pullmeoutalive | log > for lack of a better place to do so

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log > for lack of a better place to do so

He had to wonder how it was that, if no one save a very, very select few could leave Whitechapel, he kept ending up elsewhere. Indeed, this wasn't the steam-driven, smog-choked section of city he called home. This was somewhere else entirely - and startlingly modern in comparison to the Victorian England he was so used to.

It was unseemly of him, but he found himself staring - tall buildings all steel and glass towered over him, and over that lay the clearest sky he'd seen in his entire life. The sun was bright, brighter that it had ever been in Whitechapel, with its constant overhang of smoke. All the better, he supposed, that he was wearing his usual attire, complete with dark glasses.

Alabaster stood alone on the street, a tall figure in smoke black stark against the clean, polished world he now found himself in. There seemed to be no one around. This city, if it was indeed a city and not some ludicrous dream, appeared to be deserted.

He reached into the pocket of his coat, fishing out a pocket watch. In this alien place, was Grandfather Clock - his God, and God over Whitechapel - still watching him through the clockface? Or had the connection been severed with his sudden disappearance?

Such things would be answered in due time, he told himself. For now, there was only the question of getting back. It wouldn't do to have Grandfather Clock's elite agent up and vanish in the middle of a rebellion, now would it?

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The brunette sighed, but held still for her de-tinseling and tried not to look too embarrassed about being tidied up by someone who had originally seemed so detached from everything else. "It wouldn't be festive if I didn't deck myself out too, right?" She joked, almost belatedly. "And besides, I think it brings out my eyes!"

He gave her a grin in response and deposited the tinsel on the tree. "I don't suppose," he remarked at length, "that you happened to keep those clothes from our last adventure?" His own clothes were pretty much ruined beyond repair, thanks to the beating he'd received.

Had he just-- no, he couldn't have-- but he had. She couldn't remember if she'd ever seen him smile wholeheartedly, but Alabaster's grin proved her theory that she hadn't; she wouldn't have been so surprised if she'd seen it before.

Still, she couldn't stand and stare for too long, so she saluted instead. "They're actually in my closet. I thought about giving them to Duff for his bed, but he's spoiled enough as it is."

Alabaster arched a brow. "Thank you for that, I suppose." He wouldn't have blamed her if she had. It's not as though he'd planned on returning, after all.

"I tend to keep things I pay for," was the nonchalant response as she headed into her room to pull out the clothes and look them over. They were a little wrinkled, but nothing too noticeable, and they were bound to be better than what he'd been wearing when he'd dropped on her floor.

"Oh, and if the doorbell rings, it's probably the carolers. None of them can really carry a tune, so you'll just have to grin and bear it."

"Carolers, hm?" Now there would be a sight. This certainly wasn't the grimy, low-key Whitechapel Christmas he was used to, and somehow he was okay with that. At least, that's what he had to keep telling himself.

Alabaster took the change of clothes from Saga with a small nod. "Would you mind if I took a moment to clean up?" He asked, nodding towards the bathroom. A good shower and the chance to actually stay clean were not luxuries he normally had, but he didn't want to start treating Saga's house like it was his own, so he figured asking would be the polite thing to do.

She shook her head, returning to the half-decorated tree. "Feel free to take as long as you want. It might take the water a little while to heat up, so just be warned, okay?"

"Duly noted," he replied, and vanished into the bathroom. A little cold water was a small price to pay, after all.

There were all sorts of things weird about the situation, but Saga had decided long ago not to dwell on them that much. It would only give her an unnecessary headache, and she got enough of those without having to do anything at all. Alabaster was here, for however long that might have been, and she'd have to figure out what to do with him before too long.

But not right now.

Alabaster finally emerged, slightly damp, but clean and changed, holding the remains of his prior outfit in his hands. It was headed for the garbage... as soon as he rifled through all of his pockets and made sure he wasn't forgetting anything.

He made for the couch and began doing just that. Pocket watch, pistol, a knife or two, spyglass, a few other odds and ends. Just because his primary weaponry was the mechanical limbs on his own arms didn't mean he couldn't be prepared otherwise - for all the good it did him, apparently.

Saga lifted an eyebrow as she watched him, slightly awed at just how much his pockets could hold. Any serious Girl Scout would have been impressed. However, since she'd flunked herself out of the Brownies as a precocious child, she was more amused than anything else.

"I'm surprised all of that didn't weigh you down."

"It's not much, really." He gave the coat another once-over to make sure he wasn't missing anything. Satisfied that he indeed wasn't, he rose from the couch, ruined clothes still in hand. "I've no more use for these, I'm afraid."

"I'll take them if you don't want them," she offered, wide-eyed and earnest. "Trust me, I'm pretty sure they've still got their uses."

"I should be very surprised if this tattered old thing proves useful to you." But he handed the garments over anyway, and quickly moved on in hopes that she hadn't caught on to the double-entendre in his statement. With a nod of his head, he indicated the kitchen and asked, "I don't suppose I could trouble you for something to eat?"

She hadn't caught on, luckily for him, but she did beam at her newest acquisition with a genuinely pleased expression before she placed them carefully on top of the sewing basket near the couch.

"It's no trouble at all!" Saga was already moving, rolling up her sleeves in preparation for the approaching battle against ingredients. "If you don't mind having French Toast, anyway. It's a little holiday tradition of mine."

French Toast as a holiday tradition? Well, who was he to argue?

"At this point, I would eat anything," he remarked. And it was true. He'd spent the last gods-knew-how-long sleeping, and his stomach wasted no time in reminding him how neglected it was. "Would you like a hand?" Or seven, as the case may be.

"No," she said immediately, softening the refusal with a smile. "French Toast is one of the few things I'm completely confident about, and you're a guest. Not to mention you did most of the cooking the last time you stayed here, and..." She shrugged, muttering something about pride, but saw no need to make it more audible. "Just find a seat, okay?"

Again, who was he to argue? It was her kitchen, after all, and as much as he enjoyed cooking, he wasn't above letting someone else do it. "Very well," came the reply as he seated himself at the table.

"How many do you want, anyway?" She was already bustling about, nowhere near as quick as he was in the kitchen, but almost as proficient when it came to gathering up bread, whipping the egg yolk, adding the cinnamon, and warming the stove.

He frowned, thinking for a moment that he didn't want to sound like a glutton but... ah, who was he kidding? He was starving. "Five or six, if you can manage it. I haven't eaten in days."

"You're not kidding-- half the time, I wasn't sure if you were still breathing." Saga grinned ruefully, a little wary about making too many jokes around Alabaster. It wasn't that she didn't think he had no sense of humor, but there was an air about him that made her want to tread carefully at times. Not for her sake, but for his.

"But I can certainly manage six," she went on briskly, and snagged a few more slices of bread. "In retrospect, I can say I'm glad I got used to male eating habits a long time ago."

"I suppose brothers would bring that about in a person, yes," he replied. There was a little good humor in his voice, even if he was studiously ignoring Saga's previous statement.

He leaned an elbow on the table, propping his chin up, and watching Saga cook. He was quiet for a moment, just taking in the smells (and doing his best to ignore the noises his stomach was making in response). At length, he spoke, "Saga, may I ask you a question?"

The answer came in the form of an inquisitive noise, the girl seeming to be more focused on her cooking more than her guest-- but appearances could be deceiving, and she was indeed poised to listen.

Just in case he didn't get that, though, she amended the earlier reply with, "Sure, go ahead."

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