chasingtwisters | These rules are meant to break us all. {For James}

For two hours, James has been undeniably fretting over Moira's visit. Part of him wished he could take back the words he whispered to her last night as now in the light of day, with fresh eyes and less wine, he believes inviting a Coombs into his home on purpose was a mistake. The other part is fretting over the idea of company in his house unable to stamp down the Thornton propensity for dinner parties even though he himself hates them.

Should he clean something? Straighten the books on the shelves? Probably. None of these things though, he is actually capable of doing because he is on crutches and exhausted by just getting up and down the stairs. Plus he also feels ridiculous because Moira is coming over for business matters. Not consorting.

But he still changes his t-shirt into a half-decent looking pullover that June had bought him last Christmas. And he sends for the kitchen staff at the main house to bring over food--something simple he'd said. So there was a vinaigrette salad on the counter and a tomato basil penne pasta keeping warm in the oven. As the delicious smell of Italian permeated the house, he started to feel idiotic for the food too.

It's a really good thing Moira finally shows up when she does or he would've lose it. Despite the energy zap, he is getting around better on his crutches. So it doesn't even take him long to grab the door. He takes one final breath before opening it, knowing that what he meant to tell her, he'd never told anyone else. But he it was time, and he hoped that something good would come of it.

He opens the door to allow her in. "Hey," he says. "Um. I didn't know if you'd show up or not."

"Well, surprise, here I am," she says by way of greeting, catching the scent of what smells like delicious pasta permeating throughout the house, which is great, because she is totally starving. She holds up the bottle of wine. "And this is for you because I think giving people wine is what you do when you go over to their house? Normal people, anyway."

She's rambling a bit, which is surprising, because she doesn't expect to be nervous. But tonight feels like another turning point for the two of them, as they're both about to share parts of their histories they've never confided in anyone else.

She walks through the door James holds open for her and smiles as she takes in the decor of the place, her stomach growling at the food smell.

"So," she says, clutching her book bag tighter to herself. "Where shall we begin?"

When she presents the wine, he suddenly doesn't feel nearly as stupid. Maybe the food was the right thing because as she says that's what normal people do when they have people over to their house. His and Moira's relationship wasn't normal, but it was definitely headed in a direction that wasn't full-fledged hatred. He didn't know how to explain it, not even to himself. So it was easier not to analyze it too much.

He took the wine from her carrying it back into the kitchen, noticing that she had done her hair different than normal. Usually she wore it down and free, but tonight it was up in a high-tight bun that complimented her face.

"I have food," James says with an awkward shrug. "My father's staff was already sending food over, so they prepared enough for us both."

"Oh, well, thank you," she says, flattered by the gesture. "That's lucky, cause I'm starving." She follows him to the kitchen, trying not to dwell on how almost comfortable she is around him? She doesn't feel on edge the way she used to, and as she enters the kitchen, where the smells nearly overwhelm her, she finds herself oddly more at ease. She wonders how their relationship could seemingly evolve from hatred so fast.

She also notices how nice James looks, with his pullover and pants. Tonight really is incredibly odd.

"Your father's staff is a godsend," she says, as she breathes in the kitchen smells.

James releases a small soft breath when she says she's hungry because that's a relief. If she thinks this is weird, that he ordered dinner for them both, she doesn't let it show. But there's something about her being in his house that sets him at ease. Not anxious as he would've always suspected. But instead everything is easy...

He pulls the food out of the oven, thinking he could put everything out in the dining room, but that would maybe be a little much. Instead of just a casual dinner. He had already set out plates and utensils, so he places the large white pasta dish onto the middle of the kitchen's wood island. They can just eat here. He fetches a pair of wine glasses, thankful, like always that the kitchen is small and compact. Everything easily in reach. He balances his crutches against the island and takes one of the bar stools opposite where she's standing.

"They should be. He pays them well enough," he says, dishing food onto the plates.

Moira watches him pull things forward and arrange plates in the kitchen, finding the scene oddly...endearing, she thinks, is the right word for it. It was rather considerate of James to think of her when ordering the food brought here, something she is certain he wouldn't have done only a few weeks ago. The gesture further eases her into the home, which only further confuses her.

"Oh, here, I've got it," she reaches and takes the bar stool from him before sitting herself down. She takes the wine and pours them both a glass, waiting for him to sit before touching the food. "Well, it certainly looks fancy enough to come from your home," she observes, a slight smile on her face.

He takes one of the glasses she fills for himself with a nod. Suddenly he finds himself hungry too. Demetri had dropped by a sandwich from Quill earlier, but getting up for anything else seemed too much of a hassle. At this point, his stomach rumbles at the site of the good spread of food out in front of them.

