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They need to stock up on a few things, eventually.

It is only normal, after all. Even if this is anything but normal, with her here and both of them still having trouble with things that should be normal. He cannot find the bar (he has not really gone looking, not after the other day and how much it drained him to try) and she is nowhere near able to go looking, either.

So they make plans to head to the coastal town a few miles down the road. It will not be a long walk. There will be cigarettes, there. And maybe even lobsters, if they are lucky.

(He hopes they are lucky. The lobsters deserved it.)

He has his coat (as always) and he's gotten the most of the blood out of it. There are a few tears that need mending, still, but they are unimportant.

"We can cut across the field. It is shorter, that way."

Following the roads is for boring people, apparently.

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"That will work too."

They stop back at the market to buy butter. (He did not want it to completely melt, by the time they walked back up the road towards 'home'. He also was waiting until they had lobsters to drown with said butter.)

He intends to walk out of town along the road, as to not raise any major suspicion. Once they are out of sight, however, he is all about abandoning the small highway and disappearing back into the grass.

"You are much better swimmer," he comments.

"There were times it was useful." There are precious few things she was taught that are not, when it comes down to it. "And there is a lake, by my house..."

Is, not was - she still hasn't surrendered, not entirely, the dream that she will get back to her home someday. But her tone is much more wistful than it has been before - someone remembering the Old Country, rather than a simple statement of fact.

It has been so very long.

"You do not live in the city," he says, a half-question and half-statement rolled together.

It would be odd, he decides, to have a house of his own, someplace. He does much better at finding empty ones to put life back into. And if he had his own house, then he would have to stay in one place.

He is not very good at that, either.

"Nyet. Well. Some of the time. I take many patrols in Moscow, but sometimes I go to the house. The dogs need attention." And sometimes she just can't stand the politics of the Watches anymore, so she goes somewhere that she doesn't have to listen to it, and she can be safe.

Even Gesar would need a bit of time to break through her defenses there.

"Dogs like me. Not cats. Most, anyway."

Most cats don't know what to make of him, part bird and part predator. Dogs have more faith.

This time, he walks around the end of the worn fence as they approach the barn. He places the lobsters on the ground just inside the door, beside a large metal pot. He will handle them in a minute. First?

Vodka.

"Most animals fear Others. We do not behave as the world ought." She shrugs, chain-lighting a new cigarette off the stub off the last before grinding the old one out. She makes good (sort of) on her earlier threat, finding a nice warm sunny spot in front of the doors and camping there, seated on a helpful rock-turned-doorjam.

He grabs two cups (it's classier than drinking straight out of the bottle) out of somewhere, and they do not match, though they do brightly proclaim how much the drinker must love the tiny coastal town they are outside of.

(There is even a seagull on the plastic.)

Skellig cracks the lid and pours two healthy amounts, moving to the doorway to hand one to her.

"To your health," he mutters.

"Spasiba." She takes the offered cup and knocks half of hers back, welcoming the burn down the back of her throat (it's warmer than her outsides, despite the way the clothing is drying).

And now she's eying the seagull.

Really.

Seagull.

The tourism board likely thought it was a fun tie-in.

Skellig just likes them because they're unbreakable. And hot pink.

He mimics her in knocking back a good swallow of the liquor, but unlike her, he coughs with the burn, squinting against the fire that sears down his throat and into his belly. That is much stronger (better) than he's used to.

She blinks up at him, a touch owlishly, then starts giggling.
"It will put hair on your chest, no?" She asks him cheerfully, "It is good for you."

"Already have that," he grumbles, clearing his throat a few more times to regain his voice. "This would burn it off."

He's had vodka with her before, but in his current state, this stuff is good. He moves to grab a few broken pieces of barn wood, piling them in a spot where there has obviously been a small fire made before, contained by broken stones and concrete blocks.

When he lights the fire, it does not smoke, yet it burns.

(Small tricks he can manage.

Like finding water to fill the pot.)

This reply does not stop her snickering at him, not one little bit. The sunshine is helping his cause, however. Sunshine and vodka and the smoke from her cigarette, no matter how frightfully mild it is.

