maskormenacelogs | your heart is true

Giving the girls keys was, in theory, a great idea. They can come over when they need to, crash when they need to, know they're welcome. Trusted, as well, which was the real point. Sarissa trusted them and they had an inherent right to her time and her space, far as she was concerned.

Minor problems, of course, included the sacrificing of casual shirtlessness (she'll work through the pain) and the fact that Sarissa is overly expressive at the best of times. Heart on her sleeve, even if she tries to badly set up a perimeter around it with cocktail sticks and warning signs with little cartoon skulls. At least on this occasion being overly expressive takes the form of kitchen karaoke.

As Cosima approaches the front door, for example, she might be able to hear the enthusiastic notes of Dusty Springfield's I Only Want To Be With You, then a loud ah, fuck it. And by the time Cosima is entering the house? ABBA. And not just any ABBA; this is ABBA with the tune being drummed against countertops with what is probably a wood spoon, judging by the sound, and ABBA being performed with great enthusiasm. She's holding a spatular as a microphone. It's majestic.

There's also like two different things cooking at the same time, and another in the oven, and a row of contains awaiting being filled up once everything has cooled, but none of that is as interesting as an Australian massacring classic pop hits.

"The winner takes it all, the loser standing small
Beside the victory, that's her destiny—"

Sarissa has gotten more used to Sarah being in her place than Sarah not being in her place. That particular spare room is all but Sarah's room, now, as far as she's concerned. It means that she's made the effort of keeping favoured snacks around, extra bourbon, and digging around for vinyl records more to Sarah's taste than whatever classical nonsense Sarissa's been playing too much.

Picture this:

Mendel, an African grey parrot, perched on the back of an armchair. He has a little bit of apple he's holding in his talons, head hilted to the side as he inspects it.

Sarissa, flopped face first on the sofa, a bottle of vodka and a half consumed chocolate shake - containing said vodka - forgotten on the coffee table beside her.

And whatever this world's closest things to Mozart's Lacrimosa is playing. It has probably been playing for about an hour on repeat.

The place also smells of chocolate chip cookies, but the cookies are on cooling racks and have since been forgotten in favour of being a mopey, slightly pathetic, moron.

Now, listen, it's fine. Totally fine. She was just swinging through the old neighbourhood, going to pick up groceries and say hi to some friends - it involved dropping off food for Jaime - when her car broke down. It probably wouldn't have happened if she didn't buy such a shitty disaster of a vehicle, but Sarissa was of the belief she could fix it up and make it nicer, which was a naive thought, if we're feeling generous.

So she's broken down, hasn't gotten the cookies and moussaka to Jaime, and she's currently got the hood up and eyeing it very, very critically as she rolls up her sleeves and leans over the engine. She's pretty sure she's got this. (She hasn't got this at all.)

It seems to be going well enough, except that there are definite pieces of engine that she's pulled out next to her as gleefully as a two year old creating carnage, and there was definitely just a snapping sound.

"Huh."

Sarissa's car may have broken down some ways away from Jaime, but it's not that far. He's walking when he runs into her, on his way to the local bodega to pick up some food - because somehow, with them, it's always food one way or another - and merely stands back and watches her for a moment, trying to gauge whether or not it'd be condescending to jump in. Maybe she has this under control.

But one snap later, he realizes that no, nothing is under control, and oh my god what is she doing.

So what he says is: "Oh my god, Sarissa, what are you doing? You're going to break it even worse!"

Well, at least he doesn't mince words.

There's no reason for Sarah to be living with Sarissa anymore.

Okay, there's a reason, and the reason is Rachel Duncan living in Nonah and ruining Sarah's life, but it's not a reeeal reason. Sarah's lived in the same city as Rachel before. She can go back to her flat, back to Chloe smoking on the balcony and the safe full of drug money she has stashed under her bed. Of course, if she goes back, she'll also be going back to her empty bedroom and the bed that's always cold when she climbs into it. To the picture of Kira on the wall of her living room. To a fridge full of alcohol and not a whole lot of food.

