[cork] you should see me in a crown | frank

december 2003

It had been raining for three days straight in Cork, which was about as lovely as the weather ever was in this part of Ireland. It was dark before five, it was dreary, and it was cold. Tucked comfortably inside her enchanted home, Nessa paid tiny mind to the weather as she sent her owl with a complaint to the diner. Ordering dinner from The Deli had become a bit of a guilty pleasure for the witch. The food was a nightmare when it came to cholesterol, but she loved it. For the last week, she'd been ordering something that Frank, the owner, had dreamed up. At first, she hated it (or pretended to), but now there was no point. Nessa had learned his name and that he was out of town for the holidays at the beginning of December, and she had been taking advantage of that information.

Nessa had not meant to find herself in the Deli, but agreeing to meet clients outside of Cork was becoming more and more commonplace these days. She'd stumbled into The Deli, not knowing that it was owned by the wizard who had returned an alarm system earlier in the month. And despite not having any of her (long list of) substitutions met, Nessa had ended up thoroughly enjoying the food she had been served. Not that she'd said as much or left much of a tip.

The witch had been ordering under a fake name because she was too stubborn to give him the compliment of her repeat business, and she had gotten delivery even more frequently this month. Today was the fourth night in a row, and the young woman fully expected the same service as every other night this week. On-time, piping hot, and delivered by a young wizard who stared at her in that way that she just loved. Nessa didn't dress up for nothing, after all, not even when she was "dressed down" in her silky dressing gown.

Tonight was off to a bad start. The order was more than a half an hour late, Nessa counted, and she was a glass and a half into her dragonwhiskey now. Sending the owl off with a howler Nessa retired her robe twice, paced around the house, hexed a leak that dared to start in the roof of the atrium, and sighed when she finally heard the front bell ring. "Finally," She strolled to the door, yanking it open with the hand not firmly on her hip, and scowled. "You are late,"

@Frank Adams

"Bad luck, kid, I got this one," Frank leaned over to study the magically printed receipt made out to a Nancy with an address he recognized. It had to be their only one to Cork, and he remembered mulling over the idea of sending a complaint to the owner of the store after the alarm system debacle only to find out that Nessa was the owner.

Perfect, timing, he figured, that he was back in London between Thanksgiving and Christmas to make sure the place hadn't burned down.

"Angry, you said? Hey, Emerson!" He called out to the young wizard washing dishes and sulking like he'd got just gotten his Halloween candy taken from him. Angry, hot, wears a silk robe, and doesn't tip well, he replied. Textbook if he ever heard it, or was he just leaning into the stereotype he'd made up of her in his own mind. Either way, it was the ideal scenario that he got to get her back for her little visit to The Deli weeks prior.

The victory was made sweeter when Frank learned that her particular address had become something of a regular stop for his workers that had been fighting over who got to take the trip that Friday night. "Add pickles," He smiled to himself despite the clear (and unsurprisingly direct) order to keep them away from her sandwich.

Thirty minutes late he found himself on Nessa Regan's porch. It was exactly what he would expect from her; dark, gothic, fucking unnecessarily dramatic. Francis rolled his eyes as he knocked firmly, keeping an eye out for any of her contraptions. "So sorry about that," He lied before she had the chance to speak again. "Looking for a—" He glanced to the paper in his hand. "—Nancy?" He not-so-subtly peeked over her shoulder.

Forcing the witch to wait for anything was a quick way to irritate her, but none of that frustration was anything compared to what washed over her when she saw who was delivering her food tonight. Fuck, she thought, her eyes narrowing on him in anger as she considered slamming the door. So much for the intel, she'd gotten about the owner of the Deli being out of town for the month. She made a mental note to pay the usual delivery kid back for this, and Nessa Regan always paid her debts. "Well shit," She said, cursing more in two minutes (even if one had only been in her head) than she typically would all day. Swear words were the mark of an uneducated mind, in Nessa's haughty opinion. She was fully capable of expressing her anger using complicated similes and ridiculously extravagant adjectives, usually.

Frank had caught her off guard, and Nessa absolutely hated him for it, but she could smell the sandwich from here, and her stomach betrayed her by rumbling loudly. "Your employee must have written them down wrong," Nessa said, even though she knew the truth. She'd been ordering under a false identity to avoid this exact situation. Reaching for the food and trying to snatch it from him before huffing, she spoke again, "Not surprising, considering," A tiny bit tipsy, cranky from being hungry, and put on the spot had the dark witch feeling incredibly defensive. She pulled at her robe, closing it a bit more and making sure the flimsy tie that held it shut was as secure as it could be before turning her back on him.

