Chapter Text
The house had a kitchen bigger than was warranted given how rarely it got used. The four of them never sat down for communal meals. With their disparate work schedules, dinner was typically more catch as catch can than something scheduled or planned.
As the one most likely to do what cooking did happen, Pearl would never complain about having more space than was strictly needed. It let her keep more pantry staples on hand and store cookware that only got occasional use without feeling guilty about the space it took up.
The larger than needed kitchen also provided room for the inevitable spectators. Tilly lay in a corner, watching the cooking process hopefully, her tail giving an occasional thump when Pearl glanced in her direction. And Scott sat on a tall stool, swinging his feet and chattering about this and that while he, also, waited in anticipation of being fed.
Scott, unlike Tilly, was perfectly capable of cooking for himself. He even did now and then. But what he didn’t appear to be willing to do, under any circumstances, was cook for anyone else. That had been one of the first things worked out when Pearl and he started living together, back when they were studying for their degrees: Pearl did the cooking, and Scott cleaned up after. This many years later, despite everything else that might have changed – living in a rental house rather than a student apartment, Cleo and then Martyn having moved in with them – that agreement remained unaltered and firmly in place.
The few times that Pearl had suggested changing it up, having Scott cook dinner now and then, he’d looked more betrayed than the time she’d failed to notice his new haircut, responding with an immediate whine of “But Pearl, we have a deal!” Honestly, she didn’t mind cooking enough to push the issue, and on the upside, she hadn’t had to wash a single pot or dish in literal years.
“I know it’s early in the week, but I already got an entry for dumbest customer interaction,” Scott offered brightly.
Pearl hummed inquiringly as she reached for a knife to dice some onion. One of her knives, not Scott’s ceramic ones. He didn’t mind other people using them, but the time Martyn had chipped one cutting a bone-in steak was still spoken of obliquely as “the blade incident”.
“Someone came in today wanting to return the daffodils they bought last month because they were defective. They’d dug them back up and everything, carried them right into the shop.”
“How can flowers be defective?” Pearl scraped the onions into the pot of tomato sauce. They’d be better if she sauteed them first, but the smell of browning onions combined with the floral scent that perpetually hung around Scott turned her stomach, so the onions would just have to soften as the sauce simmered.
“That’s what I said! They’re bulbs. They grow and bloom. What more is there to it? They clearly hadn’t died, at least not until they got dug up.” He grumbled, and Pearl could all but hear him roll his eyes. “You know what their problem was with the daffodils? They’d stopped blooming.”
“Yeah, they do that. It’s well past their season.”
“You know that, and I know that. But apparently this customer was under some crazy impression that flowers are like a sculpture or a picture book that stays looking the same all the time. They wanted a refund because I couldn’t sell them daffodils that would stay in bloom all year round.” He sighed. “I gave them directions to a craft store so they can buy fake flowers, since that’s what it sounds like they really want.”
“Sometimes I’m glad that my patients can’t talk.” Pearl shook her head as she stirred in the last of the diced onions, contemplating whether she should add some chopped mushrooms as well. No garlic. The flavor might be nice, but not worth the scent of it now or Martyn’s complaints about the lingering smell in the kitchen when he got home later.
Deciding against the mushrooms, she set the knife and cutting board by the sink for Scott to wash later. Right next to his bright blue rubber dish gloves – couldn’t have the soap and hot water drying out his skin or nails – and the small ceramic dish where he set his rings when washing dishes. Pearl had learned to give that a wide berth after a few unfortunate skin reactions to the metal. Although now that she thought about it, the dish hadn’t gotten much use in recent months. A quick glance confirmed that Scott’s fingers were bare, their only adornment slightly chipped polish on his short nails. Pearl couldn’t recall when he’d stopped wearing his rings. It wasn’t exactly something she paid attention to on a daily basis; the last time she had a reason to remember them being there was when she’d accidentally brushed against one several months ago.