"Mm. You get used to it," he says, taking a fork to his pasta.

"It's just been awhile, I guess," she says, heaping some pasta and salad on her plate before digging in. When she still lived in her mother's place, she ate food like this all of the time. And, of course, the chefs being of magical heritage ensured that no meal ever tasted the same and that there was every variety of food for one to choose from. Moira finds that, since leaving home, she much prefers eating in smaller kitchens, such as this one and the one in her own cottage, better than a lofty, cold dining room meant for nobility.

"Hmm," she says after a bite. "Yeah, this is fantastic stuff."

James nods at that, understanding in a sense, although his relationship with his father is testy, he hasn't burned that connection with them, like Moira has done. He wouldn't do that too Demetri, leave him all alone to flounder under his father's demands and rules for how being a Thornton was supposed be. Though, just by not living in the main house anymore, he gained some semblance of independence. He has no wait or kitchen staff here, only because they would drive him crazy, and the house wasn't big enough, really, to warrant such extravagance. So the only times his meals were as gourmet as tonight was when he ate dinner with the family or occasional times as these where he food was delivered.

It is a welcomed change tonight as he's starved, and he is still appreciative of the comforts of home after their stint in the labyrinth. He watches carefully as she takes a small bite of food. She seems to enjoy it, and he smiles internally at the idea.

He picks up his glass of wine taking a drink. "It's good now, but all we wanted as kids was takeout from Quill," he says.

Though Moira doesn't regret leaving home and her mother, she does still feel guilt for leaving the rest of her siblings at home to endure under her roof. Sometimes, her guilt keeps her up at night. She tries to tell herself that she's doing her best, but sometimes that isn't enough. She has to admit, from what she knows of James and his relationship with his father, that James seems to have picked the more sensible route, keeping in contact so as to be able to more easily support his siblings. Still, she tries not to think about it as she eats.

She takes more bites, truly digging into the food, and genuinely enjoying the meal. Even as it reminds her of her childhood and meals she's eaten there, with just James beside her now, the dinner feels more cozy, less formal. She finds that she really likes it.

"See, we were never allowed to eat at some place as common as the Quill," Moira says, recalling the lectures her mother would give them every time they made an attempt. "But we always used to sneak off to get I Scream Creamery ice cream."

He eats through a few bites of his salad and pasta, listening to her speak, wondering the last time he's had a woman over to his house, wondering if this even counts. He suspects it doesn't, or else it might be troubling they have so quickly reached a common ground. Traumatic rich childhoods, the common denominator in their families' fueding perhaps.

"You rebellious? Really?" Because that was the least surprising thing he's ever heard in his life. Her distaste for the rules and regulations of this town, the very ones he was meant to uphold, was the reason he never ran out of reasons to arrest her. "Never would've guessed."

As she eats and casually chats with James, Moira thinks to the last time she ate such good food with someone who wasn't a dear friend; probably the woman she'd had a one-night stand with almost four months ago, now. Damn, she hadn't realized her social life had gotten so dismal. Chewing her food and sipping her wine now, Moira finds that, though she doesn't consider this a...date of any sort, it is, at the least, a get together mutually agreed upon. She wonders if getting stuck together in that labyrinth helped to unveil the similarities between them both.

"I know, shocking, right?" Moira surprisingly smiles at his reaction, thinking back to her rebellious days in her youth. "Made me real popular at school, I can tell you that."

Her smile catches him off-guard, but he covers it, quickly taking another sip of wine. He's used to her snappy arguments and anger. Now there's new emotions being directed at him that he isn't sure he understands. Especially now. Where it's just them. Not life or death circumstances.

"And popular at the police station right?" He says with a mostly straight face.

She quirks an eyebrow when he quickly reaches for his drink, bringing it to him to take a drink. She doesn't think she's ever seen James...almost flustered before. It gives her an odd feeling, strangely endearing, almost charming. She wonders what else she's going to uncover while they're here together, alone.

"But of course," she snorts into her drink. "Although, I must admit, you weren't my first."

James raises his eyebrows, a slow smirk passes over his lips, before he looks away, shaking his head, poking his fork through his pasta. "Come on. I know. I've seen your file," he says, eating the bit of food off his fork cheekily.

"And I doubt I was your first arrest, either," she points out in between bites of delicious food. This feels almost like banter and she can't remember the last time she engaged in it, certainly never with James. There's something at ease about this routine, something comfortable she doesn't want to think about further.

