needling

ingrid gagnon. 30. werewolf. owner, quill tattoo and piercing. lethe resident. fuck off.

[ingridgagnon]

troubled track | ingrid & morgan

[ingridgagnon]

@morgancortez​

Her expression tightens with worry, and the memories of that night: a fire flickers in her peripheral, and when she turns, a tad startled, its only a woman in a hideous orange shirt. Not the fire, and not the blood. “You remember that? I almost hoped you didn’t remember any of it.” Her voice is pitched low, well-aware that this is the last place either of them want to have this conversation. It isn’t one she wants to talk about anywhere, in truth, but her eyes stay on Ingrid’s face, trying to find steadiness in the face she knows so well. She remembers screaming, and the ache in her throat when she was sitting in the hospital later, and all of it is secondary to Ingrid’s own aches from the night.  The fear is Morgan’s, but most of its Ingrid’s, and the pain is most certainly hers. “You’d be better at the job than him,” she says with a grimace, even if she imagines leading is the last thing Ingrid wants to do. “You’ve got the knowledge, and the experience in a way, and you care. That’s clearly more than Maksim will ever be capable of doing if he’s not going to even help you – and they have to have some lead. Its been…” She counts back the days, and grimaces at the way time flies. Between the fire, and the damages, and her family being the mess it is, and then her and Ingrid - the best thing by far – she hasn’t kept well enough track of days. “Long enough,” Morgan concludes, still frowning.

It loosens at the offer, and she huffs a laugh, a grateful smile appearing as the amusement ends. “Your money is yours, you might not want something now but who knows, maybe you’ll find a motorcycle to drool over by next Christmas, or a new house, or something,” she tells her, soft, pairing it with a squeeze of Ingrid’s hand across the table, touched by the offer. The money is something holding over Ingrid’s head, and much as Morgan would like to ease its burden, she can’t imagine trading one person’s money for another. No, she dug her own grave, she’ll find the ladder out, too. Morgan huffs again, but no laughter comes with it and she leans back in her chair, arms moving to cross over her chest in thought. “She isn’t, I don’t know why. It’s been, god, it’s been over a year now and she still hasn’t hit me with anything? If it wasn’t Cece, I would think she had died.” But, no, of all the people in her family, Cece might be the one she thought would end up in a grave first, she’s sturdy in a way Morgan didn’t appreciate until she, too, became a hybrid. Or whatever it is being a hybrid means for someone like her. “I don’t know,” she admits, truthfully. “I think she liked it here, but can she handle the memories? I don’t want her to let this place go, its our home.” And if Cece won’t keep it, then Morgan will, even if she finds the weight of it heavier than she anticipated. Lettie, after all, made it look effortless.

“Of course I remember.” And she leaves it at that, not privy to reliving the details and less so about making Morgan recall them. Ingrid simply shrugs, doing her best to look unbothered, as if it doesn’t turn her stomach each stay to cross over that stained sidewalk where she’d almost lost her life. With that in mind, the laugh she gives feels even more stilted than it sounds, but Ingrid shakes her head, not paying attention to the way it falters. “Please. We both know I don’t exactly have good bedside manner. Besides, I give a shit about you, and me, but not much else. They’d fire me pretty fast.” She sighs as they contemplate the days since the fire – so many, yet not enough, the images still too close, too recent. She’s mulling over them still when the offer is extended and then, as expected, wholeheartedly rejected. It’s nothing she’s offended by, certainly not. But it would be nice to help. The temptation to say as much nips at her heels, but it’s soothed by Morgan’s touch of her hand. “Yeah, maybe,” she simply complies, delighted enough by how Morgan’s fingers linger on hers to not push it any further. They’re pulled away eventually, and Ingrid mirrors the pose of her... well. Friend, maybe. Girlfriend, possibly. It’s a line she’s not willing to tread, not yet, not for fear that she may be shoved back behind it. 

But that’s frivolous, really, and she knows as much. So she shifts her focus, instead listening about this cousin of Morgan’s that she, frankly, likes less by the day. “Yeah, that’s bullshit.” She mutters with a shake of her head. After all, she’s seen firsthand how Morgan frets over this cousin, and now she’s riding back into town looking for open arms. “Bullshit.” Ingrid sighs again. “Just don’t want to see you getting taken advantage of, that’s all.” She justifies before Morgan can protest, raising her palms to show her innocence. Not going to pick a fight with Morgan’s family. Not unless it’s justified. “Is it though, Morg?” Shit. Maybe not the best time for this question, and Ingrid sighs once more, regretting it. “All I mean is... it was Lettie’s home, sure. Cecilia’s too, alright, fine. But is it really yours? Or do you just stay because... you know... you feel like you’ve gotta?” Palms raise again. “If I’m out of line, tell me. I just feel like it’s about time people took some ownership around here. For both of our sakes.”

[ingridgagnon]

@marielle-oleary​

“Oh, you’re a fucking saint,” the selkie snorts, eyeing her granddaughter with a light smile. At least they could meet on common ground through sarcasm; maybe that, among a few other things, gives them a bit of an understanding. Marielle has no intention of trying to insert herself into someone’s life when they don’t want her to be there. But well…Ingrid is her granddaughter, and that means something to Mari. At one point in her life it would not have, but now that’s she’s soft, it does. She blames her brother, Maristela, and the pod for that but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. “Let me know if you need any poison darts. I’m sure I have extra.” She’s mostly joking, but she does actually have extra darts in the back. What? If someone does break into the shop and they go off, she needs a way to reload it! It makes perfect sense to have backup poison darts in the back of the shop…but she’s sure either way, Ingrid will find a way to make sure what happened to her shop never happens again. Just from their first interaction, Marielle could tell her granddaughter could hold her own. However, Melissa, her daughter, she knows less about, which is exactly why she came to Ingrid today, for information on this estranged daughter of hers. Good or bad, she wants to hear it.

