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forrest

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It's been about a week since Maggie found herself here in this city instead of back at the station the way she'd originally planned, but she's trying. She prides herself on being the kind of girl who can adapt and change for a new set of circumstances, but she knows it wouldn't be half as easy as it is without him here. Living on her own, though - that's something that takes her back a little, back to the morning she'd spent in that tiny little apartment smoking her way through a pack of cigarettes and trying to cover up bruises as best she could.

She goes to see Forrest every couple of days, though, even as she wonders if she should be coming around more often. She worries about him, living by his lonesome, especially given he's without even a single one of his brothers. She even wonders if it would be a good idea for her to address trying to get a closer room with him, though that seems a bold suggestion to make and one she isn't sure she's even entitled to think about.

It's plain reasoning that brings her to his apartment tonight, despite having received an invitation to a party in the mail. She ignores it in favor of standing on his doorstep dressed all in green with a basket full of food - there's a bottle or two in there as well - and knocking, waiting for the sound of movements from within.

"Forrest? It's me."

If he's in there, he'll answer.

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As a general rule, Forrest didn't skulk around his apartment, unless absolutely necessary. He preferred keeping busy, in whatever way he could. That evening, it just so happened he was keeping busy by fixing a leak in the faucet. When he heard the knock on his door, he was under the sink, sleeves rolled up and a wrench in hand. He might've left it unanswered, if not for the sound of her voice drifting softly through the room.

Climbing to his feet, he wiped damp hands on the handkerchief hanging from his pocket.

He'd gotten more than enough practice in being alone with her, but in the confines of this apartment, without the possibility of customers and kinfolk traipsing in and out, it took on a different tone. An intimacy, perhaps, if he'd been the type to think such things.

Which he wasn't.

Opening the door for her, he said, "Maggie," and with a glance at the basket in her hands, added, "Whatchu got there?"

"Hi."

She greets him with a smile, warmer than that which she might reserve for other folks, and shifts the weight of the oversized picnic basket in her hands. It's a little heavier than she originally accounted for, but she'd taken a taxi here so she's really only had to carry it as long as it took her to ascend to his apartment on the correct floor.

He looks like he's been working, sleeves bunched up to his elbows and a damp cloth hanging from his pocket. Doing things. It isn't like him to sit still, but perhaps she can get him to do so long enough to get some food in him.

"Brought over some things for you," she replies. "Some food and the like. It's not anythin' like what I could make on the grill, but show me to the stove and I'll make it work alright. Are you gonna let me in?"

That smile of hers spread a warmth through his chest he still had a helluva time wrapping his head around. It made him feel foolish, clumsy and slow-witted, but for some odd reason, he didn't want that feeling to quit.

"Oh, uh, hrm..." he grunted, shifting awkwardly out of the way and gesturing for her to come inside.

"Come on, Maggie. You know you don't gotta cook for me now."

"And I won't be makin' a habit of it," Maggie replies, giving him a look as she slips past him and through the doorway. Truth be told, she wouldn't mind putting together a meal every now and then - she knows enough to get by on a several dishes, but she isn't famous for her cooking. It's only what she needs to get by, or to feed a couple bodies.

She hefts the basket up onto the kitchen counter and opens it up, checking to make sure none of the bottles have broken on their way over. It's only wine she pulls out, and another bottle besides. She still can't get over just being able to walk into a store and buy them.

She notes the tiny doors open under the sink, a couple tools strewn on the floor. "You'll be cleanin' that up before I step in there, Forrest Bondurant?" she murmurs, lifting one eyebrow as red lips purse around a grin.

"You interrupted me workin', whatchu expect?" he muttered, grumbling to himself as he gently shouldered past her and bent to gather up his tools. While he was down there, he made sure everything was put together right, so the sink wouldn't go giving her any trouble.

She hides a smile to herself at his response, but he sets to cleaning up for her, and when he finishes, straightening up, she's there with a gentle touch at his back, her hand lingering between his shoulderblades for a moment.

"Thank you," she replies, and then shifts, her hand slipping away. "What do you think? Could make you a grilled cheese if you've been missin' them."

"Hrm, well, alright," he muttered, the small shape of her hand burning through the fabric of his shirt.

He was hit, again, with the desire to touch her hair, to close his arms around her and hold on, but instead he took a step back, leaving her room to work.

She sets to preparing everything in advance since she knows working the stove is going to be something of an obstacle and she wants to make sure her attention isn't divided. It's why she doesn't light up a cigarette either, even if the temptation is there.

Granted, she's used to working the grill for a room full of bootleggers, and when it's only the two of them here - it's quiet. Forces her to linger in her own thoughts instead of working to the drone of low voices.

She glances up, a idea forming as she lays out the food, the bottles.

"Got any music here?"

"Music?" he grunted, frowning toward the living room, "I don't know, Maggie. You wanna go and try your hand at one of them black boxes right through there, you're welcome to it."

He'd turned his television on exactly once, and his laptop was as useful to him as brick, sitting there on his desk. His cellphone he'd chucked in the trashcan his second day in Darrow, though he feared they might require a contact number at work, sooner or later.

