Laurel Attwell

Asclepius was reaching the end of a horrifically packed day. Today was a clinic day which meant little time in the operating theatre and instead required rounds of the neuro wards tending to patients and consulting on trauma and emergency cases. It also meant listening to patronising supervisors telling him things he already knew inside out. Packed between those were meetings and typical administrative duties that in all honesty all he wanted to do was go home, crash on the sofa and sleep for a week. Except he had another day of it tomorrow.

But a glance at his watch suggested it was almost the end of his shift, he’d known business in Ancient Greece but this was another beast entirely. How did mortals do this day in and day out? Scooping up his mug of coffee, black, straight caffeine and sipping he headed out of the staff room. He just had to pack his bag and he’d be off.

He was halfway to his office when a woman caught his attention, he blinked, his brain working a little slower than usual. “Sorry?” but the white coat and stethoscope around his neck were a bit of a giveaway, realising what she’d asked he blinked again. A strange wave of deja vu overcoming him not that it quite clicked that he knew who he was speaking to. “A doctor? Oh– oh! Yes. Sorry, been a long day. Is there an issue miss?”

“It’s not urgent,” she said because she imagined that doctors had many pressures on their time and she didn’t want to stop him if he was on his way somewhere important. “Or at least. It is time sensitive but...”

She realised she wasn’t being very clear. She tended to have difficulty collecting her thoughts when she hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours having been up all night getting the documents together. There was only so much coffee could do, but she only needed her brain to work for a little longer and then she could go back to the office and sleep under her desk for an hour or two before she finished her day. 

She started again.

“I have a client who wants to sign their will. The only problem is that it is expected they will not survive for more than a day or two if that, and I need someone qualified to say they are competent enough to know what they are signing and what it will mean or them if they sign it.”

She ran a hand through her hair. It would be far easier if the family could agree to get along and respect their father’s wishes. 

“Is that - would you mind - do you think you might have a moment to talk to him?”

”I honestly believe I’ve never had green tomato chutney before,” Ambrose let a silent laugh scape his lips, one hand running though his hair as he tried to picture what that would look like. “But I’ll trust you on that, as long as you also choose the cheese that goes with it. You know I can eat plastic and be fine with it, so I depend on you here, Lo”. And in many other things, for that matter, but Laurel probably knew that already. Ambrose wasn’t exactly the most difficult person to read after some years, and she always had a good instinct of how he worked.

“Yeah, it was. But also embarrassing. She honestly believed I had all the wrong conclusions, it took me years to convince her of my arguments. The romance in its bitter pieces…” and he smiled, lost in thought as if mentioning Lara took him back to a place he didn’t go for some time now. Strange how it seemed to work when he was at the centre of it. To feel the memory wasn’t the same as to think about it. Whatever the hell that meant. “I suppose I’ve been lucky so far, Lo. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly great at social interactions. You just… fit. Like I’ve known you from before you were you and I was me. If that even makes sense… sorry, I didn’t have much sleep, so my line of thoughts is complete chaos at the moment.”

“Bob from Finance, huh?” Ambrose couldn’t help the smile on his lips. Quite catchy, though a bit comical. He liked it. “If you’re that interested, you should ask him out, Lo. It’s the easiest way to find out… The worst thing that can happen is him telling you no, and since the file is closed, it won’t be that bad, right? Though, if I had to bet, I would say Bob from Finance is probably interested in you too. And it’s not because I’m your friend. It’s just common sense. You’re interesting.”

“Oh no. Then I insist you buy some. That’s almost criminal. I used to make it with my mum every year with whatever tomatoes we had left over at the end of the season that hadn’t ripened,”  she told him. She didn’t talk about her childhood much or freely. It was about as far away from her life in the city as she could imagine, but Ambrose knew. “Cheddar’s best. But you should probably find some camembert, maybe a triple cream brie. Does he like blue? I’ll take you to the stand. You can try everything before you decide.”

“You are not bad at social interactions.” She squeezed his arm again as they walked. She knew exactly what he meant. They had always fit. Everyone who knew them both had seen it and then been surprised when they had broken up. Now Laurel wondered if she hadn’t always had some suspicion that they should only be friends. But there was just something about Ambrose that had put her at ease, that told her she didn’t have to pretend to be more than she was. She liked it. “And here I thought I was only friends with you to get to your sisters. You know they have a very lively group chat.”