Not much to say? That can mean a variety of things, and is perhaps as vague as the words that left her lips only moments ago. Are they also estranged? From what she gathered from their previous encounter, her daughter drinks and she, like Marielle, is not the best mother. Listening to Ingrid speak about her relationship with Melissa is hard. It would be much easier to hear they were close, that Melissa is doing well and Ingrid just spoke to her yesterday. But perhaps that is too much to ask for someone who left their family behind. Life is cruel, though, sometimes in the meanest of ways, and that seems to play out today in her conversation with Ingrid. Not only is the relationship between her daughter and granddaughter severed, but the life she gave birth to is no more. Melissa is no more. “She- …she’s dead?” The news feels like a brutal hit to the gut, the force of such grief so great, for a moment, Marielle can’t even speak. Her lips part, eyes going a little wider as the crease in her brow deepens. The corners of her eyes sting, likely turning red from holding back an offset of emotions that desperately want to break free. She lets out a shaky breath of air, looking down as she pushes hair back behind her ears. “No, no it’s…I understand” She nods, still looking down. It’s easier that way. “I eh…I-I’m sorry I don’t know…how to respond,” she breathes out, blinking back what can only be described as a mixture of confusion and grief. Liver failure. It makes sense, probably from all the drinking and the fact that Melissa is only half selkie, not full. Erik isn’t like all of them; he didn’t fully understand…. “Melissa’s father was human. He knew about what I could do, likely knew Melissa could do it too, but it makes sense she…eh…yeah. She was only half.” Marielle clears her throat to keep her voice from breaking, casually wiping a stray tear from her eye. She’s gotten so good at holding them back, maybe too well. “But your dad then, he was a werewolf? And you, you’re like him? You don’t…you wouldn’t really have it. A quarter is something, but not enough to show, I’m sure.”

Look: it’s not like it’s a story she likes to tell. Would anyone? Recounting the story of an estranged mother isn’t exactly a pleasant pastime, even less so when the narrative is being hand-delivered to an oblivious grandmother. Sucks, really. Ironically, vaguely, it occurs to Ingrid that she wouldn’t mind a drink right about now. Marielle probably wouldn’t either, but Ingrid isn’t so uncouth... or maybe she is. Or will be, in a moment. First, the shitty questions. “Yeah.” It’s just breathed out, knowing the question doesn’t really need an answer, but Ingrid feels the need to give one anyway. To break the suffocating silence of a mother coming to terms with the worst. Mari looks down and Ingrid takes the cue, her own blue gaze looking toward trees or sky or concrete. Anything but the potential tears, the shock, that she sort of hates to be the bearer of. Not like she caused it, but she’s not so keen on delivering it, either. Of all things, Ingrid laughs then, shaking her head. “’S fine. Didn’t really know how to tell you, so. Here we are.” She bites her lip, letting the silence settle for a moment, as much as she hates it. The questions, those are easier to answer, and Ingrid does, carefully. “Um, yeah. Didn’t know that ‘til I was nineteen, actually, so. Parents flopped on a few fronts, but, you know. I’m fine. Can’t say anything’s happened to me when it comes to water, so yeah... selkie must not have come through. Don’t know if my mom knew or not. She didn’t mention it.” Her foot drums and she clears her throat, exhaling noisily before finally standing up, wiping her hands on her pants. “You want a drink? Uh, there’s not really booze in the inn, Morgan stays away from the stuff. Maybe in the restaurant, but I’m not about to rob them... anyway, Terrence’s isn’t far. And we could probably both use it, huh?”

[ingridgagnon]

@quinn-cameron​

“ Out of sight out of mind for them, I guess” Quinn shrugged a moment. He didn’t like that was how people were but he was also used  to how thing’s could be and he wasn’t going to be optimistic about it, he would however offer whatever help he could. “ Yeah, I’m lucky I have a lot saved up, but it’d be nice to get better results” Quinn explained. He relied on himself his entire life he didn’t expect miracles. “ No on expects you to move on Ingrid. If you need time, you deserve to take it. People who’ve been through hell deal with it a long time” He spoke from experience. “ You should. If you believe it will help you should. I’m still worried about Nora” he admitted. It was rare for him to be open about things involving friends but she lost someone so close to her he knew being his usual reclusive self wasn’t helpful. “ I’m not the best company, but you know you can always talk to me. If you don’t feel safe let me know”

“Bullshit. The dead are out of sight, too, doesn’t mean they don’t deserve some fuckin’ justice.” It’s muttered, and Ingrid knows Quinn isn’t the one who needs to hear that, but it doesn’t keep her from saying it. Where to direct this ire when the proper recipient is essentially unresponsive, uncaring? Ingrid nods at the comment on money, not prying. “Good, good.” The werewolf huffs a laugh then, though, less sincere. “Council sure as hell does. Well, maybe not all of ‘em. Whatever. Cops do too. Bigger fish to fry, somehow. Putting all their energy towards some missing fae girl instead of the cases they’re letting run cold.” Bitterness doesn’t suit her, Morgan would say, but it runs rampant, the phantom pain in her side not helping. Her head shakes, her sigh heavy. “Yeah. That girl’s been through a lot. Does she bring up her dad to you? How’s she handling it?” Certainly a pain she’s familiar with, the loss of a father, but a discussion with Nora doesn’t really seem like her place. Quinn is more of a friend, and shows it then. “Thanks, Quinn. Uh... not sure what I can provide, but... same here. A beer, maybe. I’m good for that. Or, you know, a tattoo, if you’re jumping on an impulse.”

[ingridgagnon]

troubled track | ingrid & morgan

[ingridgagnon]

@morgancortez​

The cafe doesn’t fall silent at the opening door, but the barista has this strange look on their face and its answer enough on who entered. Morgan spins in her seat, coffee cups in hand, eyes widening at the look on Ingrid’s face. “You look like hell,” she comments simply, sliding the cup over to her. She remembers how Ingrid likes it, and it might be a tad cold, but it’s better than tackling this conversation with nothing at all. Her booted foot stretches out, nudging Ingrid’s gently to halt the tempting, though it doesn’t stop her jaw, or the flicker in her eyes, or the angry jitters. Her own eyes narrow with distaste. “I don’t recall this man being here when I left. Is he a new person? Where are the Lowell’s?” The politics of Lethe drift over her head, never important enough to warrant another look. It isn’t like the politics of the nation which she watches out of obligation when voting season calls, but Lethe asks nothing from them except obedience really. Eyes are on them, but Morgan tosses her hair and raises her brow, meeting them one by one until they drift away. “Hey, you aren’t putting me through anything, I want to be part of this. You almost died – and we didn’t even find who did it!” she says, sharpness slipping free where fear couldn’t. When she blinks sometimes, she still sees Ingrid’s ashen face and her fingers twitch on the coffee cup, a sign of distress that she hides by taking a gulp of her lukewarm drink. It helps, but only some and Morgan settles it down to be ignored. “They have no leads at all? Nothing to help us? Damn it. But, look, I don’t care if it is just you and I who remember, you aren’t going at this alone, we’re going to find this guy,” she promises. The question warrants a shrug, because her morning is… as most mornings in Lethe: watch the inn, watch her mother, watch over her shoulder, watch over Ingrid’s, too. Its a long line of wariness that makes sleep elusive sometimes, but she doesn’t want to touch on that. Instead, she supplies, “I’m trying to pay back Isaac. He lent money for the repairs to the inn during… all of this, in exchange for like a partnership? The inn isn’t mine to share though and I can’t imagine Cece wanting to share with someone she doesn’t know.” If she ever comes back. “The bank was a lot less eventful than your meeting.” 