But regardless, he didn’t have any on now, and maybe if he’d stopped wearing them regularly, they could put the ring dish away and have one fewer obstruction sitting out when she was cooking. The kitchen being bigger than one person needed didn’t exempt it from the universal rule that kitchens always need more counter space.
The stars were beautiful.
Whatever the inconveniences of sharing their space with three quirky and nosy roommates, Cleo could never regret their decision to move in to this house. Their previous apartment had nothing even resembling a back garden, just a small fire escape landing balcony in full view of a streetlight. Even on clear nights, they'd had no hope of sitting in the dark under a sky full of stars.
But out here, in their very own garden – or at least the garden that was currently available for their use per terms of a lease – they could sit under the open sky and, clouds willing, see the stars. Not every night or on a set schedule, but about once a week Cleo got home from work to find the back door unlatched in casual invitation. On those nights, they would join Scott on the patio, sitting with the lights off and talking softly about whatever came to mind.
Cleo cherished those hours spent together in the quiet dark, a time to relax in the company of a friend. Scott spoke more freely some nights; he said being under the stars reminded him of where he’d grown up, still nights without light pollution to dim his view of the stars. For Cleo, the appeal didn’t come from the stargazing itself. It was simply nice to have a space where she didn’t have to worry about keeping herself together so tightly for watching eyes.
“Your assistant came by the shop again today after your closing time,” they observed idly. “Stayed for well over an hour watching and asking questions. If they keep hanging around so much, they ought to become a proper customer.”
“You’re welcome to suggest it. But I’ll be real, I don’t think you’re going to have any better luck getting your needles into Shelby’s skin than mine.”
“Maybe something from Martyn, then.” Cleo had accepted a while back that they weren’t going to get Scott into their chair, although that hadn’t stopped them keeping a folder of floral sketches that would look amazing on him if he ever changed his mind. If he thought Shelby would be equally as resistant, they would avoid getting too firmly fixed on any design ideas for her that would just go to waste.
At least Pearl had been open to Cleo’s ideas, once she confirmed that none of the equipment or inks would irritate her sensitive skin, and the moon and wolf piece on her shoulder remained some of Cleo’s favorite work in their portfolio.
“Martyn might have more luck, yeah.” Scott hummed thoughtfully. “And that would be cute, her getting some piercings. Does Martyn have any little gold mushrooms? She’d like that.”
“I’ll be sure to check. Thanks for the tip.” They could always count on Scott to have a good read on people and be willing to take their side.
“What are friends for?”
Cleo chuckled softly. “Conspiring with against everyone else, apparently.”
Scott’s answering laugh hung in the night air, musical and almost echoing for a moment. As it faded away, the still silence returned, and Cleo let it stay, absorbing the comfort of simply being with no expectations beyond their presence.
Pearl hesitated before messaging the roommate group chat when she realized she’d forgotten to bring lunch to work today. Normally, it wouldn’t be a big deal if she needed to step out around midday to pick something up, but their schedule was packed today. There was no good gap of time where she could in good conscience leave things short-handed. So asking the group chat for help it was, despite the risk.
Scott wasn’t going to answer. Even if he would bend his rules about food to bring her lunch, he’d already started his work day by now and couldn’t leave his shop short-staffed either. So if she got a response, it would be a fifty-fifty on which of her roommates with less conventional schedules responded. Cleo would be fine, brisk and efficient, dropping off a selection of food assembled with more thought and care than their apparent indifference suggested. But there was always the chance that it wouldn’t be Cleo who responded.
The door swung open. “Heyup, lunch delivery!” Martyn plunked her lunch bag onto her desk.
