bakerstreet | Dirty laundry

Dirty laundry

the LAUNDROMAT

Perhaps you live in a dorm or an apartment that hasn't seen renovations since the eighties. Maybe your luck has really dried up and your washing machine at home broke the night before a job interview and you haven't done a load of laundry in two weeks. Whatever your story is you've ended up at the local 24-hour laundromat. It could be creeping in on midnight or three in the morning. Either way, the place is a dead zone. Leaving you floating in a liminal space where reality has been stripped down to the sounds of clattering quarters and the continuous thrum of the machines under the buzz of neon lights. This would be a horrible time to bump into someone you know, or worse - a complete stranger while you're staring into the middle distance in nothing but your American flag boxers reading a paperback.

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His brow had lifted a little at the tone of that laugh, though it creased a moment later at the actual answer, but he nodded all the same, "Some days it's like that." He agreed after only the barest delay, moving back to the work table he'd essentially taken over so he could continue folding.

There was definitely something going on with the kid, but since he didn't hear sirens, he wasn't overly concerned. Which was probably the wrong way to go about things, but it had worked for them for a long while and Joe didn't think this was going to be the time it didn't.

That comment probably should have put Frankie on guard, but something in him had snapped. Not in a dramatic collapse, but a sagging structure slowly sliding to the ground under the weight that kept piling on top. He didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t. He had no space left in him for it. And maybe that’s what the coven wanted, but he didn’t care what they wanted anymore.

He turned away from the machine, back out to the room, and looked down at the clothes he was wearing, picking at the shirt and scowling.

“You know, if they’re going to make me wear actual clothes you’d think they’d give me more than two outfits, right? Like, obviously they don’t want anybody to see me, but it’s just being assholes to only give me two fucking pairs of everything.” He glanced over at the man calmly folding his laundry and sighed, leaning back against the machines until his head thunked against them.

“You seem nice. I’d ask what it’s like having a nice normal life, but you’re here at three in the morning washing clothes for an entire army and giving the weird kid peroxide and offering to fix up his wounds so I don’t think you’d actually be able to give me an answer.”

Well now that was concerning, but they -especially he- couldn't get involved, the current job was too important to sidetrack or derail that way.

"One to wear and one to wash is a step above fast food workers with a single shirt, so yes. Asshole behavior." He shrugged, whipping a strip of boxer's tape around the stack of folded towels to keep them together, "My husband would tell you that 'normal' is what you make of it, and my little sister," the barest hesitation because it had been on the tip of his tongue to refer to her as our little sister, since she was, "would tell you that normal is simply a setting on a washer."

He shook his head, "And for me, I don't think 'normal' really exists, people are too varied for that and can't agree on what habits are 'normal' as it is. It's a collective assumption, that's all."

Frankie smiled dryly, and loped over to the table and set the bottle down by the stranger's elbow.

"Sounds like you've got a bunch of philosophers in your family," he said, and leaned on the table languidly. "Wish I could remember mine, though I kind of have a feeling they weren't the philosophical type."

He chuckled softly at the response, nodding as he returned the peroxide bottle to the basket alongside the detergent, "That much is true. Though we're all recovering soldiers, philosophy kind of comes with the territory there, I think."

A considering noise, "Or alcoholism, and we've had our share of that as well." He studied Frankie for a moment, pausing between folding towels and setting in on the shirts, "Do you mind if I ask what it is you do? I'm guessing you're not a courier."

He snorted at that last bit, then laughed, and found an empty bit of table to hop up on to sit. He sobered pretty quickly as he looked over the man and his piles of laundry. "I'm not sure I should tell you. The fact I'm talking to you at all... if they find out, they're not going to be happy."

He straightened a little at that, because while it was incredibly unlikely that he would, entirely by accident or circumstance, run into one of the victims of the trafficking ring they were there to deal with it was still possible, which was why a statement like that got his attention.

"I see. And are you being watched that closely? Or will they only find out later?" If he needed to call in reinforcements he definitely would, but if it was better if he just left, he could do that, too. But either way, the kid was on his radar now.

Frankie shrugged. "They'll find out later, if they ask the right questions. They don't always." He leaned back on his hands, considering the man carefully. It was highly unlikely he'd be able to help in any meaningful way, but it had been so long since Frankie had just talked to someone that he was finding it difficult keeping his mouth shut.

