Sam was cooking. Sam was cooking because Todd would have been upset if she didn’t eat. Her hands shook as she stirred the casserole’s filling. She felt herself drifting in thought as she worked. The scent of Mexican food filled the kitchen, from her extra efforts. She could barely breathe as she looked down into the last pot.
The news that morning had declared the Crytpid dead. It had declared Todd dead, though no one knew that’s who it was. His mask had been found, broken and twisted, in a warehouse full of blood with two bodies. So much blood, they had said, that there was minimal chance he had survived. She’d been in a bit of shock since then, functioning, doing what she needed to, but not really knowing what she was doing. It was like she was on autopilot.
She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it. Todd wasn’t dead. She would know. The same way she had known that Alice was actually dead when she’d woken up. She’d be feeling the emptiness now. The panic, the severing of ties, the hollowness that came with losing half your soul. Todd had to still be alive because she still felt him there, inside her heart, in her soul. He was somewhere, and now she knew he was most likely hurt.
She looked down at her hands, hands that had just helped Adelyn get home, that had helped her. The hands that had broken so many, before. The hands that had saved so many, before. They were shaking. She had to steel herself, she had to pull herself together. He needed her. He needed her to find him. He hadn’t run away. He hadn’t left her.
He was out there, somewhere, waiting for her.
She was lost in her head as she cooked. Even as she felt like she’d forgotten something important. Something… something she should try to remember. But still, it escaped her tired and panicked mind.
Bea had her chauffeur drop her off a block away from Sam's apartment, deciding she would rather walk the rest of the way. She hadn't wanted to come, not after Sam's outburst at the press conference, and...everything that followed. Beatrice was tired, worn. Her old injuries had been aggravated during her ordeal with Hazel.
Bea grumbled to herself, wondering if she'd always be indebted to someone. Sam, Mary, The Resonants.
But she couldn't say no Sam. Not after Sam saved her life. And, a home cooked meal was a home cooked meal. Bea didn't have a lot of those. Amos wasn't a fan of cooking, unless it was carbonara.
Beatrice had dressed casually, in jeans and a loose peasant blouse, her hair tied back in a loose bun. She had carefully used makeup to cover the welt on her cheek.
She headed up the stairs and knocked on Sam's apartment door.
Sam felt the knock on the outer hallway door. She paused, searching for the vibrations she was feeling. Was that… but why would she be…?
Shit.
She’d invited Beatrice Waters over for dinner. That’s what she had forgotten. She looked at the casserole filling, bubbling away on her stove, and quickly made her way over to the interior door. She paused “Aqua Regia” by Sleep Token on her record player as she passed by it, quickly slipping her sandals on. She was out the door and down the short hall in moments, opening the exterior door.
There was a pause as she opened it to Beatrice, looking at her with tired eyes. She knew what the younger woman would see. Sam, with unruly curls that were frizzing and dry, tired eyes with heavy bruising under them, looking small in one of Todd’s sweaters, that were ungodly big on her. She knew how bad she looked. She knew how much of a difference the last week and a half had made. Trying to summon some enthusiasm, she smiled at Bea, tilting her head slightly in greeting.
“Hi, Bea! Welcome, I’m sorry, it might be a bit of a mess right now. I might have forgotten you were coming by this week for dinner. You picked a good day, though, I’m making a lot of food right now. Come in, come in.”
She gestured for Beatrice to come inside, out of the still cold January air. Especially dressed in such light clothing, when there was still snow on the ground.
In all honesty, Beatrice was surprised Sam hadn't canceled. She was welcome to step inside the apartment, having left her coat in the car. The cold helped with the aches. She avoided glancing at the couch, where she had been stitched up after Cryptid had found her in a dumpster. She didn't need to conjure up old ghosts. Though, looking at Sam, she wasn't the only one going through the ringer right now.
"Do you need help in the kitchen?" She offered.
"I also wanted to say thank you, for inviting me...I wanted to apologize for the press conference. I may have come off a bit...harsh." Beatrice said politely. No use beating around the bush. That would make for an awkward dinner. "After you saved my life, I know it might have felt...ungrateful."
“Oh, you don’t need to help! Why don’t you pick out an album to put on, and we can sit and have a nice dinner in just a few minutes.” She smiled weakly, but paused at Beatrice’s next statement. Her smile turned a little softer, and a little more genuine. Of course Beatrice would be worried about something like that. Sam shook her head.
“No, no apologizing. You were acting in the interest of your company, and I was acting in the interest of my charity. That doesn’t mean we aren’t on good terms. I can separate work from people. You want a drink of some kind? Tea, juice, water?” She started moving back toward the kitchen, to roll out the casserole’s top and place it over the dish.
She didn’t blame Beatrice for how she responded to Sam’s own hostility. That would be like blaming an agent for having to deliver you an eviction notice. It wasn’t their fault that thre bank decided to take your home. And it wasn’t Beatrice’s fault that she was the one who had to do all the talking.
