Winter Soldier

As music filled the space another small smile flickered into being, maintained by his curiosity. Lacha shouldn’t have cared even a little that he was curious, she should have taken it at face value, an idle attempt to create conversation, but Gale, while persistent, while dependable, while useful, was not a creature of small talk and little niceties, at least not with her. And while she mostly found personal questions to be prying, she was interested enough in Gale to actually answer, “It’s perfect, actually. I’m a fan.” What a silly thing to say, even as it was true. 

One song bled into another and she turned her attention back to the papers in front of her, seeing as she didn’t think there was much else to say on the topic. Somewhere along the way I Want to Hold Your Hand started playing and without even noticing it actively, she began to sing softly to herself, turning pages and making small notes to herself. Mid-song she abruptly paused, staring silently at pages for long moments, before glancing to Gale, intending to say something, only to realize she’d been singing based of the look he was giving her. ( Well shit, wasn’t that just perfect? ). Face flushed lightly, and she, for a long moment found herself embarrassed without quite knowing why. Clearing her throat lightly, she murmured, “I— sorry.” A pause in which she shook her head, before she glanced back to the papers and collected herself. “Can you come look at this? I’m not sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing, but if I am, we have a problem.”

A smile played at the corners of Gale’s lips. “So am I,” he answered softly, far too pleased to have something that was so trivial in common with the Queen. Good as it was, however, the music did not serve as the distraction he’d have hoped. Still his eyes flickered to the Queen too often as he tried to focus on his papers. This was important work and he appreciated the Queen’s assistance (though he did wonder whether that aid was borne from a lack of trust), but Gale couldn’t help the thought he would be more efficient were she not in the room with him. 

For how could he focus on numbers when she was singing, clearly without even realizing it. Gale’s work was forgotten, his gaze transfixed on her, so taken that he wasn’t quick enough to realize when she stopped so abruptly, wasn’t quick enough to look away before she caught hi staring -- and was that a flush on her cheeks? No. Why should there be? And yet...it was enough that Gale found himself speaking where normally he would not. “Don’t be. You have a nice voice.” That was too much, he knew it as soon as he said it, and it was his own turn to look down at his work while he tried to collect himself. Not likely to happen with Lacha summoning him closer. What was he supposed to say? No, I’d rather stay over here, you’re already far too difficult not to stare at from a safe distance. “Of course.” He stood up and moved over to her, leaning over the desk to take a look, his gaze fixed firmly on the papers. “What am I looking for?”

amethyst: do you think age is needed for maturity?

aquamarine: do you believe the future is predetermined?

bloodstone: what words are most comforting to you?

diamond: how important is money to you?

emerald: is there anything you want to last forever?

garnet: list three of your passions

jasper: if you could revive a spirit, who would it be?

moonstone: what family do you want in the future?

opal: do you keep secrets forever?

pearl: are you stereotypically feminine?

peridot: how old do you want to live to?

ruby: what kind of love do you value the most?

sapphire: if you could control one element, what would it be?

topaz: are your current relationships with others healthy?

tourmaline: do you like the idea of having a guardian angel?

“Siri,” Sean corrected, reaching over once more and navigating through the settings before pulling Siri up on the phone. “You can disable it.” He didn’t turn the setting off himself, but left it up for Gale to turn off or leave on       for whatever reason. Maybe he liked talking to the tech. Picking up his bottle, Sean took a quick sip. “Probably a good idea so you don’t… butt dial Lacha somehow. That’d be… yikes.”

“Siri,” Gale repeated, slightly dubious. What kind of name was Siri? Why did the robot even need a name? No matter -- she could be disables, it seemed, and that was exactly what Gale did, touching the button the Sean showed him and then glancing sideways at him with a raised eyebrow and a bemused twitch of his lips. “No, I don’t think the Queen would appreciate that very much,” he answered, a pointed reminder to respect Lacha’s title, at least in Gale’s presence. 

Gale. Not her first choice for company, but at least his was a familiar face. A far cry from her fans, of course, given that he seemed to think modeling was barely a step above the person who put dogs to sleep at the pound, but she smiled at him anyway. Glancing down, she noticed the mess some irresponsible dog owner had neglected to clean up and frowned. She steadied herself with a hand on his arm and checked the bottoms of her Louboutin heels. 

Clean. Thank goodness. 

“I seemed to have missed it,” she said, letting go of his arm. “Thank goodness. Good thing you came along, Gale or I’m sure I would have ended up with ruined shoes. Are you joining me for coffee?” 

