Chapter Text
In the days after Texas leaves, Lappland waits.
She spends days in the little motel room. Waiting, watching, even though she knows nobody will come through the latched and bolted door -- after rattling the knob and chain and cursing her with a low and resigned air about how she's forgotten again, damn it, Lappland.
There, Lappland keeps the windows closed, the curtains drawn. That way, she can still smell a trace of Texas on the sheets and in her own hair, maybe even her own skin if she concentrates hard enough.
Columbia is a large place; surely Texas can't have gotten too far. Maybe she's still in the region, maybe she's just gone to one of the other satellite cities.
Lappland hasn't thought too deeply about what she's going to do when -- if? -- she finds Texas. Maybe they'll talk it out, though she knows Texas well enough to know she won't be swayed by words, that it isn't an apology that she wants to hear. Perhaps they'll talk things out the way they do best -- in a bloody moonlit duel somewhere. Somewhere grimy and meaningless and not at all romantic, perhaps an abandoned construction site or deserted parking lot somewhere.
Until she figures it out, Lappland can wait.
Days turn to weeks. Her funds run thin. But that's fine; she'll make do, she'll survive. It's what she's always done, it's what she's always been good at.
She leaves the room once a day for a brief sojourn out to get food. All the restaurant and food stall owners around the area know her face by now, the rangy lupo who waits until it's almost closing time to buy whatever she can for cheap and wolfs it down as she walks through the streets. Tonight is no different; Lappland rubs her dinner budget between her hands -- a whole ten Lungmen dollars -- between her hands, warming up the plasticky blue notes. It could get her a cheap value meal and maybe even a drink or something sweet for after, if she's careful about what she picks.
All best-laid, well-intentioned plans of budgeting disappear the moment she spots a new food truck at one of the street corners. Everything about it smells familiar, of a home she'd long lost and long forgotten -- the heady aroma of crushed late-season tomatoes; the aniseed scent of fennel and the crisp freshness of mint; the sea-salt tang of anchovies and sardines. It's a nostalgic smell, one she hasn't encountered for a long time. Manning the stall is an elderly lupo woman with a youngster that must be her grandson, a gangly youth with a sulky tilt to his flattened ears and downturned tail as he counts out the change from the lined-up customers.
"Buon giorno, Nonna. Un pasta alla siracusana," Lappland says before she can stop herself. Her heart feels small and tight in her chest. "Per favore."
"Sì, un momento," the proprietress replies. Her grandson hands over a container, warmed from its contents. "Saranno quindici dollari di Lungmen."
Fifteen Lungmen dollars. Lappland's heart sinks. She thumbs through her notes -- knowing full well she doesn't have enough. "Va bene, non fa niente," she says and holds her hands up, ducking her head hastily at the food truck owner.
"Quindici?" one of the people in the queue behind Lappland asks, then hands over a few bills, waving the younger lupo off when he attempts to hand back her change. "Tieni il resto!"
"Wait," Lappland says, but the stranger flashes her a wink and a grin as she accepts the takeout container from the grandson and pushes it into Lappland's hands. The elderly lupo makes a soft tutting sound and then places something else on top of the container -- two small paper bags, one with a stuffed spiral bun and the other a half-moon shaped pastry dusted with powdery white sugar. She plucks at Lappland's wrist in the same movement and shakes her head, disapproving, before patting the back of Lappland's hand. "Mangia, mangia, sta andando a freddo!" the old lupo says, impatient, and waves Lappland off.
Lappland knows a dismissal when she hears it. "Grazie," she blurts out, but the old lupo has already turned away. Clutching her dinner, Lappland turns tail and wanders to the fountain at the central park square, flopping down and cracking open her container. The smell of fresh, homemade food is almost too much for her -- suddenly ravenous, she clutches her disposable fork and digs into her meal, gulping it down.
She's so preoccupied with eating that she doesn't notice a passerby stopping in front of her -- and when she does she chokes on the mouthful of pasta she'd been inhaling. "You!"
"Hehe, heya. Enjoying the meal?" the customer who'd paid for Lappland's dinner says, voice cheery. She's holding one of the cheese and sausage-stuffed spiral pastries from the food cart. Above her head and behind her back, the halo and wing-shards of a sankta glow gently in the night. "Haha, I'm glad."
"Hey, uh, yeah. About that. Thanks," Lappland says with her mouth full, then swallows. "Back there. Why did you do that?"
"Hm, I dunno. You looked like you needed it, I guess." The sankta bites into her pastry, then sighs. "Ooh, that's good, there's something about real, authentic Siracusan street food that really hits the spot. I'd like to go there again someday."
Lappland sets down her half-eaten meal. "Alright, enough with the chit-chat. What's the catch?"
"Hm? Wait-- is this about the food?" The sankta pops the last of the pastry into her mouth with a flourish. "There is no catch."
"Of course there is. In this world, there's no such thing as a free lunch. Dinner," Lappland tacks on as an afterthought. "So, what d'you want? I'm a bit strapped for cash at the moment, but maybe I can pay you back some other way." She swallows her last mouthful of food, then swipes the back of her hand over her mouth. "Anyone you wanna see dead?"
The sankta laughs. "What, no! Geez, that's morbid. Look, just think of it as your lucky day or something, because you did indeed just get a free lunch. Or dinner. Enjoy it! Do whatever you want with it! Though it'd be nice if you pay it forward one day, I guess."
Lappland flattens her ears. "I don't believe you. Nobody ever does anything without an ulterior motive. Life is all about give and take."
"Give and take, huh?" The sankta wipes her hands on a paper napkin, then scrunches it up in her hand. Not once has Lappland seen the faint smile leave her face. "Well ... nah. It was just some change to help someone have a proper dinner. It's really nothing deeper than that."
"Wait," Lappland says, but the sankta's already leaving, humming a tune under her breath. It sounds vaguely familiar to Lappland, though she can't place it. The sankta lifts her hand in a lazy wave; her wings are bright shards in the dark. "Haha. See ya 'round."