"You're letting the cold in," She barked, crossing the little foyer to find her coin purse on the credenza and digging for the correct amount of sickles; no tip. "How much do I owe you?" As much as she wanted to shut the door on him, Nessa couldn't deny that tiny part of her brain that was intrigued to see him. He was a mystery, infuriatingly so, but he wasn't dull. Showing up to call her out for ordering (especially after the theatrics she pulled the last time she was at The Deli) was exactly the sort of thing she would do.

Frank watched the woman carefully, taking particular interest in the way that her eyes went wide then narrowed on him, her own silent moment of realization. As quick as it came, it went, and he found himself wishing he could have recorded the look on her face to save for later. "Unlikely," He commented after a brief moment of humming a thought aloud as he so often did.

The Deli employees were, categorically, all shitheads but they were good workers. He wouldn't have hired them otherwise.

"You're welcome, by the way," Frank ignored her huffing and puffing and followed her into her home without even a fraction of hesitation. Inside it was warm despite the seemingly cold decor that matched the exterior to a tee. At least she was consistent, he thought to himself.

"It's on the house," He said before he could stop himself. He put pickles on the sandwich and had deliberately shown up half an hour late, it really was the least he could do. He was cruel, but not that cruel. The satisfaction in knowing that she liked his food was enough for him.

"Glad you like it," Frank grinned as he snatched a chip from the bag. "I like the place..." He commented. "It's very... you," Francis couldn't lie, though did he really know her all that well at all? The details seemed to matter less and less.

Nessa made her way to the credenza gracefully, her long robe flowing behind her, and unclasped her coin purse just in time for Frank to announce that it was on the house. "Well, I should bloody well hope so," She huffed, angry that he'd beat her to the punch and that she hadn't thought to demand it was free before he offered it, "Showing up a half an hour late is bad service you know," Because Nessa knew all about what good customer service looked like. The irony was not lost on her. Clasping her purse closed again, she turned back toward Frank, who was still holding her probably cold and soggy sandwich hostage, and she folded her arms across her chest.

Resting her hip against the entryway cabinet, she scowled as he stole one of the chips from her bag. "I liked it better when the cute delivery boy brought it, and when it was on time," She sighed again, "Punctuality is the mark of a great wizard, you know," Nessa didn't know much about Frank, certainly not enough to decide whether or not he was a decent wizard. Still, it would be a lie to say she wasn't impressed. He couldn't have been that much older than her, and he'd managed to open his own restaurant far away from the help of his family. She knew first hand how difficult it was to run a successful business, and hers had been basically handed to her. Starting something from scratch was quite an accomplishment.

When he complimented her home Nessa nearly smiled, the corners of her lips turning up slightly, and she shrugged. "If I give you the grand tour will you let me eat in peace?" The witch asked, her eyes trailing down from his shaggy brown hair to the bag of food she felt like she'd never get her hands on.

"You think?" Frank had miraculously stopped himself from parroting her bad service spiel and paused to drop her food on the otherwise pristine countertop. Nessa mentioned the cute delivery boy and he had to actively comb through his brain to imagine who she might have been talking about. "You have bad taste," He decided matter-of-factly."They're all, like, fifteen," He added. Not all of them, but he had a flair for the dramatics. Most of them were still battling hormonal acne anyway.

"Well fuck me then," Punctuality was the mark of a great wizard, she said, and then had the audacity to confirm if he knew the fact to be true as if tardiness hadn't been the intention all along. "Yeah sure, the real deciding factor there..." He rolled his eyes with a scoff.

Then she mentioned the grand tour. Frank paused, weighing his options. On the one hand, he wanted to saunter out of there and relish in his victory, and on the other, he wanted desperately to know more about her and he certifiably haunted house. "Hmm," He hummed, strumming his long fingers on the ledge of the counter. "If I get one of those," He nodded to the half-drunk firewhiskey beside her. "I made you something else," He explained of the extra food in the bag, not waiting to open her cupboards.