Idly, Gale considered the fact that it might have been amusing if she had, indeed, stepped in the mess some dog left behind, but he quickly dismissed the thought; she’d likely have been insufferable if she had. With that in mind, he was able to honesty tell her, “I’m glad to hear it.” As if he cared about ruined shoes. Her invitation took him by surprise, if only because he didn’t think she particularly enjoyed his company any more than he did hers, but he paused a moment before declining. Nadia was close to Lark, after all; it wouldn’t hurt for him to remain on friendly terms with the other. “I suppose I am.”

          Lark made a face when The Boss was replaced by The King as she dug through the limited stacks of records for anything that could top what Gale had found while shuffling her bag backwards along with the book that she’d stashed in there. It was easier to forget her own problems when around Gale, letting her thoughts drift away and turn into nothing more than white noise as she welcomed the change of pace. “You should,” she mused carefully as she selected one that would top his record. “They had me sing a song once in Japanese for a commercial. It was fun, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything more than that.” Her smile was flighty, coming and going as she glanced between the records and Gale and back down again. So much was left unsaid between them, knowing that if anyone would be able to understand what she went through it was Gale ― but still, she stayed silent. “You may have found The King, but we both know that Queen will always conquer.” She practically beamed as she pulled out the Queen album that matched one of her own back home.

“Japanese?” He asked with a quirk of his brow. “I’m sorry I missed that one. Give me a few years and maybe I’ll have some new lyrics for you,” he teased lightly, though he certainly didn’t hate the idea of widening his horizons as far as the languages he spoke. One never could be over-educated. He slid the record he’ found back into the box it came from, silence falling between them for a moment though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Being around Lark was easy, comfortable, neither of them asking for more than the other was willing to give -- though he hoped he did a good enough job of letting her know he was more than willing to be a listening ear, should she ever want him to be. His eyes found her beaming smile and then the album she displayed, a familiar wave of melancholy washing over him though Lark couldn’t have known she was bringing up anything unpleasant. “Mmm,” he agreed softly, his features wilting slightly as he was reminded all over again of that which he could never have. “Indeed she will.”

FLASHBACK STARTER 02: HOW WE BEGAN

Location: The Rookery Date: April 28, 1964 Availability: Closed to @waitingale

Lacha had looked up to catch him staring, and it was hardly the first time tonight; with several months worth of business expenses spread out between them and what was rapidly becoming a rather long night in what promised to be the first of several, rationally, reasonably, she assumed it was because he wanted to go, but didn’t know how to ask. 

( It couldn’t be anything else, she was being ridiculous to think… ) 

Yet, The Rookery was being audited and she wanted everything well in line before anyone came calling; it wouldn’t do to invite trouble when there was a whole world hiding in plain sight. Meeting his gaze, this time, instead of pretending not to notice, she let a hint of a smile curve lips. “Gale, the radio,” she started, gaze cutting to the radio near him, intending to cover silence, “d’you mind?”

Careless. He was being careless, and while Gale easily could have attributed that to the late hour, or the stress, or the worry that Lacha would regret entrusting him with the Rookery’s books because they were being audited out of sheer bad luck -- it was none of those things.  It was Lacha herself, stealing away his focus with every scratch of her pen, every soft breath, every rustle of a paper that reminded him it was just the two of them here while the rest of the Court slept. 

She’d caught him staring one too many times, Gale knew that -- but rather than chastisement he received a hint of a smile that made his pulse quicken. Stupid. Lacha was being gracious, nothing more. “Of course.” He leaned over in his chair to reach the radio, relieved at the distraction, and fiddled with the dials until static was replaced with the familiar sound of the Beatles. “Is this all right?” Gale couldn’t stop the curious gaze he shot her, then; did the Queen like rock ‘n roll?

It was no surprise that at this moment, Danica felt more at home here than she had in months. She was sitting in this gutter with a stranger and yet she didn’t feel these things at all. No gutter, no stranger. Just a woman who was still her how she ended up on the streets with such humour and strength that Danica herself couldn’t possibly possess, or at least she thought, but it was something she could understand. Her family rationed their food, most of the time the parents giving up theirs for their children.  Second-hand clothing, until the year Danica was working three summer jobs just so she could buy her family a few new articles of clothing. They weren’t homeless, but they came close to it a few times. Between missed bills and new landlords who simply didn’t want tenants living on their property who they couldn’t understand, there were a handful of sleepless names for the family, believing they were going to be kicked out the next day.

