#deirdre is a big softie tell everyone

[rocket-remmy]

The Great Irish Bake-Off|| Deirdre and Remmy

March 7th. Baking, brains, and banshee friends. Happy Birthday.

March 7th. Remmy stared at the calendar. The little Google notification on their phone had gone off earlier that day and Remmy didn’t know how to turn it off, or change it. March 7th. Happy Birthday, Remmington! You’re 30 today! And a little smilie face with a party hat on next to it. March 7th. Calendar Reminder! Baking w/Deirdre! All day event. March 7th. Remmy tapped on the notification. Tapped on the trash can icon. Deleted it. March 7th. Just another day. Baking with Deirdre. That was all. 

They looked up, glancing around the kitchen. It was a Saturday, but Blanche was out of the house and there was almost a peaceful quietness about. Moose was sleeping on the floor next to Remmy’s feet as they scrolled through pictures online of cool cakes. The Great British Bake-Off was paused in another tab of Netflix. Remmy checked the clock, still a few more minutes. They wondered if Deirdre was the kind of person to show early. They bookmarked a few more ideas that looked fun before setting about pulling out all the ingredients they thought they might need. There was a roll of fondant at the store, but Remmy figured it was best to keep busy all day today, and thus had, instead, bought all the ingredients to make it by hand. Baking was easy for them. Step by step instructions with exact measuring. Easy. It was cathartic, relaxing. They wondered if they’d gotten that knack from their mom. It was always hard to know. It was even hard to know what traits they’d picked up from their father, seeing as the man was either drunk, passed out, or gone. Or yelling. 

When the knock finally came, Moose perked up, following Remmy out of the kitchen and into the foyer. They paused a moment, though. Deirdre was an enigma to Remmy. They liked her. She was nice to them. She told them about what they were and answered all their stupid questions. And she had this soft, almost missable way of showing her affection. It was probably why Morgan had fallen for her. Remmy didn’t want to scare Deirdre away, because they liked her, too. She was a good friend. Well...she was on her way to being a good friend. Opening the door, Remmy put on a smile. “You ca-- is that a stand mixer?”

Someone should have told Deirdre that stand mixers were heavier than they looked. Of course, she owned one, but she rarely picked the thing up and moved it around. Buying a new one, in a fun yellow color she thought Blanche might like too, and carrying to her car and then from her car to the front door, was more work than she anticipated. But this was work for someone she felt deserved, or needed it, or something. She wasn't one to question her whims when they arose. What did she do when she wasn't screaming and killing? Wasn't that up to her? "Yes, it's a stand mixer. Do you want to point out that I have hair too and am wearing clothes? Is this what we're doing? Pointing out observations? I see you have a nose, Remmy," she said plainly, holding the appliance tighter in her arms and gesturing to the bag dangling from her arm. "I also bought some supplies, those fancy things the real bakers use—or so I was told." She couldn't tell a sales pitch from genuine information when it came to things she didn't care about, and she had the money to not really care either way. "I—now, don't look at me like that. It's your birthday, and soiled as you think the day is, I think we can bake something like your moth—" she slammed her mouth shut, cutting the sentence off and narrowing her gaze on the zombie. "Did you think I just picked this day randomly? For watching a baking show?" She shifted again, adjusting the stand mixer's box again. "Can you move aside and let me in, please? I'm going to throw this at your face if I'm made to hold it for another second." 

“I just-- didn’t expect you to bring a whole stand mixer,” Remmy said, giving a little shrug. They stepped out of the doorway to let Deirdre in. “You talk a lot. Here, I’ll carry it,” Shifted to reach out and take the stand mixer from her, closing the door with their foot. They’d cleaned as much as possible yesterday, but it felt like the house was eternally a bit dusty. They supposed the ghostly roommates just liked it that way. “Um-- mind the snakes and tarantulas, please. They’re my roommate’s. I tried to put as many away as I could but sometimes they still get out. They’re all harmless though.” Moose padded along behind Remmy as they lead Deirdre through the foyer, past the old wooden grand staircase, and into the kitchen and breakfast nook. Set the mixer on the table next to all the other stuff they’d pulled out. “Deirdre, I know why you wanted to come over today. I’m stupid, but I’m not that stupid.”