The dark witch didn't believe Frank for a second when he said all of his delivery boys were teenagers, but the way he had said it did bring a smile to her lips. A little laugh escaped her as her eyes crinkled, and Nessa shrugged her shoulders. "Well, the one with the muscles certainly doesn't look fifteen," She teased, raising her eyebrows dramatically and moving into the kitchen with him to where he had dropped the food. Nessa offered him a tour in exchange for the food she had been more than willing to pay full price for, and since the offer had been dripping with sarcasm, she honestly hadn't expected him to take her up on it. And then Frank did one better, he accepted the tour and invited himself for a drink. Nessa stared at him silently for a moment, a bit of disbelief on her face as he took it upon himself to go rifling through her cabinets for another glass.

"Please, just stop that," She huffed, tugging on the tie keeping her robe in place once more for good measure, before shooing him out of the way and opening up the exact right cabinet for another whiskey tumbler. Bending slightly to pull out an ornate frosted glass from the bottom cabinet to match her own, Nessa set it on the counter. "Don't they teach you not to go through people's cabinets in America? A good way to catch a curse that is," Nessa shook her head at him, scolding and pouring in one swift motion, and then spun around to hold out the tumbler to him, careful not to touch the rim in the process.

"What else have you brought?" She asked, reaching for her own glass as she leaned against her counter. Nessa was starting to realize he had shown up late and on his own rather than a lowly delivery boy, to stick it to her. It was just the sort of thing she'd have done, were the tables turned, and she wasn't sure how to feel about that.

So, maybe they weren't all fifteen but generally speaking, anyone in that demographic he figured was somewhere between the age of twelve and sixteen. But he never really knew. It was the same with babies. If he didn't have his sister reminding him that niece and nephew weren't two anymore he would have carried on thinking it for at least another four years. "Whatever you're into..." Frank commented though his face didn't hide what he thought about it.

"Pretty weird, though," His back was to Nessa so he made sure to glance over his shoulder so she got the full effect.

For someone so much smaller than him (not that it was hard given his size), the witch was surprisingly swift in getting him out of the way as he rummaged through her cabinets. Frank would never admit it but she scared him a little. "No, we didn't have a class for that in school," He said sarcastically, leaning back against the counter. When it came to strangers he was either deeply uncomfortable or entirely too comfortable around them, nothing in between.

Frank took the glass and had a sip as he glanced at the bag that he had so kindly hand-delivered. Using his wand to open it up he took a peek inside. "Have you ever had Pierogi?" He glanced over his shoulder at Nessa and assumed not, but he was still wading through the cultural food scene that was London, Ireland was an entirely different beast.

"I know you aren't vegetarian," The burger order said as much. "So I added bacon," Carefully he pulled out a plate where the pierogi were delicately placed and covered. The care he took in his food surprised most people. "It's like, uh—" Frank tried to think of how to explain it. "A dumpling. But with potato, and onion, and other stuff," He could have gone on for hours about it but instead nudged it over to her.

"So let's see this haunted house," Frank announced, standing up from off the counter. That was a bit too much of a nicety for him to stomach.

Nessa scrunched up her nose at the clear judgment in his tone, not because she cared what he thought, of course. "Not that weird," She countered, finding muscles attractive wasn't exactly an original thought. She moved around him to discover what he had been looking for in hopes that he would stop opening the cabinets. Nessa liked everything just so and the fact that he had opened them and left one of them an inch from being closed again made her endlessly anxious. She followed behind him, closing them up with a satisfying flick of wandless magic, and then finally ushered him away so that she could take over. It was her kitchen after all, and she huffed at the thought. "Are you this insufferable everywhere you go?"

Frank may have brought her extra food, and that had endeared him to her some, but the more he spoke, the more she wondered if they would ever agree on a single thing. From the moment he had stepped into her shop so many weeks ago, the alarm system in hand, she knew this wizard was going to be trouble.

Shrugging slightly, Nessa considered asking him to get off of her counter but refrained, at least until he was finished explaining what bonus cuisine he had brought along for free. She was picky, high-maintenance, and a bit of a control freak, but she wasn't stupid. She wouldn't bite the hand that fed her. "I have not," Nessa admitted in the space between his question and his explanation and began to nod. "You had me at potatoes."

There was something so abstract about this man; it made Nessa curious. This wizard that brought free food an hour late and had the mind to judge her about standards. The messiness of his hair, in need of a good cut, and blatant disregard for respecting personal property was an absolute contradiction to how he pulled the food from the bag. Removing the pierogis and placing them on the plate with such care that Nessa barely believed it. Someone six inches taller than a person should be should not have been able to move with such grace, it was an oddity, and Nessa was staring.

