STATUS: closed for @elijahfalvey LOCATION: rory's place
It is quite possible Rory’s had it just about up to here with this week.
Used to take a lot more to get him to this point — likes to think it still does, where it counts — but he’s gone through nearly two weeks of pointed silence from Jack without so much as an explanation and Annie’s acting out because the silence has of course been extended to her and it’s — a lot. More than he feels he’s capable of dealing with alone. He’s never seen Annie this defiant before, this accusatory, and suddenly he feels a thousand times lonelier than he has in months.
He’s pawned her off to Valley for the day — seems like the only way to get her to not be angry is to get her excited about spending the day with literally anyone who isn’t Rory at the moment — and the quiet of the house, which he’d expected to come as some sort of solace, is actually driving him quite mad. He’s thinking about whether or not a drive to O’Malley’s after Elijah’s arrival would be worth it when there’s a knock on the door: almost as if the mere thought had materialized the other man. Glancing around the house — and, yes, fantastic, it certainly looks like a seven-year-old lives here — he realizes he’s no idea where he’s put Hattie’s jacket, despite it being the only reason Eli’s coming over.
Swearing under his breath, he hurries over to the front door and pulls it open, offering Elijah a tight smile. “Sorry, mate,” he leaves the door open as a silent invitation, turning to make his way to Annie’s room. “I thought I had her jacket ready — give me a minute, yeah? I’ll look for it.” Once he’s inside Annie’s room, he stops in his tracks — she’s usually so good about cleaning up after herself, but lately there’s just been piles and piles of toys and clothes and what he thinks are rocks? He hopes they’re rocks.
He pointedly ignores the way she’s shoved every wood-carved wolf to the corner of her room, moved from where they used to have a home on her bookshelf, all of them piled on top of each other carelessly. With a deep sigh, he begins scouring through floor piles, hoping for the best. “Sorry she brought it home with her,” he calls out, in an attempt not to be rude. “She said she was holding it for her or something and couldn’t find her after school.” He picks up an old sweatshirt that smells like it should’ve been in the laundry ages ago. “Do you, uh — do you remember what color it was?”