“That--I don’t--you--I don’t talk a lot.” But Deirdre did, and she knew that. She handed the stand mixer off to Remmy and grumbled her way inside. “Luckily for your roommate, I enjoy snakes and tarantulas. Though dead preferably and--” Deirdre paused, looking up. “Did you...get a haircut?” She was aware, suddenly, that she was talking too much again but these words were important and she wanted to say them. “You look good,” and she smiled as she followed behind Moose, keeping a very respectable distance from the slobbering creature. “Oh, good then,” Deirdre pulled a knife out, with flourish, “I’m here to kill you and I’m so happy we’re on the same page about this.” She paused, expecting laughter as her smile grew from simply lopsided to cat-like. “No, I’m just joke--am I talking too much again?” The fae coughed and slid the knife away. “I, um--ahem. I only came over because I assumed you’d do something dumb like...not...cele--you know what? I don’t need this. I can leave.” 

“You kinda do,” Remmy commented, but didn’t push it further. Deirdre was kind of flighty, and they never knew if they were going to say something to offend her. They patted their head, forgetting that they had, in fact, gotten a cut. “Oh, um yeah, thanks. It was time.” Remmy started fishing the stuff out of the bag Deirdre had bought when she pulled out her knife. They couldn’t help but jump a little at first, before giving a chuckle and shaking their head. “You won’t kill me,” they said simply, “You like me.” Smiled gently as she started talking again. It was kinda nice, actually, to meet another person who could ramble and not realize it. Remmy was just looking back down at all the stuff when Deirdre slid the knife away and they felt their stomach do a little flip. “Please don’t leave!” they said, perhaps a little too quickly. “I mean...please stay?” They looked at all the stuff spread out. “I wanna bake a cake with you. Look--” turned the computer so Deirdre could see the cakes they’d been looking at, including one that looked like a human heart, and one that looked like a pile of bones. “I was looking up ideas.”

"I don't like you. Morgan likes you and I like Morgan." Deirdre explained simply, offering a huff before her eyes widened as her words occurred to her. "I don't—I don't like—" the Fae coughed, shaking her head and leaning over to look at the computer screen. She needed to spend more time with other Fae, the humans were starting to get to her. But for now, cake. She narrowed her gaze on the examples, "I appreciate the novelty of a cake that looks like a bone but I would also like to point out that you said you've never done this kind of a cake before and I don't intend on helping any more than flipping a switch up and down. Now, are we butting bones inside the cake because that seems far more exciting to me, and I always carry a bone." She looked over at Moose, communicating in a series of glares that he wasn't going to take it. Then she glanced back at the screen, "why don't we try to do the one that looks like a brain? So it's thematic in a tacky way just like birthdays are." Deirdre turned to Remmy, "what do you think? You can...make up your mind."

Remmy raised a brow, but dropped it for now. They didn’t need her to say it to know. And the little cough made them understand it all the more. Lydia had said fae can’t lie, and Blanche said something about it making them sick, so it only made sense. “I mean, I’ve decorated cupcakes before,” Remmy said, pulling up a photo of the moose shaped cupcake they’d made for Blanche recently. “See? It’s just that, but bigger.” They raised a brow at Deirdre. “You carry a bone with you? I mean...I guess I can’t really say much. I do, too, sometimes, but mine’s for Moose. Sometimes he finds bones on our walks, too. Lotta dead things out in those woods.” They started organizing the stuff and pulled up a recipe, before giving a soft, genuine laugh at Deirdre’s little joke. Gave her a lopsided smile before they started opening up bags. “Then you can be the resident stand mixer operator. I’ll do the rest of the work.” 

“That is not the same thing and we both know it,” Deirdre groaned, mostly to suppress the impressed grin that wanted to twist her lips. Maybe there was something to be said about inherited skills. Deirdre imagined she got her cutting coldness from her own mother. “Mine’s for me,” she said, moving around the kitchen to set up the stand mixer, a skill she only had because she spent an hour on hers--even though it was as simple as unpacking and plugging in. “Yes! The woods are delightful for dead things. This whole town is,” she hummed. Once done, she looked up from her work, which was obviously extremely hard. “I’m done,” she deadpanned, “and now I’m bored. Let me do something else. Or--” she paused, pretending to get back to something on the stand mixer, “what was your mother like? From what you’ve heard? I just--it’s nice to talk while we work.” 