It was a very rare day in Moscow that she was awake for the actual day. Usually she snoozed from just after sun-up to just before sun-down, to recover from the night before.

He keeps relatively quiet, humming to himself as he goes about setting the water to boil. The song is nothing in particular, merely something to distract himself from thinking about the fact that he will soon be plunging the lobsters into a watery grave.

(They deserve it, yes. But it is still death.)

If she falls asleep, he will make an effort to steal her cigarette. It would be impolite to let it go to waste?

She's watching him, in the fuzzy, unfocused way of someone who could be asleep if they tried a little harder, but is feeling lazy about it. Her now-empty glass is settled in beside her, just in case she gets thirsty later.

(There's an open bottle of vodka. It'll happen.)

Finally she realizes what's been bugging her, and sits up a bit.

(Her scalp itches. Salt water sucks.)

"Do you want me to do it?"

Had this been the bar, by the lake, with the lobster creatures closing in - there would have been no question as to his actions. The lobsters would have boiled in the lake along with all the things that also died, as the universes ended around them.

But here.

It is different.

"...it would be easier," he agrees, before finishing off the alcohol in his glass.

Hers is a harsher outlook - she is hungry, they are edible, and she has no love for crustaceans of any sort at the moment. She pushes herself up, making a face at the way her jeans have decided to dry in bizarre, ridged patterns (no really, salt water sucks) and strolls over. She has to stretch to plant a casual kiss on his cheek, before bumping him out of the way.

Or at least trying.

When not a tiger, she's hardly formidable weight-wise.

"Silly. You could just say." The lobsters are doomed.

Birds are hollow-boned, however, so when she nudges into him he moves aside with the contact - thankfully not falling into the pot of boiling water that is reserved for their dinner guests.

"It would not be so much of a problem," he says. "But the boy was...tricky."

He had to confront the child to get his attention. Some of them don't need confronting, simply fetching.

As she drops the first batch of lobsters into the pot, he's refilling his glass. He will move to hers, next.

"The boy was willful." Katya agrees, as she goes about her new job - she has no problem adding the waterbugs to the pot. "But I think it was honestly come by."

She wasn't overly impressed with the parents.

Especially the mother.

She's still trying to shift some of the bad luck flung in her direction by that woman. The things Light Others have to put up with.

"They usually are."

The lobsters do not scream, and the ripple that emanates from the boiling water is barely a blip on his senses. Skellig sets his jaw, though, as he fills her glass.

He's noticed the shifting.

"Can I help?"

"If you can?" She doesn't pretend to misunderstand. "Mothers' curses are shortlived, but very annoying." And they make her skin itch. She disapproves mightily.

The last (of the first batch, anyway) of the lobsters disappears beneath the water, and she turns her attention to catching up on her vodka consumption.

He hands the glass over, focusing on her face.

"I'm not sure. It is not my specialty."

And while they are alike in some ways, in others, she is definitely not like him, and he is not like her.

"We may have to let it wear off."

She pulls a face, but then consoles herself with vodka. It's not anything worse than she'd catch on a normal patrol in Moscow.

For a brief moment, she wonders if she's going soft.

"Bah. Silly boy was more trouble than he was worth." And that, right there, is a lie. She could have no more not gone after him than she could have stopped fighting at the bar.

"Perhaps he will be worth it, someday."

It is helpful to be optimistic, in these situations. And he will not call her soft - not after she did the killing of the lobsters.

He perches on the rock she had vacated, setting his vodka aside to peel out of his coat. He needs to stretch, and it will be safe to do so, here.

She makes a face at his damaged wing, but there's precious little she can do about it at the moment. So instead she monitors the lobsters while drinking her vodka, a slightly mutated version of drinking beer while watching the barbeque.

"Another day, or so, and I can see if I can do more, there." She notes, in a studiously off-handed fashion. She will probably never be a healer, not now. She might have been, once... but that was down a different road.

He's preening, though he may never admit it - working his fingers over the feathers to coax them back into some sort of order.

(Also, there are still bits of god only knows what stuck between them.)

"It is not broken. They will heal."

A few are badly-singed; he plucks them free with nothing more than a wince.