As we already know, I absolutely adore your work with Marigold and Wesker! Could we get some fluff of them just having a moment/break from all of the intensity in their lives?
Remember to take care of yourself!💕
Here we go!
Fluff, SFW, a night in with dinner and a movie.
I kind of assume readers have seen the Godfather part 1, but it's not critical. There's a part two coming up in a day or so that's more angst. Enjoy!
@whateverthefuckyouwantiguess, @mydisenchantedeulogy, @momma-vi, @shions-new-blog-of-stuff, @lottathoughts, @organs-fanfics
Downtime
December 9, 1998: An undisclosed location in the northeastern United States
Marigold passed a dubious look over the spread on the coffee table. “I don’t know what this is.”
Wesker ran a finger along the row of VHS tapes that has collected on the bookshelf. Someone in the facility had put out a poll of the “best movies of the 80s and 90s” and acquired the results, very likely on behalf of the woman standing behind him. Marigold had been going through them with the intensity of an Umbrella intern trying to hit a deadline as a means of filling in the blanks of her time out of the world since “disappearing” back in 1981.
There were a fair number of terrible action films from the eighties, some passable science fiction- he’d seen her watching Gattaca a week ago. Ada Wong had apparently shown up in the breakroom with upscale fashion catalogs and copies of Se7en and The Fifth Element the day after Marigold had met with the member of the HCF board. Three days later, several packages of clothing had appeared at the front desk, with a post/it inscribed in block letters: ‘WHAT’S IN THE BOX?!’
On reflection, the two women were alike enough to either hate each other on sight, or take up a sort of quiet liaison. Given how carefully Marigold was staying out of Ms. Wong’s space while in her company, combined with the easy camaraderie and Ms. Ashford’s known preferences, it was something to watch. But also something to let lie until something actually developed there.
Absently, he responded without turning around. “It’s sushi. There’s a restaurant in the next town over that sometimes does catering.” He smirked a little. He had no idea if Marigold knew how to use chopsticks, but it could go either way. Either way, it would be amusing.
There were several horror films in the stack, which Marigold had made a beeline for initially. “It’s not about the bad dialogue,” she’d explained when he’d held up the third installment of the Body Snatchers series. The ones that get popular tend to be the ones that strike something that gets under the audience’s skin.”
Someone had ignored the parameters of the poll and tossed in the Godfather trilogy. Curious, he tipped the case for the first film out of the shelf and held it up. “It’s it not your timeline, but it’s considered a classic now. Have you seen it?”
Marigold stepped up by his shoulder to peer at the case. After a long moment, she said, “I could watch it again.” Her brows furrowed together. “I liked it a lot at the time. I put off seeing the sequel for some time, though. Not sure why.”
“I haven’t seen it in a while. I wasn’t sure if you knew how to use chopsticks. That didn’t start to become popular until about ten years ago,” he nodded back at the food. Marigold had changed into a black shift dress with long sleeves, falling back into presumably old habits of hiding the lines of her body under the formless draped fabric. Despite the highly physical nature of their relationship, the old customs of holding the world at a distance in deference to her mutation still held. They would work on that. She pinked slightly under his assessing gaze, but held firm.
Pushing through, she grimaced at his comment. “I’ve tried once or twice. It was…interesting.”
“It’s a three-hour film, and the food’s not about to get cold.”
Wesker had taken to removing his glasses while in her living quarters, and she could see the dark lines beginning to form under his eyes. Something was interfering with his ability to sleep again. She could hear his heart speed up as the tension of the hospital scene began to draw tight, though he remained otherwise composed. The body reacts, she thought to herself. Even if the mind shuts something out - grief, fear, trauma - the body remembers.
The film had reached the scene where Sonny Corleone was assassinated in broad daylight. Marigold blinked in sudden clarity- that was what this movie bothered her so much, now. When she had first seen the film, she had likened Vito to her belated father, and Barzini to Spencer. Later she would amend that assessment to Spencer being more of a Hyman Roth - a man scheming for ages to take full power under the guise of a concerned mentor. Years after seeing the film, she had taken their bait and rushed into Arklay, only to be taken out like Sonny. Worse still, her younger brother, Alexander, was no Michael Corleone - and he’d likely gone down (not dead) like Fredo, if anything. He'd already begun to feel the fire of Alexia’s resentment back in 1981, and without the moderating influence her presence might have brought -
She broke through her own thought. “I was supposed to retire after that bloody visit.”
