Her fingers even twitch to do it but then she remembers she is all bones and that is all said and done too long ago. Instead she shoves a covered basket in his arms and pushes in to dust the snow from her hair.]
Tell me you have some sort of shower in this mud hole.
Re: 12/18 6pm
[He fumbles with the basket but doesn't drop it. Instead he moves towards the back of the small hovel.]
No shower, but I do have a small tub?
[There is a small fire pit, with embers still giving off heat in the cold night. He puts the basket down and picks up a few logs.]
Sooo how many snowmen did you fight?
12/18 6pm
[she shakes her head and absently twitches the wrinkle out of a nearby curtain]
I suppose the water needs to be hauled for it?
[indoor plumbing was the greatest thing to have ever been invented and she will fight anyone who says differently. She waves a hand at the question]
Who knows. I lost count. And look. [she hefts her skirt and lifts her foot a bit] One of them bit my boot! These are my favorite!
Re: 12/18 6pm
[He gives a sheepish grin and nods, but he can haul the water. The swamp may be haunted, but the water was at least clear and clean.]
Wait, you actually fight them?
[Then she's pulling up her skirt and he's silently glad skeletons can not blush as he looks at the boot. He's worried, but obviously she'd gotten out of it alright...but he still tsked.]
I am very glad for the ghosts now. They kept most of the snowpeople away....can you fix them?
12/18 6pm
Of course I fought them. How else do you think I could get here.
[she glances around for a bucket and grabs two, lifting her head at the question] I can fix anything. [before starting out. She is determined to get clean no matter how dirty she has to get to do it]
Re: 12/18 6pm
[But she had clearly wanted to, and he knew well that what she wanted she would get. He grabbed another bucket, half leading and half following her to the sturdier dock. The land around the shack was more packed down now that he'd actually been working on things.]
Anything?
12/18 6pm
[She presses her mouth closed, feeling a twinge and not wanting to go further than that. But so what? So what if she was lonely and just wanted some company? It's foolish, she knows, and an act of desperation but.... So what. Next year she will be stronger.
She dips the buckets into the water and notices things have improved]
You're making a home here.
Re: 12/18 6pm
[There had only been one posada in his life. The first one they'd taken Coco to. But he just smiles and hefts the bucket up. A quick glance around a shrug.]
I'm making a house.
[Because homes needed people, and he knew that despite many things, this house would never have that key part to it.]
I might even put a door in.
12/18 6pm
[his words sting, though she knows he doesn't mean them to, like a biting fly pestering an open wound. She can't help but think of the house they'd made. That he'd left. That she'd struggled with and nearly lost more times that she could count. And here he is making a little hovel, lonely out here in the middle of nowhere and joking about a door.
For a moment the urge to snap at him is overwhelming.
But it's in the past and won't make a difference and would only end in him cringing and apologizing. No more of that.
So she takes a deep breath and swallows it back to where it belongs, then begins to lug the water toward the house]
It's about time.
Re: 12/18 6pm
Anywhere is too long when it isn't home.
[He laughs and shakes his head. It was...odd to be simply speaking. Without the gnawing worry that he was walking on eggshells. She had every reason to make him feel awkward, or to make the memory of his stomach twist about as he watched and counted every word and movement.]
Well, I figured it might keep the gators out better.
12/18 6pm
Perhaps if they --perhaps when they return she will-- No she will have to. This all over again and explain to her-- their familia somehow. But so long as she doesn't care, they won't. So it's a goal to work toward.
She realizes dimly that Hector said something, though what it was she has no idea. She hums to say that she's heard and sweeps in, grunting at the mud she trails behind her, to dump water into the tub. It will take at least a couple more trips before it is satisfyingly full and she lugs the pails in silence, feeling an odd sort of birdlike nostalgia that she tries to keep down before it rises in her chest. Nothing belongs there.
And then finally there's enough.]
Ay de mi. I need to find a way to get here without bringing half of it with me.
[he takes off her boots, setting them by the door. Then, approaches the tub and starts to undo the buttons on the back of her dress. She freezes as she remembers that Hector is there and then keeps going. What does it matter? He's seen her with more than she's had right now when they were married and there's nothing attractive about an esqueleto without clothes on.
Also this button is not coming undone and she can't turn her hands to get it]
Get that one, will you? It's stuck.
Re: 12/18 6pm
He snickers though.]
Eh, it just means the swamp likes you. I could show you were the ground isn't mush-
[His eyes widen in his skull and he looks at her back. Yes, nothing but bone but in a moment the swamp shack is gone, and the walls are stucco and the room smells like cinnamon, wood varnish and what ever perfume she had worn. The name is gone in his memory, but the scent oh, that one can never be forgotten.]
Ah. O-okay.
[He closes his eyes, old habits helping him un-do the button before he turns around completely. His eyes still closed, even if the image is burned in his memory from years ago.]
12/18 6pm
It could like me a little less.
[she can tell just by the slight stutter he's having a moment.]
Idiota [but she says it fondly] Stop being so sentimental. We're too dead for that.
[and she didn't feel anything herself, not a tug of anything close to longing as she feels him undo it. That would be absolutely ridiculous]
I'm nothing but bones and more bones with nothing inside. [except memories and bitterness perhaps, but they both know that. She manages the rest herself, keeping her hair up for the moment before getting into the water. It's clean at least and if she closes her eyes she can pretend it's hot-- but the temperature hasn't mattered in a very long time]
What do you do all day anyway?