The comment on her appearance might be a good thing, actually. It disarms her for a moment, at least, making way for something akin to a smirk. Still a little too tense, a little too fleeting, but something. “At least I’m consistent then, huh?” Morgan’s foot upon hers makes Ingrid sigh, setting down her coffee in order to right her hunched posture, though her jaw still clenches hard. “Meyer wasn’t into that shit anymore and Mira wasn’t about to step in so somehow good ol’ Maksim took charge. Can’t say I paid much attention but, you know, a knife between the ribs will sort of catch your focus.” Her words are muttered at best. Not that she can’t handle her own fight if one starts, because she sure as hell can, but she’s also not in the mood to pick something in the middle of a cafe. A cafe that watches her with a collective reproach when her voice does eventually raise, but Morgan wields a returning glare that gets the eyes off her back. Gives Ingrid time to decompress again, unclenching her jaw, though her foot picks up its drumming once more. Morgan’s frustration echoes her own, and Ingrid nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Plus I did put you through something. Don’t think I don’t remember you screaming, ‘cause I do. I’m not trying to risk that again.” What does she care about death, really? Just a bout of darkness, the way she sees it. No, what she cares about is the fact that Morgan doesn’t deserve any more loss. And sure as hell not like that. “Nothing they’re giving me, anyway, but who knows if that means a lead doesn’t exist. Could just be trying to cover their tracks. Not like I’m not going to sit there and let them do it. Not sure where else to go, though. The council, maybe. I dunno. Maksim told me to go fuck myself, basically. In dumbass bureaucrat terms.” Summary concluded, a sip of coffee drank, and a huff of frustration exhaled, Ingrid finally gets the chance to look at Morgan rightfully. She looks weary, and Ingrid feels a pang of guilt then, knowing the depositing of this news likely doesn’t help. So she listens instead, giving a measured nod. “You know my offer still stands. That money from my dad isn’t doing much anymore unless I want, I don’t know, a third floor on the shop. And you won’t be indebted to me. But I know that’s probably not what you want.” That delivery is punctuated with a shrug, far from offended. Morgan deserves some independence, and if money will rob her of that, it’s not worth it. “Cece still not answering your calls?” Seems like this cousin has some shit to own up to, but really, that’s none of Ingrid’s business. Not wanting to stray back to the meeting, she goes on. “You think she’d want a part in it if she did come back? The inn, I mean.”

[ingridgagnon]

troubled track | ingrid & morgan

Date: December 16th 2020 Time: 10:19 am Location: Ground Up Café

Listen: it’s not like she meant to come storming into the cafe looking like smoke’s about to come out of her ears. Really. Not the intention, not at all. But there’s no avoiding it. Not right now, as she clenches her jaw so tight it feels like it could snap in on itself. The barista is practically shaking in his boots at the sight of her and Ingrid is bound toward ordering anyhow when she spots Morgan. Sitting with an expression that seems to be either alarm or concern (or, knowing Morg, both) and already with two cups of coffee in hand. It’s enough to make Ingrid deflate, or at least check herself, exhaling before muttering a gruff apology to the employee in question. She then settles onto the stool across from Morgan — though settling may be a strong word. A foot taps, hands clench and unclench, and nostrils flare. “Such bullshit, Morg — thank you.” She’s not so uncouth as to not be grateful for the coffee. Even if caffeine may be the last thing she needs right now. All the same, she takes a sip, then runs a hand down her jaw before continuing. “It is such bullshit. Says he doesn’t know a thing. Which, of course, why would he tell the truth? But he’s not even going to save the skin of his own people? I’m not his closest fuckin’ crony, I get that, but he’s gonna let me die for that? Forget me, huh, what about Clark? Says it’s ‘a most unfortunate tragedy,’ and he wishes he knew. If he thinks I believe that fuckin’ garbage—” It’s only then that she realizes that her voice has risen, that eyes are on her again. With a clearing of her throat, Ingrid settles further down in her seat, waiting for eyes to be averted before she continues, softer now. “I don’t wanna feel like I’m bound to go through that shit again. Hell, I don’t wanna put you through that shit again. I just... I can’t fuckin’ take this sitting down. I can’t. But no one’s gonna help me, it seems. Everyone’s forgotten but me. You and me.” Foot still drumming, Ingrid gives her head one last vehement shake before looking to Morgan fully. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to — I’m not trying to yell at you. Sure isn’t your fault. I just...” A shrug, a sip of coffee, and she tries to mind her manners. “How, uh... how’s your morning, anyway? Better than mine?”

@morgancortez​

[ingridgagnon]

Date: December 15th 2020 Time: 1:39 pm Location: The newly reopened Quill Tattoo & Piercing

She’d fallen out of the rhythm, almost. The greeting, the small talk, the trying to sell. Sell what? Her own art, which is an art in and of itself. A few months off can do a person good, maybe, and especially after an ordeal like hers... but really, she’s feeling rusty. That thought has just made Ingrid frown when the security system (quite thorough and very new) beeps, announcing an incoming customer. The tattoo artist rises to her feet but doesn’t approach, not immediately. Don’t want to seem like a predator, or worse, an eager beaver. So she just wanders forward instead, heavily tattooed arms folded as she nods to the drawings upon the wall that this newcomer gazes at. “That’s mostly the traditional stuff. Got some, uh, art deco over there... minimalist stuff too, if you’re into that sort of thing. Seems to be the trend as of late.” There, that’s small talk enough, right? Ingrid gives a nod, then. Introduction — that’s important, too. “I’m Ingrid. Own the place.” Not sure if he knows the stories, about the arson and the fighting and the, well, unpleasantness. Bullshit, she’d call it, but that’s not the sort of language one uses on the sales floor, right? “You ever had any work done?” A gesture to the art on display again, to specify the sort of work she means. Not that she’s determined to sell here, but it’s nice to know what she’s dealing with.

@rtkns​

[ingridgagnon]

voodoo child | ingrid & morgan

[ingridgagnon]

@morgancortez​

Morgan blinks, processing, trying to pinpoint the moment she figured it out herself, but it seemed like such a gradual thing, something that came with no eureka moment for her to point as the beginning. When she came to Lethe, certainly, and found Ingrid waiting for her, arms open, without judgment for the things Morgan had done. She blinks again, mouth open to protest, fingers tightening around Ingrid’s in protest. If Ingrid isn’t allowed to feel this way to her, Morgan doesn’t know who can, but its silenced by the kiss Ingrid presses against her knuckles. A sweet thing, so terribly soft for Ingrid, and more telling than any words, really. “Well, good,” she says, and it’s lame, but she has so many feelings and so little way to think of how to explain them. The shattering glass is almost a welcome distraction, one that draws her to her feet for only half a second, grip on Ingrid’s hand slipping to her disappointment. “They know how to interrupt a moment,” she agrees, lips quirking, glancing back at Ingrid in surprise for a moment. Only a moment, and then Morgan is smiling, head tilted, calling to her as she leaves: “Try not to break anything if you have to fight them.”