“Oh no. I could never do that,” she said, face falling because he made it sound like Robert saying no to her would not be as life stopping as she felt it would be. She couldn’t explain why she felt so strongly about it, but she was struck by the sudden realisation that she would be devastated if she had misread Robert and he was not interested. “I don’t think I want to know if his answer is no. I think I’m just going to move to a commune in the country and become an old maid. Far less complicated and risky.”

Whatever realisation she had was not enough to stop her rolling her eyes at him. “No, I’m not. My entire life is work with the occasional farmer’s market to spice things up. I am the epitome of a young, boring, professional. Not at all like you. How many students have crushes on you this year?”

“Of course, take your time.” The more time she had the better, as Hera remained unsure as to how to approach this. Did Persephone remember anything about any of them? Any strange sensations or dreams of the past? Heavens, thinking about it was about to give her a headache and she wasn’t in the mood for one.

Nodding once she was finished with her text, she started walking towards her office as she spoke. “You’re not in trouble.” She assured, as she opened the door and let her walk in first. She closed the door and turned the blinds to give them an extra layer of privacy, in the hope of keeping everything between them. “Take a seat, please.” Hera pointed at a random chair, though Persephone was free to sit anywhere she wanted, she had no preference for that. On her part, she walked across her office to sit on her chair behind the desk, leaning back slightly to let her know it was a casual talk. No business involved.

“I feel we haven’t talked in quite some time. One to one, no cases in between.” In part her fault, as the moment she remembered herself her thoughts were half the time focused on Zeus and wondering where had he gone, and why no one seemed to find him. “Is everything going well? Anything new or exciting lately?” It may seem like she was fishing for gossip, and in a way she was but it would all depend on what Persephone, or Laurel, shared with her.

“Well that is a relief.” She hadn’t really thought she would be in trouble. Or at least, not beyond that niggling little something that had always told her she didn’t quite belong, not in Manhattan and especially not holding herself out to be something of an expert in anything.  But her billables were always impressive. It was nice to have a definitive metric to measure herself against.

Laurel took a seat opposite Hermione’s desk and crossed her ankles. 

“Well the office has been quite busy. Though I’ve spent quite a bit of time out of the office. The last few weeks I’ve been working a file with Robert Strathos. They had all of the original documents - or at least the ones that survived the rats - so it was easier just to be there. But it’s finished now,” she didn’t know how much Hermione paid attention to what she was working on, but thought it better not to assume that Hermione would know the specifics of any of her files. She only hoped that Hermione wouldn’t read too much into the smile she hadn’t quite repressed when she mentioned Robert. 

“Work is going well,” she said, frowning a little. She wasn’t really sure what else she had in her life that would classify as new or exciting. She also knew exactly how pathetic that was. She didn’t think Hermione would be quite so excited about the new chutney she had discovered at the farmer’s market the week before as she was. “My axe-throwing team looks like it might make the finals, so I suppose that’s something. How about you? Anything noteworthy?”

That was why she was in the hospital.

Unfortunately this particular file would almost certainly be litigated after the testator died and so Laurel knew that she had to jump through every technical hoop. It wasn’t just because she desperately did not want to have to face the legal profession board about any perceived negligence if there were disgruntled beneficiaries or executors, but because she genuinely cared that the man’s wishes would be followed. This wasn’t a last minute decision on his part, merely one that he hadn’t thought to act upon until he was on his death bed. While she thought he was competent a second, medical, opinion couldn’t hurt. 

That was why she was in the corridor looking for a doctor. 

She stopped someone who seemed a likely candidate. 

“Excuse me, are you a doctor?”

“Laurel,” he repeats her name, only realizing he’s done so after the word leave his lips.

A frown knits across his brow as he nods.  He’s not bothered by the lack of formality, actually he prefers it.  Every time she says ’Mr,’ he feels every year of his age.  But there’s something about her name that doesn’t suit her, though he can’t quite put his finger on why… (Does it have too many syllables?  Too few?)  He musters something more friendly than a scowl as he shrugs back at her.

“It’s just Rob then.”

She should know that, he realizes, but she can consider that her invitation to use it.  He hadn’t realized she may have been waiting for one before.  The longer they are in each other’s company, the more he realizes she likes to tease him.  Though by her next statement, he can’t tell if she’s teasing or not.  The scowl returns.

“Who would make you sleep on the floor?”