She pulled the plate the rest of the way to her, eyeing the dumpling delicately before retrieving two forks from the drawer behind her. Not because she wanted to share food but because it was the polite thing to do. Plucking one with her fork she took a bite just as he reminded her about the tour she had promised. Nessa laughed with her mouth full, but closed, and finished before responding honestly. "Careful, the ghosts don't much care for the term 'haunted."

"This way, then," She said, doing a bit more magic to force the plate of pierogis to levitate lazily behind them as she brought him to the conservatory first—her favorite room in the house. Magical vines wrapped around the exposed ceiling beams. The windows let in plenty of light when it wasn't raining (which was always) and a decent view of the stars at night. Despite the chaotic way the plants weaved across the uneven centuries-old hand-made window panes, the room felt in order. Everything had its rightful place; the organization was vital. "Don't touch the Rhanterium; it bites," Nessa warned, her hand motioning toward the flowering plant in the corner.

"Beautiful, but deadly."

Nessa took another bite of the pierogi with a little smile, not surprised that she liked them, but unsure whether or not she wanted to give Frank the satisfaction. "Pierogi does not sound like an American word; how did you learn to make these?"

Insufferable. Frank chose to take it as a compliment. "Yeah, probably," He shrugged as if the question hadn't been very well warranted by his actions.

He noticed that Nessa had pulled out a second fork, one presumably for him, but he was already too smug by the fact he had her at potatoes to pay it too much attention. He reached over and grabbed one with his hand before they started the grand tour. "You think?" Frank shot her a look more serious than before after finishing chewing. He didn't mess around with sarcasm when it came to the spirit of the dead. Something about her home told him that she knew more about it than he ever could have.

Frank followed dutifully to the conservatory, distractedly running his fingers just above things as they passed through the halls but not daring to actually touch them. He still had a bit of lingering stress from that sinister security device of hers that had turned on him. As if she had eyes in the back of her head, Nessa warned him not to touch the bright colored and otherwise enchanting flower that his hand was hovering over.

"Oh—" He retracted it just as quickly before she turned to look back at him but he was sure there was a guilty look on his face. Frank used it as an excuse to study the vastness of the room around them more carefully than he had before. At least, outwardly.

"It's not," He confirmed that pierogi were not, in fact, an American delicacy (his grandmother was rolling over in her grave at the thought, he imagined). His deep brown eyes were cast in the light from the moon and turned up to the large windows even as he spoke, not looking down at her immediately. "Polish," He said, finally catching her eye. "My grandma made them a lot when I was growing up," Frank hadn't intended on sharing any of his personal life with Nessa, but there they were. "You like it?" He ventured. If her going for another was any indication, then yes.

What a strange night this had turned out to be; Nessa was still surprised by the turn of events. The fact that he had not only taken her up on every sarcastic offer but that he seemed to be enjoying it was both irritating and entertaining. Nessa didn't invite strangers inside, she wasn't the sort to have tea parties or bring dates here for the night, so it was so odd to have another person invading this space. She was so aware of everything that he did, staring at him like he was two sizes too big for her old victorian, and she was worried he might break something. Turning back to face him as she told him not to touch the desert blossom Nessa put her hand on her hip, a pointed look on her face because she had been right to warn him.

"It is a wonder you didn't find some way to blow up your diner with that alarm system accidentally, honestly," She half teased, half scolded, and rolled her eyes at Frank. Showing up late to a hungry witch's house, opening cabinets, insulting ghosts, it was all very devil may care, and his recklessness made her uneasy.

Nessa finished her second pierogi and made a satisfying little sound when she set her fork down on the plate. Polish, that sounded more legitimate, and she nodded when he offered up a slice of his own personal history. "Were you raised by your grandmother?" She nosed Nessa was also too curious for her own good. "I hate to say it, but yes, I do like these pierogi's." She liked the word, too; it sounded very foreign; she liked how it folded on the tongue.

Back to the tour Nessa lead him out of the conservatory through a narrow door on the other end of the room. Like any good victorian, the house was set up like a maze, rooms that led nowhere, rooms with more doors than required, and the addition of overlapping magic charms made it all the more confusing. Like a puzzle. The slim door creaked as she opened it and led into a dimly lit checkered tile hallway. Oil lanterns sprung to life one by one as they progressed down the passage.

