At first glance, this run-down efficiency seems barely lived in. The door opens onto a nearly empty living room, painted institutional white and containing only a lime-green couch with fuzzy yellow pillows and an oak coffee table. It is reasonably spacious, and is obviously intended to be the main room of the flat. The current light fixture is a hanging industrial fluorescent, which gives the room a slightly unhealthy, antiseptic feeling, unmitigated by the ancient blinds covering the windows. The left wall from the door shows signs of a mural in progress, though the faint pencil lines leave the intended design still unclear.
To the right upon entering is a small kitchenette, with barely enough space to stand between the stove and refrigerator on one side and the sink on the other. A boom-box style radio relaxes on the counter, broadcasting soothing celtic music. Just above the sink is what little cabinet space can be had. There is a small dining table and chairs right outside the kitchenette, defining an eating space.
Just past the kitchenette, still on the right, is the bathroom, then both bedrooms. Between them is a small coat closet, empty except for a surely breeding collection of wire hangers. The door to the closet is perpetually ajar, as it doesn't seem to want to latch properly.
In another era, she might have been considered terribly attractive. As it is, she sits just on the prettier side of average. At about 5'6", the girl looks to be carrying around a hundred and sixty pounds, giving her a rather full, hourglass figure unusual for a girl in her mid-teens. She has quite a pretty face; it's a bit plump and tawny freckles are scattered across her nose and cheeks, but otherwise her complexion is unblemished, and her features are well balanced. Full lips frame almost-straight teeth, often revealed in a cheerful grin, and large, almond-shaped eyes, the irises a warm, gold-flecked shade of brown and the lashes thick and dark, peer out brightly through wire-rimmed glasses. Her mass of unruly black curls falls untamed to the middle of her back, stray strands frequently dangling before her face. It looks as though she might be wearing an almost imperceptible bit of makeup, perhaps a light dusting of gold eyeshadow and some sort of very pale peach lipstick; the only thing resembling jewelry, though, is a silvery key hanging about her neck on a dog-tag sort of chain.
Her style of dress is equally unlikely to get her on the cover of Cosmopolitan, but it wouldn't be out of place in the average high school. She's clad in a deep green tanktop of some stretchy, slightly shiny fabric, which clings to her curves, the v-neckline scooping low enough to display quite a bit of cleavage. The shirt does absolutely nothing to disguise her bustiness, in fact playing it up for a change. The hem is tucked into a threadbare pair of baggy dark blue jeans, cinched tightly around her surprisingly small waist by what appears to be a seatbelt -- the buckle even reads "GM". The frayed hems pool around the ankles of her decrepit black Docs, laced with sparkly silver laces which have also seen better days. Atop all this is a huge and ancient black leather motorcycle jacket, the cuffs of which constantly fall down over her hands. Slung over her shoulder is a bulging canvas backpack, probably military surplus, dotted with patches and pins in various colours and states of repair.
At a little under six feet tall and wiry, Matt is trim the way a cross-country runner would be. His hair is white-blonde and short, gelled spikey. His eyes, the blue-grey of rainwater, stand out from his pale skin, the most striking part of his countenance. His hands are firm and workman-like, with scars on the knuckles from a few rows in his recent past, a motif that is echoed, for different reasons on his back. Where they can be seen at the nape of his neck, a maze of wire-thin scars trail onto his back, which is presumably cris-crossed with them.
Matt is dressed for comfort in an SCCU sweatshirt, faded blue jeans, hiking boots and his father's leather jacket, covered in embroidered patches from British punk bands like the Sex Pistols and the Stigmasochists. At his neck a thin chain catches the light, with a small Star of David pendant on it, resting at the base of his neck.
Unusual: normally, there is no smell whatsoever coming from behind the door to the Decadence, let alone the smell of grilled fish.... And weren't the lights off, when Bernie left for work this afternoon? Curiouser and curiouser.
It's been a long day at work and school -- very long. Classes and a full shift at Garcia's, with homework yet to do. That being the case, Bernie's hand's on the knob before she really notices things aren't as they should be, or at least as they've been for the past month or so. The slight noise of the knob stops, then comes again, and the door eases open slowly and quietly. The Gnawer leans in cautiously to look around; no one dangerous is likely to be cooking in there, but it isn't safe to assume it couldn't be another ragabash visiting, or something...