Pearl had long since gotten over the dissonance between her roommate’s habitual cheery greetings and his cultivated aesthetic, which was presumably what he thought a piercer working in a tattoo studio ought to look like. The only colors she’d seen him wear were black and dark red, and he never left home without his favorite long coat. Pearl wasn’t entirely clear whether his pale complexion came from foundation or sunscreen; makeup wouldn’t surprise her given the black eyeliner and burgundy lip stain he frequently wore. Despite his line of work, he limited his piercings to a couple of helix rings, but he made up for the lack of facial jewelry by what he wore on his hands. Today, he’d left off his spiked wrist bands, instead showing off the Celtic blackwork tattoos Cleo had done on the back of his hands. His fingers were covered in rings, many of them ending in a sharp claw-like tip that extended past the end of his finger. Those, like the coat, only made an appearance when going out; Scott had put his foot down about the rings being worn in the house because he didn’t want Martyn snagging up the upholstery like a cat.
“Thanks, Martyn, you’re a life saver.”
“No worries! I sliced up some spare steak to put on your salad. And I may have tucked away a little extra as a special treat.” He pulled a small container out of his coat pocket, popped the lid off, and held out a sliver of cooked steak towards where Tilly sat beside Pearl’s desk.
Tilly raised her head and sniffed the air but made no moves towards Martyn. He took a step closer, extending his hand to offer her the meat. Her ears pulled back and she leaned away, eyes tracking his motion.
“You’re scaring her, mate. Back off, and stop trying to bribe my dog into liking you.”
“A little bribery never hurt anyone.” Martyn set the piece of steak on the floor and put the container with the rest next to Pearl’s lunchbag on her desk. “She’ll warm up to me eventually.”
Once he stepped back out of range, Tilly snapped up the steak, licking her chops and paying no attention to Martyn’s wounded stare. “She loves Scott, and he doesn’t even feed her.”
“She’s known Scott since she was a puppy; he’s built up trust.”
Scott also didn’t have a lingering metallic smell of blood hanging around him. Pearl could ignore that offputting detail as a consequence of the trace amounts of blood Martyn frequently encountered at work, but Tilly had no way to rationalize an exception to what her instincts labeled a threat.
Pearl’s coworker burst through the door to the back room. “Did I hear… Martyn! What’s got you here, man?” Ren looked like his ears should be perked up, and if he’d had a tail it would have been wagging.
Martyn’s attention pivoted to the new arrival, attempts at befriending Tilly entirely forgotten as a wide smile spread on his face. “Not much. Just swinging by to drop off Pearl’s lunch and save the day.”
“I can’t speak for anyone else, but my day is always saved by you showing up in it.”
This is why she’d hoped for Cleo. It wasn’t that Pearl minded her coworker dating her roommate. Honestly, Ren had been happier in the months since meeting Martyn than Pearl could remember from the entire time they’d worked together. They matched each other’s energy and genuinely seemed to bring out the best in each other. Pearl had no problem with them being a couple.
What she minded was Martyn showing up at the animal rescue shelter. Because as soon as Martyn set foot on the property, Ren lost complete track of everything other than his boyfriend’s presence. Leaving Pearl to pick up whatever he was supposed to be doing, in addition to her own work.
Today looked to be no exception, as the two settled into a playful conversation full of teasing and smiles and genuine affection that would have been adorable if it wasn't happening in the middle of her work day.
Pearl heaved herself out of her chair and headed into the back to take over Ren’s abandoned tasks, Tilly happily trotting along at her side.
Scott sat on the couch, idly watching late night reruns of a baking competition show, his phone set on the armrest next to him, close at hand. He’d need to be up early in the morning to open the shop, like always, but he hadn’t felt like sleeping just yet.
The click of a key in the lock, followed by soft footsteps and then the jingling of rings being stashed in a pocket, announced Martyn’s arrival home from work. Had it gotten that late?
Martyn wandered in, drawn by the sound from the television. “Hey, Scott.” He sounded surprised. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.”
“I wasn’t. You’re welcome to join, though, if you want to wind down a bit before bed.” He glanced at the screen. “They’re making macarons. I expect it to go badly.”
“I’m always up for watching a trainwreck.” Martyn dropped onto the other end of the couch.
