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WHO: The residents of Maurtia Falls #004 and many friends
WHERE: MF4
WHEN: Late September
WHAT: Family Dinner: The Return. After a long hiatus, it has returned. If you are a friend of any of the residents, assume you're invited to eat!
WARNINGS: None now, will add if needed.

[ The last time there was a dinner in this house, there were different stresses, slightly different residents, and no one had died yet. Perhaps you can't blame anyone for not planning another group meal soon after that.

Since then, though, things have been...mostly quiet. Comparatively. Yes, the world is still a shitshow (in Cassandra's own opinion), but the residents of the house are back into a fairly domestic routine, and any threats to reality are ambiguous enough that one can occasionally pretend they're on the periphery rather than clearly encroaching. So friends are finally being invited to Maurtia Falls #004 again, in the hopes that performing normalcy will allow it to be retained.

Or...something like that. There's also something nice about ordering a bunch of takeout and letting other people bring over food.

For any new guests, the building is the epitome of cleanliness- Rex lives here, after all- and nondescript to the point of it being a little surreal. Plenty of alcohol in the fridge, though, and a mysterious cupboard marked "Martin's Things." Maybe don't open it. Besides that, the only other thing to call out is a goldfish in a tank in the living room.

In any case, even if the building is a little boring, the people don't seem to be that way. Then again, maybe boring's what you're here for? Better than chaotic around here. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ It's the tone of Rex's voice that catches her attention as she's passing by on her way to get started on the dirty dishes in the kitchen — that hint of his captain's voice, that tone that lets the person on the other end know with certainty that he's frowning even if they can't very well see it. Hearing him makes her eyebrows arch ever so slightly towards her hairline, and she lingers there a moment until he hangs up, leaning on the wall with her arms lightly folded over her chest.

Wryly, once he's said he's curt good-bye: ]

"Fully capable" is probably a stretch.

I had to say something to mollify them, didn't I? [ Rex points out with a roll of his eyes, setting his communicator down. ] Besides, they're not incapable. They're just too lazy to put the work in. Why they decided to join the force in the first place is beyond me.

[ Well, it's not. Rex knows it's for the power and the abuse thereof - he's just being cranky, and he always tends to say the same things over and over again when he's feeling cranky. ]

They hate us until they can shove their work onto us.

[ If "fully capable" is a stretch, then "lazy" is putting it nicely — but it's not like Andy really cares why their coworkers are they way they are, or what fucking motivates them to be such shitty cops. Hell, she's not exactly a great cop herself. She gets her job done, that's all, and she does it well enough mostly because she refuses to give the other officers a reason to talk shit about Rex anymore than they're already inclined to.

Protect and serve, her ass. ]

Guess I can't totally blame them. You're worth a dozen of them, and they know it. [ She shrugs a little. Dryly then: ] Can't say the same for you in a kitchen, but nobody's perfect.

[ Rex rolls his eyes at her. He doesn't know why he does it. He knows that it just encourages her. ]

I'd hardly call skills in the kitchen necessary. I can get by. I haven't been lacking in nutrients.

[ Sure, sometimes that culminates in the same dull dish every day and simply making sure to have the caloric intake he needs - a little less, perhaps, but he's used to that - but it does the trick. ]

It's just not fitting for affairs like... [ He waves vaguely around them, at their house filled once more. ] This. [ Dryly: ] That's what you're here for.

[ Predictably, she's more amused by the pointed roll of his eyes than anything else. And maybe a little charmed too. It makes the corner of her mouth twist wryly upward in response as she watches him with her head slightly cocked to the side. ]

Yeah? Is that what I'm here for?

[ Spoken with a dryness that says she's well aware everyone can probably count the number of times she's made dinner for them on a hand and a half. ]

Maybe I should cook more often. [ The dryness lingers. She pushes off the wall and waves him towards her. ] Come here and make yourself useful to me, if you're not going to be useful to the precinct. You wash, I'll dry.

I can take care of everything else, can't I?

[ Rex moves forward, though, obedient as he's ever been as he gets a start on the mountain of dirty dishes beside him. He likes this sort of job a lot more now than he ever did before; for all of his meticulous, occasionally neurotic nature, this sort of thing hadn't been his job for a long time. He had people for that. And then he got here and it became familiar, routine, comforting in a way it never did when they were cleaning up after an army.