Announcing that she had to leave given the time and the early start tomorrow, Danica says her goodbyes to the homeless woman, Kelly. Kelly begged for the woman to stay, explaining that she had much more to tell her. In the end, Danica promised she would return ( Of course, not giving a time frame on when that would be… ), and feeling that was enough, Kelly let her go. Danica departed from the spot and walked the path that brought her back to the main streets. Noticing there was a figure leaning against the building at the mouth of the alley, Danica kept her shoulders from tensing, and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket, fidling with her apartment keys to place them between her fingers.

Gale remained silently watchful as Danica took her leave from the homeless woman, a rather drawn-out process that left him wondering whether she truly intended on coming back or not. It didn’t occur to him that he might look menacing, a tall, dark figure lurking in the shadows, until she started toward him with hands shoved into her pockets. The thought of him as a threat gave him a moment of fleeting amusement, but human Players had enough reasons for fear in their lives for Gale to want to cause her any more than he could help. 

“Danica,” he said her name softly as he stepped into the light of a nearby lamppost, hands raised in a show of surrender. “It’s just me. Awfully late for you to be out on your, isn’t it? Do you know that woman?” He asked, nodding in the direction she’d come from though he suspected he knew the answer already. 

Nick reeked with the smell of last nights alcohol. His clothes were clearly from the night before, wrinkled and hastily thrown back on. A coffee cup clutched between his teeth as his hands worked to fix the buttons on his shirt. He could probably use a shower, but he’d worry about that before his shift at the Rookery. For now he was hungry. Nothing at the coffee shop had looked appealing so he’d grabbed his coffee and went off in search of a real meal. A glance at his reflection on the window of the coffee shop had let him know his shirt was buttoned wrong. Nick didn’t slow down his stride as he worked to fix it. He sneered, or as best he could with the coffee cup between his teeth, at a mother shielding her kids from him like asshole was infectious. Abandoning his shirt half buttoned, he pulled the coffee cup out of his mouth to make a face at one of the kids who was staring. Nick turned forward just in time to barely avoid colliding with someone. Coffee jostled out of his cup onto the sidewalk, Nick barely managing to avoid spilling it on his shoes. “Jesus fucking Christ! I know I’m irresistible but damn.” He was too busy worrying about his coffee, his shoes, his inconvenience to look at the person he’d nearly collided with.

Another sleepless night meant another morning spent walking along the beach until the sun came up, meant a clear need for coffee before he made his way to the library for the day. It was hardly a surprise to spot -- or rather, smell -- a familiar face already headed out of the coffee shop. And making quite the spectacle of himself, not that Gale would have expected any less. He could partially respect the party boy persona Nickel pulled off to such an extent that it was unclear, at times, how much was a persona and how much was real; it certainly had to aide in his work for the Court, so long as he didn’t do anything to knock him right out of the social circles he was supposed to be tapped into. But Gale knew Nickel took his role seriously... as much as appearances may have screamed the opposite. A wry smile pulled at his lips as he stepped to the side before Nickel could barge right into him, too busy making faces at a child to notice the near collision before it was too late. He reached out with a tired sigh and gently took the coffee from the other’s hands, giving him a look that was half amusement, half gentle chastisement. “Fix your shirt, Nickel, and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“When I say trap, I mean trap: I hardly believe I can find a single courtier who would cheerfully oblige me in a hearty conversation about Shakespeare without bowing out early. I suspect most only listen to what I have to say out of respect for my mother,” she shot back quickly, minor mischief playing in the depths of her smile, at the mild commentary on the court; something she should’ve refrained from expressing to Gale but had somehow lost the restraint to – a worrying fact in and of itself. She set that thought aside for further examination, later. She just had to be careful to avoid more slip ups.

“Fleeting?” She asked, tilting her head jauntily, the idea of fleeting beauty barely a blip on the radar of something so long-lived. “Yes, I suppose,” she murmured in assent, thinking to herself, brows dipping in concentration and consideration. “My criticism is hardly borne on the backs of how fleeting it is; rather, I dislike its flighty depiction. Olivia fell in love with Viola, and I hate to think that she were only in love with the surface appearance – shouldn’t love extend its grace to every facet of a person, especially personality? That she can love Sebastian without ever truly knowing him: I question the foundation such love is built upon.

“That’s that,” she affirmed playfully. “You’ve inspired me: I’ll write my own Shakespearean play to impress my own ideals upon the world and to set Olivia and Viola together; I’ll put you on the dedications page. ‘To the man who set it all in motion.’ That has a nice ring to it, no?”