"This is my grandmother," She said as they passed a painting of an ornery looking witch napping on a chaise. "She's still alive, so watch your language," Nessa warned, "Can't hear a damn thing except when we make a mistake," Grinning at her tiny bit of rebellion, Nessa shuffled through a matching door on the other side of the hall and into her potions laboratory. The heavy scent of cinnamon filled the air, something was brewing in the large cauldron in the middle of the room, and Nessa waited for him to follow. "Cooking is a bit like potioneering, would you agree?

She put her hand on her hip and for the first time that night, Frank noticed the fact that she was wearing a robe— a dressing gown, whatever the fuck it was called across the pond. He was pretty sure that only kids and people staying in hotels wore them but had been proven wrong, and not for the first time that night. He completely missed her comment about the faulty security system and something to do with his cooking in the process.

"Nope," Not really, anyway. Both his paternal and maternal grandparents (despite their differences) spent a great deal of time at the Adams' household when he was growing up. Almost all of his memories included his extended family all crammed together for dinners and holidays and everything in between, usually yelling at each other, with love. "She was around a lot," He explained without having to divulge too deep into anything personal. While he was perfectly comfortable rummaging through her cabinets, talking about his family with her was a different story.

"Pierogi," Frank couldn't help himself, following Nessa as they moved onto the next level of the maze that was her home. She would be painfully underwhelmed to see his own, he thought. "It's plural," He meant to say it nicely but as with most things, he came across as a bit of a dick. Though, he did walk a little lighter under the satisfaction of her appraisal.

They made their way down another hall and the oil lamps magically flickered on as they went. It should have been ominous but it really only drew Frank in more. Next up, he hoped, was the weird torture dungeon museum she'd sanctioned off of her product gone bad. But there was her grandmother. He let out half of a sigh. "Then I don't need to watch my language," He decided, as if he actually could. What she didn't hear couldn't hurt her.

The cinnamon met him first, and he followed it to canvas the new room filled with vials and cauldrons. So, she was a potioneer. "And here I thought you just made bad security systems..." Frank wandered in and inspected the brewing concoction. "A little, maybe," A lot, probably, but he didn't want to openly admit it. "What is it?" He glanced over his shoulder, daring to drop a pinky into the murky dark water.

Nessa hated being corrected, it was high up on the long list of great irritations to her, and she made no effort to hide her scowl when Frank did it. Pierogi, it was plural. If they weren't delicious, she probably would have had a lot more to say about the efficacy of correcting her, but instead, she shot him an annoyed look and carried on. Plural or not, she was glad that he had brought them. The further she brought Frank into her home, the more she wanted to show off to him. It was an odd feeling, telling herself she didn't want him to be here while simultaneously hoping to impress him with her vast collection of dangerous nonsense.

"Just because you..." Nessa began to fire back and spun around, her dressing robe curling around her legs as she did, before stopping herself short and giving him another look. She was still firm in her position that the only thing wrong with that security system had been the operator. It worked perfectly and would have continued to if he had been willing to donate a little blood. "I'm not so sure about that; a system that flings you halfway across the continent is looking pretty good right about now," Nessa narrowed her eyes at him but couldn't hold it for long, soon enough her eyes crinkled with a slight smile. She was always in a better mood when she wasn't hungry.

Folding her arms over her chest, Nessa's eyes followed Frank's hand to where he dipped his finger into the cauldron. "Seriously?" Was there no limit to this man's invasiveness? "One, that is highly unsanitary," She began to count on her fingers, "Two, what if it was a flesh melting potion? And three, didn't anyone ever teach you not to stick your fingers in someone else's business?" Clearly not. Nessa believed in order, propriety, and all the strict, rigid things that kept the world spinning. There was a time and place for everything; tidiness was expected, and respecting boundaries was paramount. Frank had come into her home and smashed through all of those things that kept her comfortable. And he had done it so irritatingly well.

"If you must know, it is a nerve-quieting potion for a client. The cinnamon masks the taste of the rauvolfia serpentina," Nessa picked up a vial from the table to show him the little red and white plant inside. Like most magical plants, it was somewhat sentient and reacted to the movement by slowly creeping up the sides of the glass. Before she had a chance to set down the flask, a ghostly figure appeared through the far wall. The wall he came from should have been the edge of the house, an outer wall, but thanks to magic, there were a few more hidden rooms behind the potioneering laboratory. Rooms she wasn't keen to show Frank, rooms hidden being a very classic rotating bookshelf for a good reason.

