we_bring_hell | (no subject)

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Harrow is having a slow-motion argument with the Bar over breakfast. She wants water and a little bread, and the Bar does not agree that this is a breakfast.

She has rejected an omelet, a breakfast sandwich, and biscuits and gravy. The Bar is trying a bowl of porridge on her and she's considering it. (She hasn't noticed it has raisins in it yet.)

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He laughs; gradually, in small increments, his good cheer seems to be returning. "She offered one to you as well?" he asks, reclaiming and recapping the chili oil. "I enjoyed mine, but they are rather sweet. I could not see myself drinking them for more than special occasions. Still, if you are not used to strong flavors, I think much of what Gusu Lan prepares would suit you -- though it does not have the simplicity of bread and water, I admit."

She nods. "I do not only eat bread," she says, still pointedly addressing the Bar. "But I find it sufficient to break my fast."

The Bar, incensed, conjures up the remains of Harrow's last several meals - an unfinished bowl of broth; a ration bar only nibbled at; a dish of roasted snow-leeks half-eaten; more bread, at most three-quarters consumed.

Her jaw tightens. "You may take it away," she says acerbically. "There is no need for these theatrics."

Wei Wuxian eyes the plates Madam Bar has set before them. He has known hunger, and he knows that when you have a belly used to little food, it does not take much to fill it. Still, that is... far less food than anyone should be eating, especially when spread over multiple days. Especially when Madam Bar will provide as much food as you'd like without question.

Cautiously, he asks, "Is that... usually how much you eat?"

"More or less," she says tersely. "I don't monitor it closely."

(A lie.)

As one of the inn's resident masters in brushing off any concern with a careless I'm fine, it's a lie he can recognize when he sees it. It's also a lie he is hesitant to break; sometimes, that I'm fine can be the only barrier to keep from losing yourself.

But it is so hard to look at that line of half-eaten meals, and how thin Harrow already is -- has always been, in the short time he has known her.

"I see," he says, and keeps his tone light. "Well, sometimes it is not easy to keep an appetite. Some food is better than none, Madam Bar, is it not? Even I have days where plain rice is the most I can stomach."

"It is only fuel," she says fiercely. "Just fuel for the body."

A wave of loathing for the meat that holds her spirit washes over her, and she sets down the lightly-toothed slice of bread. She remembers faithful Crux begging her to eat in the days after her parents' deaths, and can recognize the same kindness in the Bar's wordless attempts.

But she has lost control of so much since she came here--since she came to Canaan House--her composure gone to rags, her secrets on display, her future torn from her--and she cannot lose this.

"You must not let it trouble you."

He crooks a tiny, rueful smile. "I think I told you once that I worry too much," he says. "I will do my best not to let it trouble me, if you ask. But even if this is only fuel -- it is still fuel the body needs, so it can do whatever you may need to ask of it."

His gut twinges, remembering. He ignores it.

"Even necromancy still requires a living body to begin the work."

She smiles faintly. "I will make you a promise -- speak to Lan Wangji, and I shall join you for a meal, whether in condolence or congratulation. You may set the menu, and I will match you course for course."

He groans loudly, every ounce of melodrama returning, and throws his head back.

"Aiya, fine," he says to the ceiling -- but he's laughing through it, aware of how ridiculous he is being, how ridiculous all of this is. "You have a deal, Harrow. I promise I will not subject you to anything too strong, but I will speak my feelings to him, and we will eat when it is done."

"Then it is sealed," she says solemnly. Harrow is good at many thing, but laughing at herself is surely not one of them.

She looks at the accusing line of dishes. "I believe I still owe the Tomb a penitential walk outdoors."

"I should not keep you from your duties with my absurd troubles, then," says Wei Wuxian. His smile has gone a touch sheepish. "Thank you for listening. I hope to be in better spirits next I see you."

"I hope for this as well," she says. She hesitates.

"You are beyond all responsibilities now; at liberty to pursue your own happiness. There is nothing absurd or shameful about seeking a connection with another."

"Good luck." The Bar sulkily vanishes her dishes.

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