sixthiterationlogs | If you really, really wannakah/Have a happy, happy, happy, happy Hanukkah [OPEN]

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If you really, really wannakah/Have a happy, happy, happy, happy Hanukkah [OPEN]

WHO: Samantha Moon
WHERE: Various parts of the Inn
WHEN: December 2-10
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: Standard language warnings for Sam; nudity and sexy in thread with Danny

Sam had many talents, but tracking the lunar calendar wasn't necessarily one on her resume. Nevertheless, it was December and she decided that meant Hanukkah was on the way. Her second one in the fucking clown rodeo. Something like her fifth or sixth since dying. Which was just depressing as all hell. As if she needed something else depressing to weigh on her mind.

Last year, she'd cobbled together a menorah out of bolts and spare wires and broken bottle necks. It looked steampunk as hell, but when she managed to pull together enough candles to light the thing up, she had to admit, it was kind of cheery. It was about as out-of-place as they all were, trapped in this Skinner Box of doom, so in that sense, it was perfectly at home. So she lit it every night in the common area of the Inn, on the window ledge.

Ba-ruch A-tah Ado-nai
E-lo-he-nu Me-lech ha-olam
Something, something
Something
Soooomething
Something, something
Le-had-lik ner
Shel Cha-nu-kah.

Okay, so she didn't remember all the words. It was the thought that counted, right? Sure. Why not.

When she wasn't lighting the candles, she sometimes slipped into the kitchen. The year before, Erik had taught her a recipe for latkes. She remembered most of the basics and tried her hand at it a few times. Not that she could fucking eat any of them, but after the first couple of failed batches, they started to smell pretty amazing. And she left them out on a plate for anyone who came by.

And feeling particularly in the holiday spirit, she set herself up at her favorite table in the corner, with her box of colored pencils. She'd saved scraps of paper where she could, stealing napkins, starched fabric, and what remained of the book Jude had put together for her. On one of the napkins, she wrote "Free Portraits." Back home, she'd done some unofficial work as a police sketch artist. They didn't have photographs of the people they'd left behind. But she could do pretty good approximations. She'd hung up one of her sketches of Avery as an example.

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He doesn't stumble upon it until the second day, and when he does it brings him up short. Sam might wander in to find him standing, hands tucked into his jogger pockets, lips pressed into a thin line, staring contemplatively at her menorah.

His mom stopped celebrating Hanukkah after his bubbe died. After that, it was Catholic Christmas every year and not another word about it. Looking at this is like a hit to the heart, rocketing him farther back on his timeline than he's gone in a long time, to being six years old on the cold wooden floor listening to the story for the third time that season.

It's... something.

Edited 2018-12-02 05:18 (UTC)

She'd gone upstairs to fetch her pencils, leaving the candles glittering like fireflies against the inky black panes of the window. And she was taking the stairs back down from her room two at a time, at a bit of a trot, until she spotted him.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Nope.

It wasn't that Sam liked Bucky less than she had before. He was still one of the precious few people she didn't fucking hate in this shit show. It was more that she hated herself. You know. More than usual. There was nothing quite like spewing the disgusting and tragic circumstances of your less-than-wholesome origins to someone to make you feel... Yeah. Just, really gross. Which was probably why she'd sort of gone out of her way to avoid him. Because there was no better way to deal with your problems than to not deal with them.

The plan wasn't her most...mature. But it had been working for her. And she figured it would work more. But when she turned to go right back up the stairs again, her heel caught on the lip of one of the steps and she went down like a ton of bricks, face-first, into the staircase. Her pencils went flying like pick-up sticks. And although she was pretty sure it was physiologically impossible, she saw an explosion of stars on the inside of her eyes.

"Ow..."

Although avoiding might be a strong word for what Bucky was doing, he certainly wasn't actively seeking Sam out. Deliberately actively not seeking her out, which he maintains is not the same thing. It had less to do with the secrets shared after too many drinks (or one drink on her part), and a whole hell of a lot more to do with his inability to reconcile the awkward note it finished out on.

The best judgement had not been executed that night, to say the least. He feels what he figures is an appropriate sense of guilt and responsibility for the downward spiral, and often his way of coping with this is to compartmentalize them and focus on just about anything else. He runs from his problems. Eventually enough time had passed that it sort of took a back seat in his mind, the distance became the new status quo, and that was that.

