[ cat of the canals had become cat of the alleys. she crept them like a cat, disappearing as easily as she appeared. yet one of her favorite places to eat wasn't in the alleys at all, but in the hold. she was fond of allen, and kaneis was a good cook. the two women in the flat she found stupid and gladly avoided. she had stopped coming for a while, but just a suddenly as she had gone she had reappeared at the door.
from her manner, it was like the previous weeks had not happened. the girl wears cat's face out of familiarity. allen knows little. he does not know of the faceless girl. he still thinks her as cat, and cat she becomes. it is easier. cat is simple. and unlike where she sleeps, here she is untroubled by arya stark's ghost.
the girl eats her food and fills the air with unimportant chatter and impertinent questions to avoid speaking of herself. she feels odd, almost ill. rising, she excuses herself to retreat into the bathroom, leaving her half-finished meal on the table.
and there she stays, without a word, long past any expected wait.
[He doesn't question her. He was glad she'd come back, and if she wanted things to return to how they had been, he would let them.
And Allen waits politely, at first, after she excuses herself. He idly eyes her unfinished food and strikes up a one-sided conversation with Tim to fill the silence; but minutes tick by and he begins to wonder if perhaps he should inquire if everything's all right.
But that might be rude.
Was the food bad? He feels fine, but he's used to different foods... He shouldn't ask, he's sure she'll be back soon, she'll be cross if he bothers her. Why is he even worrying? He's being ridiculous.
But more time passes. He goes quiet, looks from Tim, to the clock, to the bathroom door. The apartment's silent again.
Maybe she's not all right.
Okay, okay - it can't hurt to check. He pushes his chair back.
And steeling himself, he knocks on the door, lightly,] Cat...?
[ for a long moment, she does not answer. she chews on her lip before unlocking the door and opening it a crack. she leans around it so only part of her shoulder and her head are visible. an angry humiliated flush colors her neck. ]
[Now his face is burning bright red as he quickly averts his eyes, thoroughly flustered, clutching the front of his shirt.] T-that's fine!
[IS IT? It's— it's natural for girls, right? It's just not something ladies discuss at any length, generally!, he's only heard talk, and oh gosh how do they handle this...]
[Running an anxious hand through his hair. Replacements— might be an issue. He glances to his side, and back over his shoulder, towards the bedrooms...]
[Keep a cool head, Allen Walker! He's a gentleman, goshdarnit, and gentlemen don't...
actually, he hasn't a clue what gentlemen do in this sort of situation. This is a job for a mother to handle, he's sure, if a girl has the luxury, and Lady Morgana's - not. So what can he do? How terrible must this be for her? (He really, really doesn't want to consider it in any detail.)
Groaning, he presses the heel of his palm to his forehead as he departs, not entirely certain where he's going.
...And returns a few minutes later with a pair of drawstring trousers (his) and a... rag. He had not prepared for this occasion.
Grimacing as he valiantly struggles through shame and ingrained Victorian-ishness, he manages:]
Cat? Uhm, I've a few things, but - I don't own anything your size. If you wait here, I could throw your things in the wash? Or fetch something from your room... Or call someone? Whatever is best! I'm sorry...
[ she has no one to call. no mother, no sister, not even a girl with whom she's friendly. if he goes to her room, robb will kill him, and she will kill both of them. her clothes dry on the edge of the tub, but they could do with another wash.
opening the door, she holds out her wet clothes. ]
[ when she comes out, she lingers awkwardly in the living room. the pant legs had to be rolled up to stop herself stepping on them. she goes to sit on the couch then thinks better of it. she worries her lip. ]
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from her manner, it was like the previous weeks had not happened. the girl wears cat's face out of familiarity. allen knows little. he does not know of the faceless girl. he still thinks her as cat, and cat she becomes. it is easier. cat is simple. and unlike where she sleeps, here she is untroubled by arya stark's ghost.
the girl eats her food and fills the air with unimportant chatter and impertinent questions to avoid speaking of herself. she feels odd, almost ill. rising, she excuses herself to retreat into the bathroom, leaving her half-finished meal on the table.
and there she stays, without a word, long past any expected wait.
maybe she died in there. ]
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And Allen waits politely, at first, after she excuses herself. He idly eyes her unfinished food and strikes up a one-sided conversation with Tim to fill the silence; but minutes tick by and he begins to wonder if perhaps he should inquire if everything's all right.
But that might be rude.
Was the food bad? He feels fine, but he's used to different foods... He shouldn't ask, he's sure she'll be back soon, she'll be cross if he bothers her. Why is he even worrying? He's being ridiculous.
But more time passes. He goes quiet, looks from Tim, to the clock, to the bathroom door. The apartment's silent again.
Maybe she's not all right.
Okay, okay - it can't hurt to check. He pushes his chair back.
And steeling himself, he knocks on the door, lightly,] Cat...?
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[ panic lends a shrill note to her voice. the door rattles when she throws herself against it to make sure it stays closed. ]
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I'm not-!! Are you okay?!
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in the bathroom.]
I'm not coming in! What's wrong??
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I'm bleeding.
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Did you cut yourself? [Where's Kaneis when you need him.] We have bandages!
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[ she glares at the floor. ]
I can't get it out.
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Wait—]
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[Now his face is burning bright red as he quickly averts his eyes, thoroughly flustered, clutching the front of his shirt.] T-that's fine!
[IS IT? It's— it's natural for girls, right? It's just not something ladies discuss at any length, generally!, he's only heard talk, and oh gosh how do they handle this...]
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bleeding. ]
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We'll wash those as well!
[Running an anxious hand through his hair. Replacements— might be an issue. He glances to his side, and back over his shoulder, towards the bedrooms...]
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actually, he hasn't a clue what gentlemen do in this sort of situation. This is a job for a mother to handle, he's sure, if a girl has the luxury, and Lady Morgana's - not. So what can he do? How terrible must this be for her? (He really, really doesn't want to consider it in any detail.)
Groaning, he presses the heel of his palm to his forehead as he departs, not entirely certain where he's going.
...And returns a few minutes later with a pair of drawstring trousers (his) and a... rag. He had not prepared for this occasion.
Grimacing as he valiantly struggles through shame and ingrained Victorian-ishness, he manages:]
Cat? Uhm, I've a few things, but - I don't own anything your size. If you wait here, I could throw your things in the wash? Or fetch something from your room... Or call someone? Whatever is best! I'm sorry...
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opening the door, she holds out her wet clothes. ]
What do you have?
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[And then hurries off to get these things in the washing machine.]
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It shouldn't take long. Um... make yourself comfortable. [ somehow. ]
Is there anything you need...?
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…Can I sit?
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His roommates wouldn't care about bloodstains, would they-?]
Go ahead.
[He's going to the kitchen to see if he has. cookies, or something, that'll improve this situation.]
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Allen? When will it stop?