Most likely, he'd eventually pawn all that junk off, he just hadn't gotten around to it.

She glances in the direction he indicates, a small thoughtful expression passing over her features before she shakes her head decisively, avoiding that route of confusion for the time being. It's understandable that he wouldn't want anything to do with it, and perhaps she can try her hand at figuring out what does what.

"Maybe later," she replies, breezily and over one shoulder, before returning to the task at hand.

"Help yourself to a drink if you want somethin'."

"Hhn," he grunted, turning to fill the percolator. For a family knee-deep in the bootlegging business, he rarely had much interest in the product. He kept a bottle of whiskey on hand, for nights when he thought sleep might give him trouble, but he'd never been the drinker of the family.

They settled into easy silence for a moment, working side-by-side.

"You've been workin'?" she asks, keeping the conversation light even as she knows she won't be regaled with a long and involved answer. One thing she can count on is Forrest's relative reticence on most subjects compared to other men, men who would try to woo her with talk and wouldn't even bother to listen.

Silence is comfortable here, and she figures out the new stove easily enough, pencil skirt tight at her hips as she moves.

"Yup," he murmured, taking the moment to watch her, his eyes drawn to her slim fingers curled around the spatula in her hand. Red lacquered nails and pale skin. He felt and odd surge behind his breastbone and covered it with a light cough.

"Whatchu been up to, all the ways across town?"

"Mostly just tryin' to get settled, any way I can," she admits, curling an idle piece of red hair behind her ear before going back to wielding a knife in order to spread some butter over bread, then placing it down against the flat of the skillet pan.

"Guess I'll need to start lookin' for work soon," Maggie adds, with a glance in his direction. "Must be some restaurant needs a waitress."

"Always some place or another," he agreed, the fact that he was saying so much was doing a lot to betray his attempts at disinterest.

"Your, urm... That little apartment you got... You okay bein' all the ways out there?"

"Don't have that much to offer in the way of another vocation," Maggie replies, flipping the bread after a moment before lifting her gaze.

"It's tolerable, I suppose. Sort of like the room I was keepin' before I came here."

He knew they offered classes in all sorts of places, not just for folks looking for fancy degrees, and he considered making the suggestion, but it seemed awfully presumptuous.

The rest of what he had to say might've been overstepping just as many boundaries, but he took the risk anyhow.

"I know there ain't nobody after us here, Maggie, but I think you oughta be closer."

"What, like changin' rooms?"

She makes the suggestion idly, attention half-focused on finishing the sandwiches and sliding them off the skillet one at a time once the heat's turned down. When she finally turns, idly wiping her hands on a dish towel, her expression is open. Curious.

"Is that it?"

His eyes dropping to a point just past her shoulder, he said, "Ought to be a spare couple a rooms here, at the Ocean View."

With no danger posed to 'em, he couldn't be sure why he was asking. But it was important, and he couldn't seem to hold his tongue.

She starts to say something, then remembers - the last conversation they'd had, before her coming here, was about her moving into one of the rooms above the grill. To live with them. To be safe.

She doesn't tell him that sleep has been close to an impossibility these last couple of weeks. That every time she closes her eyes she feels the imprint of dirty hands and smells the stench of too much alcohol on warm breath.

Instead she briefly hums, a thoughtful sound.

"Think it'd be easy to make a switch?"

"Don't expect so," he said, grumbling to himself something about making the switch easy, if need be.

He was quiet a moment, busying himself with pouring the coffee, when he finally admitted, "If we ain't gonna be workin' together, I'd at least like you close by."

"I'm fairly close right now," she points out, with only a tiny twitching of her lips betraying the faintest smile as she plates the sandwiches, easing to one side to step around him in order to put the plates on the table.

"And I don't suspect I'd be very good at operatin' any kind of complicated machinery." She turns back to face him, hands clasped in front.

"Maggie," he said, just a hint of exasperation creeping into his tone. He'd offer her the spare room in his own apartment, if it didn't seem so damn presumptuous. He'd prefer it if she didn't make him come out and say that he wanted to keep an eye on her.

Especially considerin' how that wasn't the only reason he wanted her close.

She approaches him slowly, gaze softening slightly as she stands at his side in front of the coffee he's preparing, just close enough to let her shoulder barely touch the breadth of his arm as she lingers, for a moment.

"Alright," she agrees, quietly, and turns her head to look up at him. "It's what I was preparin' to do back home, anyway. And beyond all that - it hasn't been the same without you."

He grumbled something unintelligible, along the lines of, "Mrr, well, urm..." Then he gestured toward the table, moving to pull a seat out for her, in hopes that the conversation portion of the evening could wind down and they could go about their business of sitting in companionable silence.

There's a beat - not long, but just long enough for her to rest a hand on his forearm, a brief touch that still somehow lingers, her fingers curving into a subtle squeeze just for an instant before she pulls away.

She takes a seat in the chair he holds out for her, hands gently smoothing over her skirt to keep it from wrinkling as she opens up a napkin to cover her lap.

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