She’s putting away the cake, because it’s something she thinks the two of them can eat later, when the party is over and they are done playing hostess for people they don’t even know, when Ingrid returns. “What, did someone rip their costume again? You can’t keep laughing at people for it, the last lady was nearly naked and I thought her friend would blow up– Oh.” She stares, wide-eyed and surprised, and the lights are changing, slowly, the music softer. It’s a night of surprises, but a pleasant one. Her lips curve again, the smile soft, and she twines their fingers together and steps closer to her. “That question will always be a yes,” she tells her, fingers sliding from her hand down her arm slowly, enjoying the feel of the soft skin beneath, before her arms are wrapped around Ingrid’s neck, sighing. Ingrid is taller than her, but not by much and she almost presses a kiss against her cheek. Almost, and stops a breath away with a glance around. But what does it matter, really, if someone else sees? Ingrid loves her, that doesn’t change just because the two are in public. Her eyes return to Ingrid’s, and she lets them stay there, melting into her touch. “Suppose I’ll be able to get dances out of you once in a while then. It comes with the territory, you dance with me and I’ll follow you wherever.“ She isn’t hard to please, really, and it’s hard to think with this new weightlessness, to know this thing with Ingrid is more than she’s ever dreamed.

Always a yes. Always — now that’s a concept she’s come to associate with Morgan, isn’t it? Even when space separated them, even when a ring occupied Morgan’s left hand and made Ingrid’s stomach tie in knots. Even then, she knew: Morgan would be there to fall back on, if needed. And now? Now, this is more than a falling back or a reaching forward. No, they’re side by side. And isn’t that something? Ingrid nods with a growing smile, her eyes ardently following the trail of Morgan’s fingertips down her own arm, almost embarrassed of the goosebumps that raise. But can she be blamed, really? She waited so long and wanted so much. “I’m not very good, just warning you.” As if she’s worried about living up to expectations. And maybe she is. But then Morgan’s arms are linked around her neck, Ingrid’s palms on her waist, the smell of her perfume enough to make her laugh incredulously. The wonder of it all, huh? Only grows when their eyes meet and her smile turns to something more like a grin, her head shaking as Morgan leans into her. She exhales then, the smile dropping, turning to something gentler, more sincere. “Not the best dancing partner, I don’t think. But if you’ll have me, I’ll take it. Any time.” Ingrid promises gently, with a small nod. And so she dances, to that song and the next, one slow tune into another, the excuse for closeness more than enough for her. It’s only when the beat picks up again, when the crowd cheers and the lights change to something brighter, that she leans forward. Forehead to forehead, one more moment of closeness before the frenzy of the party distracts and divides them again. “I love you, you know? I do.” And isn’t it just so good to say? Not scary, like it could be, like maybe it should be. It’s good. It’s right. “Thank you. For the birthday cake. For, um... for this. For... all of it.” Years and years of it, birthdays come and gone. Years in the future, she hopes, too. Seems possible now. 

[ingridgagnon]

@bradley-bradshaw​

Brad looks up from drying the glasses, solely out of instinct, not entirely processing what Ingrid says. “Uh, yeah. We’ve met, several times.” He points out with a weak chuckle. Her comment has him blinking. “Why do people keep saying that? It’s not like I can be happy 100% of the time, y’know. I’m not a cartoon character.” He mutters as he resumes the mindless work of bartending. It helps, somehow, focusing on simple work or manual labors. Since Clark’s passing… and then FIona disappearing, he just doesn’t feel cheerful. People keep leaving him– and the fact that he is selfish enough to make this about him, just makes him feel like absolute shit. “Well, my friend died a few months back and another friend of mine just disappeared,” he shrugs, “so I’m kind of pissed and sad.”

The snappish comment makes her raise a brow, but she doesn’t fire back. “Won’t check next time, then.” That’s all he gets, and really, it’s a kindness from her. Blame his glum face. Poor guy looks like something was stolen from him. “Not saying you should be, ‘specially with the shit going on. Guess people are just used to you being perky. Doesn’t mean you have to be. Not like I’m Miss Congeniality over here.” She sighs when he finally comes out with it, her nod a little heavier now. “Ah. Now that makes sense.” A sip of her drink and she leans back, looking at him with less judgment now. More... sympathy, if you could call it that. Empathy, maybe. “Not the kindest few months ‘round here. Sorry about your friends.” One of them was hers, too, but hardly close enough for her to grieve like others have. Still, though... sucks. “They give you any news on your friend? I’ve seen her posters around town. Didn’t exactly know her well, but uh... seemed nice. Seems nice.” A correction, there. The girl — Christ, what the hell was her name — isn’t gone. Not necessarily. Not confirmed. Not yet.

[ingridgagnon]

@quinn-cameron​

Not really anything social made Quinn comfortable, but he appreciated her giving him the option to choose. He wasn’t going to say either one though, since he at the moment didn’t feel like it was necessary. “ Well the investigation seems to be done or at least if it isn’t they stopped going by the shop. I’m offering to help rebuild it, but I haven’t heard anything beyond that. I tend to stay away from the council or police unless I have to, so I don’t know there either. “ Quinn admitted before nodding his head. “ It is what it is. We can’t go back, we just have to move on and learn to cope. You okay lately?”

“Yours too, huh?” Ingrid shakes her head, jaw working. “Funny how quickly they give up on shit around here.” A cold case didn’t feel too cold when you still remembered the burning feeling of a knife between your ribs each night. But what does she know? She knows Quinn well enough, though, and he admits it then and there: he won’t go to the council. But maybe it’s about time someone does. “You coughing up your own money, then?” Bullshit, too, isn’t it? Insurance had only helped her so much, but she’s got to have a business. His question makes her sigh, and she shrugs. “Okay? Yeah, I’m okay. Should probably move on but, you know... can’t seem to. Not yet.” Hands in pockets, she thinks for a moment, eyes off toward the horizon before she reaches out in a rare way. Advice seeking isn’t like her, but hell, neither is getting stabbed. “Thinkin’ maybe I should say something. To Maksim, or — fuckin’ someone. I just can’t keep watching over my shoulder, you know? And I’m pissed as hell thinking someone’s wandering around with my blood on their damn hands and getting away with it. Clark’s, too. It’s bullshit.”

