kore_logs | Apologies are difficult...

Entry tags:

Apologies are difficult...

Who: Meyer & Ned
What: Meyer has some apologies to make, given what happened during the week they were all not quite themselves. Apologies, needless to say, are difficult.
When: Forward dated to Day 67
Where: Ned's house.
Warnings: Swearing? Feelings? Definitely awkward apologies.

A very wise -- and very cunning -- man had once told Meyer that knowing when to apologize was more important than being right. It was also more important to apologize at the opportune moment than to simply do as your conscience dictated (if your conscience dictated anything at all.) The apology needed to sound genuine; it had multiple parts, all of which fit together in a specific way: it was a careful balance of humility and grace -- not too subservient, yet not grudging; not overly wordy, but eloquent and to the point.

Yet for everything Arnold Rothstein had taught him about apologies, there was no simple and straightforward phrasing to fall back on when your apology included seeking forgiveness for turning into a vampire and attacking a near stranger. No apology gift seemed to suffice, either. At home he might have offered a bottle of liquor or a wad of cash, but neither of those seemed quite right here.

Lost for a proper script, Meyer felt a little like he had as a child, when he was still learning the complex game of wriggling out of trouble. It was like going in front of an angry tribunal when the victim knew just as well as you did that you were guilty -- except as a child, the tribunal had been his mother, and in this case, the tribunal was Ned.

That was why, as he stood, hat in his hands, in front of Ned's house, he had to take a deep breath. It wasn't guilt that filled him so much as the queasy fear of losing a potential ally, but luckily, that feeling and guilt translated the same on his face: an unsure smile, a furrowed brow, an appropriately contrite expression all around.

He took one more deep breath, and knocked twice on Ned's door.

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Oh, he definitely catches that implication. It's not a hard one to miss, and he has to wonder just who Ned killed when he'd brought whoever it had been back from the dead. His raised eyebrow speaks to that question, though silently; it seems rude, somehow, to question Ned quite that intently.

"So I imagine you probably don't do that a lot. Bringing people back to live and letting them stay alive, I mean."

Unless Ned has some bizarre interest in bringing people back to life and killing off other, random people, he can't imagine why he would. If he can't control who ends up dead, it seems like a power that could easily be dangerous. Maybe that explains a bit about Ned's seeming aloneness -- Meyer imagines it would be difficult to live with something like that, controlling the power of life and death in a way that most people don't.

"Not if I can help it, no." He sees the raised eyebrow, can feel the weight of the question that Meyer isn't asking. Is he too polite to do it, or merely too scared? If the latter, he's hiding it awfully well. But then, not everyone has a bad poker face, like Ned does. He raises his own eyebrows, a touch defiantly, looking down at the fruit he's cutting as he explains, "It's not something I do lightly. Laura was an accident. I didn't mean to bring her back, but I don't regret it, considering the one who died in her place was the bastard who'd just shot for absolutely no reason."

Gone is the Ned of the blushes and the shy smiles and the effusive rambles about how much he loves making pie because it gives people joy. There is something almost icy about the complete lack of remorse on his face as he cuts through a strawberry a touch more viciously than is perhaps required.

"In that case, it sounds like, what would you call it? Poetic justice?"

He's somehow pleased that this side of Ned has come out -- he knew it had to be in there somewhere. Anyone who doesn't seem to have a dark side is usually hiding the darkest secrets of all. There's something a little self-satisfied about the smile on his face as he regards Ned, picking up his own knife again to cut one of the strawberries into quarters.

It probably says something about Meyer that he doesn't even begin to consider Ned's actions questionable or reprehensible. Obviously, if someone had been shot for no reason, it only made sense to get rid of the person who had done it. That was justice, pure and simple, the kind of justice just about anyone could dole out. Admittedly, he hadn't seen anyone handle it quite the way Ned had, but then, he didn't know anyone with powers like Ned, either. Sure, maybe he'd gotten lucky with who had died in this Laura's place -- the fact that he couldn't control that part of his power was a little disconcerting -- but it had turned out all right, hadn't it?

"My thoughts exactly."

Ned, for his part, doesn't see anything wrong with Meyer's acceptance of his actions. He is such a strange dichotomy of guilt and remorselessness, it's hard to say sometimes on which side of the fence he'll land. He is sorry that Laura had to go through the trauma of being murdered and brought back, sorry that everyone knows him as a killer now, sorry that his secret was blown. But he isn't sorry that he killed Private Ryan. Hasn't felt even a twinge of sincere guilt, since it happened.