"Good evening Máel," Nessa said softly, in no way bothered by the sudden appearance of a long, long, lost relative who had been following her around since she accidentally summoned him in her sixth year. Máel Sechnaill Deirseach Ó Riagáin gave her a shrug and continued toward the next wall.

The witch seemed intent on making it clear her disdain for him. Though she stopped short of actually doing anything about it. Namely, showing him the door. Frank didn't figure she was the type to feel beholden to some bullshit etiquette code (particularly not with American strangers) so he couldn't work out why she was still entertaining him— giving him a tour in fact. If she wanted to hex him to the other side of the country she could have easily done it by then. And probably should have. Either way, that she hadn't left him smug, and it showed.

"C'mon," Frank grinned, his hand still hovering over the cauldron and pinky covered in whatever goop was inside. Sure, it hadn't been his brightest idea, but he figured no one actually left out potions that could melt the skin off that carelessly. "But it's not," He confirmed as if that made it all better. And what was her obsession with what had been taught to him? He scoffed, popping his finger into his mouth the moment she mentioned it was nerve quieting.

Around her, he needed it.

"Ew," He couldn't help himself. "I think you need more cinnamon..." Frank commented more to himself than anything but would have been perfectly happy to say it more openly. "Fu— Christ," The moment a figure appeared from the wall itself he jumped behind Nessa, who hadn't even flinched. Eyes wide and mouth ajar he looked between the ghost and her as he simply floated on by without no more than a quick nod of recognition. 

"I knew it," Frank exclaimed, grabbing her shoulders briefly. "I could tell this place was—" He recalled what she had said earlier about the whole haunted debacle. "Well, like this," He gestured around them vaguely and stepped forward to inspect the shelf from where the man had gone through. "Who was that?" He turned over his shoulder to ask the question then returned to the shelf, his dark eyes scouring it like it was a treasure. Absently he ran his hand over the spine of a book and before he knew it they were being spun into the wall itself to a room unknown.

Wishing the cauldron was still full of the scale-hardening potion she'd concocted for a customer last week, Nessa sighed. Someone needed to educate this wizard on the simple protocol of not sticking his fingers in other people's business. "You are lucky it is not poison, and no, it doesn't," She warned, though Nessa had very little faith that her words would be heard. Frank seemed easily distractable, and the moment her great-great-more greats than she knew-uncle passed through the old wall Nessa knew the conversation was going to be sidetracked.

Stepping toward the cauldron while Frank was busy gawking at Máel, she dipped a thin finger into the cauldron before popping it into her mouth. It did need more cinnamon, and she hated that Frank had been right. Nessa's hand dropped back to her waist just in time for Frank to shake her shoulders. "A long-lost relative," She began, but the witch knew if she played down the importance of Sir Ó Riagáin, he'd pop back through the wall, and she'd never be rid of either one of them. "Máel Sechnaill Deirseach Ó Riagáin was a warrior who died heroically during the First Battle of Mag Tuired,". Visibly rolling her eyes at the word heroically, Nessa left out how his brother had hexed him accidentally amid the battle.

"He doesn't haunt the house so much as an object inside its walls," Contrary to what she was sure many of her peers assumed Nessa had not inherited this house. The proudly independent witch had purchased it with her hard-earned sickles, not with family money. And the ghosts had followed her here like bits of luggage, almost as though she had unpacked a cardboard box labeled "dark spirits" alongside her "kitchenware" and "literature." As if she had somehow told him exactly where the suit of armor from Máel was hidden, Frank was pulling on a book, and they were spinning into the magically hidden room that was not nearly as well hidden as Nessa had thought.

Angry, humiliated, and a little bit mortified at the events of the night, Nessa blinked, the pause on her face full of worry. Somehow this annoying wizard had weaseled his way into her home, into a tour, and now into her most sacred space, and for the first time in decades, Nessa was at a loss for words. She couldn't possibly explain her annoyance intelligently or coherently, so she did the next best thing as she closed the distance between them. Smacking at his arm like she was swatting away a fly, Nessa followed him toward whatever he would get into next and huffed loudly.

"That's it, next time I come to the diner, I am going to stick my fingers in everything, mess with all of your stuff, and be a general nuisance." She huffed yet again, even more dramatically than the first time, before crossing her arms in front of her chest. Nessa leaned against one of many desks situated around the room, each with a pile of books and parchment on them. "Let's see how you like it,"