The majority of Boudica's possessions could fit easily inside of a small leather bag. The majority of Boudica's possessions were actually cleaning supplies. Those things that were not cleaning supplies were clothes. Her bedding had all been pilfered from attic boxes, and other than that…
Her entire life had always been designed to take up as little room as possible, easy to pick up and move. A long stay did not change that fact.
The house felt particularly filthy, and she would be glad to have the feeling gone. The itch, the ache, the needles at her spine. She'd actually worn her shoes this time, and it took careful steps to keep the heels from clicking against wood. The pain hit her worse when she made her way downstairs, and it did not take much investigation to see why.
Sugar. On the floor. Deliberate trails of sugar.
She stepped out of her shoes and set down her bag, because she was going to need to see just how far this went.
Around the stringed instruments, the sugar had been placed into various dishes — a gift? Surely not. She returned to the trail around the piano, and there on the keys was a note. She picked it up with a frown, reading it over. His house. His rules. In gratitude? She looked again to the sugar on the floor. He could not possibly expect her to eat that.
But the sugar in the dishes, maybe?
She held onto the note as she made her way to the kitchen. Another trail of sugar around the usual mess of wax, which did not inspire confidence. But on the counter...
Traditionally, milk and honey would have been the preferred gifts, in those years long gone. But butter and cheese were a close second, as these things went. She considered the open containers with pursed lips. They had to have been left deliberately, hadn't they? It wasn't as if he'd done this sort of thing before. She looked at the note again. In gratitude.
... maybe he was just...
... really stupid?
Maybe the constant, awful messes were not malicious. Nor the lack of gifts. Nor the noise. Maybe he was just an idiot.
It wouldn't be fair to hold it against him, if he was. Would it?
She frowned at the note again, then bit down on her lower lip as she considered the issue. She was hungry. She couldn't eat until she'd cleaned. Who knew how long it would take to find another house. She could, if nothing else, stay one more night before leaving well fed.
Just one, though.
She opened her bag to retrieve her supplies, and got to work cleaning the wax again. It felt a waste to throw out the sugar, but she had not yet been lowered to the point of licking sugar off the furniture. There were limits to her desperation. She scrubbed the floors in the kitchen and around the piano, and moved the dishes of sugar onto the counter. The spoons were emptied onto plates and tossed into the sink to wash later. The instruments bothered her, begged to be tidied and set to rights. But that was the point of the note, wasn't it? No cleaning the instruments. Off limits. Maybe the sugar was supposed to distract her before she could touch them.
When she was satisfied that things were as clean as they could get, under the circumstances — which was not very — she went back to the kitchen to consider her gifts.
The spoons were all dirty, leaving her none with which to eat. That was a bit rude. She scraped a finger through the tub of cheese, and cautiously licked it away.
Yes. Good. Acceptable. Fat and dairy and, generally, just, good.
She poured the sugar into the largest bowl, consolidating to stack the others into less of a mess. Except for the spoons, which she washed immediately. When they were clean, she claimed one for herself, still hot from washing and melting butter in its wake. She saved the pure sugar for last, because... well.
A spoonful of sugar on her tongue, and she all but melted, eyes fluttering shut as the silver rested in her mouth. Another and another, and the ache seeped from her bones, the mistreated instruments no longer pricking her skin. She leaned and then sagged against the counter, and she would have hummed if she made any noise at all, toes curling as warmth spread through her.
She may have licked the bowl.
She may have licked everything.
She looked at the note again before cleaning up after herself, even washing out the containers he'd left. He could toss them out, if he wanted, but she didn't know yet if he did. Better safe, and all.
Vic. Humans gave their names out so easily. It meant nothing to them, really.
No one had ever left her a note before. She found a pen — and maybe it was the same one he'd used, so conveniently nearby — and she deliberated.
She should not have responded. But she had eaten a great deal of sugar. Her judgement was, at least mildly, impaired. Her handwriting was impossibly neat, almost a font in its carefully crafted curls and stock-straight lines, tidy print just large enough to be legible and no larger.
Could you put the iron away?
There. Yes. Good.
She gathered her things to put them back in the attic, her bag and her shoes, before sneaking silent into his bedroom. More sugar around his bed, the wretch, but fortunately she'd had enough that it did not bother her so much. She swept it away, though she would not risk cleaning the floor properly, gathered up his laundry and his mug. In its place she left his note, with her new addition at the bottom.