"How much do you know about magic?" It was a bit of a long shot. Public perception of magic was a little bit like the public perception of theoretical physics--most people knew that it existed, or at least the study of it existed, but for the vast majority of people it didn't necessarily affect their day-to-day lives. The people who studied it, however, knew it was everywhere, affected everything, and knew the power it had. If this man had just the basic understanding of magic, then Frankie would have a much better excuse to keep his mouth shut. But if he knew... well. That was a different story.

He considered the question for a moment as he started in on folding the shirts, checking how much time was left on the dryer with the rest of the clothes, "I know it exists? That it's out there and some people are more in tune with it than others."

A little shake of his head followed, "But where it comes from, and why some have a stronger connection to it? Those are things I don't know, and things I leave to the actual philosophers to discuss."

He regarded Frankie for a moment, "I take it that's the kind of thing they'll want to know, if they ask?" There had been no sign that the victims so far were any kind of magical, but that also wasn't something the four of them had specifically been looking for, either, "Rest assured you haven't met any kind of witch, wizard or warlock. I'm as regular a Joe as you can get."

Frankie smiled a little, then laughed, and kicked his feet back and forth playfully before swinging them up onto the table to sit cross-legged. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

"That wasn't why I was asking, no." It would be harder to talk to the man if he didn't really understand, but... well. Frankie could make it easy to understand. He looked at the man for a moment, hard, calculating, then straightened and pushed up the sleeves of his henley shirt and leaned forward to pull down the collar to expose the skin right over his heart. His forearms were covered in intricate black tattoos, twisting lines that curled around and through each other in complex runic bracers, beautiful and sinister. The pattern was echoed on his chest, but in a more simplified circle, and somehow even more ominous than the markings on his arms.

"These," he said softly, "are binding marks. There's a more complicated explanation behind them, involving rituals and spells and sacrifices and so on, but it all boils down to this: I belong to them, and whatever order they give me, I'm forced to obey." He dropped his hand from his collar and slowly pulled down his sleeves again. "You asked me what I do. The answer is, quite simply, whatever it is they tell me to do. Often, like tonight, it happened to be murder, but it's been a wide range of other things too."

Joe had had decades of practice at not letting brief flashes of recognition cross his face when they hit, especially when it was something he shouldn't rightly have recognized without being told what it was.

He could only hope that practice was still in effect, because those marks -while not exactly the same- were incredibly similar to ones he'd borne himself not long before, ones that were still etched on the bones of his forearms because bones didn't heal the same way skin did.

As it was he just lifted both brows slightly at the explanation, "And do you often admit murder to people you've just met?" It was utter curiosity, and 'admit' instead of 'confess' was a very deliberate choice of phrasing, partly because confession implied a level of guilt that was currently lacking, but mostly because the question in and of itself wasn't an accusation to be confessed to.

Frankie shrugged, a small smile on his face, though it was tight, wry. "Well," he said, "I can't say I do. I don't get to talk to people very much."

He leaned back again, arms braced behind him. "But you were nice, and no one's ordering me not to, so maybe I'm taking advantage of my momentary freedom."

He considered the answer for a moment, but nodded, "Likely I should be more concerned by that answer, but it's hardly the strangest thing I've heard, especially at this hour." It was the kind of statement that was rarely taken at face value, "And if you're going to take advantage, I say you do so to the fullest." He added, a shadow of a smile catching at the corners of his mouth as he pulled a small plastic container out of the basket, popping the top off and offering it over.

It was half full of oblong cookies, each about the size of a walnut, smelling faintly of citrus and almond, a light crust of powdered sugar baked onto them, "Ricciarelli, because my husband still thinks I need to be bribed into doing the laundry."

Frankie froze for a moment, staring down at the container. The smell coming out of it was unlike anything he could remember--though granted, that wasn't saying a whole lot, given he couldn't remember much from before the coven. Still, the scent was enthralling, and Frankie wanted to stick his whole face in the container and just breathe it in--but he restrained himself, and managed to stick just to taking a single cookie and smelling it carefully, his eyes sliding shut and a small smile--a real smile--tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He took the time he wanted just smelling it, then, since it was too small to do anything else, he popped the cookie in his mouth whole. He chewed slowly, savoring it, and after he finally swallowed, he sighed, smiling.