“It’s kinda the same!” Remmy argued, giving a little huff. Just because they’d never tried decorating a full cake before, didn’t mean it would be hard. They’d watch quite a few videos to prepare, too. Blanche had shown them the tutorials part of YouTube and now Remmy was obsessed. What else did one do when they didn’t sleep? “Huh, guess that’s why I was drawn here, too, then.” They went about setting the different mixing bowls up in order from largest to smallest and then set each ingredient that would be needed for each different part next to those bowls. Nice and organized. They were just about to start measuring when Deirdre asked her question. They paused as well, picking at the edge of the measuring cup before shrugging and digging it into the bag of flour. “You can measure the liquid stuff into the bowl if you want.” Dug into the starch next. “My uncle said she was always giving people free cakes. Even though it was the only way she made money. He said she just liked to see people smile.” Dumped it into the bowl. Salt. Sugar. Reached for the eggs. “She was from Ireland, I guess. They both were. They’re parents got mad she wanted to marry a Scot. Not like, really really mad. But he said they gave her shit for it.” Cracked an egg. “He always said I reminded him of her but like...how am I supposed to know? I never met her. I could never tell if that made him happy or sad.”

Deirdre realized this was a bad idea as soon as Remmy started speaking. She wasn’t good with comfort, or emotion, and most of the time she didn’t care to do either of those things. It was pointless, but so was holding weight to a day of the year that should have been light. Her logic, about as sound as it was when she threw Remmy in front of that car all those weeks ago, was what she used to perk herself up and listen. She did her assigned job of measuring and pouring diligently, nodding along. Remmy’s ability to speak casually about what should have been easily traumatic for any other human (or ex-human) was impressive. Deirdre liked it. “She sounds like she was a good person.” A really good person, a foolishly good one. Remmy and her had that in common, it seemed. “Ah, Ireland! I’m also from--you know that.” She paused, halting her one job and simply letting Remmy pick up the slack where she left it. “People always say that...about dead loved ones. They’re always reminded of them in other people. Who knows how much truth that had...but it must’ve made him happy. To see her again, in the littlest ways.” Deirdre stepped back, jumping up to sit on the counter and watch Remmy walk, her legs kicking like a restless child. “Maybe you get your generosity from her, maybe you don’t. Who's to say? Is it wrong to want to remember a woman you’ve never met? To wish you could? Of course not. But we’re also baking a cake for you--in the metaphorical sense.”

Remmy had never thought much about the detached way they spoke of their dead mother. It made sense, in their head, that they weren’t upset about it because she wasn’t someone they’d ever known. How could you possibly grieve someone you’d never met? It didn’t seem logical. Still, something Deirdre said made Remmy’s heart clench just a little harder when they thought about her. “What’s it like over there?” Remmy asked, not meaning to ignore Deirdre’s words of comfort, but more than sure that they wouldn’t be able to hold on to their cool demeanour long if they lingered on those thoughts. They still felt weary and drained from breaking down so fully on Skylar last week. “In Ireland. My Uncle had an accent, like yours. They were kids when they moved over here, so it wasn’t like-- a thick one. But he said certain words funny.” They glanced back at her, moving almost automatically over to the stand mixer and pouring in the ingredients. They gestured to the on button. “Will you do the honor?” they asked, giving another lopsided smile. 

Deirdre refrained from explaining that her Ireland was much different from a humans. She knew the rolling hills well, the forest and its trees. She knew the pixies and the leprechauns, and those were the parts she loved. The pieces away from the humans. “Beautiful,” she said after a moment, “more than the pubs and old streets will tell you. There’s something that you just have to see for yourself. I’ll take you one day, Remmy. I told you that we have about two hundred years.” Deirdre had about two hundred more years, years she could spend as Remmy’s friend, if she wanted to. “I can give you a promise, if you want.” She smiled, finally flucking up the small switch at the side of the stand mixer, starting it at a slow whisk to prevent ingredients from flying up in their faces. She’d done that at least once before. “Ireland’s small, so you can go all over--one end to the other. Know the land, know your way home. Yet, big enough not to feel suffocating. It’s not like America in that. This country’s so big, you’d probably forget where you were--are.” 