He sure as hell isn't deliberately an asshole though, and when she has a minor personal earthquake on the stairs he's there in a flash, shooting a hand out to wrap around her arm and gently ease her to sitting.

"Jesus, you catch the plates on that truck?"

It figured he'd be a gentleman, in the next minute. That was just the kind of sense her life generally made.

At least he didn't seem completely disgusted by her. Sam wasn't sure how she'd feel, if their positions were reversed. Of course, she did know something about the shit he'd done and had done to him. But it didn't compare, in her mind.

Well. Bucky was the bigger man.

She groaned, touching her nose. "Were you the one who invented that joke?" she asked. When in doubt, always make a joke. That was the way to survive any situation, no matter how uncomfortable.

He huffs out a soft breath at the question; if you're well enough to sass you're probably gonna be alright. People with concussions usually don't have the best witty replies.

"Pretty sure they invented that one a couple weeks after the first license plate — and no, didn't invent that either." If you're curious about automobile licensing, plates cropped up about thirty years before Barnes ever drove. Drivers licenses were a little before that as well. New York's a hell of a state.

He can't vouch for the state of their drivers these days.

He drops her arm in favor of collecting her scattered pencils with flesh fingers, gripping them precariously in metal one after the next.

"Oh, no. You don't have to..."

But that was kind of Bucky's way, wasn't it?

Shaking her head, Sam leaned over to help pick up the mess, letting a curtain of blue curls fall in front of her face. The wig was a hell of her own making, most of the time. But it occasionally provided a useful service.

Or something.

"I've never been hit by a car before," she muttered. "I hear it's not a lot of fun. Worse than getting shot, but not as bad as being lit on fire."

Wow, her smalltalk sucked.

It was, indeed, kind of Bucky's way. Doesn't take long for them all to be gathered, and he offers them out wrapped in metal fingers as he stares at her with a sort of amused quirk to his lips and his eyebrows. Let it never be said Samantha Moon doesn't have the real conversations.

"Depends on the car and where it hits you," He muses, low and lazy speech, as though from experience. "And where the bullet hits you. But you're right, getting lit on fire's a hell of a lot worse."

A beat, a tilt to the head, and then an afterthought, "Don't let 'em sell you on drowning either. Ain't as fun as they make it out to be."

She took the pencils from him, satisfied by the familiar clacking of wood on wood that they made. Comfort food for the soul. "Vampires can't drown," she said, falling easier into the patter of conversation. "But having your lungs fill up with water is really annoying. Mostly because you have to clear it out after."

Which kind of felt like an appropriate metaphor for their conversation.

Sam had done a great job of avoiding the things she'd said. But she had to cough them up eventually.

Or something less strained than that.

"What brings you slumming back to your old haunt?" she asked, walking down the rest of the stairs, over to her table, flickering in the light of her jenky menorah.

Vampires can't drown, hell, there's an interesting little factoid he'll be filing away. Makes sense, he guesses, not exactly a stake to the heart or garlic or whatever. He pulls a face, and coasts along with the subject change easily.

Nods his head toward her steampunk makeshift menorah and with a sort of wry twist to his lips says, "Heard the call of my people."

Which isn't even remotely true. He'd been wandering in looking for brains from the kitchen to take back to the house, but he'll go with the joke rather than the grim truth of things. "Guessing you made that?"

Not exactly rolling in representation here aside from her, he can't imagine who else would have.

Edited 2018-12-29 22:16 (UTC)

His choice of words--which were likely bullshit--were a little bit of a gut punch. The call of 'his people.' Sam had so many weird places, it was hard to keep count. Converting to Judaism had been one of her attempts to...fill in a void. Patch over the hole in her heart. She liked the idea of a religion that encouraged education, that encouraged questions and analysis. But more than that, it was the idea of being able to belong to a group.

She was just shit at finding ways to belong.

And nowhere was that more evident than in the clown rodeo, most of the time. It bit into her like teeth. More so, since she'd managed to push away most of the people she cared about.

Like good old Fucky Darns.

