maskormenacelogs | synchronizing with the spirits of all old grannies

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synchronizing with the spirits of all old grannies

WHO: Andy n Marty
WHERE: a bead & craft shop in MF
WHEN: wknd
WHAT: lookit all this shit
WARNINGS: Andy, feelings, andy and feelings

A hobby shop like this is in such complete contrast to what life had in store for Martin back home that he honestly doesn't know what the right thing to feel is. It's very small, which is comforting, and the smell of old wood and wax candles also helps make it feel deceptively safe, but... Look at all this weird stuff. Night lights with little stained glass birds, wind chimes, shelves of fabric of so many unusual colors and patterns...

Boxes and boxes of colorful beads, the most seemingly useless things of all. Just for decoration and nothing else -- no other inherent meanings other than ones a person may impose upon them on their own. All form, no function. It's fascinating and weird.

They're more here for Andy to pick out yarns and another set of needles for this Nightmare Sweater project she's concocted. While Martin's not entirely sold on the merit of teasing Rex with clothes, he has grown really attached to the act of knitting itself, so he's not inclined to refuse anymore. Maybe he'll be good enough to keep it from looking too tragic? He won't hold out that kind of hope, but...it is something to do.

He picks up a small handful of teal and black beads letting them trickle out from between his fingers back into the box, still quietly marveling that something so useless is here. They are pretty, and the sound they make falling is not unpleasant either, but still... Human stuff like this...

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The sad thing this isn't even her first time stepping into a hobby shop this month. Although admittedly, she looks a lot more normal walking into the place with a kid than she did with Midnighter. They don't exactly look like a mother and son per se, but they don't not look like a mother and son either, so nobody really looks twice — except for maybe the occasional judgemental glance Andy earns for wearing sunglasses indoors.

As she scans the rows of yarn, she lets those shades slide down her nose a little, just enough that she can look over the top of them. There is a lot of yarn. And all the pinks look the same to her. Maybe... She'll come back to it in a second. Instead of deciding on yarn, she wanders quietly over to where Martin is considering the beads.

Wordlessly, she picks one up and lightly flicks it at him.

"Huh-!!"

Martin startles at the little bonk against his cheek, shaken out of his daze. He yanks his hands back to himself and steps away from the shelf, whipping his head up to gawk at Andy so fast, his own glasses, which had been set atop his head, slip right back onto his nose.

"S-s-sorry! Sorry. I wasn't paying attention. Did you say something?"

Is it bad that she almost laughs? It's probably bad. It's also probably bad that she thinks it's kinda cute, the way he stares at her in surprise like that — such a big reaction earned over such a small thing. She'd forgotten what that looks like. She's lived so long with people that hardly flinch when they take a dozen bullets.

She exhales lightly, one hand resting on her hip.

"No, kid, I didn't say anything." Though she considered lying about that just to tease him. "I was just messing with you." Reaching out, she pushes his glasses back onto his head for him. "You never seen beads before?"

Feeling safe enough to be teased... Martin's not sure when he's ever felt that way, but he's sure he has. With relatives like Ivan or Danielle? Certainly. But when it's someone outside of the family unit, it's a whole new learning experience. To say nothing of having to do it while learning everything else about his place in this world.

Blinking a couple times as she adjusts his glasses, his eyes then flicker back toward the boxes of beads.

"Um, no," he admits. "I mean, I don't think so. What're they for? Is it just...decorations?"

They're such opposites, her and Martin — Andy, with her vast and incomparable experience, apathetic now to so much of the world, and then the child beside her, sheltered and anxious. Yet she finds some of her best days are the ones she spends with him. Those are the days when it's a little easier to be a part of the world, to care about something. Instead of seeking the bottom of a bottle, she's here in this damn hobby store, watching the kid appreciate something so simple as a handful of beads.

"Sure." Idly, she skims her fingers over the pile. "Jewelry mostly. But we could probably get a few on the sweater." The corner of her mouth twists wryly. "You should pick some out. Half for you, half for Rex's present."

"Half for me?" he echoes. "What for?"

Jewelry? Stuff that he's seen in department store displays...dangling stones off wires on ears or wound around wrists and necks...He has his own, if the medallion counts. But he couldn't imagine himself with more.

"For fun, kid."

Though she's not really sure Martin fully knows what that means. Or that she herself even really has a normal definition of that word. Sure, she goes out an drinks "for fun" all the time — but that's not really. Well. Fun. Not like the kind of sweetly ordinary fun a child might get from arts and crafts.

"Or, you know. Just to have. Not everything needs to be for a purpose."

That's a tough lesson to pound into his head. All the just becauses this place presents to him leave him at a loss, never knowing whether to accept or refuse is the best thing to do at a given time.