“It sounds great,” Remmy said, making sure to start stirring in the wet ingredients to make the batter nice and smooth, just they watched the professionals do. “It also sounds like you kinda miss it.” They added the last ingredient, let it sift in, then motioned for Deirdre to turn it off. “You don’t have to promise me,” they said with a grin, glancing sideways at Deirdre as they pulled the bowl out and started pouring the batter into the different pans. One square, one round. They could carve the cake after. “I know you’ll keep your word.” They set another bowl down on the stand mixer and started putting in the ingredients to the fondant in. “What flavor do you want? I can’t taste it so it’s up to you to pick,” they said, holding up the different vials of flavor they’d bought. “Cherry?” A grin.

Deirdre tensed, tightening her grip on the counter’s edge. “I do miss it, but missing something isn’t as simple as....missing it.” She turned her gaze, staring out at the kitchen wall of this gothic Victorian house instead. “The secret, I suppose, is that you’ll always miss something, no matter where you are.” With no desire to really explain herself, she sighed and brought her attention back to the zombie. “Sometimes the promises are reassuring, words are just words, otherwise.” She paused, eyes wide suddenly at the mention. “I love cherry! It’s--have I ever told you about the cherries that would grow at the edge of my family’s estate? They were unbelievably bitter so the only time I got to eat cherries I could actually swallow was the--” she paused again, this time to collect herself. Taken with excitement, she’d forgotten the person she was supposed to be. “Cherry is fine, I suppose. Or we could dump a couple of spices in there and make it into something you can taste, and I can pretend to chew and then spit out.” 

Remmy blinked. The statement didn’t make sense, but a lot of what Deirdre said didn’t make sense to Remmy. She spoke in a way that they didn’t quite get yet, but they were working on it. Her explanation helped. “So, you don’t wanna go back? You like it here?” they asked, picking up the cherry flavor. “Well, words mean stuff to me, so I don’t need the promise. But if it’d make you feel better, we can promise.” They couldn’t help the grin that spread on their face as Deirdre exploded with her cherry excitement. When she stopped, it almost hurt a little. As if she were stopping the person she was in order to be the person she was supposed to be. Remmy had seen that so many times, in the faces of their friends. “That’s okay, I really want someone who can taste to try the cake more than myself. I wanna know if I did a good job.” They poured a few drops of cherry flavor in before turning the mixer back on and letting it mix into the butter cream. “I’m gonna start the oven, turn that off when it’s all mixed in,” they instructed, heading over to the oven in the corner of the room.

Deirdre tensed again, how was it that coming over to help Remmy had the conversation momentarily flipped on her? It was Ireland. They shouldn’t have been talking about it. “I can’t go back,” she sighed, “I’m needed here.” And she urged silently that the topic be dropped there and left there. Her desire to speak of herself diminished more each day that passed, until her sense of self would fade under the ideal she should be. “Words mean stuff to me too,” she repeated, pensive. Again, urging a shift into lighter topics. “Well it smells good,” Deirdre spoke over the mixer, eyeing the buttercream. “How do I know when it’s done?” The red coloring swirled to create a pink and Deirdre eyed it, waiting until it resembled something she was used to seeing before flicking the mixer off. “Do you only bake when you have an occasion to? Or do you make things for your friends often?” 

Clearly, Deirdre didn’t wanna talk about Ireland anymore. That was a hint Remmy could take, even if they were oblivious most of the time. “Right, that’s fair,” they said, closing the oven after the cakes were in. It only took a few minutes for the smell to encase the room, and Remmy felt a small pang of sadness at the idea of not being able to truly taste it. They wiped it away, though, put it back into the box in their head where every other sad thought went, and moved on. Started rolling out the fondant with the roller, into a big enough sheet, just like the guy in the tutorial video had done. It seemed to be the right consistency. “Is it all one color?” they asked, glancing over. “Yep, it’s done. Nice!” A toothy grin. “I don’t really do it often, no. I guess I’ve been doing it more lately cause like...it helps relieve stress or whatever, but not too often. It’s easy to just follow instructions, you know? Don’t have to think too hard about anything.”