"No," he says, thinking, rolling the stem of his wine glasses between his fingers. It wasn't that he enjoyed arresting people. Okay. Maybe he enjoyed arresting Moira because she always so angry about it, and as a Thornton, there was nothing more enjoyable than ruining her day a little. "But yours were always the strangest."

He places down his fork, having finished the majority of his food. He uses his napkin to wipe his mouth.

"I try to stand out from the crowd," she says, strangely proud of that fact as she finishes the rest of her meal. She places down her utensils to finish her wine as well, wiping her mouth with her napkin when finished. With the pleasantries of dinner, she almost forgets that they're here tonight to discuss serious matters affecting both of their lives.

"You want me to take care of the dishes?" She offers, because it's the least she can do. He didn't have to provide her dinner, after all.

Emphatically, he shakes his head at the suggestion. "No. Please. Don't worry about it," he says. Now that dinner's finished there's no reason not to get down to business. He sits back in some, rubbing at his chin. It's weird how much he was worried about the dinner part of the evening, but it has no second thoughts about telling Moira about his mother's investigation.

"So." He slides off his barstool. "There's no easy way to explain. Just come with me. It's just down the hall," he points towards the attached area to the living room.

"Alright, if you're sure," she shrugs, taking care to place her plate and utensils neatly together regardless. She slides off her chair, making sure to grab her own book bag from the corner before following James down the hall.

She completely trusts him, she realizes as they walk, has no doubts about where he's leading her or what he's about to show her. She wonders if these feelings are all adding to some other bigger picture, somehow.

James was only ten years old when his mother was murdered. June only a newborn. Much of the time he recalls as a blur. With family members and police and townspeople invading the family home. He remembers his father going into a rampage when he found out. He can still see the line of reporters at the funeral. He remembers sitting in the front row at the cemetery with Demetri and Daniel beside him, each of them taking turns holding and keeping June from crying because their father had been inconsolable during the ceremony and days after. It had taken a toll on James. Changed him. When something that tragic happens, murdered in cold blood, life never goes completely back to normal. The Thornton family, no matter how rich and powerful, definitely didn't once his mother was gone.

That's why he had never been able to let it go. His life's obsession, practically. Even more when he landed on the police squad where he had training and access and more resources to case files. He did anything and everything to connect the evidence the authorities found at his mother's murder scene with other cases. There was signs of a ritualistic killing but no one could ever tie it back to a suspect.

Slowly, trying not to disturb his leg too much, he leads Moira to the door he keeps locked on most days, hidden from all eyes, including his other siblings. He never wanted them to know. Or make them dredge up all those memories if they didn't need to. He was okay with bearing the burden alone. Once they step inside, he looks around at his work, somewhat proud of it, of the maps and documents hanging off the walls. Pictures of crime scenes and suspects from not just his mother's case but other cold case murders that had never been solved in this town. He had always tried to find a connection between them and his mother, but he never found it.

"Just how much do you think your mother is capable of..." he asks watching carefully as she looks into the room. "There are a number of unsolved murders in Siren Cove. Despite what the Mayor's office indicates in their crime reports."

Moira watches James as she follows him, understanding that this is a huge show of trust for him. She remembers the headlines when his mother died, tragedy and sensation blending together at the whims of the journalists reporting on it. She had been about eight at the time, and she had only just lost her uncle, Fabrice his father, about two years prior. She remembers watching the funeral procession weave through the streets from one of the largest windows of the house. She remembers her mother's words clearly, the same, cold ones she spoke after the death of Uncle Reginald: "Accidents sometimes happen." At the time, Moira had thought nothing of it.

Years of exposure to her mother's true nature, the late nights she waltzed back home, ignoring their father's questions as to where she had been; the moment Moira recognized her mother hadn't been crying in earnest through the crack in her glamour at her uncle's funeral, the same crack she revealed at her father's ceremony. And then, of course, coming upon her correspondences with the Grimhildes.

"Oh my God," Moira breathes once they enter the secret room, taking in the maps and pictures, the underlined notes and countless pieces of evidence lined up on the walls. She recognizes most of the names, she realizes, a growing horror settling upon her. Nichole Weaver, a seance who'd once viciously argued with Violet, who met a tragic end driving off a cliff. Suicide, the papers read. Moira knows better now.

She closes her eyes briefly, gathering her strength to herself. She shares the same blood as her mother; the potential for evil runs in her veins, and in this room, it becomes more real to Moira than her past suspicions.

"I have something that doesn't prove much, unless we can find someone to translate it for us," Moira shakes herself out of her trance, bringing her book bag around and pulling her own object out. No one, not even Fabrice, knows about it, something she feels slightly guilty about, considering it technically belongs to her cousin.