He hadn’t followed her initial train of thought, and with annoyance he wonders if she thinks he means to keep her hostage for more work, but slowly by her slight change of expression and scrambling, it occurs to him. Oh.  Oh.

“…Should I be?”

Tact is not his strong point.    (Neither is flirting).

@dreamsofasphodel​

Rob and Laurel felt so unmistakably and unknowably wrong that she almost wished she hadn’t brought it up at all. She had thought she would feel relieved or something like a sense of camaraderie and instead she felt so wrong. But he isn’t scowling so she assumes it must just be her. Maybe it is because she hasn’t slept enough this week. 

Their table is small and when she reaches for her glass to have another sip her knee brushes against his. She hopes the sip covers her smile but there isn’t much to be done about the colour on her cheeks - maybe he will think that is because of the drink as well. Mead is quite warming. So long as he doesn’t think she has skipped right to assuming he means he wouldn’t kick her out of bed, and even if it might make everything altogether easier if he did, she wonders if she shouldn’t have warmed up before reaching so far.

She shrugged in response to his question. “I am open to suggestions if you think you can offer something better than sleep.”

“Semantics,” he pointed out, a wry tone that had always been more present in Brantley’s voice than had ever appeared in Hephaestus’. “My point,” he continued, ignoring the way his skin crawled as memories resurfaced. “Is that some mistakes are necessary, because you learn from them. Some, however, are just borne out of stupidity. I’d think your mistakes would fall into the former category.” And not the latter.

Hephaestus looked at Laurel – at Persephone – and inclined his head. “It feels acceptable,” he stated. While Brantley might have been fine with an axe such as this one, Hephaestus felt its every weakness as he held it. It was weighted to the front in a way that was dangerous – though, he supposed, that might make sense given the sport they were participating in – and there was a strangeness to how the handle was grafted to the head of the axe. Adjusting his grip, he looked at the target ahead of them and threw it, pleased when it hit with an accuracy Brantley would have been proud of but Hephaestus thought was nearly good enough.

“More than,” he agreed with a shrug of a shoulder, unsure of why he was willing to talk to her about Ella when his entire consciousness thought of little else. Even now, the guilt bubbled and twisted in his gut. “There’s not much to say,” he said casually. “Ella’s…she’s just something else.”

iv - Hephaestus @emberstoflames​

“That is very kind of you to say. I do hope that is where they fit,” though she couldn’t be entirely sure. It seemed like there were some mistakes - like much of her dating history - that she seemed to make frequently. “Not sure if I should be offended that you think I make mistakes, though.”

“How do you know so much about axes?” She asked. She couldn’t remember if they’d ever discussed why Brantley had been drawn to the sport or what other hobbies he had, nor why it seemed so natural to see him with a tool in his hand. She let out a low whistle at his impressive aim. “Have you been practicing? Trying to get an unfair advantage?”

“Well it is nice to see you smile. Not that you don’t smile, only that it is a different smile,” Laurel was happy for Brantley, but then she had no idea of who he was, or who Ella was. She might have better understood his hesitation to talk about it if she did. “Are you going to bring her to a tournament? You could even teach her how to throw an axe.”

“I’m just not much for people,” he says mildly, looking up over his glass at her.

Rob was certain she wouldn’t actually be surprised to hear that, (his lack of social graces are probably one of the first things people notice about him,) but there’s a shift in her expression that makes him wonder.  Somehow he knows that frown is coming before he sees it pull at the corner of her lips.  She’s fretting.  Her statement only confirms why.  He sighs.

“With all due respect, Miss Attwell, I think you’ll find it hard to coerce me into doing anything.  I’m stubborn, remember?”

His glass is placed back on the table, before he leans just a bit forward to study her face.  She’s trying to placate him, he can tell, and he doesn’t exactly appreciate the gesture. (Though he will begrudgingly admit it’s probably a good sign?)  When he finally leans back, it’s with another raise of his brow, and his arms crossed over his chest.

“An early bedtime must be a new practice for you, considering this last week,”  he says pointedly, then shrugs.  "And hearing that, isn’t exactly as reassuring as you might think.“

@dreamsofasphodel​

“I remember. Though at the risk of poking said stubborn nature.” she said with a little tinkle in her eye. She was going to wait until he took the lead on the name thing but decided a little initiative couldn’t hurt. They were at drinks, after all, and as much fun as it was to keep saying Mr Strathos it felt a bit wrong in the context. “I think we can probably do away with the formalities, don’t you? Laurel is fine.” 