“So you should do it more often then,” Deirdre started, her mouth fell around the rest of her words, opening and closing lamely around something she wished could be inspiring or comforting but knew wouldn’t be. In the end, she settled on a soft chuckle. “White Crest is certainly a place full of stress, but I mean you should bake just for you, Remmy.” Now she was even starting to sound a little like Morgan, that’s what she got for spending so much time around the human. “One day your life will be the way you want it and your birthday won’t feel so heavy. One day, I know. That day isn’t today, but I hope it can be a start for you. Your mother sounds like a kind woman, she’d want the best, despite the circumstances--wouldn’t she?” Deirdre jumped down from the counter, wandering around the kitchen like a bored cat. “If you could have one thing, Remmy, anything at all--just yours--do you know what you’d ask for?”

“Oh, um--” Remmy started, reaching over and pulling the bowl with the buttercream in it out. They had a half an hour until the cakes were done cooking, and then they’d need to cool, so it was going to be a bit. Remmy grabbed a spoon and scooped a little onto it. “I don’t really...baking for myself would be like, kinda pointless? Since I can’t really eat it. I just like...doing it for other people. Here--” held the spoon out to Deirdre, “--taste it. Cherry enough? I can add more.” Once Deirdre took the spoon, they went back to the fondant and started dumping some of the rolling flour onto it. It puffed out and caked itself onto the counter some. “I don’t...I mean, that seems so far away, right now. All of that. Being-- okay.” They turned to watch Deirdre wander the kitchen. “I don’t know what I want. I’m not, like-- good at anything. Or with anything. I don’t--” matter? “--want for a lot, I guess. I just want...to be at peace. I want to be alive again.”

“No I mean--” Deirdre pinched the bridge of her nose, “I mean you bake for your pleasure, but the food you give to--oh, why not Blanche? I bet she’d love to come home to cupcakes. You do something for yourself, you do something for others. It’s not like cupcakes will go uneaten. It’s…” Deirdre trailed off, coughing as the rest of her sentence fell from her lips, “...equivalent exchange.” The banshee took the spoon happily, grateful mostly for the distraction. “Mhm,” she hummed, “it’s good. I mean--it’s okay.” What was she doing here? This also wasn’t really her job at all. She froze then, hearing Remmy continue. “It’s good, Remmy,” she corrected herself, pride be damned. “It’s good. So herein lies the proof you’re good at one thing. And emotions, those are another thing you’re good at. Helping people....” Deirdre trailed off, tilting her head. “And were you at peace when you were alive, Remmy?”  

“You sound like Morgan,” Remmy said absently, continuing to work the fondant until it was a nice shape. They stopped, looking over at Deirdre. They recalled all the times she had told them to call her and asshole, and told them that they weren’t friends. All the times she’d told them they had a place in the world and if they didn’t perform that, then what were they worth? And yet, here she was now. Under all that hard exterior, there was a soft, good person. Otherwise, why would she be here? And who was Remmy to judge. Whether Deirdre was a good person underneath at all or not, she still deserved happiness and love. So why couldn’t they ever believe that about themself? Remmy kneaded the fondant a little too hard, feeling the rolling pin snap under the pressure. “Why are you here?” they suddenly asked, turning to look at her. “You said we’re not friends, but you--” they stopped, turned away, eyes boring into the creamy substance on the table. “I don’t know if I was. I don’t know if I’ve ever known peace. I don’t know what that is, what that feels like. But I know for one split second, before I died, and I was on the ground...I was okay. In that moment….I was okay.”

Deirdre grimaced at Remmy’s comment, a bitter ‘I know’ sat between her teeth. She didn’t want to sound like Morgan, like a human. She didn’t want to be here, caring like some paragon of generosity. Fae needed each other only, she should have been with them instead of with some ex-human. She wished so desperately for those lines to come back, the kinds she could draw easily in the sand, working them over and over again until they became trenches. But she’d just been spending so much time on this side, finding parts she liked. Was it wrong to be happy like this? Yes. Absolutely. The small smile fell from her face and her features turned cold. She tilted her head, looking at the snapped rolling pin. Funny how that worked, how easy things could break. And that perverse desire to see it happen, to feel something else shatter other than themselves. Did Remmy feel it too? 