That would be so depressing, and so she stays at Sarissa's, where she feels welcome and has a sister to talk to (and if not a sister, a creepy bird).

Speaking of depressing things, though, Sarah opening the front door to find: Sarissa, face down on the couch. Creepy bird, not in its cage. Music playing, some kind of boring classical shit. Vodka.

"What," Sarah says, in utter confusion and growing alarm. "Is this Mozart? What?" Why, is what she really means.

Giving Cosima a key might've been a mistake. Cosima takes the offering as an open invitation, and she comes and goes from Sarissa's place as if it's her own. Between Sarissa's and Clara's and work, Cosima's barely at her own "home" anymore, if she can even call it that. She really needs to think about moving out officially.

On this afternoon, Cosima is dropping by on a rare day outside of the lab. She decided to take some time on her day off to visit her favorite bird and one of her favorite people. As usual, she doesn't bother knocking, just invites herself into the apartment.

She's about to call out for Sarissa, but then she hears the music- it's impossible not to. Cosima just knows this is something she doesn't want to interrupt or miss. She quietly makes her way to the kitchen, peaking around the doorway and watching Sarissa in all of her ABBA singing glory.

Cosima manages to hold back her laughter for ten seconds before completely cracking up, leaning against the doorway and clapping enthusiastically.

"I didn't do it!"

She claims,

while elbows deep in the guts of a car.

Sarissa looks at the mess of her car (if it can really be considered a car, and not an animated rust demon) and then at Jaime, and then back to the car. Opens her mouth, closes it. Contemplates the world at large.

After a moment, she revises her statement. "Okay, maybe I did that, but the car definitely started it."

This is possibly the worst moment of her entire life. There's another version of herself that has been forced into existing solely to feel second-hand embarrassment for Sarissa in this situation. That is probably a more convincing truth than clones, actually: all the girls were forced into being to feel embarrassed about Sarissa Theron's existence.

She drops her spatula-microphone, and Mendel croaks a cheery Cosima, going to fly to her shoulder and changing course when he realises she is perhaps not the most stable perch right now, due to excessive amusement. He lands on the floor, instead, and his claws clatter over the wooden surface as he walks over to Cosima.

Sarissa, meanwhile, is still hoping that she might fade out of existence any second now. "You're meant to say when you get in!"

That's her protest. That is her defence. It's... amazing(ly terrible).

"Mozart is a genius," Sarissa protests, voice still muffled by pillows (and, presumably, regret of some kind).

She pushes herself up, back curving awkwardly because her boots are hanging over the arm of the sofa, but it's fine; she doesn't need a spine, or anything, she'll just become a jellyfish and float through existence and, then, probably be eaten by a bigger species of jellyfish, or a sea turtle. Or a salmon. Not a shark, because she's obviously too much of a fucking moron to merit being eaten by a shark. Death by salmon seems pretty appropriate, though.

But Sarissa doesn't say any of that, for better or worse, just jerks her thumb towards the chocolate shake and vodka. "Want one?"

Mendel, meanwhile, is scuttling along the back of the armchair at higher speeds, croaking Sarah's name. Friend! Friendfriendfriend!

"Uh..." Sarah is momentarily distracted by Mendel. She manages to keep from making any embarrassing noises as he comes toward her, and even reaches out a hand to scritch him on his little head. It's not his fault he's some weird talking bird who's probably gonna live to be 100 and whose current owner is apt to disappear forever way before then. Not that she's said as much to Sarissa yet. She's saving that one.

"Sure," she finishes, and takes a seat. She kicks off her boots, because she has a feeling she might be here for a while. "What's with all this, then?" She waves a hand, indicating the general mopey-ness of the whole thing.

"Don't be mean to the poor innocent car," Jaime sighs, shoving her out of the way a little with a gentle shoulder to her side, and pats the car as if it's a living, breathing being and not just an inanimate object that Sarissa is in the process of completely ruining. "It didn't start anything! It just needs a car doctor."