Matt's rucksack is thrown in a corner of the couch, and his jacket drapes over a chair back in the kitchenette. The Fianna himself is puttering in the kitchen as if he'd never been gone; wearing his 'Kiss the Cook' apron and shaking some sort of spice into a pan which obviously contains tasty fish. He glances toward the door as the knob begins to turn, but is distracted into a frown by the radio: it's playing "Only Time" by Enya.
Bernie pauses a moment in the doorway, making the connections, eyes widening. She tenses suddenly, as if to run in, and just as suddenly relaxes, starting to grin a little. She sets her backpack down with infinite care, then slinks toward her target in the kitchen, as silent as she can get her boots to cooperate on.
Matt grumbles at the radio. "Fookin' techno-bollocks. Let th' twist sing, hmm? Bloody septics." He appears to notice nothing, though on approach there appear to be two fish in the pan. A good match for the pair of plates, with mashed potatoes. Matt appears, to the experienced eye, very tired. His eyes have bags under them, and his hair is a little wilty. He seems in good spirits, though. Happy to be home.
Bernie hesitates, for a moment, just behind him, and then throws her arms tightly around his waist from behind, leaning up to the back of his neck to obey his apron, though she can't read it from where it is. "You!" she exclaims, joyously.
Matt grins, leaning back into the hug, and the kiss. "Aye, me. Missed ye a bit, see. An' figured th' ol' mickey was gettin' a bit Gnawer-ridden." He turns in the radius of her arms, to face her. "Fish? Oi broiled a bit o' cod, wif lemon pepper."
"'kay," Bernie replies, grinning too much even to pretend to take offense at the place being 'Gnawer-ridden' yet. She'd probably happily agree if he'd suggested wearing the fish as a hat, let alone just eating it. "You!" she exclaims happily again, squeezing, and claims a proper kiss. Breaking it, she proclaims, airily and utterly unconvincingly, "Di'n' miss you."
Matt returns the kiss warmly; enthusiastic but tired. He serves up the fish, putting both plates on the kitchenette table. "No? Too bad, that. Oi might've considered sharin'."
"Not a bit," Bernie insists, trailing along, reluctant to let go, though she does, heading over to close the door, finally, and flick the locks into place. She loses her jacket, too, tossing it onto the arm of the couch, before she returns to the table. "Sharin' what, th' fish? Oh, no choice. One plate's mine. 's Disappearin' Tax, y'know..." She trails off, watching him for a few moments with a faint smile. "'d it go 'kay? What happened? You don't hafta go anywhere again soon... do you?"
Matt shakes his head. "No, Oi fink everyfin' is finally settled wif me da. Inheritance, see. 'pparently, Oi was do for a bit, and Evelyn an' Oi 'ad ta kip over th' pond a bit ta put German ta bic, as it were. Came out a bit on top, eh? Little bit o' fabric for me skyrocket." He bites into the fish, then remembers to get something to drink. Pulling out two Guinness, he offers one to Bernie. "Good ta see ye've kept the icebox stocked."
Bernie, having just got comfortable, accepts one, looking a little blank. Out of practice on her translation skills. Still, the gist is, as usual, clear enough. "'s good it worked out... an' yeah, no reason t' starve jus' 'cause I'm abandoned," she teases, "...plus, I got =way= sick of ramen, las' time." Speaking of which, she starts in on the fish, appreciatively. "Mmm. Good tax. You're almost forgiven."
Matt raises an eyebrow. "Almost? Well. Hmm. Perhaps a massage, then. After yer jim."
Bernie looks up from cutting her fish, pauses, and nods. "Couldn't hurt," she replies, and then grins again, almost glowing. "Def'nitely worth a try, I'd say." She's silent a moment, eating. "I got As in all my classes," she informs him, "...an' I'm pretty sure there's a kina winter holiday gift lyin' around her somewhere. I'll find it later."