"My uncle wrote this for Fabrice," she admits, unfolding a letter written entirely in ancient runes no longer in use during this modern age, holding it up to the light and to James. "I am almost certain this was written the night of his death; see the patches of brown in the corner? Blood, possibly both his and my - Violet's."

She turns to James and waits for his reaction.

He watches her in earnest as she views the evidence on the walls, nervous that she'll think he's out of his mind. Putting this much focus on something that happened years ago, that others had let go of a long time ago, isn't normal. He knows that. She remains silent though taking in the room. For him years of work and he hopes one day everything he needs to avenge his mother, but he realizes as the emotions change on her face that this is damning evidence against her mother--against Violet. He's telling Moira her mother is quite possibly a deranged serial killer, responsible for dozens of deaths over the past two decades. Maybe longer.

Handling the paper she holds out to him carefully. If it really is from her uncle, it may one day be needed as evidence. "How did you get this?" he asks, not knowing what to make of the symbols on the page. "Does anyone else know you have it?"

Moira feels James watching her, wondering what to make of everything she sees in the room. It's an odd feeling, to have suspicions you've harbored over years confirmed by another man's obsessive, yet thorough, collection of evidence. Moira remembers when she first became aware of her mother's nature, when she saw through the crack in her glamour at Uncle Reginald's funeral, the underlying satisfaction beneath her tears wrought by magic, not genuine emotion. She feels a combination of cold and hot run right through her like lava; the woman who gave birth to her took the lives of so many others.

She takes a deep breath, shoving her primal instincts to the back of her thoughts as she watches him take the letter.

"I found it in the fire place of the library at Coombs Manor," she admits, running a hand through her hair. "Buried beneath a pile of ash. Uncle Reggie must have been more clever than people took him for; no one else knows about its existence, not even Fabrice."

She winces, knowing she is obliged to tell him, at least, one day. "I can't tell him yet, not while he's just getting over his own attack. I don't want to put him at risk. If Violet knows this exists, she will obliterate the entire town to ensure its destruction."

He places the letter onto the worktable he has set-up in the middle of room. It's stacked with file boxes and old files. He leans his crutches against the ledge, hobbling for a second into his chair, needing to sit down again. Once in his seat, he can get a better look at the letter. He isn't sure, but the stain she indicates could be blood. It has to known until he runs through the lab.

"It's probably best if you don't anyone. Considering she's dangerous," he says, nodding, peering hard at the letters again. He sighs, looking up. "I can probably get the spot tested at the station to see if it's even blood. But....I assume you know how to deal with the translation."

Moira watches as the letter joins the pile of evidence on James' desk, an odd feeling caught in her throat. Part of her feels like she's betraying the family, but then, the fiercer part of her, the part of her that stormed out of the house at eighteen, tells her that this is for the best, that potentially this is preventing more lives from being lost. So she stands her ground, watching James observe it.

"Unfortunately, I absolutely suck at runes," she admits, again running a hand through her hair. "I have contacts though, and I've been trying to sift through to find someone trustworthy and reliable. It's...a task, to say the least."

It's a different feeling having someone to share his investigation with now. He's spent hours in this room hunched over the piles of evidence, scrutinizing everything over and over again, looking for anything he's missed. He never imagined the first person he told would be Moira Coombs. She used to be on the wrong side. The wrong family. The wrong kind. Now he doesn't know where the sides run anymore. He just knows that it feels like they can figure this out together.

At her admission, he remembers something from the ball that may help out. "I think if we ask Lara. She'll help us with the trustworthy part." Lara Quinn was the most connected woman in Siren Cove. She would find them someone. "And she owes me a favor."

Edited 2014-06-07 00:18 (UTC)

Moira doesn't know how both herself and James wound up working together against...her mother, but it feels weird in a good kind of way. She feels more vindicated in her actions in separating herself from the family home, like every mistake she's ever made has led her to this point, where she can move forward with someone who believes her.

"Lara? Yes, yes you're right," Moira says, startled she didn't think of her friend sooner. "She owes you a favor? For what?"

He scratches his head for a second, a small smile playing across his lips. "I dunno," he says, shrugging. "She just came up to me the other night. At the ball. She just said she owed me one for...you. Actually."

He shakes his head. "I'm not sure what you told her, but apparently I saved your life or something."

"Well, you did," Moira tells him, not seeing why she should hide it. "You took care of me in my cat form and you saved me from Medusa. I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you."

Is he smiling? she thinks to herself, wondering what that could possibly mean.

He nods, unsure how to accept her thank you completely, but she seems to genuinely mean it. "Medusa," he repeats. All you could do was shake your head. "I still don't understand everything that happened down there."