They watched in relative silence for a while, Scott nodding knowingly as one of the contestants lamented the cracked tops as their macarons didn’t hold up and Martyn watching the judging with a kind of wistful intensity. The time on Scott’s phone gradually ticked towards midnight.
“Cleo mentioned that I should find some mushroom shaped studs for Shelby?” Martyn picked up a conversation from a few days ago that he hadn’t been part of.
“I think she might like them, is all.”
“I can do that.” Martyn hummed thoughtfully. “They said gold. Rose gold like Pearl? Or more standard yellow?”
“I’ve only seen her wear yellow, not rose. You ought to ask Shelby to be sure what she likes. She doesn’t have the same sensitivity as Pearl, though.”
“That’s helpful, gives us more options. I’ll have to see what I can find.”
Scott nodded, and the conversation lapsed into a sort of late night comfortable stillness.
The contestants had moved on to more elaborate baking by the time Scott’s phone rang, a chime-like series of tones. Finally. He picked it up without looking and stood from the couch. “I’m going to take this.”
Martyn waved him off wordlessly, not looking away from the concerningly compelling mirror glaze being applied to a cake.
Scott got most of the way down the hallway towards his room before raising the phone to his ear and answering it. “Hi, Jimmy.”
Cleo’s client must have sat like a champ for the session to have finished already, Cleo clattering around in the back room as they cleaned up their equipment.
Martyn, on the other hand, was a bit at loose ends due to a no-show, someone whose nerves or bank account had failed them since booking the appointment. He set down his tablet on the counter, still open to the catalog he’d been browsing. He’d bookmarked a few mushroom options to show Shelby the next time she came in, as well as some flowers he thought Apo might like for the matching piercings she wanted to get with her fiancee.
Cleo had left a flash book out, and he flipped through it, idly contemplating what he might like to get done next. Not that he wanted something standard and off the shelf – even if Cleo would put something on a friend that hadn’t been drawn specifically for them – but looking through examples of their work usually sparked inspiration.
A small death’s head moth design caught his eye, a simplified version of the one on Cleo’s own wrist. The crisp lines on the page stood out starkly, a sharp contrast to the faded ink he was used to seeing on their skin. They’d never shared the story of when or why they got it – Cleo could be remarkably tight-lipped about anything personal – but the moth must have been one of their older pieces.
Now that he thought about it, Martyn couldn’t remember Cleo having gotten any new tattoos since they’d met. Maybe she didn’t know anyone whose work she liked enough to wear it permanently. Or anyone she trusted to tattoo her. Not having another tattooist they got on with could well explain why they’d decided to open the other half of their shop to Martyn rather than setting up with a second tattoo artist. He certainly wasn’t going to complain; this place was the best situation he’d had in a long time.
The thunk of the autoclave door closing indicated that Cleo had mostly finished the cleanup and the scent should be manageable, so he wandered back to chat with her while they waited for the next appointments on the books. “Was Shelby here earlier?”
“Yeah, they came in while you were out grabbing food, I think.” Cleo peeled off their gloves and tossed them in a waste container before washing their hands. “She didn’t stick around long because I had a client due to come in shortly.”
“Can you flag me down next time you see her? I’ve got some ideas to show her, depending on what she’s looking for.”
“Sure, can do.”
He tagged after her as they returned to the main work area. “Have you thought any about a design for Ren?”
“Has Ren thought any about a design for Ren?”
Martyn winced. “I haven’t exactly…”
“Told him about it?” Cleo arched an eyebrow.
It wasn’t that he thought Ren would be opposed to the idea of getting a tattoo from Cleo. He’d commented positively on Pearl’s shoulder piece when she’d worn a tank top, and he certainly seemed to appreciate Martyn’s tattoos. But even so. “I want to have a design to show him when I pitch the idea! He needs to see your vision to fully appreciate what he’s being offered.”
“That’s not how it works, Martyn. I am not doing free design work and getting invested in a personalized drawing for someone who may not even want to be tattooed.”
“You can’t hold a grudge against Scott over his fear of needles forever.”
“I can and I will.”