At least here seems rather straightforward: he either winds up with a pocket full of useless beads or he doesn't. It's almost like the candy Anderson stuffed his pockets with before he first went to the Endeavor Center -- those were bargaining chips to make friends. Maybe beads can do that, too.

"Mmh, alright," he decides, peering at the laminated card taped on the edge of a shelf. It takes a minute to pick up what he can from it -- mostly the one bag part, because numbers are still lost on him -- before he decides the bags in question are the ones in the dispenser clipped to the shelf next to it. It's like the bags for produce at the grocery store.

"How many am I supposed to get?" he asks, giving up on the sign and looking back up at Andy.

Andy seems vaguely entertained by that question too. As if there's some standard for how many beads a person should own, or like she would know better than him what a proper amount of beads might be. Honestly, she's pretty much as lost as he is in this hobby shop. So she just shrugs a little.

"As many as you want?" Hell if she knows. She'll buy him however many beads he shows up at the counter with. She doesn't know much about parenting, but she can do that. "Get a couple different kinds. Then come over here and help me pick some yarn out."

With that she meanders back over to the shelves of yarn.

Does...that mean there's little consequence in picking any random number an assortment? Or is that Andy just washing her hands of responsibility of it entirely. Or both? Martin's mouth twitches, about to remark just that, but instead just lets her wander away with a shake of his head. She has a very...grumpy, familiar air about her. It kind of reminds him of his cousin Vincent -- a Darkov who did the very bare minimum of anything so he wouldn't be bothered to do much more. Gruff, but still easily swayed when there was a need for aid. Nowhere near as violent or loud as Andy can get, but...but there's no perfect Darkov comparisons to be made out in this world, after all. He just has to make do.

Ah, well. He's got a task in front of him, and he should see to it. It may be inconsequential in the long run, but that doesn't mean he should just barrel through it thoughtlessly. Frowning with concentration, Martin picks through plastic tubs of assorted beads, holding some up to squint at or rifle around in his hands. He's not entirely sure if he should be more concerned about texture over color, or size, or weight, or...

...There really are a lot of different ones in here, aren't there. The pressure to follow through and meet Andy over by the yarn starts to weigh on him, prompting him to being picking ones at random, plucking and dropping them into the bag one by one until he gets to snatching them between three fingers -- two by two, then. Hearing an old floorboard creak in the other aisle is finally what gets to him, and he finishes by just snatching a fistful of an assortment and dunking them in, hastening around the endcap to meet her at the yarn.

"S-sorry," he puffs, blinking from her to what she's already got in-hand. "Is that the one you want?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Martin struggle with the bead dilemma. She shouldn't find it that entertaining — or endearing — but it is a little bit of both, the way he starts out selecting the beads one by one, then progresses two by two, then a good handful. Behind her shades, it's easier to hide that she was observing — and that her eyes have crinkled slightly at the corners with amusement.

When she sees him heading over, she turns her attention back to the yarn, arbitrarily picking one of the little bundles off the shelf. It isn't until he asks her that she realizes how truly hideous the color is. An absolutely blinding magenta that no person on Earth should ever wear.

"...Not necessarily," she answers after a pause. "Why, do you like it?"

"No," he blurts, unthinking, and then hastens to soften it with an excuse. "I, I mean--It's just...really bright. It doesn't look like a...a clothes color, I mean. Sorry."

Well, at least they're in agreement there. This is possibly the worst shade of pink available in the store — maybe on Earth, period. Although for a prank sweater, that might just do the trick? It is too cruel? Honestly, it's a little tempting.

After a moment, Andy finally puts the horrible magenta yarn back. Yes, it would be funny, but then she'd actually have to look at the stuff.

"Alright," she steps back to look at the shelves with some perspective. "Which one do you like then?"

"Um..."

He frowns and squints at the array. There sure is a lot... and he can't say there's any that leap out and scream make me a sweater! right away, either. But he still gives it some thought before his eyes settle on the muted and darker colors on display.

"These ones are nice," he says, and pokes at one of the burgundy ones. Disregarding the fact Rex might actually wear a conservative color like that, it reminds him of his own Darkov vestments.

Andy doesn't find any particular inspiration staring her in the face either, but then again, if she'd cared more about arts and crafts, maybe she would have become an artist instead of a mercenary. As it stands, Martin's choice is as good as any. The burgundy is, admittedly, not as offensive as a prank sweater might call for, but hey. It means Andy won't have to remove her own eyeballs a dozen times before the sweater's finished either.

"Yeah? You like those?" She tilts her head at them, peering over the top of her shades at the options before selecting one. Good enough for her. "Any particular reason, or you just think this is a color Rex can survive?"

Survive? His mouth twitches. She makes colors seem so much more dramatic than they are. But maybe they are? Who knows how people work.