That the things he takes care of are his own probably has something to do with it. He grabs a plate, and scrubs away. ]

You should cook more often. Teach Martin a thing or two. He'll have to learn eventually, and he won't be learning from me unless he wants to eat like me for the rest of his life. [ He shoots Andy a wry glance. ] I've come to learn that some regard that to be a fate worse than death.

[ Rex, as ever, doesn't seem bothered. ]

[ Andy takes her rightful place at his side, brushing elbows with him as she waits with the dishrag for him to pass over that first meticulously cleaned plate. Her hands move automatically, surprisingly deft as she dries the household dinnerware with efficient motions, her work easily falling into rhythm with his. ]

I'm teaching him a little. Bits and pieces, here and there.

[ Her answer is mild, as if that's no big thing — though on some levels, it must be. On the one hand, because they both have a sense of Martin's upbringing — the lack of what others would consider normalcy, though Andy and Rex themselves have less a frame of reference than most — and it is, in many ways, no small feat for him to try and learn these "normal" skills. On the other hand, because it's been a long time since Andy bothered herself with such domestic tasks, having lost almost all her desire to even try when she left the homestead she shared with Achilles.

Still. It comes back to her more readily than she thought it might. ]

I don't know if he really likes it. Mostly, I think he does it to please me. [ A twinge of wryness then, as she sets the plate on the drying rack: ] But either way, a growing boy can't subsist on cheese and oatmeal alone.

If he's going to learn, he may as well learn it from you. It's good for him. I keep forgetting how many things we still have left to teach him.

[ They're not going to be around forever, after all.

Or... Rex isn't going to be around forever. If the Porter simply keeps them here, Andy will be. Martin would never truly need to learn how to do everything himself, he knows. It's good to be self-sufficient, but Andy would never let the boy suffer unduly. There's something reassuring about that, knowing that should they remain, Martin will never be alone. Rex's time will come sooner rather than later and that will be its own sordid affair, but Martin will always have Andy. And Andy will...

Ah, well. Not worth thinking about now. ]

He learns most of what he learns to please us, [ Rex points out. ] It works in his favour. He'll be better off that way than the whelps who defy their guardians for the sake of it. And it's more necessary, for a boy like him. Had to teach him how to cross the street when we first met.

[ If he'd refused for the sake of it? Well, Martin had died once already. He would have died many, many more times if he didn't listen for the sole fact that this world is too dangerous for one used to such primitive ways. ]

They didn't teach him much at his base.

[ The thought of being without them, whether time or the Porter finally takes them from her — the truth is, that keeps her awake more nights lately than her blood-soaked nightmares. She tries not to think about it too hard. She tries to just be there — in the present with them, not with the ghosts in her head or in the lonely future she sometimes imagines.

Maybe she should just be grateful. It'll have been two years since she met Martin, soon enough — and she's watched him grow all that time. The blink of an eye for her, but not inconsequential because of that. No, she treasures this time. It makes her greedy for things she knows aren't meant for her. ]

He was never meant to live like this. Like other children. He wasn't made for it. There's just as much for him to unlearn.

[ The motions of her hands had become automatic by now, scrubbing that washcloth in absent circles as she dried the next plate, and the next after that. But then she exhales, her hands pausing for a moment. ]

But I guess we weren't really made for this either. [ She glances at him, taking in his profile for a moment before she gets back to work. ] Somehow we still managed to keep it all from falling apart.

[ Rex rumbles his agreement. There's not much more to be said, is there? They both know the horrors Martin's lived through, at least some of them. They both know that Martin's as much a misfit as they are, his childhood fouled, turned to this awful, twisted thing that he's going to be untangling for the rest of his life. He and Andy try their best, but they're not that good. ]

Somehow. He's been managing the half of it. [ He glances over at her, pausing in meticulouusly scraping at a bit of dried up food. ] You saw it, didn't you? When his home came here.

[ Maybe that's the crux of it. Even if there's pieces untold from all their stories, there's enough shared between them that they all understand — they are misfits. They've all had things taken away from them. None of them has any real sense of what normal is supposed to be like. But that fact only makes Andy love them harder. Only makes her want to protect them more. Even if neither of those sentiments can begin to erase the pains of the past.