Was Laurel fine? As soon as she said it she couldn’t help thinking it was the wrong name. But she knew better. It was her name and she had only ever had the one. How could it be wrong?

“I didn’t think sleeping on your floor would be appropriate. But I am not at the office now, and I am hoping not to go in tomorrow, so I am going to catch up on some beauty sleep before my eyes fall out of my head.” Her head tilted to the side slightly as she smiled at him and scrambled desperately not to read too much into that comment. “No? Are you planning a wild night?”

Does he look relieved when she says that?  Rob hopes not.  He doesn’t want to give her the impression he’s miserable, or that his expression is in any way indicative about how he feels about her company. To make sure she doesn’t, he looks down until he can school his expression and says:

“I usually hate things like this.”

Work parties.  Social parties.  Social functions in general.  (Not that he’s invited to an abundance, but still.)  When he looks back up, it’s to out at the mingling crowd around them as he huffs and shakes his head.  He could do without the lot of them.

“I was thinking about leaving, actually, before you showed up.”

He’s not sure why he tells her this, even though it’s the truth.  He was already planning his escape when he had seen her at the bar. 

@dreamsofasphodel​

“Well I know why I don’t like them, but why do you hate them?” she asked. Given that she had spent several weeks working with him, in his office, late into the night (and then recapping the work they had done separately over the weekend on Mondays) she supposed she should have realised he was not an overly social individual. She didn’t know about his family situation or really why he seemed to be so married to his job, but she wanted to know.  She wanted to know everything about him. She felt a pull to him that was unlike anything she’d known before. 

“Were you?” she asked, frowning as she tried to decide if she was now holding him against his will. She thought he was probably not the sort of person to spend time with someone if he disliked them (he seemed to value his time too much for that) but what if she’d misunderstood him? Alternatively, what if she hadn’t? The thought made her stomach do a happy little flip. She had to remind herself he was probably just being polite to a colleague he could tolerate and that was all. “I didn’t mean to coerce you into staying for another drink. If it makes you feel better I have a very early bedtime and I promise not to keep you out too late.”

That smile fades back into his regular frown as Rob blinks back at her, his hand curling around his own glass.  

“Always,” he tells her, both teasing and completely earnest.  

It’s best to set expectations early, although he agrees that she probably should have already known.  Their week of work should have taught her that he’s rather stubborn in all things, and he does have the vague memory of her having called him that at least once before.  He struggles to remember the details though.  For all he could remember, it could have been a long, long time ago.

Rob takes a drink of his mead.  It’s sweeter than what he usually go for, but the taste of honey seems like one that’d suit her.  At least, what he thinks would suit her.  They hadn’t really gotten the opportunity to do much more than talk about work until now.  He considers her for a moment before he offers a short shrug.

“I think there’s still a table open if you don’t want to linger by the bar.”

@dreamsofasphodel​

She can’t help but feel that it is a conversation they have had before, and more times than would have been possible in the short time that they have known one another. She shakes it off as simple deja vu and nothing more. 

“A table sounds wonderful,” she said. She hadn’t realised until that moment just how badly her feet hurt from standing in her heels. And if he was offering to sneak off into a corner with her then that wasn’t something she was going to turn down either. 

She followed him to a small table  - the last one in the now crowded bar - and slid into the booth seat. It was definitely cosy. There had likely been two chairs there also at some point but they had since been commandeered. She didn’t mind because it only made it less likely that anyone else would join them. 

“I have to admit this is not really my scene. I can’t even remember the last time I made Friday night drinks.”

Ambrose couldn’t help but laugh at the way Laurel reacted. She actually seemed disturbed by the idea of her bread being served to someone else, which Ambrose didn’t really understand. He actually had to take another look at the loaf of bread in his bag, trying to understand how that could possibly be anything other than perfect. “It’s already the best, Lo. And to be honest with you, it’s either this or take out. I don’t really think Bert will mind,” and if Ambrose was a little more honest than that, he would go as far as to say Robert wouldn’t even expect something like this at all. “I thought about cheese, and jams? Nothing fancy. Just something for us to eat while talking, I haven’t seen him in a while now, so…”, Ambrose shrugged his shoulders, a touch of confusion as he seemed quite unaffected by what food to serve and what would go with it. 