He looks over at her, plants his hands on his hips and declares, "Luckily for you, one's right here!"

Jaime looks proud for a grand total of three seconds - a feat for him - and then, looking back into the car, promptly deflates.

"Except I can't do anything without a toolkit. You don't happen to have one handy, do you?"

Cosima reigns in her laughter just enough to crouch down and greet Mendel. She holds out a hand for him to investigate, still grinning widely. Sorry, Sarissa, she is not sorry at all.

"Don't give out keys if you don't want unannounced visitors. Right, Mendel?" She addresses the bird who's moved to perch on her hand, nodding her head and watching in delight as he copies her. Sorry again, Sarissa, even the bird isn't on your side.

"So... Big ABBA fan?"

What a pair of traitors. Sarissa points to both of them as she stoops to pick up the spatula. "Hey. I'm meant to be your favourite."

And she is saying that to both of them, thank you very much. "Bloody hell," she murmurs, barely audible, and ignoring the flush she can feel burning into her skin. Sarissa Theron does not get embarrassed, and she does not blush. She simply sometimes gets very sudden sunburn. While indoors.

"Pop garbage." She nods to some cookies cooling on a tray, and adds, "and for asking something so offensive I'm going to pretend you're not allowed any of those."

Ah, head scritches. He does that lean that birds are good at, the one that doesn't seem like any neck should be able to do, chattering quietly as he enjoys the attention.

Of course, the downside with offering Sarah a drink is that then Sarissa needs to try and get off the couch without destroying her back, and after a moment she just kind of uselessly half-rolls off it, stopping herself from keeling right into the corner of the coffee table and hauling herself up in a strangely fluid but utterly graceless movement.

"I got caramel or chocolate or vanilla," she starts, crossing the conveniently open-plan space to make the milkshake and keep talking. "This? Nice evening of relaxation. Very uplifting. Thought I'd try to capture what it must feel like to slam my head into a brick wall repeatedly."

Dear God. There is a pause before she replies, because she needs to let all of that sink in. Poor, innocent car - nothing that makes her pay that much to keep it running could be deemed innocent.

"Think it came with one," she replies, looking at Jaime and his dramatics (ah, hello pot, this is kettle) with a quiet huff of amusement before heading to the boot of the car, spinning the keyring around her finger before she pops it open.

The tool kit it came with is mostly completely, with that off-colour and ragged look that suggests it is very old, or just very poorly treated, and the plastic box containing all the bits and pieces is a giant ice cream tub rather than a proper case. It takes her a second to locate it when she opens the boot, looking around the lid at Jaime.

"So, Car Doctor, are you take a gander at its tonsils and tell it to make any strange sounds? Ask it about its family history?"

"No, no, you've got it wrong. We're your favorite." Cosima grins and stands slowly, keeping Mendel carefully balanced on the palm of her hand. She nudges him onto her head as she makes her way into the kitchen, trying to hide how close she is to laughter.

"And that's why you will totally let us have as many of those cookies as we want." Cosima is confident of her conclusion as she leans on the edge of the kitchen counter.

Mendel, like all birds, quite enjoys being offered a perch, especially when said perch convenient moves for him. He carefully steps onto Cosima's head, making a little chattering sound, and leans down to help her preen her hair. Parrots are so helpful.

"Oh," she says, with about ten eyerolls all combined into one ultra eyeroll, and trying not to smile at the combined antics of Cosima and the bird, "is that right? My mistake."

Sarissa tosses the poor spatula in the sink, eyes the stuff on the stove before turning the heat off, and turns to take a cookie of her own. "It's a compelling argument, but I'm pretty sure it's not peer reviewed."

With the spatula finding its home in the sink and no longer available as a possible weapon, Cosima nabs one of the cookies for herself. She breaks off a small piece to offer to Mendel who seems very excited about this development, chirping out a "Thank you".