“That being said, perhaps we should conduct this conversation elsewhere to avoid burdening the customers here. Care to indulge me in a meal or coffee?”

It was impossible to miss that flicker of mischief in her smile, a look Gale had first learned to love in Lacha but was perhaps even more fond of in their daughter. Or fond, perhaps, that she deigned to share it with him. His own lips twitched, almost a smile, amusement flashing in his eyes as he answered lightly, “Those courtiers would be quite missing out, then.” 

Indeed, Gale could think of no one else he would rather engage in conversation, save perhaps for Lacha. His eyes followed the tilt of her head, the furrow of her brows that was his own when he was in deep concentration. It amazed him, at times, that he was the only person who seemed to see how clearly Camellia was his own. “Does that not leave the question as to whether Shakespeare is depicting love at all?” He challenged, thoroughly delighted with the subject matter. “Olivia may think herself in love, but I would pose that what she feels for Sebastian -- and Viola -- is infatuation. How much could she have loved Viola if she was so quick to turn her affection to Sebastian?” 

Her playful commentary pulled a genuine, albeit a small smile to his lips -- and then vanished it almost immediately. To the man who set it all in motion. The stabbing pain that sent through his heart was a familiar one, easy enough to set aside for later with a quick, steadying breath and a grimace. “Indeed it does. I shall be in the front row of the theatre when you debut.”

The Princess’s offer was one her mother would surely rather Gale denied -- and yet he couldn’t find it in himself to say no to her, least of all when she was actually requesting his company. “I would enjoy nothing more, Princess.”

The thing about spending time with Gale was that she seemed to associate his very presence with sadness and the tang of longing. Whenever she saw him the smile she wore faded and shoulders folded in, a far cry from her usual stance of a straight back in an attempt to look regal. But maybe it was more so that when she was with him, she could allow herself a few moments of indulging in her heartache. It didn’t have to be a secret with him.

She had often caught herself wondering what they would both be like as consorts, if they ever got the offer they so badly wished for. He was a soldier; made to fight for what he believed in. And she was born already part-noble, with whispers in her ear of how she would be the perfect queen. They would be completely different, no doubt. But still perfect for the role. Even if their views contrasted, she knew they would both rest a hand on their monarch’s shoulder and offer support in every way possible.

They would both be there for the court. They would both be good consorts.

She glanced down at his notebook, wondering what she would see if she touched it. Would she feel his pen scratching against the paper, writing about Lacha? The thought shouldn’t have been a sad one. It was just that she desperately wanted to be loved the way Gale loved Lacha. It always knitted her brow together. She couldn’t force Adare to choose her. All she could do was hover behind him and hope her smile, her dedication to the Seelie court, would be enough. But Lacha had this man that adored her. Garnet knew Lacha loved him too. She had to.

And she still turned him away.

It wasn’t something Garnet pretended to understand. 

A look of understanding crossed her features and she nodded. “I know.” She had tried to be of some use; when her hand of insight had failed her, she had lingered in Unseelie territory with the hopes of stumbling on a clue just so she could burst into his office with a ‘see? I know what I’m doing, I’m good for the court.’ “I’m sure just knowing you’re there is enough.” But the words felt hollow. Lacha didn’t seem like the type to need to know she had a warm source support waiting for her in the shadows.

“We went for dinner,” she shrugged. It seemed like nothing compared Lacha and Gale’s great hidden romance. “He told me he wondered if he should have married me instead of Aiteann.” Her voice was soft and quiet. “So I told him I loved him. It felt like a good idea at the time.”

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it just made her look like a desperate fool, begging for him to make her his queen. She hated having her truths out in the world. Even now with Gale, her shoulders were hunched, her mother’s voice in her ear—secrets are your most prized possessions, Gairnéad. Keep them.

“Hmmm,” Gale hummed softly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Garnet’s words of encouragement. He certainly liked to think it helped Lacha to know he was there, waiting, ready to support her however she would let him. But she’d been avoiding him for a month now -- at a time when she likely needed a shoulder to cry on more than ever, more than she would admit even to herself -- and Gale was powerless to do anything except keep reminding her he was here. 

Garnet, it seemed, was having far better luck than he was. Dinner. A bombshell from Adare that Gale couldn’t help thinking must have carried some ulterior motive. And -- oh. Both eyebrows lifted in surprise. It felt like a good idea at the time; that, to Gale, seemed like more than enough to let him know she was rethinking the choice. 