“Nice, huh?” was all he managed to say, a smile dutifully held back as she made a weird face. At that point, Ambrose didn’t know if she should press her any further, but decided to let it go, see what she was comfortable in sharing and go from there. It was probably not his place to ask for anything more, actually. “I married one, actually. Lara was writing her thesis when I met her, around the same time as I. She was from the archeology department, though. And our supervisors paired us up so she could help me with something,” he smiled, a certain reluctancy in sharing what felt like a secret to him. “It worked pretty well for me, didn’t it?”

And he let himself smile, almost as if Laurel deserved that little piece of Lara. There were few people, if any, that he felt like he could share his memories with. Those were far too precious. “It’s not weird for me, Lo. And I hope it isn’t weird for you when I talk about Lara. Dates, past loves and all that, are part of our life, and I want to share mine with you in the best way we can, as friends. So don’t feel uncomfortable about it, and when I say something you don’t like, let me know”. 

“Jams are easy. There is a lady here who does the best preserves. If she has any green tomato chutney left you must get it. It’s amazing with cheese,” she told him. Coffee, jams, cheese, and then she was going to make sure he went home with at least a few vegetables. It was becoming quite the shopping trip. 

“It did. I did not know that about you two. It sounds terribly romantic,” she said, smiling softly. Laurel had always enjoyed hearing about Ambrose’s deceased wife, as peculiar as it might be. She encountered bereaved partners often enough in her work that she knew how hard it could be for them to talk about their loved ones, how much trust was involved to share something as intimate as a memory. She gave his arm a little squeeze, feeling blessed, and not for the first time, to have him in her life. “It is never weird for you to talk about her. How could you ever say something I don’t like when you always seem to know the exact right thing to say?” 

“Let’s call him Bob from Finance,” she said. So she wasn’t good with nicknames but she didn’t think Ambrose would think too much about it. Then she found that once she started to talk she couldn’t quite stop. “The problem is I have no idea how to tell if he tolerates me because we have had to work together or if it is something different. And I sort of would like to know that because I haven’t wanted to get to know anyone like this since... well since I first met you. And I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”  

“Thanks, Lo," Ambrose held her bag open, curiously looking for the bread as he started to walk towards the organic coffee place he liked. He actually needed to buy coffee beans anyway, so it wasn’t exactly a detour. "You know that friend of mine from college, Bert? He’s going to my place later today, so I’m gonna serve him this with something on top,” he took the home baked bread out of her bag, transferring it to his own with a touch of too much satisfaction. It pained him a little to share that piece of perfection with anyone, but Robert actually deserved to taste it. “You just saved me a lot of pain.”

Because she did. Quite frequently, for that matter. Maybe one day Ambrose would follow Laurel’s footsteps and get himself into a cooking class of some sort to survive on anything other than Columbia’s food and random restaurants around town. Until then, though, this was the closest he could get to a healthy diet: Lo’s food and some itens of the farmer’s market. “Is that good, or were we not sure if we wanted the file to end?” Ambrose asked, one arched brow so as to keep the smile off his face. He knew how invested she was in this case, and how it drained her time, but that last comment made him think that maybe, - but then, just maybe, - it wasn’t all that bad. “Well, it’s already interesting, if you ask me. How were those work drinks?”

“You aren’t,” she said as she squeezed his arm. She wasn’t unhappy that he was sharing her loaf with someone else, but the perfectionist streak in her couldn’t help thinking about all of the things that were slightly wrong with the bread she had baked. “I would have tried to make it a little better. But how gourmet are you talking? Like bruschetta gourmet? Or a nice cheese?”

“No, I am glad the file is closed. It has done wonderful things for my billables. And the drinks were nice,” she said though her brow furrowed because she didn’t have an easy answer for him. It wasn’t usual for her to be so reluctant to talk about anything with Ambrose, and it wasn’t that she didn’t want to talk about it with him, only that she was still working through her feelings. So instead she asked an entirely different question. “Have you ever dated a colleague?”

“I’m sorry, is it weird for me to ask you about this?” They had dated and it was a long time ago, and even though she had been on dates since - and told him about many of them - they had all been disastrous or disappointing in one way or another and she had not had feelings for any of them. She is not sure that she isn’t crossing a line in their friendship and the last thing she wanted is for him to feel uncomfortable.