"Sculpture is not my medium," she said, instead of anything even remotely connected to the train of thought.

He can feel it, that lingering tension, that thread of discomfort between them both. He's many questionable things, but it's never been doubted that he's preceptive. He knows, but as for broaching it? Reassuring her, finding the right words to say?

Sculpture is not my medium; he studies it and teasingly declares, "Nope. Couldn't tell if it was a menorah or a horse."

That's not true. It looks great, actually, but sincerely complimenting her had been weighed against trying to pry into her a little with something less surface level. Ultimately he's better at giving people shit than he is being sincere.

"Fuck you," she replied cheerfully.

At least that had that in common. Giving people shit? Definitely the superior way of dealing with most situations.

"There are latkes in the kitchen," she added. "I'm sure they're just about palatable as my vodka, but I can't take credit for the recipe. Picked it up from that Erik guy. Remember him? Always looked like he was sucking on a lemon, no matter what he said?"

Sam couldn't say that she missed him, exactly. But she was sorry he'd joined the ranks of the disappeared, as it were.

Danny had come to the inn to see Sam and was pleasantly surprised to find her making use of the inn's kitchen. He honestly hadn't known that she knew how to cook, she didn't exactly need to eat, but she was constantly surprising him. He stood leaning against the door frame watching her before clearing his throat to make his presence known.

"What are you making?"

He was wearing his monk robes as usual though his chest was covered today. There was a warm look in his eyes though his smile was lightly subdued. He was happy to see her like this and would be perfectly content to continue watching her make... whatever it was she was making.

It smelled good and his stomach growled.

"You don't have to stop." He added quick when she looked up and found him watching her.

There was a relatively new sensation Sam had started to experience. Partly in her chest, partly in her stomach. There seemed to be a certain correlation to when she felt it and when she saw Danny. Not enough data to draw any firm hypotheses, but she was pretty sure it was that rare and elusive thing that they called 'joy.'

She would have to run further tests.

"These are latkes," she said, scraping the last one out of the frying pan and dumping it on a plate. "It's a traditional treat you make on Hanukkah. Guess I was just feeling a little sentimental. You can have some if you like. Normally, they're served with applesauce, but we don't really have any."

She dumped the frying pan into the sink, satisfied by the hiss and roll of steam. When the rest of the world was completely upside down, at least she could rely on the laws of thermodynamics.

And whatever feeling it was that Danny was inspiring.

Danny peeked at the fried potato pancake and smiled. "Applesauce? Are you supposed to eat that with potatoes?" He was thinking of those cups he used to get in his lunch that he'd then drink like a liquid. That probably wasn't what she was talking about.

"It smells good."

A beat.

"What are latkes?"

Sam laughed a little. She remembered a lot of her childhood friends being disgusted by the applesauce thing. At least, until they tried it. And realized that it was fucking delicious. "It's just potato, onion, and egg," she said. "A little salt. I'd add pepper if we had any. It's fried crispy. My dad used to make them. This is an improvised recipe I got from a guy who used to live here, though." She put on her best Valley Girl accent. "Locally sourced. All organic."

She grabbed one of the chipped, mismatched plates from the cupboard and slid two latkes onto it. Hopefully, Danny didn't have a thing for the domestic goddess routine, because this was about as domestic as Sam got. She walked over, sitting it down on the counter in front of him.

"Give it a try. I won't be offended if you think it's gross and spit it out." She'd done just as much with plenty of traditional foods. It was all very dense. "It's fried. We eat fried foods on Hanukkah to celebrate the miracle and stuff."

Danny's stomach growled loudly in response to Sam's description. "Sounds good and like it'd go well with apples." He paused thoughtfully and shook his head. "We could make peach sauce but I think the peaches in the stores are for winter." They had been canned though Danny had been toying with the idea of using the recipe that the monks used to make plum wine with peaches. He knew how it was done but he'd have to take all the peaches left at the inn since the trees were more or less in hibernation.

He rolled his eyes at her advertisement and finally stepped fully into the kitchen. "You do that too well." He teased as he grabbed the plate that she'd set for him. It looked good and he was always hungry.