[ingridgagnon]

@marielle-oleary​

Mari can’t help the natural creases that form above her brow, the worry. Other than her shop blowing up, what is going on, exactly? Adam resurfaced from the river months ago and she still hasn’t been to visit? Well, that’s none of Marielle’s business, but she is curious. Instead of prodding, she nods, sending Ingrid a light smile. “He told me about that. I came here before he showed up again, he’s… well, he’s my first Riverborn, I guess. I don’t really get it, but he seems to be doing just fine now. He’s quite talented, doesn’t surprise me at all he helped you too.” Makes sense, sounds like something Adam would get involved in. For a moment she thinks about asking Ingrid for an appointment once she opens up again. Marielle doesn’t have many tattoos, but she certainly doesn’t have any enchanted ones. “Right, you eh…you do actually seem like you would do a fine job at it,” she chuckles. Perhaps it’s just another similarity that proves they’re related. It does bring a smile to Mari’s lips, knowing she and her granddaughter have like qualities. Apparently sarcasm is one of those as well. Marielle chuckles, “yeah, that definitely won’t help shit for a fire…maybe a sprinkler system would do some good? I say set up some booby traps as well, can’t be too careful, and you can’t always trust technology.” No, she didn’t have moving walls or swinging knives like something out of Indiana Jones. But she does put trip wires around the shop, ones that will activate a call to Lethe PD and sleeping darts whenever tripped. That’s served her better than any alarm system in the past. 

This granddaughter of hers also seems to be mildly impressed she’s so prepared, especially when she mentions the bit about getting a second gun. Do people not do that? Well…nowadays people do misuse them. What she really wants to ask though, something that’s been on her mind for a while now, is the state of her daughter. Maybe she has no right to ask, especially if the person she’s asking if Ingrid, but well…now that she’s so close, it’s hard not to. Looking it up online is nothing compared to hearing it from family. She needs to know. “No, I don’t need anything just uh…well, maybe I do need something. Information, I suppose,” Marielle begins, averting her gaze from Ingrid momentarily so she can gather her thoughts. “What I mean to ask is, how is your mother? I know…I heard about your father, but Melissa, I…I never knew. I thought maybe I could eh…I could ask you. If that’s…if you’re willing to talk about your mother.” 

“Oh? What gave that away? Here I thought I was being charming.” That’s sarcasm, too, and Ingrid allows a small smile with it, not sure why exactly she’s trying to reassure this woman. Not in the mood for picking a fight, beyond anything else. The suggestions tempt her to roll her eyes. As if she hadn’t thought about sprinklers... but she holds it back, just nodding. “Yeah, the new place is a little more up to date. More fire protection, better security system. But uh, maybe I’ll get some poison darts, too. You know, just for shits and giggles.” There, see? Still easy enough. Almost banter, but still too close to small talk. Never one to handle that well, Ingrid cuts to the chase, crossing her legs and leaning back to look at Marielle full on before she inquires about what brought her here. A brow raises at the vagueness. “Information, huh?” What’s she got that’s worth desiring? Certainly not a Lethe insider... oh, fuck. No, not a Lethe insider at all, but she’s an insider on this. A regular orphan nowadays, too. How is your mother? Cold in the ground, that’s the first retort on her tongue. It’s a good thing Mari keeps on talking, stammering, allowing Ingrid the time to fight it back. There’s malice there, yeah. But with the news she’s bound to deliver, well... seems harsh enough. No need to barb it with quips that her mother might’ve deserved, but Mari probably doesn’t. So Ingrid just sighs, a wearier sound than she expected. And she gets on with it. 

“Uh... yeah. I can talk about her. But there’s not, uh... not much to say nowadays.” Biding her time, avoiding the gaze of this inquisitive grandmother. The loss of a child... talk about being the bearer of bad news. She starts with something gentler — still a hard pill to swallow, but not...well...that. “I left home when I was eighteen. My mom and I weren’t exactly, uh, the best of friends. She had her demons, so you could say. Not that I was an angel child, ‘cause I wasn’t. But, um. I left. Drifted around a while ‘til I found out what exactly I am and my dad told me to come here.” Sounds like a standard enough story, but isn’t it wrought with the ghosts? The dead, so inevitable when she isn’t actively avoiding them. Out with it, then. “I, uh... I didn’t see her after that. Not until, well, uh...” Fuck. “She died when I was twenty-four. Liver failure, they said. Seven years ago, now. Didn’t have a funeral or anything, but I went up, to uh... to settle things.” Why is that worth sharing? To tell her that someone had handled it? Settled it all in the end, interred her quietly, and returned back to Lethe? But there’s something else worth saying, too: “I didn’t know you were out there to tell, or um...I would’ve let you know sooner.”

[ingridgagnon]

Date: December 3rd 2020 Time: 10:38 pm Location: Terrence’s

Blame the drink or two already in her, but she’s got a critical eye. Maybe not critical so much as analytical, reading the faces around her at the bar. She didn’t come with company, after all -- who would she bring here anyway? Wouldn’t drag Morgan here, and who else does she have? Her grandmother? Snorting at that thought, Ingrid polishes off another beer just in time to catch sight of a somewhat familiar member of the staff. Perky, usually. But looking less so today. It’s enough to raise her brow, and the alcohol in her bloodstream convinces her to speak up about it: “Hey. Bradley, right?” The werewolf pauses, waiting to be corrected if necessary. Since she’s not, she goes on. “Hate to say it, but you look, uh... less chipper than usual. Not that I’m giving you customer service advice, ‘cause I’m sure as hell not.” Another beat and Ingrid sighs. Hell, she’s bored. Maybe lonely. Should probably just text Morgan, but instead, she pries. “Penny for your thoughts? Feel like maybe I need some entertainment, or at least a conversation, but you don’t necessarily have to give it.” 

@bradley-bradshaw​

[ingridgagnon]

@marielle-oleary​

Well, this little impromptu ‘get to know you’ with her granddaughter is going about as well as Marielle expected it to go. Not horrible, just…okay. They’re not fighting, Ingrid doesn’t seem to be mad at her, and she did offer to talk outside, so that’s…something. And of course there’s the bottle of liquor she sent as some sort of shop opening gift, that has to mean something, right? Or perhaps Mari is reading into all of this and coming up with the wrong answers. Mari nods, “yes I use enchanted materials, mostly things that Adam and I come up with. Do you know Adam Mallory? He’s the one who’s been helping me with the magical logistics of it all,” she explains, looking at her granddaughter then. “Your tattoos, the ink you use, it’s enchanted too then? Did you also work with witches? I know a bit about the trail and error part,” she snorts, head shaking. Enchanting things isn’t as easy as it would appear to be, much to Marielle’s dismay. “Well that’s good,” Mari nods, “let me know if you need anything to speed up the process. Even if it’s just yelling at people. I don’t mind doing that,” she says with a shrug. Maybe Ingrid would need nothing from her, and that’s okay, but she feels the need to offer it anyway, hoping her granddaughter will let her into her life little by little. She doesn’t deserve it, but regardless, she remains hopeful.