There’s a quick series of subdued emotions that cross his face at that smile: Frowned confusion. Hesitant surprise.  Tempered amusement.  She’ll ultimately get a high arch of one brow, but a ghost of a smile lingers at the corners of the lips.

“I’ll have a mead as well.  You can put both on my tab,”  Rob says to the bartender, with a vague gesture towards Laurel, though a quick pointed glance is soon to follow.  "For the lady’s trouble.“

He had opened the tab much earlier on when he had thought he’d have to drink his way through the evening.   He’s grateful now for his accidental foresight.  He had wanted to repay her for her diligence on the case, but had struggled to think of how.  This seems like such a small thing, but it’s probably more an opportunity than he would have gotten otherwise.

The bartender is discreet in removing the offending chardonnay, and soon replaces it with the ordered two meads.  Rob is quick to offer her a glass.  

”For your trouble, and your help.“

@dreamsofasphodel​

“You know, you could have said that when I asked what you wanted to drink,” she points out, though she’s not sorry that she now has a short list of things that he likes. It will make finding him a thank you for your help on the file present that much easier.  And, not that she’s thinking about such things of course, but it might even lead to a thank you for the thank you telephone exchange. But she isn’t thinking about the excuses she might make to talk to him in the future. 

She is not.

But that little not-quite smile is making her want to.

She takes her glass from him and wonders if she should propose a toast, but it feels too awkward to do so and she doesn’t know what she would say anyway. Thank you for letting me camp on your floor?  Thank you for not finding it weird that I take infrequent breaks?  And besides he seems to have already said everything that needed to be said. 

“You have a very peculiar way of allowing someone to buy you a drink. I should probably know the answer to this by now, but are you always so stubborn?”

The thought was an amusing one – though, perhaps, not the safest one – and Hephaestus simply raised a brow. “That would be frightening,” he agreed. “But you’ve done this long enough I don’t think you’ll make any unnecessary mistakes.” He shook his head and picked up another axe, checking the weight of it in his palm. “That’s what the waiver form is for,” he joked.

Hephaestus chuckled. “Girlfriend,” he said, placing extra emphasis on the second syllable of the word. “Just the one.” He shrugged one shoulder, as if doing so would hide the light in his eyes that had appeared upon thinking about Ella. “But we aren’t here to talk about her, are we?”

iv - Hephaestus @emberstoflames​

“I would have thought that most mistakes were unnecessary. If you did it on purpose it would not exactly be a mistake,” she pointed out. She wondered if it had happened before or if there ever were accidents in the axe throwing halls. It made her palms sweat thinking about it. 

She watched as he hefted the axe, seeming to look for something though she had no idea what. This was just a hobby for her and she knew very little about the equipment they used. “Does it feel alright?”

“Ah. Well I am sure that one is plenty,” she said. She could tell that he was trying to be nonchalant about it, but she didn’t miss that little look that told her it was something just a bit special. “No, we are here to throw axes and be social. But we could, if you like - though I promise not to pry.”

Milly loved her job but she also loved the rare free days that she got when the parents were able to step, so she had been quite overjoyed to find that she had a day off. She slept in (a lovely feeling) and cleaned and organized and meant to call home but lost track of the time, and then when Laurel came back, Milly stationed herself at the table, to be near enough to company and conversation but not necessarily intrude on Laurel’s time if she was busy. When the phone went off, Milly looked up instinctively then returned to her doodling.

But she glanced up again as Laurel spoke - even though she had a feeling that she didn’t want to see it. “What did they - oh my god. Why? Why would that seem like a good idea?” She squealed a little, covering her eyes with a grimace. “Ugh, that’s awful, Laurel. Are you going to reply?”

As far as Laurel was concerned, Milly was just about the perfect housemate. She paid her rent, she helped to clean, and they could be quietly comfortable sharing the common spaces together. 

“I don’t know. It’s certainly not pretty,” she peered at the phone screen again before she shut the app and locked the screen. “They could at least offer some sort of warning so you know to brace yourself.”

“I don’t think I’ll reply. I don’t think I could date someone who would expose themselves like that so what would be the point? Do you think I should reply?”

“Do you think they need to be reminded?” Rob asks wryly, only looking to her from the corner of his eye.

She earns a bit of a confused frown from him. He understands she’d been teasing, but the implication is there all the same.  Had she actually found him acceptable to work with?  Or at least not as bad as she had been warned?  (He is unmistakably sure she had been warned.)    He contemplates this, while coming to lean against the bar.