He doesn't catch that smile of Meyer's, too wrapped up in his own thoughts.

It's probably for the best that he doesn't catch that smile. As soon as he consciously realizes he's making it, Meyer smooths it over, turns it into something resembling a look between understanding and concern. "Does that mean you can never touch that woman again, then? Given how the, uh, ability functions? It'd kill her, right?"

He's not sure why he feels the need to absorb so much information about Ned's ability. Unlike cooking, it's not something he'll ever be able to learn how to do himself -- he imagines Ned was born with it, that it's something innate, or perhaps other people in Ned's world are capable of it, too. A trait inherited from parents, maybe, or something random. He vaguely wonders whether there are people in his own world who can do this sort of thing, and finds the idea somewhat strange.

And there, for a flicker of an instant, is all the horror that was missing from his expression before. If Meyer is looking closely he'll catch it, the way Ned's face goes still for a moment with profound sadness. His hands pause, briefly, halfway through slicing a strawberry. He'd come so close to killing Laura by accident; it had been a matter of inches. It's not that Ned even knows the girl so well, but it was all far too reminiscent of other things for his liking. He goes back to his slicing a moment later, and the look is gone, folded away beneath something much more neutral.

"Yeah, it would."

With that, he decides he's done discussing his powers.

"That's enough for one batch, I think." He gets up and takes one bowl in each hand, bringing them to the counter. He sets a large saucepan on the stove, turns on the heat, dumps in the contents of the bowls. "You need to add pectin as a thickener for strawberries. Most places will sell it powdered, but I haven't been able to find any, so I'm using lemon. It has enough pectin to make the preserve set."

He knows how transparent it must be, just stopping the conversation abruptly and starting to rattle on about how to make preserves, but it's the best alternative available. There is a deliberate, business-like quality to the way he delivers the instruction. There are a few lemons mixed in with the limes he'd been cutting for the pie; he slices two in half and has squeezed all of the juice out of them quickly enough, adding it directly to the strawberries.

He stands and comes over to the stove, not standing too close to Ned -- he assumes Ned still has some general discomfort about being that close to someone who physically attacked him not too long ago, and besides, he's not one to enjoy being in someone else's space bubble, either -- observing what he does. Their height difference is probably more notable now than it's been throughout their whole conversation; Meyer carries himself like a taller man, but in actuality, he has to be around a foot shorter than Ned.

Of course he knows exactly what Ned is doing; it's a diversionary tactic that almost everyone has used at some point, but he doesn't begrudge Ned the desire to do so. Talking about one's powers must be difficult, and in some ways, he imagines, the powers are intensely personal. There are many things he'd never dream of sharing with anyone himself, and Ned has been more open about a topic that clearly makes him somewhat uncomfortable than most people would be.

Besides, he really is interested in what Ned has to teach him, really does want to learn how to cook, partially to keep his hands busy, and partially because he knows one of the surefire ways to keep Charlie out of trouble is to distract him with good food. In fact, he's so serious about learning everything perfectly that he's taking notes in a tiny notebook as Ned speaks, nodding a little. "Can you use any citrus fruit, or does it have to be lemons?"

"Well, it-" Ned pauses a moment, noticing the fact that Meyer's taking notes. The lingering traces of that sadness vanish from his affect and he's back to being 100% bright, warm, friendly Ned once more. "It's the acidity plus the sugar you add later helps to thicken it. Normally I'd only use lemon juice and about 6 cups of sugar, but I'm rationing the sugar, so I'm going to add the lemon peel as well. That has the most pectin and it'll make it set even with far less sugar. You can do oranges or limes, or apples. Carrots, in a pinch, but the flavor isn't as good."

He dodges around Meyer, scooping out the pulp inside the squeezed lemons with a spoon and then, when they are cleaned, slicing the peels into spears. "You just leave it in for the cooking, so it's good not to cut the peel too small. Makes it easier to remove later." He adds the peel to the strawberries, reaches a wooden spoon down from a rack and begins to stir, turning up the heat.

"There's a box of canning jars in the pantry," he nods at the correct door, "Do you mind getting those for me, please?"

