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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. ]

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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.

Pfah. That bed's too damn big for one anyhow. I complained about that when I first arrived. Among other things.

[ He'd mainly had complaints to anyone who deigned to listen. He doesn't like to think of himself as one particularly inclined to pointless bellyaching, but for one, that's not true, and two, he hardly counts it as pointless bellyaching if it's criticizing efficacy. The house had felt too big, his room too big, his bed too big. It feels small now. More space than they need, but he's glad they have it.

He squints at her as she flicks suds at him, primly wiping it off himself before flicking some right back at her. ]

[ Andy's impressively Grecian nose scrunches up when a that little flick of soapy water catches her right in the face, but it must be mostly for show, because the wry upward curve of her mouth betrays her. She doesn't even bother trying to wipe it off. Instead, she just sets the dishrags aside — a gesture equivalent to rolling her sleeves up. ]

I slept on the floor for weeks at first. Couldn't get used to the mattress. Or the fucking space.

[ Her tone is entirely too casual. Rex knows her well enough that it should make him suspicious. ]

Old habits die hard, huh, Captain?

[ Her smile gets sharp — that's the last warning before she's closing the scant distance between them to shove those devious, dripping wet hands up her poor husband's shirt. ]

It is very so --

[ Maybe it's just that brief moment of tenderness that made Rex lose his guard, or at least not expect the fact that Andy would do anything more than flick more water at him. His surprised bellow of complaint can probably be heard down the block and is certainly heard by everyone in the house. ]

Kriff -- Andy -- you horrible woman --

[ Rex calls her that so often that others must think it's a pet name by now. Other people have babe. Honey. Sweetie. Sugar. Pumpkin.

Andy, on the other hand, gets exactly what she deserves. He backs away, swearing as he tries to grip onto her wrists and wrestle her into position. ]

We are not doing this inside the house!

[ He could retaliate, but then who would have to clean up the suds that would get everywhere? He would. He knows it. ]

[ He's not wrong about her. And she's not sorry. Not judging by that mischievous glint in her eye and the sly twist of her mouth. This horrible woman, who's probably more amused by his scolding than she really should be — letting him catch her wrists, but giving him that smirk the whole damn time. ]

It's just a little water, Captain.

[ Pet names. ]

Water that someone's going to need to mop up, [ Rex retorts as she lets him grab her wrists, too easily, and pins them to the counter behind them. He hadn't really thought much beyond this. Admittedly, he thought she'd fight back a little harder, even if she'd just make a bigger mess that way.

She's still smirking away at him. He's a little fond of the way she does that, how she seems to delight getting under his skin just as much as it annoys him. He's made a pact never to tell her that. ]

[ She could fight back. They both know that. Andy probably knows a dozen ways of breaking someone's grip without so much as batting an eyelash, and the two of them have sparred enough times by now to have a good measure of each other when it comes to these things. A fight is a comfortable place for them.

But Andy — Andy is more amused when he's uncomfortable. So.

Wryly: ]

Rex, you have your wife pinned to the counter, and you're thinking about mopping the floor? [ Funny, how she only ever seems to use the word wife to refer to herself at times like this. ] You're lucky I know you too well to take that personally.

Edited (WOW I SKIPPED AN IMPORTANT WORD THERE) 2020-01-12 03:22 (UTC)

[ Rex opens his mouth. Then he shuts it with a click as he relinquishes her wrists. ]

I don't see what there is to take personally.

[ He kind of does. And he's absolutely uncomfortable. ]

[ Oh, Rex, but if you back off, then she knows — she knows, and she's like a shark sensing blood in the water. ]

Don't you? [ Wry as ever, her sly smile growing ever so slightly as she steps a little closer him, tilting her head as if to make a show of considering him. ] I guess you are new to having one. A wife, I mean.

[ She gives the poor man an appraising up-and-down glance. ]

You can mop up if you want. I don't mind watching you work.

I don't see what that has to do with...

[ He can't even finish the sentence. He just huffs, pretending like this didn't just come dangerously close to something he absolutely isn't ready to talk about yet - or to talk about here and now, with all of their friends in the other room, for god's sake - and shakes his head, trying to act like this is normal. Like she calls herself his wife at any other time than when she's trying to get a rise out of him. ]

I'm new to having a wife, but I get the impression that they're supposed to damn well help me mop up.

[ And maybe that's the crux of it — it's okay to tease, isn't it? Because their friends are in the other room. And if anything were ever going to happen, it certainly isn't now. Not a ice cube's chance in fucking hell. So it's fine if Andy walks the line in the spirit of ribbing him a bit. It won't turn into a big talk. Or anything else that neither one of them is willing to deal with yet. She can have her fun, knowing that there's a safety net in the setting.

There's a small victory in that little huff he gives her, and the look on her face is outright smug. ]

You know me. [ Wryly, as she hops up onto the counter, apparently not planning to help at all: ] I'd probably make another mess. Better leave it to your very capable hands, Captain.

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