Pry

Title: Pry
Time Period: June 25, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: This time it's done with a crowbar.

Pins & Needles has been for the most part closed. Mariah of late had been opening it when she could, but for the most part since Patricks death within the last week, the sign had been turned and hide nor hare of the proprietress had been seen.

Today though - The sign was neither open or closed - Said proprietess was parked on the floor of the work area, a large crate in front of her. Legs tucked under her, she's staring off at the box. Hair in need of a washing but tied back, dark circles under her eyes - and red to boot - she looks like she maybe had some help getting dressed today. At least she wasn't laying in bed and staring at the wall like she had been those first few days.

Parked beside her also, was a large bottle of hard alcohol. Not even a cup to go with it, stopper off and halfway drunk.

While Pins & Needles isn't exactly close to the stables he works in most of the day, it isn't exactly far from some of the places Cas Blackburn is sent to run errands. When he has the chance, it's become a habit to stop by the store, planning to make up lost time by riding the horse he's training (as part of his training of course) or by walking at a faster pace or taking a quicker route.

Who knows how he'll make up the time, this time, but it could be all three— as he's tied up Eclipse near the door.

The lack of a sign makes him pause at the doorway, peeking his head inside a little, until he sees the woman, looking worse than he might have expected her too. "'ey," he says softly, a bit of awkwardness in his voice. He'd never met Patrick, never will now, but he doesn't seem to know what to say, despite a few soft attempts that don't get past his mouth opening a second time, before his lips press together tightly.

"Mariah's out" She looks up and away from the large crate, spying cas over the top of the counter. "I think" She hopes. "If you wait, she'll be back" Monotone, lacking the warmth and energy that she usually possesses even when well into her cups. A shifting of her legs brings about the thump of a crowbar. "If you're here to pick up something, it's probably on the shelves" IF she'd managed to do it before Patrick's passing.

"I— I'm not here to pick anything up," Cas says, stepping into the store after checking his boots for anything that might get drawn into the floor. Keeping a mourning woman busy may be a plan, but he'd rather not keep her busy on cleaning up after him if he could help it. "I— it's stupid to ask if you're okay— do you… need anything?"

"A dead dragon?" The angry reply back to Cas. The bottle thunks next, picking it up, letting her lips form a seal around the mouth of the dark bottle and taking a far too healthy swig from it before settling it back down on the wooden floor.

"I'm not sure how good at fighting I would be," Cas admits honestly, moving closer to her and sitting down on the floor nearby. He makes no does glance at her bottle for a moment, hestitating, but he keeps his words to himself. Disapproval probably wouldn't mean much, coming from him. "I'm sorry I never got to meet him."

"A lot of people will be" Sorcha reaches over, grabbing the crowbar and passing it over to cas, holding it out expectantly to the horse handler.

There's a long look at the crowbar, Cas seems to be trying to figure out what it's even for. While he tries to figure it out, he continues what he was probably trying to get out, "I may not have known him, but I think he was a lucky guy who shouldn't have spent nearly as much time away from you." The words seem to genuine to be flattery of his lady's boss.

"I was the wife of a sailor. I was second to the sea. He loved it more. Who was I to tell him to stay home and make him resent me?" Sorcha mumbles, looking at the box before gesturing to it with her hand. "Some woman from his ship brought it. He always brought me back stuff. He brought me back the rabbits one year. I don't think there's any animals in there. But there might be stuff. She said there was fabric"

"Oh, of course," Cas says, realizing just now what the crowbar was for. "I don't really get that— loving the sea over a person. I mean I love working with horses, but…" he trails off, as if he's not sure he would put his love for horses above or below love for someone else.

Getting to his feet, he studies the crate a few moments to find the nails, before he places the crowbar, kicks it in with his boot, and then works on prying it open.

"You can love a horse too much" Sorcha points out, reaching for the bottle again, watching Cas work the box, the nails giving way under his strength. "Patrick always did this. He liked to open it, then me pick off the top. THe best stuff… the best stuff he buried at the bottom" There was probably a reason she hadn't opened the box yet when it was first brought.

"There's some things horses can't do for you," Cas says with a quiet grin, and as if to make his relative innocent shine he follows it up with, "They can't read stories to you, for one, and they don't give very good conversations, most the time." Not that it stops him from talking to them. But he certainly wasn't being as racy with his comment as the woman he lived with may have been.

Prying more nails loose, he waits pulls the top off, careful to make sure the nails aren't in danger of poking either of them.

Her hand slides across the top, shaking her head. "No. No, I want to open it myself. Thank you for getting the top off for me" Looking over at Cas, falling silent for a moment or two, fingertips white at the pressure of her chewed nails and fingertips pressing into the wood. "Thank you, for your sympathies. Some day, perhaps, I will be in a better state to accept them. For now… I think that I want to open this on my own, if you would?"

"Oh, of course— I— just be careful with the nails," Cas says, looking concerned at them. And at her. The crowbar is sat down on the floor, as he stepping back away from the crate. "Do you want me to leave so you can… so you can go through it? I can stay a while longer if you think you'd need any help."

"I'll be fine" It comes out more snappish than intended. "I don't need anyone to stay with me. It's not like I'll take the crowbar to my head or try to nail my wrists to the floor. Just go. Just go Cas, I don't want you to sit here and pity the poor widow like everyone else" The crowbar shoved away with her foot, the metal object scooching across the floor but not very far. "I'm just grieving not suicidal Cas"

"I didn't— I'm not…" Cas starts, looking taken aback at her suggestions, and perhaps the graphicness of them. If he'd worried she might hurt herself before, the fact she pictured it so detailed doesn't help. In fact it makes it worse. "I just didn't want you to accidentally hurt yourself…" he explains. And now he looks like he might doubt her last words entirely…

With a shake of his head, he turns and heads to the door, with a soft, "Sorry."