It did not escape his notice how different their positions were, despite the fact they were pining over the same title for their respective Courts. And they’d both do well as consort, too. Sometimes Gale let himself imagine they both got what they wanted, the pair of them -- already something like friends, a mutual understanding of the other -- working to help smooth some of the tensions between the Courts.

A foolish, idealistic, impossible dream.

Which of them was luckier, though? Gale, knowing Lacha loved him back but would never have him as consort? Or Garnet, with the role as a possibility if only she could find a way to make Adare love her back?

He was quiet for a long moment, moving his hand to give her shoulder a gentle squeeze, the touch light enough that she could shrug him off if she so chose. “I can’t pretend to even begin to understand the mind of your King,” it was only respect for Garnet and the pain they shared that kept any disdain from his voice as he said so, “But I can’t imagine why he should consider your loving him a bad thing.” And Gale suspected Adare likely already knew, anyways, but he doubted that morsel would be helpful to Garnet at present. 

“At worst, I imagine he should be flattered. At best...” Gale offered Garnet a small smile. “Now he knows. Love is a beautiful thing, Garnet. There should be no shame in sharing it.” 

“Yes, but Shakespeare was at the very end of Renaissance. I’d make a case that he was really more Elizabethan than anything, year guidelines of eras be damned,” she said casually. “And really…name one other author from the period besides Shakespeare that has any modicum of modern relevance. There’s a few famous painters, but not exactly a wealth of authors. 

It was always freeing to talk to Gale. She could be herself, that side of her that was always there but mostly hidden away from the world. Honest and open. A lover of literature and a nerd at her core, intelligent and educated, even if most of her knowledge had been sought on her own. It was all the things that she couldn’t ever be with anyone else in the fey realm. Yet there was something about him that allowed her to just…open up to him. A kindred soul who understood what it meant to love the words on a page as much as the body lying next to you.

Still, Ivy all but gaped at him. “I’m sorry, did you just call Juliet a strong female character. No. No no no. She bitches and moans when she doesn’t get her way. She literally kills herself for a man. She is not a strong female character. You want a strong female character, try Portia who effectively and nearly single handedly saves her husband in Merchant of Venice or Viola vwho spends half the play being her brother. Those are smart, strong female characters and nothing you say will convince me Juliet is.”

Ivy looked down at the book in her hands, running her fingers over it carefully as though it were a bird whose wings could be broken if touched too hard. She’d always felt such a connection to Lord’s work. It resounded with her so deeply. “I know most of the work anyway,” she finally conceded. “I’ll let you borrower it as soon as I buy it or I’ll pigeon hole it away and you’ll never have a chance to touch it.”  

“Just one?” A properly scandalized expression worked its way across Gale’s face as Ivy called into question an era that brought them an excess of great literature. “How about John Donne? Christopher Marlowe? Chaucer? John Milton? And let’s not forget Dante Alighieri and the Divine Comedy, hmm? Or Edmund Spenser and The Faerie Queen?” He added with a hint of amusement. “Surely at least one of those must meet your standards.” Gale was purely -- well, mostly -- teasing now, amusement dancing in his eyes. Ivy had always been easier to talk to than most, with their shared fondness for humans and an understanding that sensitivity and softness did not have to be a weakness.

And who else would indulge him in a literary debate like this? Gale very nearly smiled at the look of shock Ivy met him with and her quickness to refute his claim, merely shaking his head calmly in answer. “Juliet is young and foolish, certainly, not to mention dangerously impulsive, but I would not say that she is weak. While her actions are certainly questionable, it cannot be argued that she is the one to act. She is the one who makes the decisions in that relationship. On the other hand -- feminism is a matter upon which I have no right to cast judgement, so I gladly defer to yours; though I do hope you don’t mind my indulging some of the more atypical interpretations of Juliet’s character.” For what was literature if not meant to be picked apart over and over again?

The way she looked fondly at the book in her hands was familiar, a reminder of why he’d grown so fond of Ivy to begin with. “I’m sure I can find it elsewhere if you can’t bear to part with it. Or you could let me purchase it as a belated Imbolc gift. I insist, if you’re going to let me take it off your hands before you’ve even gotten it home.”

The flash of a delighted smile, as he returned the indiscretion complete with that light French accent, which Lacha found both cute and absolutely ridiculous, something that carried through as he gave the reaction she was absolutely looking for: he was appalled and she was amused by it. “My work?” she asked, incredulously, laughing all the while, “That’s not nice.” She gave him an even look. “I haven’t written poetry since I was a little girl and made to do it for a few torturous lessons. I got this poor effort from the cauldron, which, mind you, is iron.” There was no need to further explain the expression of distaste that flitted across her face. A momentary pause, before another half smile. “Regardless, I’ve read much better.” Yours, for example. “And I thought you’d get a kick out it.”