“Seriously? Shit…maybe I can talk to my brother, he’s in charge of most of the town’s IT. I’m sure he can recommend something, maybe we can boost security on your shop so you’re at least not targeted again.” That’s her main worry, that the arsonist isn’t finished and he’ll come back. Who knows where he’ll go next or if he’ll try to finish the job. Best to take precautions just in case. Mari sighs, “well I’m glad you’re not worried.” Part of her is worries, yes, but that arsonist has another thing coming if he tries to burn down her shop. Because it’s not just her shop she worries for, it’s Alistair, who lives right above. “I’m prepared. I had Andreas- that’s eh, my brother; I had him double security around the shop. Even bought another gun, but he doesn’t know about that bit,” she shrugs. “Trust me when I say the place is well protected.” And with more weapons than just a gun, that’s for sure. Seriously, Mari’s ready for people to fuck with her and she’s sorry for whoever eventually does. “Anyway, I uh…I’m guessing you know that I didn’t just come here to give you the basket.” Best to get to her point now, eh? Not to waste either of their time.

She’s not usually one for giving insider information, on life as well as business, but this grandmother of hers is earnest enough to be almost painful and hardly seems like competition. So Ingrid nods. “Yeah, they’re enchanted. Or they were, or whatever. Adam Mallory actually helped me, too. Way back when, when I first started. Long before his trip into the river. Haven’t really spoken to him since he returned, but... guess I’ve had my own shit going on.” That’s a pang of guilt for another time, though, and instead Ingrid concedes a huff of a laugh. “I’m pretty alright with yelling at people. But, uh, thanks. ‘Preciate the offer.” The use of a plural doesn’t escape her -- we -- but Ingrid clenches her jaw against protesting. This is well-intentioned, and it’s not the sort of thing she should turn her nose up at. Or so Morgan would probably tell her. Besides, Mari’s right. She needs better security, unless she wants another knife between the ribs. So she nods again. “Uh, yeah. That’s the plan. Get some cameras, or something. Had an alarm system, but, you know. Fat load of good that does when shit’s on fire.” She gives an almost rueful sigh, her gaze somewhere out on the horizon instead of looking for this woman that seems to seek so much from her. What’s there to say? Ingrid simply listens instead, though the comment on the gun earns a sidelong glance and a raise of her eyebrow. Color her impressed. Shit, maybe they are related. “Not a bad idea.” That’s all she offers aloud, though, mirroring her shrug after the comment about protection. It’s not that she has some deep-rooted care for this supposed family of hers. Not really. Take it as business owner helping business owner, if you will. Until she can’t. Ingrid sighs once more at the nervous question, looking at the anxious selkie head-on then. “Yeah, figured as much. You need something?” She's in no place to be lending things nowadays -- time, maybe, but most of the money she'd gotten from her father has gone into restoring the shop. But she won't jump to conclusions. Not yet, anyhow.

[ingridgagnon]

voodoo child | ingrid & morgan

[ingridgagnon]

@morgancortez​

Her life is going to change in the next several seconds, be it for something good or bad, its too soon to say. She hasn’t had to put her heart on the line in years, and she forgets how nerve-wracking it is to talk about things like feelings, to take the risk that someone might send her packing. Ingrid, though, is looking at her, and she takes strength in her presence. Their eyes stay locked, and she speaks the words into existence. I love you, and she thinks the look on Ingrid’s face is priceless, thinks that somebody she’ll be able to look back on it with something like fond laughter. Morgan swallows back a jumble of messy explanations, holding tight to her fingers, and she laughs, more shakily than she likes to admit, as Ingrid swears. She can’t worry, not when the hand holding hers is steady, and sure, and Ingrid hasn’t been one to sit on something when it needs to be said. Ingrid doesn’t make her wait, doesn’t make her work for it, and her apprehension dissolves, forgotten, as Ingrid moves closer to her. The hand on hers is gone, but the touch isn’t, and she shivers as the touch, shoulders relaxing, sinking into the feeling of something she’s only imagined. “Before you were hurt? Before I came back?” she asks softly.

There’s a space between them, a last gap to bridge, and Morgan steps into it. No more hesitating, no more worrying. Morgan loves her, and Ingrid loves her, and nothing else matters. Ingrid kisses her first, and she can’t help smiling against her lips, hands finding their way to rest lightly on Ingrid’s waist. Her fingers brush against the exposed skin, but she is lost in the kiss, in the way Ingrid holds onto her. Lost more as her hands slide into her hair, as the kiss deepens, and her head is spinning when they break apart. Morgan doesn’t pull away, and she can’t help the wide smile on her face. “I love you,” she repeats, smile wider still. Morgan bumps her nose into Ingrid’s gently as she sighs. More honesty, and she draws back a little, linking their hands again, and she kisses her once more, briefly, relieved she has an excuse to do it. She isn’t sure what to label them, but as she brings them over to the chairs around the table, she doesn’t mind. She laughs abruptly, shaking her head at her own obliviousness. “All this time and I didn’t notice, I’m sorry.” Morgan plays with her fingers.“You have far more patience than I ever gave you credit, I didn’t even last half a year knowing this. I thought I would blurt it out on accident half a dozen times.”

It’s the sort of thing worth being embarrassed over, really. A schoolgirl crush to say the least, and a deeply unrequited one at that. Until now. Until Morgan says words she hadn’t even imagined in her dreams. Embarrassment will come later, maybe. But honesty comes now, as Ingrid nods quietly in response to Morgan’s questions. “Long time before that, yeah.” After the night in the alleyway that had seemed like the end of all things. Except it wasn’t, and Morgan had proven that. Morgan, who dropped everything to be by her side. Still not sure how she deserved that -- how she deserves this, cradling Morgan’s hands like she does. Kissing her like she does. That’s even more of a fantasy fulfilled, as hands on her waist pull her forward, providing so many electrifying points of contact, her own hands exploring even after they part for air. Tracing cheekbone and jaw, their contours imagined but never before touched. Impossible. Until now. Until a laugh comes from her at Morgan’s repeated affection, and she nods, unbothered by how their noses bump. Ingrid’s sure she could say it until the end of time, or at least all night, if she allows herself to start. So she simply nods, quickly placated by another kiss. The stuff of dreams. She allows herself to be guided, then, even the loss of some proximity seems painful. Sitting across from Morgan never is, though, especially when her fingers are being tinkered with. “Don’t apologize.” She’s quick to admonish, her head shaking. “It wasn’t fair for me to feel that way, so I kept it to myself. You know me. Never, uh, never forward with feelings.” 