"It looks like mine," he replies, shoulders shrugging up. "It's the color for...for heavy weapon conjurers. Like me."

He looks about some more, then points up at a light blue higher up.

"That's for tracking..." And then, to a mossy green. "That's...smaller conjures..." And last, to a goldenrod. "That's for leaders."

Admittedly, she's dramatic sometimes. And also morbid. Everything gets related back to dying somehow — mostly in jest, or her dry version of what passes for joking — but it's probably her subconscious influencing her words a little. Death is a constant, maybe in the back of her mind but always there. Though maybe less so these days. It's been a while since she's suffered a serious enough wound to wonder if this time might finally be it. It's been family dinners and hobby stores. Strange, but not... Entirely unpleasant either.

She supposes Martin is at least partially responsible for that.

"Heavy weapon conjurers," Andy echoes him with a hint of interest. She remembers them talking. About what Darkovs are. About his siblings. Wryly, she goes on, "Does that mean Rex should be honorary Darkov? Maybe we ought to make him one in the yellow."

Martin's expression doesn't change right away, because it takes a moment for his mind to really process the implications of her off-hand remarks. When it does sink in, though, his hand slowly retracts away from the yarns, and his expression grows conflicted. He's starting to become more aware of just how many times Rex is mentioned in relation to his family -- not an exact number, but enough to give him pause.

"Oh, I...I don't know," he breathes, sounding a little lost while he blinks and looks about, face coloring. "He might not like that much...I, I mean...I mistook him for my, my grandfather once...that...that wasn't good..."

But that was more, perhaps, because he'd been overtired, hungry, dehydrated, and seeing most things blurry while napping in the back yard when Rex discovered him. Everything about that was bad, including the error of identity.

She knows it was something she said the second she gets a good look at his face — that conflicted expression, the color in his cheeks. Right away, she regrets letting herself get comfortable to joke about a subject like family. That isn't generally a light topic for either of them. Just, in the moment... Ah, fuck.

"I don't know," she responds after a beat, her tone a little less warm than before, a little purposefully cooled off, "Rex values family. Camaraderie." But she wouldn't presume to speak for the man. Maybe she's just trying to make them both feel better while simultaneously wishing she didn't care about that. "And he's bald enough to mistake for anybody's grandpa if you squint."

"Oh, no--" Martin breathes out, mouth twitching in a move to avoid nervously laughing at that. He shakes his head. "No, he's not old. That was just me being stupid."

He gestures to the shelf.

"I, I think you should pick instead. It's...it's your idea. I'm just...helping."

Andy probably shouldn't be the one to comment on anyone's age anyway — she has little concept remaining of what old even means for normal people, and even if she did, she's rather ironically uninformed about Rex's age in particular. Either way, it was an offhand comment — trying to play off the awkwardness that seems to strike anytime their conversations wander too close to the idea of family.

"Honestly, it doesn't matter that much," she answers at length, turning away with the burgundy yarn in hand. "This color's good enough." Over her shoulder, she gestures for Martin to come with her. "Anything else we need?"

"Um..."

Martin looks around the aisle, frowning faintly. He's relieved, at least, that the responsibility to pick a proper color has been removed from him, but as for anything else necessary?

"Uh, we...we have needles, right?"

Oh right. She does have a pair of needles. Somewhere. Either at her place, or at Martin and Rex's, or... You know. Between those places? She's not really sure anymore. Maybe they should pick up a new pair, just in case. Otherwise she'll be stuck with all this yarn and nothing to do with it.

"...We could probably get another set," she responds casually, turning back with a smooth step that make sit look like she definitely wasn't about to leave the hobby store without the actual tools to do her hobby. "Maybe one for you and one for me."

"Al-alright."

There's really no arguing that. This is her project, after all; he's only piggybacking off of it, it's not his. At least, that's what he thinks. Owning his own interests? Still a work-in-progress.

He follows her along the rest of the aisle, watching her pick up the needles in question, his eyes drifting along the assorted other tools and things stocked up nearby. All these things... just for hobbies? Decorations, jewelry, clothes...well, clothes are necessary, so he's not sure why that falls into this category.

The little bag of beads rattles in his grip as they walk out toward the cashier station, and Martin pulls his sunglasses down over his eyes -- the light out from the display windows is a bit too glaring.

Maybe it is her project, but she still isn't fully sure how she ended up here. The knitting club thing was half a joke (and a morbid one, at that), but somehow she ended up with bundles of yarn and some patterns and people actually interested in knitting with her, and... Well. A lot of things in this place have spiraled out of her control. Knitting club is probably the least of it.

She stops as they approach the shelves of knitting needles. Andy squints through her sunglasses at them. They're... Not plain needles. Some of them are rainbow-colored. Others have cupcakes on top. There's mushrooms and poodles and penguins and fucking snow men. Andy can only stare in abject horror.