She thinks about that compound. She thinks about what it must have been like for their son. It keeps her awake at night still. What she would do if one of those Lumas was ever within arm's reach — ]

I saw it. Once with Archie. Then with Martin. [ Her voice is difficult to read. Quieter now. ] You probably understand it all better than I do. There's some miserable parallels there, between the two of you.

Some. But not as many as you might think.

[ He scrubs at his plate a little harder. ]

We were given better lodgings. Better instruction. More opportunities to do more - be more. [ Part of that could be Rex's own biases come to light, a part of him still determined to be what he was meant to be, to defend all that he was made for. It wasn't all that bad. He had a happy enough childhood, when he thinks back to it. A far cry from the stables the Darkovs were kept in. ]

I went in once with Martin. Once on my own. [ He passes a plate to Andy. ] Burned a fair bit of it, once I gathered Martin wasn't going to return on his own.

[ It was pointless. Felt good, though. ]

[ Her hands move to take the plate from him without her really thinking about it, most of her attention split between what he's saying to her and what she remembers of those days when the Darkov compound was in this universe. It's automatic, as she rubs the plate dry with the dishrag, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

These things — things like childhood. She can't relate anymore. She can't remember. ]

It's good that it didn't stay here. [ She murmurs lowly: ] Don't think Martin needs the reminder. We've looked after him a year and a half now, and it hasn't been easy, teaching him he doesn't always have to be afraid. That he's allowed to say no.

I don't know that he'd go back on his own anyhow, [ Rex says frankly. ] It's got nothing but bad memories there. And whatever else he was looking for... I think he made his peace with it.

[ He remembers that, Martin going through his ritual, Rex off to the side watching, waiting. He likes to think that Martin found some peace in that moment, some closure that he'd needed. That's one of the downfalls of this place - there's no closure for any of them. This is the closest that they were going to get. ]

It served its purpose.

[ Maybe Andy would like to think the same thing — that there was some degree of catharsis for their son. Something he felt that he could face, in that moment. But she didn't really ask, did she? It isn't her way to press. And it wasn't Martin's way to be forthcoming with these things either.

She seems distracted for a moment. Remembering. It takes her a second or two to answer him. ]

Guess I should be glad nothing of mine showed up. The past is best left where it is.

Yeah?

[ Rex turns to look at her, curious. He knows that she's a wanderer. A roamer. There's no way that she can be anything but, being what she is, being as old as she is. Older than most buildings. Older than plenty of civilizations. But you don't go through life without gaining some attachment to some things, do you? A place. Something to be carried with you. Rex doesn't have much, but even he has that. There's a reason why he decided to fuse two sets of armour together, and it wasn't only because of his cantankerous insistence that the second installments were worse, though he'll certainly stand by that. ]

There's nothing you would have liked to see again? To have?

[ Her expression softens a little — just slightly, something subtle and rueful easing the naturally severe lines of her face as she looks at him. ]

Of course there is. Lots of things. [ Her sigh is a quiet sound, tinged with nostalgia and a bit of regret. ] But I'm halfway to forgetting most of it, by now. And it isn't worth the fresh wound when it all goes away again.

It didn't all go away. The places did, of course. But the things didn't.

[ Rex still has those holos. He's never going to let go of them either. They're precious to him, even if they're too painful for him to look at with any regularity. ]

Mine did. Seems to me like you'd deserve that much. But it's as though all of those... irregularities didn't touch your world.

[ She isn't so sure it matters. Not with her. Not with the things from her past. Places and people that are little more than dust now. Time spares nothing. It chips away at all of it. She loses little fragments every day without even realizing it — not until she tries to remember, and realizes she can't recall clearly anymore. It's a fog that slowly consumes everything, making her memories distant and hazy.

Instead, after a moment: ]

Why would they? My world is primitive and ordinary. There aren't any gods or monsters. Just men. [ Her tone has become a bit noncommittal. ] We can barely even get off planet.

[ Sure, there's a couple immortals walking around, but all things considered, Andy is as human as anyone. ]

[ Andy sounds odd, now. Detached in a way Rex doesn't altogether like. He passes her another plate and picks up another. They'll finish washing up soon. ]

Not so ordinary. You're there, aren't you?

[ And not because of her immortality. Andy is exceptional in other ways. Rex really doesn't give a rat's ass about immortality, save for how it's affected the woman standing beside him. ]

No world needs monsters when there's men around anyhow.