She was going to sleep marvelously.
Her entire life had always been designed to take up as little room as possible, easy to pick up and move. A long stay did not change that fact.
The house felt particularly filthy, and she would be glad to have the feeling gone. The itch, the ache, the needles at her spine. She'd actually worn her shoes this time, and it took careful steps to keep the heels from clicking against wood. The pain hit her worse when she made her way downstairs, and it did not take much investigation to see why.
Sugar. On the floor. Deliberate trails of sugar.
She stepped out of her shoes and set down her bag, because she was going to need to see just how far this went.
Around the stringed instruments, the sugar had been placed into various dishes — a gift? Surely not. She returned to the trail around the piano, and there on the keys was a note. She picked it up with a frown, reading it over. His house. His rules. In gratitude? She looked again to the sugar on the floor. He could not possibly expect her to eat that.
But the sugar in the dishes, maybe?
She held onto the note as she made her way to the kitchen. Another trail of sugar around the usual mess of wax, which did not inspire confidence. But on the counter...
Traditionally, milk and honey would have been the preferred gifts, in those years long gone. But butter and cheese were a close second, as these things went. She considered the open containers with pursed lips. They had to have been left deliberately, hadn't they? It wasn't as if he'd done this sort of thing before. She looked at the note again. In gratitude.
... maybe he was just...
... really stupid?
Maybe the constant, awful messes were not malicious. Nor the lack of gifts. Nor the noise. Maybe he was just an idiot.
It wouldn't be fair to hold it against him, if he was. Would it?
She frowned at the note again, then bit down on her lower lip as she considered the issue. She was hungry. She couldn't eat until she'd cleaned. Who knew how long it would take to find another house. She could, if nothing else, stay one more night before leaving well fed.
Just one, though.
She opened her bag to retrieve her supplies, and got to work cleaning the wax again. It felt a waste to throw out the sugar, but she had not yet been lowered to the point of licking sugar off the furniture. There were limits to her desperation. She scrubbed the floors in the kitchen and around the piano, and moved the dishes of sugar onto the counter. The spoons were emptied onto plates and tossed into the sink to wash later. The instruments bothered her, begged to be tidied and set to rights. But that was the point of the note, wasn't it? No cleaning the instruments. Off limits. Maybe the sugar was supposed to distract her before she could touch them.
When she was satisfied that things were as clean as they could get, under the circumstances — which was not very — she went back to the kitchen to consider her gifts.
The spoons were all dirty, leaving her none with which to eat. That was a bit rude. She scraped a finger through the tub of cheese, and cautiously licked it away.
Yes. Good. Acceptable. Fat and dairy and, generally, just, good.
She poured the sugar into the largest bowl, consolidating to stack the others into less of a mess. Except for the spoons, which she washed immediately. When they were clean, she claimed one for herself, still hot from washing and melting butter in its wake. She saved the pure sugar for last, because... well.
A spoonful of sugar on her tongue, and she all but melted, eyes fluttering shut as the silver rested in her mouth. Another and another, and the ache seeped from her bones, the mistreated instruments no longer pricking her skin. She leaned and then sagged against the counter, and she would have hummed if she made any noise at all, toes curling as warmth spread through her.
She may have licked the bowl.
She may have licked everything.
She looked at the note again before cleaning up after herself, even washing out the containers he'd left. He could toss them out, if he wanted, but she didn't know yet if he did. Better safe, and all.
Vic. Humans gave their names out so easily. It meant nothing to them, really.
No one had ever left her a note before. She found a pen — and maybe it was the same one he'd used, so conveniently nearby — and she deliberated.
She should not have responded. But she had eaten a great deal of sugar. Her judgement was, at least mildly, impaired. Her handwriting was impossibly neat, almost a font in its carefully crafted curls and stock-straight lines, tidy print just large enough to be legible and no larger.
Could you put the iron away?
There. Yes. Good.
She gathered her things to put them back in the attic, her bag and her shoes, before sneaking silent into his bedroom. More sugar around his bed, the wretch, but fortunately she'd had enough that it did not bother her so much. She swept it away, though she would not risk cleaning the floor properly, gathered up his laundry and his mug. In its place she left his note, with her new addition at the bottom.
She was going to sleep marvelously.
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Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by danixiewrites - 11-17-2015, 11:49 PM
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