"Gods, this place is like another goddamn planet."

"Huh-?"

Martin looks back, mildly alarmed he's gotten ahead of himself in trying to leave the aisle. He stares at her scrunched-up face, following it back toward the array of novelty needles. Hesitating, he turns and wanders back, a little confused at her reaction. They're weird, but not...frightening? Disgusting? Whatever's going on in her head.

"Are they bad?" he asks, giving her a worried look. "If--if it's bad, then we shouldn't bother with it."

Apparently novelty knitting needles are to Andy what spicy food is to Rex. Sometimes you just spend your life so removed from what the general public considers to be normal that you encounter these things in the world and your brain struggles to process them. Not to say that she hasn't seen a lot of weird things in a lot of different cultures over a great span of time — but really? These things are hideous. Yet there's a whole shelf for them. Why are humans like this.

Andy exhales and scrubs her face with one hand.

"No, it's fine. If they work, they work, and who gives a damn about the rest," she sighs, accepting her fate. There doesn't seem to be any normal knitting needles in this aisle. Is this how they coerce people into buying these? Out of sheer desperation and lack of choice? "Here, you pick a pair, and I'll pick a pair, then we can fuck off before I discover something else in this store that destroys my faith in humanity."

"Al...Alright..."

He peers at her for a beat longer, just to make sure she's actually fine with that, considering her displeasure with the display. And since she seems to be waiting for him to make a move, he hastens to grab the ones nearest him -- green ones, with little frog faces on the tips.

With his selection made, Martin steps away to give her the room to gnab what she decides, hoping that this'll be the end of her frustrations with the place. He'd rather not linger in a place that seems to irk her so much...

Truthfully, it's not really the hobby store's fault. Or anybody's fault, really. Andy is just like this — always a little bit in a bad mood. Or a lot. Hence her preference for spending her time either drinking or working. But the knitting is a thing now, and here they are, so.

Martin, to his credit, picks probably the least offensive pair of needles available. Andy gives up and ends up picking the pair with tops that were likely supposed to look like chocolate drops but really look like two swirly shits.

"Alright." A sigh. "Mission accomplished. Let's go pay for this and get the hell out of Dodge."

"Yes, alright."

An accomplishment: not an immediate yes, ma'am. He's not mastered stifling honorifics, but after all the corrections she's given him, it's starting to stick in her company. He just has to try and place her more on his level than that of handlers -- imagine her as a grouchy aunt or cousin. She'd probably gravitate to Vincent, he figures...

"Andy?" He pipes up only after she's paid for everything and they're well on their way down the sidewalk, waiting for cars to pass by so there's less noise to speak over. "Um, should I...I mean, do you think other people would want these?" The beads. He holds them up a little for emphasis. "Anderson told me to pass things out to people...to be kind. But that was candy."

The plastic bag full of their craft supplies bumps against her leg as they walk outside — the needles, the yarn, everything but the bag of beads that Martin now holds up between them. She seems mildly surprised by the question, pausing for a moment before she finally answers him.

"...Sure," she responds at length. Why not. In the old days, people gave shit like that away all the time. She knew cultures that traded in beads. It doesn't seem so farfetched. "Not all your gifts have to be edible." A half-beat. "You going to give them to the other kids at soccer club or something?"

"I think so." They liked candy well enough, he learned. So much so that he's started to become kind of obligated to bring some with him, lest some turn sour to him. But they weren't his first thought.

"I thought I could give some to Rex and Anderson. And Archie and Akira..." All the people who've been looking out for him. Present company, too; he peers sidelong at her, wondering if she'd even entertain that.

She knows it's bad, because she can physically feel the way she softens at his suggestion — how it endears him to her immediately, fond and a little proud at once. Over what, a bag full of beads? It's bad. And she should stop before it's too late. Except it probably already is.

"I'm sure they'll appreciate it." They better. Andy might have to lurk around soccer club, giving kids scary looks to make sure they're appropriately enthusiastic about these beads. "Rex and Anderson, too." She glances at him, half-surprised to find him already looking at her. "What's important is that it's from you."

"If you say so."

He says it not sarcastically, but just a mix of uncertainty and good faith because damned if he really knows the right of it. It's not like small gestures of affection were foreign back home, but rather...not really assumed in the form of physical objects. No jewelry, no collections of odds and ends... Really, the best gift any Darkov could give another was just showing up alive after a hunt.

Here, though, people just...have so much stuff. Some of it seemingly needless, yet...they could be filled with sentiment. That seems to be the case with something small like this, he thinks: if he puts good will behind it, that counts, doesn't it? And that goes to what Andy says...

"People are weird..."

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synchronizing with the spirits of all old grannies

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