Until now. Until her lips press to Morgan’s knuckles, another action she’d barely even allowed herself to contemplate before. “Half a year, though. That’s... that’s something.” She’s bound toward something else, too, more words she’ll probably be flustered over later, when there’s the sound of glass shattering outside. Raucous laughter follows it, so it’s not all that troublesome, but still, Ingrid sighs. “Never a dull moment, huh? Oughta get that -- hey.” She shakes her head as Morgan moves to stand. “Probably stupid drunks. I’ll clean it up, cut some more people off. Don’t worry about it.” She’s quick to depart, despite her glance back over her shoulder. Just as quick to return, though she’d made a request in the midst of her beeline back to the kitchen. “All good. C’mon.” Ingrid guides the party’s hostess to the dance floor rather than returning to the bar, her smile revived when her request is fulfilled. She drops Morgan’s hand only to hold out her own again as the lights of the party shift, changing the mood alongside the slow song she’d asked of the DJ. “Dance with me?”

[quinn-cameron]

Date: November 24 Location: Outside of Quinn’s cabin in the woods

Quinn had a lot of free time lately. The auto shop was still not back in order, so the werewolf who had a penchant for avoiding people was spending most of his days working on finishing his cabin. He hadn’t moved out of his apartment entirely, but he was spending some nights in the unfinished structure out of reluctance to leave He had spent nearly ten years of night out under the stars, sleeping in the back of his truck was not a big deal. The sun was about to set and he knew it was time to start packing up, but the werewolf head footsteps that sounded relatively close. He leaned up and raised a brow at seeing someone walk near the area. “ Did you get lost or are on a hike or something?” Quinn replied glancing over. “Surely this isn’t a personal visit?”

[ingridgagnon]

Seeking people out isn’t a hobby of hers. No, really, it’s not ideal. But she's not an idiot, either. If she’s going to try and address the bullshit in this town, it’s better to do it with some backup. That’s how Ingrid ends up here, being squinted at by a fellow werewolf who’d suffered his own losses the night of the parade. “Hard to get lost in a town with a seven mile radius.” Ingrid replies shortly, her arms folded. Her eyes scan Quinn, as if she’ll find an answer written on him, but she’s hardly ever so lucky. Has to ask. “Sure, yeah, call it personal. Or business, if that makes you more comfortable.” The tattoo artist shrugs, then gets to the point, never one to dawdle. “Guess I’m wondering if you’ve heard anything since the auto shop burnt down. Anything from the council or the police.” A beat, and then she remembers her manners: “And, uh, wondering how you’re doing. Bit of a shit show that night and since for me, so... can only imagine how it’s been for you.”

@quinn-cameron​

[ingridgagnon]

@marielle-oleary​

“You’re welcome…” The basket is awkward, yes…Marielle is not quite sure what she expected. Part of her actually assumed Ingrid would not take it. But they’re trying, she supposes, because family is family. While Ingrid sets the basket down, she takes the opportunity to peak inside the hotel room. Again, Mari’s not really sure what to expect. Maybe she’ll see something that gives her some insight into her granddaughter’s life, maybe she’ll find another person in there with her. Is she dating anyone? How are things with the shop? How is your mother? All questions at the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t feel it’s the right time to ask them. Not outside a hotel room with a housekeeper coming down the hall and two cats nipping at Ingrid’s heels. They look skeptically at Marielle, who looks back at them with wide eyes. She wonders if they would get along with her cat…Munchie loves other cats, though she mostly just likes to use them as pillows when she sleeps.

“Sure,” Mari nods, stepping back and shoving her hands into her coat pockets. She’s bundled up, hat, scarf, gloves and sweater underneath included. Business talk, huh, that’s how what she expected to start out with but…perhaps it makes sense. It’s something they have in common, something she already knows about and the reason Mari ‘came here’ to begin with. She snorts, “neither did I before I started messing around with them. The whole soap making processes is a little crazy. I can show you sometime, if you want.” The fact that Ingrid even came outside to talk to her is a blessing, quite honestly, so she won’t push too hard on another encounter just yet. Her lips roll back as she thinks of a casual way to bring up the questions she has swimming around in her mind. “How is your business doing? The uh, clean up, I hope it’s going well. I haven’t heard anything about them catching the arsonist yet. Apparently he’s still out there hitting up shops,” she frowns, looking over at her granddaughter. “Are you worried at all?”

There are other things she could be doing right now. Hovering around the shop and critiquing the new wainscoting, for one. Or finally painting the new logo she’s had outlined on the window for weeks. Sleeping, even, or giving another attempt at the cross-stitching she’s been told is so therapeutic. But instead she’s sitting out in the cool autumn air with a pair of blue eyes peering so hard at her that she feels like she could burst into flame. Hell of a time for a family reunion. Ingrid can’t help how her brow raises at the evaluation of soap making -- crazy hardly seems like the word she’d imagine -- but what does she know? Instead, she just nods. “Yeah, uh, I’m sure it’s interesting.” It’s neither a rejection nor an acceptance of the extended offer. “You make enchanted stuff, then? Or just stick to the same old? I had to learn the art of enchanted inks to get any business around here, which was, uh... trial and error.” The talk of the tattoo shop continues then, and really, it’s easier than any probing familial questions. Even if it brings images of blood and ashes to mind. “I mean, business isn’t booming, obviously. But it looks like an actual shop again, so that’s something. Hoping to open doors before the new year.” The next comment earns a sigh, a flare of emotion other than awkwardness. “Yeah. It’s bullshit. This town should actually embrace the twenty-first century and get some decent security measures. My cameras were fried and no one else is any help.” The question earns a raised brow. Maybe she should be touched by the worry. But Ingrid just shrugs. “Nah. Not worried. I’ll be better prepared this time. Any idiot who wants to pick a second fight will have another thing coming. How ‘bout you, though?” Pessimistic, really, but she’s a realist, and levels her gaze with Mari’s to show as much. “Can’t feel great, opening your doors while there’s some jackass out there burning businesses to the ground for shits and giggles.”

[ingridgagnon]

Date: November 14th, 2020 Time: 12:34pm Location: Oddities Inn Status: Closed @ingridgagnon​

Strange as it was to receive a bottle of tequila from her granddaughter as a, ‘shop opening’ gift, it did delight Marielle. She thought of it as an olive branch of sorts, and it is a nice bottle of tequila. Also strange though, how could Ingrid have known she would even like tequila? Lucky guess, she supposes. Margaritas are her favorite drink. Maybe it’s even stranger that Mari looks into where Ingrid is staying, seeing she’s currently listed under some hotel in town. Finding the exact room is a bit harder, but the owner of Oddities Inn didn’t seem likely to hand over such information on her own. No, instead when she isn’t looking, Marielle sneaks in through the back and looks it up. Now she’s standing in front of what’s supposed to be her granddaughter’s hotel room door, right arm holding a basket full of products. Is it excessive? Yes. Is she overcompensating for years and years of regret? Mari clears her throat nervously, knocking on the door. Also a yes.

