well, almost died twice in the meantime *fingerguns* the time travel fuckups are back, but it's marjory and her guest(s)? you have no idea how weird someone's family is. tagging it because it technically is.
*
Marjory watched them drive down the dirt road on the security monitor. Reasonably convinced they wouldn’t turn back and surprise her, she put on the water and prepared the tray: two cups, two spoons, a sugar bowl, a plate with some soft cookies turning stale, and a teapot.
Outside, the hot air remained unmoving, and the evening cicadas were waking up. She put the tray on the table on the porch and poured both cups, adding two spoonfuls of sugar to one. Then, she sat down in her wicker chair, stirring the tea. It was sweet and steaming hot, just how she liked it, perfect for forcing the body to try and cool off.
“Now,” Marjory looked to the trees in front of the house, “after all this time, you could at least come out and say hi.”
She sipped her cup. The porch light came on and the night birds tentatively started their calls. With a metallic rustle, a dark figure materialized in the chair on the other side of the small table, a clawed hand reaching for the remaining cup. Marjory hmmed at the dark droplets left on the scuffed but still vaguely white tray.
“I hope you’re going to tidy up the shed after, I’m a little too old and frail to be digging graves somewhere in the woods on my own again.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
“Lo and behold, it speaks.” Marjory kept her tone flat while her companion removed his mask to drink. “Old age’s an ugly motherfucker, I’ve got arthritis acting up, and you look like you’ve got it worse.”
She heard the quiet snort.
“Maybe.”
“So, why are you here?” Her answer was an object dangling from a short chain, held over the table – a dog tag – old and worn down, bent irregularly, and at points opalescent. In this light, she would need her glasses, but it didn’t matter. She nodded. “What are you going to do about it?”
The silence between them stretched, neither uncomfortable nor heavy, just uncertain.
“I don’t know.”
“Fair,” Marjory pulled her shawl off the railing where she had hung it out to dry earlier in the day and wrapped it around her shoulders. She poured herself another cup of tea; the evening was turning out to be a pleasant affair after all.
“The Bigfoot story,” Reaper spoke for the first time without prodding. “Is it true?”
She smiled.
“Everyone needs a little bit of magic in their lives.”