Matt nods at her news. "All A's? 'at's loike top marks, neh? Can't say Oi'm terribly surprised, Books, but Oi'm proud of ye." He leans over to give her a peck on the cheek. Alost as if to reassure himself he is, in fact, actually here.
Bernie nods, still smiling. It keeps coming back. "Well, I only gotta A minus in Psych, but, yeah, 's top marks.... new s'mester just started, an' stuff..." She trails off again, and just watches silently, neglecting what remains of her fish. "You're back," she says, rather unnecessarily, and beams. Nope. Obviously didn't miss him at all.
Matt finishes his entire meal. Airplane food, then a ride back to St. Claire. He puts his plate in the kitchen, then takes hers, headed for the sink.
Bernie steals one of the few remaining bites off the plate as it flees, and finishes off her Guinness to follow, relaxing in the chair, eyes still following him. It's still been a long day, but it seems slightly less so, for the moment.
Matt dumps the plates (for tomorrow) and returns behind Bernie's chair. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he begins to knead the muscles underneath, firmly, but not to hurt. His hands are warm.
Bernie closes her eyes, sighing blissfully, and tries to let the tension that's there go away. It doesn't immediately work at all. "...was it nice bein' back there?" she asks, "I mean, aside from th' lawyers an' all?"
Matt sounds a little wistful. "Oh, aye. Oi got ta visit Tom an' Blackjack...'e's in th' dell, by th' by. They were surprised Oi'da peach o' me own. Didn't tell 'ew about our ovver surprises."
Bernie looks up. "'m outta practice, not hearin' you. Dell 'n' peach? An' I'm glad they're a'ight an' all. What other s'prises?"
Matt caresses her cheek. "'e's in gaol, dear. Possession o' an illegal firearm. An' /you/--" He bends down to kiss her, quickly "--are me peach. An' oi didn't tell 'em about getting all big an' sharp toofed."
Bernie blushes slightly, looking surprised and pleased. "You told 'em 'bout me? 's too bad your prediction was right... an' ah, yeah. I wouldn' 'spect that information'd get quite th' kina reaction one'd want, from them or... other people." Her eyes close again, and she tilts her head forward, stretching out her neck.
Matt continues the backrub, moving his hands farther down her spine. "aye," he shrugs. "But 'e'll only be in fer a year or two more. Model citizen now, is our Blackjack."
"No more molotov cocktails in coal cars?" Bernie asks, sounding a bit disappointed. "...prolly better for all concerned, I guess. 'spec'ly the coal cars. Mmm..." She leans forward some more, making more room between her and the back of the chair.
Matt takes advantage, rubbing her lower back, where stress usually accumulates on the job. "Well, none fer now, oi s'pose."
Bernie is quiet for a little, except for the noises that tend to indicate a backrub is proceeding effectively. Eventually, she ventures, curious but hesitant, "...so... what'd you tell 'em 'bout me?"
Matt shrugs again. "No' much, Oi s'pose. Joost that Oi'm goin' out wif this supermodel, an' she's inta rocket science...."
Bernie giggles, stretching her arms forward and pushing them against the table. "Mm, I see, understatement," she jokes, before sitting up a bit more again. "...'d you do much else interestin', or jus' get stuck with bureaucracy?"
Matt leans forward, breath warm on the back of her neck. "Lawyers, mostly," he murmurs.
Bernie mms distractedly, then starts to sit up, suddenly, catching herself just before they would've bumped heads. "'s January tenth!" she exclaims, startled.
Matt looks up from where he's kneeling behind the chair. "Good for it then. What's January tenth?"
Bernie blushes again, a hand lifting to push the eternally disobedient curl behind her ear, and sounds a bit sheepish as she explains, "Last year t'day was when you took me t' th' Umbra my first time. An' we went t' th' Lone Boulder an' looked at th' stars an' stuff..."
Matt ahs. "Oi, it was. 'An' stuff.'" He mimics, poorly. "Well," he stands, "Perhaps ye should remind me where we keep th' bed, before Oi bo peep where Oi stan'."
"I think I c'n handle that," Bernie replies, standing as well, and takes hold of his hand, leading him toward the main bedroom's door. "'m pretty sure I left it somewhere in here."
Matt follows, grinning. "Good ta be 'ome, then."