To earn a laugh from Lacha was a cause Gale could have gladly devoted his entire existence to, that delightful sound enough to have his own smile widening, flexing muscles that were used so rarely outside her presence. A moment of mild distaste at the mention of iron was the only break in the expression, replaced again almost immediately. “I should hope so,” he commented lightly, only the twinkle in his eyes giving away that he hoped she was speaking of his own. “So you read this and thought of me?” Even his feigned offense was obviously that as his eyes flickered back to the paper he held. “You know, the bowling metaphor almost works, until it ends on that bit about renting shoes. If it were true love the writer would be willing to buy them, surely.”

So of course it wasn’t that he managed to slosh the man’s drink across the table, no, but instead the substance had to splatter across the notebook he had splayed open to a page with scrawl only started across it. Not only did he cause the guy to lose some of his drink but also whatever it was he was working on. He couldn’t help but wonder how long it had taken him to write those words inked onto the page, now bleeding in every direction with the liquid. Fortunately the man didn’t seem too disturbed - at least it wasn’t an assignment with an impending due date; Tyler had been there far too many times. Even such a minor setback could mean a failing grade. “Well uh – I don’t know much about poems but I’m glad it’s not something too important then, yeah?” 

For as unlucky as it was to have his drink knocked over in the first place, there was a bit of good luck in that Gale had been nearly finished. It was enough to make a mess of a few pages in his notebook, but that was the risk one took when working next to uncovered liquids. “No,” he mused wistfully. “Nothing too important.” And maybe it wasn’t, another poem to be hidden away like the rest, but even with that thought Gale couldn’t quite believe that. “Margaret Atwood and Pablo Neruda,” he added thoughtfully, after regarding the young man a moment longer. “If you ever find an interest in knowing more about poems, they’re an excellent place to start.”

“Swipe up, hit the timer, hit alarm, and hit the red button.” He, at least, had enough common courtesy to demonstrate as he spoke, dark eyes cutting over to Gale as he resettled himself against the bar. The iPhone had been more cheeky than sincere, considering Gale’s aversion to everything modern, and definitely more for his own private amusement. “How’d you even turn those on? Or did you get someone else to do it for you?”

“Ah...thank you.” Gale was rather flummoxed as he watched Sean navigate the phone with all the dexterity of a proper millennial. It was unlikely he’d be able to mimic what the other did, but at least it was taken care of for now. As for how they turned on? Gale could only fix the other with a sheepish expression. “I’m....not quite sure. I believe the woman in the phone did it -- Sidney? We had a very confusing conversation and now alarms are going off at the most inconvenient times."

when: april 8 2018 where: the rookery who: open

                “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Obviously I’m not,” he sighed, giving Sean a look as he glanced up from the iphone the boy had gifted him for Imbolc. Danu, how he missed his flip phone. “Just tell me how to make this alarm stop going off, please?”

CLANN NUADA SCAVENGER HUNT STARTER 01: INDELICATELY PHRASED

Location: End of the Scavenger Hunt, wherever that is Date: April 06, 2018 Availability: Closed to @waitingale​

To stumble upon Gale here wasn’t entirely a surprise, but she was glad to see him. “Agent Pierre,” she greeted with a smile, falling for a rare moment of indiscretion by using the code name he’d been given at the Spy Museum in D.C. upon entrance; it had been one of their normal moments while there, one where they’d pretended for a little while amidst perfect strangers that she wasn’t Queen and they weren’t impossible. “Have you seen this?” she asked, holding out a slip of paper with poetry on it she’d recently retrieved from the iron cauldron. 

It wasn’t necessarily a surprise to find Lacha beat him to the end of the day’s ridiculous antics -- and yet Gale never could resist a riddle or seven -- but the indulgence in something he’d thought left behind in the D.C. certainly was. “Agent Natasha,” a smile pulled at his lips as he colored the words with a light French affectation. “I should have known you would be here.” He moved closer and droped the accent as he took the paper she offered. “No, what...” An expression of mingled shock and horror worked its way across his face. And then he laughed. “Danu, this is....something.” Amusement he only ever felt around Lacha danced in his eyes as he glanced back up at her, teasing, “Your handiwork?”