[ She hasn't noticed how far along in with the dishes they are. Her hands have been moving automatically, performing the same repetitive motion over and over again without hardly any input from her brain at all. ]

I don't matter all that much. [ A twinge of wryness. At least that sounds more like her, doesn't it? ] I've lived all of recorded history. Fought in a hundred wars. Killed a hundred thousand men. World kept turning. Didn't make as much difference as you'd think.

[ She turns away to set the plate into the drying rack. ]

Would you believe me if I said the last year has given my life more meaning than the past hundred years back home?

[ A hundred thousand men, and she didn't make a difference? Rex doubts that. But he can't argue it, not with her, not when she's lived it. When you live for so long, long enough to see how everything turns out, you lose sight of the short-term. Of what people like Rex think about, so short-lived that they care less about how they change the galaxy as short as fifty years from now and more about how they change the world today. She changed lives, Rex knows. Saved lives. Ended others. Impacted a hundred thousand families and a hundred thousand families more, legacies that only survived because of her, legacies that ended because of her, and the way it all spirals out from there.

Rex remembers when he first managed to start thinking like that. It had been a horrifying realization. Terrible, in the wake of how he saw it. But when he thinks about it with regards to Andy, there's almost something a little comforting about it. He's not sure if she realizes how monumental he thinks she is.

Probably not. He doesn't say it. He's no good at it. His vocabulary's too small, his scope's too limited. He's never had a way with a poetic turn of phrase. ]

Hard to believe, [ he says instead. ] When you've made such an impact on the people here in a much shorter period of time. [ He pauses. ] Not the same as them having an impact on you.

[ It's touching, that sentiment. A little terrifying too. He sets another plate down. ]

Sounds to me like that's the difference there.

[ It's a muddled mess to her, really. Maybe she did make a difference. In the short-term at least. The short-term for her — which is easily a lifetime for an ordinary human being. She must have made history dozens of times, changing the world in ways she probably didn't even fathom herself. But it's funny how the thing that gives her such perspective on everything — all those centuries of life and experience — it's the same thing that limits her. She's become distant from it all. All the lives she saved. All the lives she took.

She can hardly remember the half of it. Maybe that's part of why. ]

It wasn't on purpose. I did my damnedest to deter the lot of you. [ She answers with a faint wryness, glancing over at him. Then, maybe a bit more sincerely: ] You know you've made an impact on me. You and everyone else in this house. Wouldn't fucking be here, if you hadn't.

[ She still thinks about it, all the time — that night she came back from the dead, unsure if she even had a black to come back to, and him, unceremoniously taking her back. Letting her come home. ]

I know. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't made an impact on us too. We welcomed you back for a reason. We wouldn't be where we are without you. And, [ he says, with her signature wryness, ] if you really wanted to deter us, you should have tried a little harder. It wasn't that difficult to see you.

[ It wasn't. It was in her rage about Martin, about her willingness to step in and help Rex, how she saved his ass more times than he can count, her warmth and wryness with everyone around her. Even cranky, even pushing people away, she had that. It's funny - what drew him to her was her outside. A warrior, as hard as any Mando could hope to be.

What made him want her to stay was what was underneath all that. He glances behind her to where the little dinner party is still in full thrust. It's just the two of them in here, washing the dishes. Nobody can see, and even if they could, this -- he's not doing anything wrong, even if sometimes he feels as though he is, like this is a little luxury he shouldn't have, shouldn't be doing when they've never even talked about it.

He leans over, pressing a warm kiss against her anyway. ]

I'm glad you came back. Can't imagine what it would be like if you hadn't.

[ Not come back to life - come back to here. He'd be a different person. They all would be. ]

[ There's some protest or denial that's already automatically working its way out of her mouth when he leans towards her — derailing the words completely with the simple press of that kiss against her face. It's a chaste, brief kiss — at her age, with her experience, it probably shouldn't faze her at all. She's been kissed a literal million times. Sometimes with tongue, even. Yet it warms her immediately, filling her with effortless affection.

Maybe that's half his sentiment too — it means something to her, that someone might be glad she's around, despite all her endless shit — but being kissed doesn't hurt. She might still be a bit of a romantic, deep down under all the booze and ash.

With a wry smile curving just slightly at the corner of her mouth, she flicks a little soaopy water at him for his trouble. ]

You'd have more room in your bed, for one thing.

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