He scribbles down this information in a scrawling handwriting that probably only he can read. It only vaguely resembles English, and might be some kind of bizarre shorthand that he's adopted for the sake of note-taking quickly -- and having notes that nobody else can read. It's not like any of this is secret, but his handwriting has never been great, and if anyone looked at his notebook, they'd probably think the instructions for making preserves were something far more interesting than they were, with how damn hard he's made them to read.

Following Ned's instructions, he goes to the pantry and pulls out the jars for Ned, returning them to him. "Here you go," he replies, trying not to stand too close, but unable to resist the urge to scoot a little closer so that he can look into the pan as Ned begins to stir. "You could probably trade this for something good -- I doubt most people're making their own preserves around here."

Trust Meyer to find ways to look for the profitability in everything. If they'd been somewhere that had a valid currency system, he'd have suggested that Ned sell it, probably for exorbitant sums.

It honestly hadn't occurred to Ned that he would want to trade his preserves for something else. He had decided to make them for the good of everyone - so that nothing went to waste and, heaven forbid, if something happened to the fruit trees and bushes that he'd managed to plant, they wouldn't lose absolutely everything.

"There isn't really anything I need."

The only things that he really needs aren't tangible, aren't to be bought with a jar of strawberry preserves. What he needs is a sense of stability. For his friends to stop going missing. For people to stop hurting him. For someone to find some answers about the people keeping them here and ways to get out. He doesn't think any of those are purchasable.

As for material comforts, he'd gotten used to needing very little, to wanting very little. He'd spent so many years saving everything he could, he's gotten out of the habit of thinking about things he could have. Although...

"Except I'd kill for a decent food processor, but I already know I'm out of luck there."

As far as cooking tech is concerned, there isn't going to be anything more complicated than ovens and mason jars, so he's going to just have to make do. He begins filling a large pot with water, explains, "You have to boil the jars, to sterilize them, even before you put any fruit in them. Otherwise it's no good at all." He tries to remember when it was that people started getting a decent idea about bacteria and food safety. Had they gotten there, in the 20s? He isn't sure...

Making things for the good of everyone isn't a concept that exists in Meyer's world; people do things because they need something in exchange, they don't simply provide a service or a good without expecting something back, whether it be tangible or intangible. He has a hard time believing, then, that there's nothing Ned needs -- or perhaps he doesn't need anything, but there may be something he wants.

Of course, there are things that one can't trade for, things that no amount of bargaining will gain you. Maybe all Ned wants is to get out of here; that's the thought that's been preoccupying Meyer's mind almost every waking moment. Though he's put his energy into finding a way to make himself and Charlie more comfortable around here (largely by beginning to form tentative plans for starting up a card game) he doesn't want to be here forever.

"What's a food processor?" He's well aware that to anyone from as far in the future as Ned is, the question is probably ridiculous, but in his world, it's a legitimate one. Despite the awful things that Ned had told him about the future, he finds himself wanting to know more, to absorb all of the knowledge possible, whether it be about technology, world events, or even the mundanities of everyday life.

Watching Ned fill the pot with water, he scribbles down this information; he has a pretty decent idea of food safety, but probably not nearly as much as Ned. Truth be told, as far as he's concerned, he'll eat just about anything -- if someone had given him a jar of preserves and told him the jar hadn't been sterilized first, he'd have eaten it anyway, but because Ned had specifically stated this to be important, he wrote it down nonetheless.

It's clear that Ned doesn't think it's a ridiculous or outdated question. "It's a machine that slices or shreds or mixes or grinds things. Essentially it's a covered container with blades at the bottom that are powered by electricity. Makes things go a lot quicker."

Ned puts the pot of water over the heat and swings around Meyer again, taking the jars and starting to wash them thoroughly in the sink. He is thinking back, now, to his first conversation with Meyer, when he couldn't imagine there would be people from different times in the same place. It was going to be a steep learning curve, after that. Steeper than either of them had realized.

"So how are you holding up with the whole... magic and monsters are real thing, if you don't mind my asking?" He'd had difficulty believing it himself, and he was arguably a kind of monster himself.

"The magic, the monsters..." Meyer instinctively pats his jacket, as though looking for his cigarettes -- a habit he can't seem to break himself of -- before realizing that he's left them at home to avoid the temptation to light one whenever he wants to. They have to conserve their supplies now, but it isn't easy, not when you've gone from two packs a day to maybe one cigarette a day or maybe nothing at all.