"It's been reviewed by one genius bird and one genius scientist. That sounds like a good review panel to me."

"Far out. Have I mentioned lately that you're really obnoxious?"

There is zero actual aggravation in there, and she grabs a plate to pile some on for Cosima, even, a mighty stack of bikkies. "You want a glass of milk to go with those?"

It is both sarcastic and a genuine question. "Or do you want coffee like an adult?" (Sarissa is having milk. Maybe.)

"Chocolate, of course." If they're going to do this, they're going to do it right. That doesn't stop her from sitting back and watching an already drunk Sarissa go about making her a vodka milkshake, however.

Still, there's the Mozart. That's a little concerning, even if it's apparently normal for Sarissa.

"You sure there's nothing wrong?" she asks. "'Cause you're listening to classical music. Is that..." She thinks about asking this in a more tactful way, then decides that no, there is no more tactful way. "Is that something you just do?"

"That's the spirit." She says it, appropriately enough, while grabbing sone bottles of spirits. Vodka, chocolate liqueur are slid across the counter, Sarissa moving with the slight bonelessness of liquor consumption.

Apparently she only acquired a milkshake mixer today - the box is still on the counter.

"Everyone listens to classical music. It makes the world make more sense, yeah? Things... they're the shape they're meant to be, when I listen to it. You know? Anyway," she continues seamlessly, layering booze, chocolate ice cream and milk into the metal container, "I fell down the rabbit hole. Started thinking about Georgia, so. Gotta make the world right shaped again."

And where usually it'd be immediate full tilt into running or volatile boozing or both, she's been trying to be steadier, more reliable.

Her smile is self mocking when she looks to Sarah. "Usual bullshit."

"I don't listen to classical music." Sure, if it's playing in an elevator or at the supermarket, that's one thing, but she never seeks it out. Not when there's punk rock to both fuel and soothe her anger and her hurt.

Sarah watches Sarissa preparing the shake, really watches her, and then says in a quiet voice, "You're pretty fucked up over her, huh?" There's no judgment in her voice, just a kind of realization. Sarissa's jokes are one thing. This is something else, as much as Sarissa's trying to pretend otherwise.

There's a stretch where the only sound is the click of the metal container onto the mixer, and the whir of it doing its thing, and Sarissa just watches it a moment before she looks at Sarah with a smile thats weak and not near so wry as she'd like.

"Georgia's the kinda person that... when she looks at you, you feel like the two of you are the only people in the whole world. Like your chest got cracked open and somehow she's taken galaxies and made them fit inside you, that's how important you are. And even when you're having a shit time and fighting there's still moons and bloody grear stars burning in you. Everything is still bright and... worth everything."

She unclips the milkshake and pops in a straw as she wanders back. "I'm a moron, is what I am."

Sarah listens, not interrupting. She's never felt like that about a person, like the two of them are the only people that matter. Maybe about Kira, but that's a different kind of love. She's not sure whether she should be jealous or pitying, and after thinking about it, settles on the latter. Anything that makes a person this fucked up can't be worth it, no matter how it feels in the moment.

"Ta," she says, taking the milkshake as Sarissa makes her way back. She takes a sip and nods in appreciation. "I don't know if I'd call you a moron. Maybe an idiot." She says it with love, though, and then adds, "Maybe you're, like, building her up too much in your head. She's just a person."

At the idiot comment she huffs out a laugh and drops back onto her place on the sofa, right foot hooked onto her left thigh.

"Flatterer."

A little tilt of her head and she sets down the booze so they can top up at will, pouring more liquer in as she speaks.

"She's not a person. Satan. Queen of Darkness." A sigh, that turns into am embarrassed laugh. "But I miss her, so. That time I went off for a bit was cause it was her birthday. Didn't deal so good."

your heart is true

for COSIMA.

for SARAH.

for JAIME.

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STORMS BACK IN HERE fashionably late

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