Re: 12/18 6pm
[He says it lightly, with a half teasing smile on his face. But he quickly shakes his head in reaction to the rest of it all.
Nothing?]
We aren't just bones, 'melda. We're memories; cherished thoughts you know? People don't remember nothing.
[He is still turned around though he does sit on a chair and looks out over the swamp.]
Me? I work. Either at Torchwood just delivering things that living people can't touch, or working with Profe on his shows. Sometimes I'll go stand in the plazas they have in Fayren and listen to the stories.
12/18 6pm
That's true. I was stunning that young. I'd forgotten what I'd looked like. [she turns in the bath to rest her arms and chin on the edge of it, watching him, his back turned.]
I didn't think I noticed anyone was attractive back then. [save for one.
Her smile fades a little. Not all memories are cherished ones. She knows that. And she knows she is cherished, though she doesn't think she should be at times.]
People don't just remember one side. [but that makes little difference here] If all I were was a memory, it would be easier. Or maybe I'm a memory of my own.
[she doesn't know how it works. She listens to what he does and smiles more. It's so easy to forget with him. It's too easy. That's why she has to keep on guard, always. To know that everything will end in heartbreak and disaster as always it does.
They are bad for one another.
Very bad for one another.
And she is a cruel woman, she knows.
She knows and knows and yet--]
Teto...
Re: 12/18 6pm
Of course you don't remember just one side, people aren't just one thing.
[Hector sucks in a breath, his vertebrae clacking together as he sits up straight.
It had been nearly a century since he had heard that nickname. Each syllabus weighing with so many old and long unrecalled memories. He swallowed, trying to shake himself up.]
Ah, s-si?
12/18 6pm
And she will regret this. They will regret this.
But maybe... perhaps... right now...
She will live up to her reputation.
She smiles at the straightening, so familiar even though the bones are and aren't, and runs her fingers along the rim of the tub.]
I was wondering... With my dress covered in mud... I don't know what I'm going to wear...
Re: 12/18 6pm
[It was a distraction, for him at least, but he was going to take it. His mind was going to places it shouldn't and this was at least physical.]
I managed to get some. Eh, not really your style...or color but you can wear it while I wash yours?
[He's at an old trunk he'd scrounged up in Fayren, digging through and pulling out some more English looking skirts. He eyes the green one.]
Actually, I can't remember you wearing green.
12/18 6pm
Don't wash my dress. You're not a servant. [and she doesn't want him to. It's too strange. Too much like a lo seinto gesture and she isn't here for that.
She sighs a bit and rests her chin on her wrist a moment, even that small pleasure coming to an end.
Oh well.]
I've worn it before but it doesn't suit me.
[she waves a hand and gets out of the tub, finding a soft cloth nearby to dry her bones on.]
Give me whichever you want.
Re: 12/18 6pm
[Now he does roll his eyes.]
i'm not a servant, 'melda, but you'll have to wash two dresses if you wear the clean one and wash this one. And I only have three skirts.
[He glances between the dresses, before shrugging and handing her the darker red medieval skirt.]
Lemme get you the shirt...part. It's weird too.
12/18 6pm
After all, who is the one to blame for driving him to this life-- this tiny little shanty.]
So I'll take them home and wash them and give it back later. Before you need it. I'm not having you wash my dress. [and she isn't going to wash it like this, though she has done that sort of thing before a very long time ago and nothing she wants to dwell on
She pulls on the skirt but its ridiculously long on her.]
Ay I'm going to drown in this. [and how will she keep it out of the mud]
You know, I'll just wear the old one back. [there's no point in trying to save any dignity right now. Anyway, who would care if she had it or not?]
Re: 12/18 6pm
[He eyes the skirt and then turns towards her, the awkwardness from before forgotten for the moment.
It was pretty voluminous...and she was short.
He snorts, trying not to laugh out loud.]
N-no it...it would fit you, just fine.
12/18 6pm
[she folds her arms at the laugh, and nearly loses the skirt so she has to tug it back up again. Her ribs are exposed in the process but so what]
I look ridiculous.
[and she levels a look at him]
It's because you could never decide to stop growing. I don't know how you managed to get so big.
[she'd always liked that about him. That tall lankiness of his. Getting an idea, though, she pulls the skirt up over her ribs and holds it in place with an arm, with nothing else to use.]
There. This will do for now. [she's not going to ask him how she looks and instead chooses to take a seat, looking around from the gift she'd given him on his birthday]
Did you get what I left here last time?
Re: 12/18 6pm
[He's old, let him sound old for a few moments.
There's half a second where his hands twitch when she moves. Memory served to have him worry that she would purposely drop the skirt. There wasn't anything really to look at but...it was a principle and he was still fumbly.
And he would always blush and stare in awe at his wife.]
I have a spare bit of rope?
[He still snickers though at the idea of that image before clearing his throat and looking towards the swamp.]
I...er, yeah! There's some ah, tequila left?
[And the basket, which was currently holding some herbs to dry on the small porch like overhang he had. The journal though was carefully stored in the trunk, wrapped in plastic to keep out the damp.]
I...have to thank you for that. I just, couldn't think of how to say it right.
12/18 6pm
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