“I drink coffee, usually.  Brandy, when the occasion calls for it.  But ultimately I’ll just take anything warm.”

It’s not so cold out yet, not even on that rooftop bar, not even on the verge of winter, but he is perpetually trying to get some warmth under his skin.  He gives her a half shrug.

“I’m not really picky though.”

@dreamsofasphodel​

“I have a feeling the intern that was here before is likely to do a good enough job of reminding everyone of just how scary you can be,” she said and in a way she didn’t doubt it. He had left quickly enough that he was clearly wary of Rob’s presence and so the encounter probably only reinforced what he already thought. “Though I have to admit that after working with you I am not sure how the rumours could have started.”

“You know, you did not strike me as being indecisive before,” she told him. 

She realised that the bartender had come back, that he had no doubt noticed that she had not touched the chardonnay that he had put before her. 

“I would like the mead please, and he - ” she inclined her head towards Rob, a mischievous smile playing about her lips, “is being difficult.”

The smell of Laurel’s perfume always arrived first. Once, it was the sent of butterflies in his stomach, an unnerving need to understand something he couldn’t. Now, it was just what comfort smelled like. Utter and complete acceptance. And when she kissed his cheek, that same easy sensation flooded into him, a smile taking his entire face in an expression reserved for her and other few people in his life. “Good morning, Lo,” Ambrose said, eyes taking a moment to see her in full, to really take her in. Perfect, as always.

“I actually need a cup of coffee, we could start there,” Ambrose took a deep breath, hands quickly putting the cigarette out so as to not bother her. He knew she wasn’t exactly into this habit of his. No point on dragging his feet there. Ambrose offered to take her market bag alongside his, the hand out so as to see her reaction. “How was your week? Anything interesting to report?”

“Coffee it is,” she agreed. They had the entire morning, there was no need to rush straight to the vegetables (or the herbal teas, fresh cut flowers, and preserves). She dutifully handed over her market bag when he silently offered to take it. “There is some bread in there for you.”

She paused for a moment before she replied. Had there been anything interesting? It had been an average week by most accounts. And yet...

“That horror file has been closed,” she said. She’d spent the last few weeks chained to her desk when she wasn’t working out of Robert Strathos’ office because of a particularly complicated file. She hadn’t mentioned exactly who she’d been working with to Ambrose, though she’d certainly had to let him know how busy she’d been and why she hadn’t had even her usual limited availability. “We had work drinks last night, actually, but -” she paused again, something quite unusual when she was talking to Ambrose. He was her close friend and confidant, and sometimes she thought he might know her better than she knew herself. “I’m not sure if there was anything interesting or if I am only imagining it.”

@elysiuminbloom​

Against all odds, Ambrose actually liked waking up early to be at the farmers market. The poor nights of sleep seemed to disappear as he got out of the cab and stopped by the entrance, looking around as the morning sun touched his face. It was beautiful. All the colours, the different kinds of people, the smells. It felt alive. In a way that made him pause, take in a deep breath and mentally note the irony of a man who couldn’t cook more than 10 different things, bothering to spend his Saturday morning there, buying food. The stuff that Laurel made him like… This was a rather weird list. One that, had his wife been around to see, she wouldn’t believe. Ambrose took out his pack from his pocket, lightening a cigarette as he waited for his friend to show up. He was only truly awake after a cup of coffee and a smoke, – the first depending on Laurel’s arrival and the other, a quick fix. He looked down on his watch, searching the crowd again for her. “Where are you, Lo?”, he let out under his breath.

Going to the farmer’s market was Laurel’s favourite part of every week. It was one of the few spaces that she cleared in her diary that she did not allow work to impeded upon. But she liked it even better when she had company and there were few whose company she enjoyed more than Ambrose. 

It was going to be a good day. 

She wasn’t much of a cook, though she had taken enough cooking classes to be able to follow a recipe well enough. It was the throwing together of flavours, all small corrections in seasonings that were palette dependent that she had never mastered. But she could make a good loaf of bread, having developed a love for it while at college (the pattern of kneading the dough then allowing it to rest and rise providing a decent enough schedule for study breaks). She had one such loaf tucked into her market bag for Ambrose to take home. 

Spying her friend she sidled up beside him and planted a kiss on his cheek, knowing better than to comment on the cigarette. 

“Where should we start first?” she asked as she slid her arm through his.