existencemisspent | 33 Apocalypse Ave, Monday morning

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33 Apocalypse Ave, Monday morning

Right, so. That was . . . a thing that had happened. Both Eliot and Margo were old hat by now at experiencing their own deaths, thanks to the Beast and multiple attempts at running a probability spell that had shown them maybe a dozen variations upon that theme. So when they woke up in the library after spending the weekend as ghosts reliving their untimely demise, there had been only a few moments of clinging to each other and reminding themselves that they were real and alive before they headed home to bury their feelings in champagne and resplendence.

"What do you think, Bambi? Champagne cocktails or French 75s?"

He'd offer her a bloody mary but, well. He'd had rather enough of blood, this weekend.

[Mostly for the bestie but also can be open!]

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“The 75,” Margo decided, stretching her legs out on the sofa. She’d put on her nicest, most flowing dress, just to put some distance between herself and. . . that. She held up her pocket mirror as she brushed some more glittery green eye shadow on. “I need something Parisian in my life right now.”

"Don't we all," Eliot agreed. He set about combining gin, lemon juice, and simple syrup in his shaker over ice, the familiar actions soothing something deep in his soul. "That looks amazing, darling. Mind if I borrow it when you're done?"

He had opted for comfort over decadence -- well, comfort as well as decadence, and simply wore a pair of flowing pajama pants and his finest silk robe, unbelted. He'd considered dressing up, but every time he picked out a vest, he'd found himself picturing it with blood and Margo's ear plastered on it. . . .

Whereas Margo still had that practical but fashionable outfit burned into her single retina. (She missed her right eye, but fuck if she’d take a missing right eye over a missing left face.) “I’ll leave it out on the coffee table,” she promised. “Though you might wanna blend it with something darker to go with that robe.”

Eliot glanced down at said robe and nodded. "Wise as ever, Bambi. What would I do without you?"

Drink himself to death as quickly as possible, if this weekend were to be believed. Eliot wondered if it was actually one of the previous 39 timelines they'd experienced, or just some random whim of this gods-forsaken island.

There was that first timeline where Quentin had only found Fillory because Eliot had, in fact, partied himself to death. Not that Q had ever told them about that one.

“Nothing,” Margo said pleasantly. “Or at least something much less coordinated.” On so many levels.

Edited 2021-10-04 16:04 (UTC)

"Doomed to a far less fabulous existence, certainly," Eliot agreed. He poured out two perfect French 75s and brought them over to her on the couch.

Jane would someday mention that one to Eliot, blessedly without any details involved. Eliot would have no idea what to do with the information.

Margo set her eye shadow down on the coffee table with due care, then reached and curled her fingers around the stem of her glass. “Thank you,” she hummed happily, and brought the glass up to her face.

Ah, perfectly smooth. Eliot really was the best. “Oh, I needed this.”

She didn’t believe in day drinking as a general thing, but this counted as an emergency.

Eliot settled down next to her, leaning into her side, and took a long drink of his own. "Here, here. Nothing combats a nasty bout of whimsy like champagne and gin."

Margo dropped her head on his shoulder with a sigh. “You know what?” she said. “It’s an excellent time to plan our housewarming party.”

That’d get their minds off shit.

"Ah yes! Perhaps a Parisian salon theme?"

“I like it,” Margo said. “But it definitely needs a sprinkle of show-offy magic. Maybe we can conjure up some decorative fireflies for the evening?”

"That shouldn't be difficult," Eliot said. "Maybe an invisible waiter circulating enchanted drinks and snacks. . . . And now I miss Josh. Did you ever get a chance to try his 'bang like happy pandas' weed?"

Oh, way to remind her of her FOMO, Eliot. Margo sighed loudly. “Noooo.”

She pouted. “We probably shouldn’t get anyone hooked on magical weed out here in the sticks anyway,” she said. “But you should definitely bust out your fanciest booze spells.”

"I felt that went without saying," Eliot mused. "And damn. I couldn't try it, either, what with, you know, being Fillorian-married and all. I was hoping one of us had managed to."

“It’s not like Fillory was running over with bangables,” Margo said, taking another sip of her cocktail. “Shit was hectic for a while there.”

Understatement. Fuck, Prince Ess might have been the last person she’d fucked before Irene, and wasn’t that a trip?

Well. At least she was attracted to the last person she'd fucked before coming to Fandom.

"What, you weren't charmed by Tick's plush mustache?" Eliot teased. "Proper parties were lost on Fillory. I'll have to find something extra special to make this one worthy of our names."

Perhaps a mixer that would magically taste like the drinker's favorite fruit. . . .

“I think we should spend this week brainstorming our best party spells ever,” Margo decided.

And not just because she wanted to show off in front of Irene. Please. She wasn’t that desperate.

(It was just a fringe benefit.)

“You should handle the boozy ones, I’ll think about setting the right atmosphere. Something that says ‘we know this island is quaint and fucked up, and you deserve to stare at the pretty magical lights in blitzed-out wonder under the Eiffel Tower’.”

"I love it," Eliot said. "I'm sure we can find something interesting at the shop." The library, clearly, was right out. "Speaking of. . . . I think 'I spent the weekend dead' is a valid reason to play retail hooky today. You?"

“What’s the point of being your own boss if you can’t ditch work when you wanna?” Margo asked, eyebrows raised. “Fuck, did I ever tell you about the creepy goth chick who came in to tell me about the old owner’s under-the-table poison biz?”

It had been a few days and some trauma, so Margo could admit to herself that she kinda approved of the previous owner’s business moxy. Just. . . not of goth chick’s weird lack of discretion about it.

Edited 2021-10-04 18:01 (UTC)

Eliot had meant his own retail experiences -- he supposedly was meant to open the magic shop on Mondays -- but went willingly with her shift to the lotion shop.

"You did not. Details please."

What? He wasn’t the only person here who had a Monday shift.

“I met her at the three minute dates thing and she seemed cool if kinda weird,” Margo dished in her dishing voice. “But last week? She just comes up and she’s all ‘I used to work here. Bee tee dubs, we used to sell poison here, you can find the list of under-the-table customers somewhere around here’. Got real huffy when I told her I ain’t selling poison to anybody.”

And even if she decided to, why would she admit that to a perfect stranger?

Edited 2021-10-04 18:18 (UTC)

"Jesus, I should hope not," Eliot said, shaking his head and sipping his cocktail. "Not the ones that are strictly deadly instead of recreational, anyway."

“But it explains a lot,” Margo said. “Like how the creepy murder apartment wasn’t a place where anybody did the murdering.”

"And how it wasn't crazy haunted," Eliot said blithely. And took a large sip of his cocktail because oops. Ghosts. "Though I suppose if weekends like this one are terribly common, I can see where an actual poison shop could be . . . a thing. . . ."

“Can we please not talk about the weekend,” Margo said, pulling a face. “Because fuck, I’m already not gonna be able to wear hair bands for a while.”

Eliot nodded. "Of course, Bambi." He shifted to loop his arm around her shoulders. "My apologies. Is there any poison still lurking in your store, then?"

“Just in the apartment upstairs,” Margo said. She let out a long sigh. “As far as I know. Fuck, I should check, shouldn’t I?”

“I’m sore we could dowse for it or something. Just to be sure.”

With the least amount of effort.

Margo snorted. “Fuck, I haven’t dowsed for anything since first year. Was that first year?”

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