Wesker looked at her sidelong, without turning his head. He’d been mindful to dissociate his presence from the incident as best he could these past few months, but he’d still been the face of it. “How would you have done it?”
She shrugged. On the screen, Vito Corleone was learning about the death of his eldest child. What would have happened had her own father lived? “There was always a strong chance I would have developed post-polio syndrome within the next few years, had I never gone on that trip. I had it when I was young. Frankly, it would have been an easy story to sell. The intermittent invalid story worked for a long time. People wanted to believe that I just lived a little harder because I’d likely die sooner.”
Wesker looked at her as she bent across to try for another piece of sushi. There was a nice mildness to the flavor that allowed for complexity. The unagi - it tasted a little like eel - was particularly good, and she said so. Wesker smirked. “That is eel. Different language. They probably ordered it frozen.”
She looked around the platter and eyed the sashimi. “Is this all raw?”
“It’s supposed to be fresh.”
”Not my question.”
“It’s supposed to be a delicacy…ah.” He’d initially interpreted her question as revulsion. The way she had darted forward with her chopsticks said otherwise. The thin filets were trickier to manage than the cylindrical sushi rolls, and after a moment, he plucked a piece out for himself, letting her see how it was done.
She finally managed a piece of salmon and chewed, thoughtful. “It doesn’t taste raw. Fermented, maybe? It’s a lighter taste than some of the gravlax from back home.” Off Wesker’s look, she said, “Americans have shockingly weak stomachs when it comes to seafood. It’s quite funny.” She plucked up a piece of salmon this time. “And I’m hungry.”
Wesker seemed torn between pursuing the line of questioning or allowing the flow of the conversation to take its own course. Marigold watched as he settled on a third option. “I’m sure your stomach is strong enough to handle that then,” he drawled, indicating a green dollop of…something…next to the delicate pink slices of ginger.
“That looks like a condiment.”
“Are you certain of that?” He plucked the entire thing up with his chopsticks and deposited it on the smaller sushi roll left available.
“Oh, now it doesn’t look like lies and trickery, surely,” Marigold responded with heavy sarcasm. She bit her lip. “This better be a poison-free bite,” she said, almost as an afterthought, as she reached down to take the piece he had tacitly dared her to eat, and began to chew. She swallowed, then made a face at him. “That was a lot of buildup for horseradish.”
“That was wasabi. It’s not the same.”
“It’s horseradish. Is this one of those things where people assume we have no tolerance for spicy food? I do not, in fact, have that problem.”
Wesker looked prepared to argue the point, then paused. “It’s strange that you felt you needed to qualify that it not be poisoned.”
Marigold shrugged, tucking her legs under her to curl up comfortably on the couch. “It’s not, really. I know this company I’ve kept well enough to assume it’s coming. There were a few people in and adjacent the company who were rather prolific with it. Confounding them was a bit of a hobby after a while. I don’t know if that ever changed.”
If we’re thinking of the same person, then no- I imagine not.”
Marigold wrinkled her nose at the thought while Wesker used the distraction to tug her over towards him. She tensed, then allowed herself to mold against his side. Wesker traced light fingers along the curve of her waist before pressing firm, holding her in place. “I can practically hear the gears turning him your head,” he murmured into her hair. “There’s at least another hour left of the film. No interrogation. No tricks. Can you trust that?” His fingers kept up their ministrations at her side with alternating pressure, kneading, stroking, teasing. The other kept a firm grip on her knee. The juxtaposition of the extremely normal evening and the slow intimacy of…whatever this was…wasn’t as jarring as she might have thought.
On the screen, Kay Adams was slowly giving ground to the Corleone heir’s cold overtures. On the couch, Marigold glanced up at Wesker through her lashes, slowly, allowing herself to finally relax into him. She could feel him beginning to relax in turn, like he has been waiting to see if she could take the small step toward him.
An hour of normal, simple intimacy. Surely she could allow that much, for herself.