"I wouldn't've believed it one hundred percent if it hadn't happened to me," he finally says. Sure, there had been people in the town who'd said something about magic, who'd claimed that there were people with impressive powers, that there were monstrous things in the woods, and Ned's confession about being able to raise the dead had been about as magic as it could get, but he hadn't fully accepted that as the only explanation until he'd turned into a vampire. Then, it had been undeniable.

"I guess you're probably used to magic being real, right? With your powers, and all. For me, well, there's nothing like that back home, not unless they're hiding it pretty damn well. If I hadn't been a vampire and everyone around me hadn't been something ridiculous--" including Charlie, who had, apparently, been a dragon -- "I think I would've gone on assuming that there had to be some logical explanation that didn't include magic. Or monsters."

"I wouldn't be too sure, about there being nothing like it back home." Ned sets the clean jars one by one into the heating pot of water, carefully, glancing at Meyer as he does so. His reaction is perfectly understandable, given his circumstances. Much as he is starting to like Meyer it is strange, that feeling of a divide. Meyer is normal, and he is not. They are, in a way, different categories of people. Ned is used to feeling different, but he's not used to there being others on his side of the line. It is a strange, uncomfortable sort of awareness, for him.

"After all, people can get good at hiding things, when they need to. No one where I'm from knew about me, or that there were people like me. Everyone went around assuming that magic wasn't real. As far as I could find out, it wasn't, apart from myself. I wasn't exactly going to go around disabusing people of that notion. Hell, if I'd been a little bit more lucky, or a little bit more careful, no one here would know, either."

He puts the last of the mason jars into the water and hands Meyer the wooden spoon, gesturing to the strawberries, which are starting to bubble nicely, "You can take a turn stirring, if you'd like."

"There still may be a logical explanation. Even for magic and monsters. It's just not an explanation we understand, yet."

Edited 2013-05-03 19:39 (UTC)

"Maybe there is something like it back home. Maybe."

He knows all about hiding things, about shutting things away where nobody else can see them. He may not have magic powers, may be normal by all reasonable definitions of the word, but he often doesn't feel normal, not in the more mundane sense. It's a rare day when he shares even a tiny fraction of what's going on in his head; the constantly rushing thoughts, the planning, the calculations he does almost without thinking about every little risk and eventuality. He's used to feeling different, too, but he has to admit, it's not for the same reasons, nor does it have the same potential consequences.

He takes the spoon and begins stirring the strawberries, glad to have something to keep his hands preoccupied. It's difficult to be without a cigarette for the nicotine fix it provides, certainly, but an almost as important part of his addiction revolves around the fact that he likes to have something to do with his hands. Stirring the strawberries keeps that craving down to a dull roar, rather than something that threatens to overpower him. "There may be a logical explanation, but I don't like not understanding things."

That's the most intimate thing he's said about himself all day, but he doesn't expect Ned to see it that way. It seems like an obvious statement -- after all, nobody likes to be left in the dark about something -- but for him, it's not just fear of embarrassment or the desire to be a know-it-all: information can be the difference between life and death, and in a place like this, he thinks it probably is.

The importance of that remark does go unnoticed by Ned, who merely nods, reaching around Meyer to fiddle with the heat of the stove, turn it up ever so slightly. There's nothing terribly jumpy about his demeanor (at least no more than usual) but he is careful to maintain a respectful distance from Meyer, despite the fact that they are using the same space.

"I'm not really fond of it myself."

He thinks about explaining Charles' theory about mutations to Meyer, but decides against it. Perhaps if Meyer, himself, were looking for answers, he would. But as it is, Ned doesn't see why he would need to know any of that. It's something very different, not understanding something that is deeply personal to others, and not understanding something deeply personal about yourself.

One thing he can help Meyer to understand, small though it may be, is how to make preserves.

"Now," he says, "time for the sugar."

He walks him through the next steps, intermixing bits of explanation for the steps - why to leave extra room in the tops of the jars, why to boil them after they are full and for how long, how long to chill them for once they have been processed. It's a lot to take in, but Meyer has his notepad, and Ned is a patient and experienced teacher.

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Apologies are difficult...

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I'm cobbling info from a million different recipes please do not attempt at home it'd probs be gross

What you mean my incredibly thorough notes I was taking won't do me any good

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