"Thank you. That was..." He shook his head a little. "Your husband makes a really good cookie."

Joe had eaten one himself in the meantime, watching Frankie's reaction as he set back into folding the shirts, picking up where he'd left off with the chore. It was about what he'd expected it to be, making it obvious that the kid hadn't often had treats.

He smiled again, more easily than before, at the response, "He does. He enjoys cooking for people, it's, ah, what do they call it now? It's his love language." The smile was all the warmer, shaking his head just a little, "And I've never met anyone with a bigger heart."

Frankie liked the way the man looked when he talked about his husband, though it made something in his chest tighten in a way he didn't like. He took a deep breath.

"How long have you been married?"

"Officially? Only a few years now, but we've been together almost as long as I can remember." There was an undeniable fondness in his tone, because that was the thing about Joe, all of his emotions were right there on his sleeve, despite attempts in recent years to keep them better in check.

More than that, the statement was absolutely true, they'd been married more than once throughout the centuries, but had always been together even despite having been on opposite sides when they first met.

"That's nice," Frankie said. He stared down at his hands in his lap and stretched his fingers out wide, then folded them into fists. He was jealous. He wanted that. But it was impossible in his current situation.

He sighed and looked up again. "What's your name, anyway? If you're comfortable sharing it."

"Joe, it's Joe." A soft huff of amusement, "And before you ask, yes, I do at least try to make friends with strangers at the laundromat at this hour. Or at the very least I do my best to avoid making enemies of them."

And there was the smile again, taping a stack of shirts together the same way he'd done with the towels, "Most of the time I even manage it."

Frankie laughed a little at that. "So when you said you were a regular Joe you weren't actually speaking colloquially." He shook his head a little, then stuck out a hand. "I'm Frankie. Nice to meet you. Sorry for dumping all my shit on you unasked for."

"Not entirely, no." He replied, that smile back in place. He accepted the hand, clasping Frankie's wrist instead, just briefly, a so-called Spartan handshake, "It's good to meet you as well, Frankie."

He tilted his head, not quite a negation of the apology, but something more than acceptance, "Don't worry about it, you're not the first. I just have one of those faces, I guess."

The washing machine with Frankie's clothes buzzed, and he hopped off the table to go tend to it, opening it up and inspecting his clothes for any remaining blood stains. The peroxide soak seemed to have done its job, and Frankie sighed a little in relief that he wouldn't be punished for ruining another set of clothing, even if it was in service to the coven.

He popped everything into a dryer and got it going, then turned back to Joe. "So what do you do? Other than huge stacks of laundry in the middle of the night."

"Retired military." He tilted his head from side to side, "And freelance journalism now. Nothing regular, but it's enough to pay the bills when a job does come up." It wasn't exactly a lie, either. They did sell articles sometimes, but mostly it was all off the radar sorts of jobs.

But even with what Frankie had already admitted, Joe wasn't about to say anything about being part of a small mercenary team, even if that's really what it was.

Frankie let out a soft huh and wandered back over to the table, this time sitting in a chair next to it so he could talk. He sprawled, throwing his legs up over the arm of the chair and getting as comfortable as someone could in a plastic laundromat chair.

"You know, retired military doesn't really surprise me. You've got the... what do you call it. The bearing." He crossed one leg over the other and considered Joe for a moment. He wouldn't have been surprised to find out Joe wasn't telling him the whole truth--there was something off about him that Frankie couldn't quite put his finger on. It was a feeling, like an itch in his brain he couldn't quite scratch. But it wasn't any of his business, and probably the less he knew the better.

"Have you lived around here long?"

He shook his head, "No, actually, only a couple of months now," which was longer than they tended to stay in any one place, but they needed to stick around until they actually cracked this one, and it wasn't unheard of for them to settle in even for as much as a year, "just long enough to know where to do the laundry and what markets are open after dark if we need an emergency ice cream run."

A small smile, "And if you think I've got the bearing, you should see my husband, sister and I working on a task together, even if it's just setting the table for dinner. We're a unit now, unto ourselves."

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