"I probably won't. I'm used to eating rice for most meals and this probably isn't so bland." He used his fingers to pick up one of the latkes and tried a bit. It was good and it made Danny smile. "I like it." He also liked the idea of a holiday with all fried foods. "Do you make these every year?"

Planting her hands on the counter, Sam hoisted herself up, sitting neatly beside him, crossing one leg over the other. He didn't spit it out, so she called that a win. Honestly, her 'win column' with Danny was getting impressive. She wasn't used to doing so well with people. Even with the extenuating circumstances of their relationship.

Well. The bottom would probably drop out someday.

But she was good with that not being today.

"More my dad's thing," she said. "Erik did the latkes last year. I used to be all about frying homemade doughnuts. My parents had the world's biggest kitchen, back in Lake Forest. Stainless steel everything with granite countertops. I used a turkey fryer to do it. The fact that I never burned down the house is a fucking miracle in itself." She shrugged. "I don't know. Guess it's cold out. So I wanted it to feel more holiday-ish."

Danny watched her lift herself on the counter with a little bit of a wandering eye. He couldn't help it. Sam was nice to look at and he didn't see a reason to shy away from it anymore.

"Careful, you're making me want donughts." He flashed her a grin and then finished devouring the potato pancakes on his plate.

Danny can eat a lot.

"And this was a good idea. I'm glad you did it." A beat. "What holiday is it?"

She stared at him, unabashed incredulity for a moment. It wasn't that Sam wasn't aware of her minority status. But she rarely found herself in a position of being the one to explain it all.

Then again, Karen had called her a fucking 'child of Israel' more times than she cared to remember.

"It's Hanukkah, Monkey Boy," she said, shaking her head at him a little. "Also known as the 'Festival of Lights' aka 'Commemorating the rededication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem at the time of the Maccabean Revolt.'" Which was a bit of a mouthful. "Or, in more recent times, the excuse to compete with Christmas."

"I spent fifteen years living in a monastery. They didn't really have Christmas or any other holidays." It'd been a strict place; training in the morning, sparring, then more training in the afternoon. They didn't stop for holidays. "I remember Christmas."

His smile widened and he looked like a little kid again.

"My dad would insist that we all have Christmas together. Us and the Meachums. We'd have to wait until everyone was there before we could open presents and a few years he came home early from the office to make ornaments with us." They could buy anything which made the little things he made as a kid even more special.

"Sorry. I haven't really thought about it for awhile."

Sam's Christmas memories were nowhere near as rosy. But that was a hazard of foster living, more than anything else. For once, she couldn't even blame herself for that one. And she fucking blamed herself for everything.

"Well," she drawled, nudging his knee with the tips of her toes. "I hear that Christmas is the twenty-fifth this year. Maybe we could make some ornaments of our own."

She wondered if that was a step too far, just as soon as the words were out of her mouth. It was schmoopy. Date-ish.

They hadn't really decided they were dating.

...had they?

Danny licked his fingers as he met Sam's gaze. There was a lot that he didn't think about but that didn't mean his head was completely devoid of thought. Sam often entered his mind but not knowing, being reminded of that awkward teen, made him uncertain about asking her.

He had no idea what they were, only that he enjoying spending time with her.

"Yeah. We can do that." He paused thoughtfully. "Does that mean we need to find a tree to put the ornaments on?"

It was do-able though the tree would likely remain outside.

He was such a sweet boy. Which was so unlike anyone Sam had ever known. Not that she hadn't known good people or noble people. But those weren't quite the same as sweet. She could well imagine him wearing a flower crown. Grace would have liked him. And he would have been at home among the aggressively cheerful acolytes under her wing. But while they made Sam feel uneasy, Danny just...

He was just a sweet boy.

"That could be fun," she said. "I mean, I'm not sure there would be a lot to put under that tree, but you know, Christmas doesn't come from a store and whatever else the Grinch realized. We could...make it work."

"Yeah." He at least knew the Grinch reference. "It'd be fun. I haven't had Christmas in so long."

Danny quickly gestured to the food she'd made. "And we can celebrate Hanukkah too." He was fairly sure that the two holidays were far enough apart for them to celebrate them both. "If you're up for it, that is." He was a little awkward but excited. Danny hadn't thought that he'd have someone he'd want to celebrate holidays with.

It was a strange feeling.

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