“Hi,” she breathes out when Ingrid answers the door, her heart beating faster when she sees the look on her face. “I, eh, got your gift. And I guess I sort of just…did this,” Marielle gestures towards the basket of products, handing them over to Ingrid. “They’re for you. Stuff I made for werewolves, scents I thought you might, eh…like, I guess.”

Living in the inn for as long as she has been means that habits have formed. This has become a routine of sorts, rolling her eyes at a knock on the door and shaking her head, beginning her daily dismissal of turndown service. “Gina, seriously. I’ll survive without a made bed--” She opens the door, expecting the housekeeper and is about to give another attempt at dismissal until she realizes who she’s looking at. “Oh. Uh.” Instead of a well-meaning inn employee, her grandmother is staring at her with gifts in arm. Jesus. First and foremost, it’s worth wondering how she even got here. Morgan isn’t really the type to be handing out Ingrid’s personal information, but maybe she wanted to force her hand here. They’ll discuss that later, though. For now: “Um, hi.” She nods at the mention of the received gift. Shit, if she’d known it’d lead to this... but she shouldn’t think that way. Should be grateful for the family she’s got. So Ingrid just nods, accepting the gift basket even if her gut tells her to do the opposite. “Um... thank you. That’s... generous.” Ingrid awkwardly holds the basket in her arms for a moment before setting it aside, facing her grandmother with a weary sigh just in time for the housekeeper to come bustling down the hallway. What’s more, her cats are at her ankles now, staring up at this strange guest with curiosity and vague malice. Apples don’t fall far, or whatever. “Here, uh... let’s walk.” Clearly this grandma of hers didn’t just come to drop off a basket, and Ingrid isn’t going to beat around the bush. So she shoos the cats back into the room, grabs a jacket, and nods down the hall. It’s only after they’ve descended the stairs and wandered outside, exposed to the slight breeze and drifting leaves that Ingrid tries again. “How’s business been? In your shop, I mean. Can't say I know much about, uh... soap selling.”

[ingridgagnon]

voodoo child | ingrid & morgan

[ingridgagnon]

@morgancortez​

Morgan doesn’t want to share any of this with someone else. Not the cake, which only matters in that it brings something soft to Ingrid’s face when she sees it, but the time with Ingrid in general. Its been a month since the situation at Ingrid’s shop, and the fire, and the near death, and it still makes Morgan shiver to think about it. She doesn’t want to waste anymore time – and yet she’s said nothing about the kiss. Nor has Ingrid, though she doesn’t know if her friend even remembers, and she knows what Ingrid is asking before she even finishes speaking. The cake is on the counter, momentarily ignored, and Morgan chews on her lip. “I can explain,” she blurts out, fingers finding a path through her hair, messing up the carefully arranged curls in her worry. Ingrid calls it a dream, and not a nightmare, but Morgan feels like she’s reading into it. “I, uh, I thought you were going to die in there, and I wouldn’t have had the chance to tell you.” She feels like Ingrid: single sentences, and long pauses, and stumbling words uncharacteristic to Morgan, but Ingrid, at least, might know how to say the things stuck in Morgan’s throat. “I wouldn’t have a chance to tell you that I love you.” Morgan moves around the table to stand next to her, one of her hands drifting down to Ingrid’s, and though she shakes, she finds it easier to speak now that the first part is over. How much lighter she feels to say it! To have it out in the open, like she is no longer a balloon a hair too full. No more cutting off her words at the last second, worrying about which one is too much. She takes a breath, and continues. “So I kissed you, it was the only thing I could think of to do. Then you were okay and I didn’t think you remembered. You had so many other things going on, it didn’t seem right to talk about it, and then I didn’t know how to say it when you were better. I mean, no matter what, you’re my best friend, I’ll take that over anything,”she ends, taking in the look on Ingrid’s face and bringing her words to an abrupt halt. 

So she hadn’t been dreaming. That’s what Morgan’s statement affirms, and Ingrid finds herself exhaling in relief. It’d been one hell of a question to ask, and she’d been braced for a denial, a rejection. To be laughed at, though she knows that’s not Morgan’s style. It’s reassuring. Yet even this, this not acceptance yet not denial... it’s not enough. So in the quiet of a frightened pause, Ingrid allows herself to push forward, toward the truth: “Tell me what?” Morgan looks anxious, Ingrid can see that much, and so she doesn’t like pushing into it. But she needs this answer. She gets it, alright. And it’s not like they haven’t said this before. This is different, though. Morgan’s wide eyes say as much, as do her trembling fingers. Ingrid almost hates to know she’s the cause of that sort of anxiousness, but the words preceding it had been sweet enough to let her forget. Instead, she reassures in the ways she knows Morgan will take it best: her fingers twine with Morgan’s without hesitation, and she keeps the eye contact steady and sure. She’s been certain of this for longer than she cares to admit. Since before fiancés and lost parents and businesses owned. But she’d never expected reciprocation. That’s Morgan, though. Always subverting her expectations. “Hey -- hey.” Firm but soft, her words sever Morgan’s. When she’s got a firm hold on her gaze, Ingrid takes a moment to just nod. How she wishes she could go back in time. Tell herself from a decade ago that she’d end up here. Like this. 

“Shit.” That’s not a negative, no. Far from it. Just... a remark on her own surprise. “Morgan, I...” Her lips pin together, the words hard to come by, even if she feels it. And so her gaze simply searches her friend’s again, and she nods once more. “Yeah. Yeah, me too. For, uh, for a long time. And I didn’t remember, actually. Or well, I thought, you know, I must’ve made it up. But if I had remembered, um...” Her hand drops Morgan’s and she takes steps to close the small space between them, her own exhale shaky. Ingrid’s fingers lift then, tracing a gentle line from shoulder to neck, taking her time. How lucky she is, to touch Morgan like this. It doesn’t escape her. She’s slow with it, as much to savor as to give Morgan the chance to push her away. To change her mind. But she doesn’t, even as Ingrid’s palm cups her jaw in the way only dreams have allowed before. “If I’d remembered, I would’ve done this much sooner.” And she kisses her, slow and careful, the light in the kitchen impossibly bright. Illuminating it all. But Morgan deserves to hear the fact of the matter, doesn’t she? The thought occurs to Ingrid only once her fingers are in the other girl’s hair, once they’ve pulled away for air. Maybe it’s their proximity that gives her the nerve. “I love you, too, Morgan. Of course I love you.”