Chapter Text
Westport’s not really remote anymore, not with the rail line that goes all the way to Dublin, not with all the tourists. And since it’s a planned town, one of the few in Ireland, it’s long been easy to find your way around the place.
So Cain, who’s not been there in years—Tom only visits a few times a year, after all-- has no trouble finding Clancy and Daughters bakery, and no trouble imagining how it stays in business. (How much cash in the till? he wonders, and hates himself a little for wondering. Old habits.) But of course he’s here to pay for every cake and cupcake he ordered last week. It’s not going to be all that big of a wedding, he thinks. But some of the people there will have appetites.
There’s no one behind the counter. “Hello?” Cain says.“I’m here to pick up one wedding cake and three boxes of cupcakes? We put in an order on line.” He pauses. “Under Marko. Cain Marko.”
He can’t help his deep voice: he bellows. Nor can he help the physical space he takes up, there in front of the narrow glass case. He barely fits into the shop. There’s a wedding cake on display, but definitely not the one he pre-ordered; it’s a generic sort, with pale frills and a bride. The frosting looks real, but the cake itself might be…. not. There’s a bit of dust around the bottom edge.
A young-looking man with floppy red hair pokes his head out of the kitchen, starts to greet Cain, does a double take, ducks back into the kitchen. Cain drums his enormous fingers on the counter, careful not to break the glass.
A few minutes later the sirens start. “Cheezus, not this,” Cain says. But he’s used to it now. In America, if not here.
When the uniformed gardaí show up—five at once, in their short-sleeved summer uniforms, one of them holding a gleaming high-tech weapon—they look like they’re honestly not sure what to do. They just stand there. “Cain Marko?” one of them says.
Cain shrugs, then answers. “That’s me. I’m just here fer our cake. We’re tying the knot at last at the keep tomorrow.”
“What keep?” asks one of the cops. Garda, Cain corrects himself. Can’t think of them as cops, like I did in America, or I’ll be seeing them as the enemy. That’s in the past. I’m a good guy now. My fiancé and I live in New York and Dublin and sometimes here at the family keep out west by sea. And they’re not cops. They’re gardaí.
“Cassidy Keep. My husband’s family place,” Cain says. “Well, my husband to be. As of tomorrow.”
“Aye.” The garda strolls into the back of the store. The Crimson Jewel of Cyttorak gives plenty of powers, even when you fight against it, but super-hearing, Cain thinks, ain’t one of them. Still, he can make out bits of conversation.
“Recognized international criminal,” one voice says. “Have to do something. Can’t let our town harbor….” Then: “Scared, honestly, scared.”
There’s another voice, higher. That might be the garda’s. “European Convention on Human…. Article 21… Non-discrimination,” she says. “Commercial services.” And "Reformed now, anyway... used to... Excalibur... remember them?"
The floppy-haired man comes out with the right wedding cake. Tier after tier. Five tiers. Tan on mocha on dark chocolate, shining almost like Cain’s armor used to shine, with gold coins all over the place, and golden flourishes: gold pearls, golden bows. The baker returns to the back, then wheels out a cart: three boxes of cupcakes. Each red as the sunset. Red as a full-blown rose.
There’s a sort of candy semicircle on the top, dark brown and gleaming, and a red, round hard candy, like a garnet. Next to this assembly there’s a wooden branch with a tiny leaf coming out of it, in marzipan. And a candy top hat.
“I didn’t know who ye were when I took yer order,” the baker says. Maybe he’s an assistant baker. “But I’m, uh, happy to serve ye.” The baker looks at the garda, not at Cain.
Then he refuses to take Cain’s bundle of euros. “The cake’s yours,” he says. “In…. uh, in recognition of all yr man has done for us.” Tom has supported a raft of local charities, even though he hasn’t lived here much. But the look in the baker’s eyes isn’t gratitude: it’s fear. Will it always be fear?
Granted, the handful of bills in Cain’s hand likely came from a bank heist ten years ago. But still. He’s reformed, he has.
He lifts all four boxes up carefully, elevating them so they stay level with his impossibly broad shoulders, as he walks back to his reinforced Jeep. The gardai give Cain a very wide birth. “Be seein’ ya at the wedding tomorrow?” Cain asks quietly. No one says anything back.
At least the wedding will be sunny. The wedding guests will make sure of that.