This was not a preferred situation – the Reaper would have been more comfortable left out in the streets, catching, snagging, and decimating the leftover pumpkins, pulsing violence instead of meandering closer and closer into confined areas. Perhaps it was partially because he didn’t know any of them well (and it could be argued that he rarely knew anyone in such a way), and his understanding of social niceties had long since abandoned him. The beast had flung himself straight into war and crusades, and then hell when everything fell apart. He eased a breath, and followed suit, struggling with the notion of escaping into the back alley. Pleasure to meet you floated towards him from Rory, but Deimos had his doubts. Hardly anyone had ever been content to meet him.
The bakery was at least vaguely familiar from his assistance in its reconstruction, and he didn’t feel so entirely out of place in its domicile. It reminded him, softly, slowly, of other things, days long since passed, spent in those quiet, subtle, idle moments, shards of laughter and warmth radiating from each and every parlor. But those hours were gone too, and he shoved the sentiments down, half-listening to instructions, grabbing hold of a nearby knife to make quick work of the pumpkin’s round top. The slice of the blade sinking and simmering down into the orange flesh gave him some relief, and he worked steadily, silently, still dressed in his furs and overcoat, only comfortable in the feeling of death and demise. He could pretend it was an enemy’s heart, cut and flickered apart, sinew struggling to remain whole.
“I am fine,” he spoke off-handedly, not requiring any tea. His typical indulgence was alcohol, downed his throat to alleviate melancholy disturbances. He could recall the last time he’d bothered with the hot drink, and it had only been administered to ensure someone else was content – his thoughts returned back to pulp and seeds, finding no issue with pushing his hand into the opened gourd and pulling out a handful of the chosen food.
Curious and inquisitive, suddenly the scholar more than the soldier, he pushed one into his mouth. It was chewy, not incredibly satisfying – likely better suited to the sizzling pulse of heat. Afterwards, he grabbed fistfuls of the pulp and seeds, separating the latter from the former, and added them to Rory’s tray.