But maybe. Just maybe things had ended up okay. In a roundabout way, it had given him new direction on his investigation into his mother's death. And even Moira. Their kidnapping had given him a chance to see her differently. He wasn't sure where it was meant to end up yet, but it was something new.

"I mean. You know you saved my life too. Several times," he says seriously. He was a cop. He could appreciate someone risking their life to save yours. Moira had done more than her fair share to keep him alive. He should've said something sooner. After a moment, he switches gears, back to their task. "Do you mind if I keep this? Maybe you can talk to Lara about the translation?" He gathers the paper she'd give him into an plastic evidence bag, thinking maybe they will be able to collect a couple fingerprints too.

Edited 2014-06-07 01:10 (UTC)

"Neither do I, but the important thing is that we're still around to wonder about it," she says, meaning that too. She thinks now that, had anything more permanent happened to James, she would be terribly upset. Perhaps it is a strange thing to admit, to finding herself oddly enjoying finding James in a new light, but enjoy it she does, even if it somewhat unnerves her at the same time.

She shrugs when he acknowledges her role in helping them navigate the labyrinth, a strange warmth unfurling within her at the way he thanks her in so many words.

"Go right ahead," she tells him, not even hesitating when he asks, which is something she wouldn't have done a couple of weeks ago. But she trusts James, trusts him like he's Fabrice or Alodia. "I'll make sure to talk to Lara as soon as I get the chance."

It's a promise, and she means it.

He inhales a short breath, knowing that she was trusting him to keep this evidence a secret. That she trusted him not to take his evidence public and not to take the accusations of her mother to the local newspaper. Something about that, her quick trust in him makes him feel good, content even. But he had also trusted her with the contents of this room, and he had a gut feeling that it was the right that to do. That of all people, she was the one to tell.

"Alright," he says, nodding. He moves to stand back up, grabbing his crutches again. "We'll see what happens. And..." he jots down his number on the paper pad sitting on the table. He rips off the top sheet. "My cell number. Maybe just call if you find anything. I'd rather not give the paper more to write about."

He pauses thinking that may have sounded rude. "I mean. Not that this wasn't okay. Tonight."

Moira doesn't feel the urge to remind him to keep the letter a secret. She doesn't feel panicked that she's trusting such an important object to James without a second thought. He knows how to make use of it, she is certain about that. She is certain that he is the one to trust to help bring her mother to justice.

"Just, be careful, okay? My mother owns several law firms and has various corporations wrapped around her finger; I'm almost certain she has political connections, too," she tells him. It's the only thing she feels the need to warn him about. She really hates the thought of anything terrible happening to him, especially again because of her mother.

"Alright," she says, taking his number and putting it in her purse. She makes a brief gesture with her hand, muttering a few, precise words. "I just put my number in your phone, if that's alright? It seems convenient." He'll probably dislike the fact that she used magic, but she felt an urge to make sure he has her number.

"No, tonight was...eye opening," she settles upon at last.

He nods at her warning. He is aware that Violet is dangerous, and he vows to keep his siblings out of this as much as possible.

"Uh...okay," he says, as she recites the short spell. He definitely isn't sure he is 100% okay with her use of magic, but he can't change his mind now about this. Not after tonight and the information they've shared with one another. Considering they've been discussing her mother using magic to murder numerous people, Moira using her powers to give him her phone number almost seems harmless.

"Eye opening." He gestures for her to pass through the door before he follows. "That's one way of putting it."

She notes his nod, takes it as his acknowledgement of the severity of the situation, glad he is aware of the dangers surrounding their predicament.

She is pleasantly surprised by James' 'okay' as a response to her magicking him her phone number; just from the past couple of weeks he seems more open minded toward magic. It makes her feel proud, almost, as she walks before him through the door.

"Indeed," she notes. "And how would you put it, James?"

"I don't know yet," he says, shrugging, as he pauses near the front door. Not meant to rush her away, but not wanting to assume she intends to stay much longer. Now that business was complete. The truth is, he doesn't know what tonight was exactly. It was business, but it was also dinner and pleasant. He isn't sure he can properly define it yet. But he is willing to admit there's more to figure out.

Edited 2014-06-07 02:34 (UTC)

"I guess we'll just have to figure that out, then," she says, moving to get her coat and purse. She isn't in any hurry to leave, but she imagines James' probably wants to rest, much as he might protest as being helpless on his couch, and she has to admit, she has a lot to mull over, considering what happened beyond 'business' tonight. "I'll see you later, James. You have my number if you need me."

These rules are meant to break us all. {For James}

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