“When you were dying, you mean,” Deirdre straightened up, “there’s peace in death, I know it well. I’ve seen people go screaming, crying, and those that pass with a smile. Those are the smart ones. But dying isn’t living, and you just answered your question. You want peace, you want to be alive--being alive didn’t give you peace.” What did it say about Remmy that their one moment of peace was dying? What did it say about Deirdre that she understood the feeling completely? “You can close your eyes and wake to nothing, to know a world without life--without pain, torture, sadness. Death is a mercy, my family has said it a thousand times. It’s simple.” And so, what did it mean that Remmy knew undeath then? “I think I came to comfort you, Remmy. Offer you peace. But the only peace I know is death, and I never learned how to give comfort.” She stepped closer to Remmy, placing her hand on their shoulder. “All of your life has been living where others have died, hasn’t it?” She pushed down, pressing her weight into Remmy’s shoulder. “Is that what you carry with you?” She pushed harder, imagining none of these brought Remmy any pain. “Guilt? The desire to find a kind of peace you know isn’t the answer? To finally lay yourself down as life should have taken you?” She released her force, lifting her pressure away. “You have a life again.This can be peace too, you know that, right? Complicated peace, but genuine.”

Remmy’s eyes followed Deirdre as she stood up and came over to them. Death was a mercy. How were they supposed to believe that when death hurt so much? And not physically. No, emotionally. Psychologically. Deeply. A pain Remmy felt so far in their soul the only way out of it was to pretend it wasn’t there. Lest they fall into the dark pit, where every single one of their friends was dead. Where they had woken up. Where they had to carry all of them and their burdens on their shoulders. Guilt. Deirdre was right. Remmy carried all of their guilt. All of their pain. All of their souls and memories. And maybe they didn’t need to, but they couldn’t figure out how to put it down without falling to pieces. Without understanding what had happened. Her hand was heavy on their shoulder. The weight of their guilt. They understood this. Deirdre removed her hand, removed the pressure-- but for Remmy, it was still there. It would always be there. The guilt was the only thing holding them together anymore. “I don’t know how,” they finally said, glancing down. “I don’t know anything. I don’t know what I want with my life, or my new life. I don’t know what makes me happy, and I don’t know what my place in this world is. So why me? Why do I get this chance? It’s just wasted,” they said, hand tightening on the counter, “I’m just a waste.”  

Deirdre cast her eyes down too, wondering what Remmy was trying to find in the tiles, and if she could see it too. The tiles, however, just looked like tiles to her. No answers there. She looked up, letting silence hang between them for a moment. There were a hundred things her mother had told her about worth, how one’s value could only be found in living their purpose. Deirdre’s was to serve fate, Remmy’s was as the world’s bottom-feeder. She opened her mouth to explain this again, then shut it just as quickly. “I don’t know,” she sighed, “what to tell you, I mean. There’s no magical answer, I suppose. I know Blanche or Morgan would have something more comforting to say. I can tell you that Blanche feels the same way about herself, and I can tell you to try and listen to the same things you’d tell her….but no comfort. No answer. That’s not---that’s not something I’m good at.” Deirdre reached out again, another hand on Remmy’s shoulder, this time devoid of metaphor. “I can tell you, Remmy, with honesty that...waste or not...I do...enjoy your company. And you don’t seem like a waste to me. Life shouldn’t be a waste, no matter if it’s lived again.” She paused, pulling her hand back. “You are my friend, Remmy. And no matter what you think of yourself, that fact won’t change. I’d rather you not see yourself that way, but even if you do, I’m still here---I’m still your friend.” Her mother’s voice clattered at the back of her head, and she winced, silencing the sound. She knew, without a doubt, that Remmy’s only value could be in serving their purpose. But this wasn’t kind, and most of all, it wasn’t what she wanted to tell Remmy. “I’m sorry I don’t have a way to fix that for you, Remmy. I wish I did. All I can offer is my friendship….I hope it means something.”

Remmy didn’t want to cry. In fact, they’d done more crying lately than most of their life, probably. They hadn’t even had the energy or the heart to cry after coming back from overseas. And yet, here, it was like one after the other after the other. Remmy turned away from Deirdre at first. Somehow, her non-comforting words did comfort Remmy. They were so tired of everyone just saying it was going to be okay. That they were still them, that everything would work out. Remmy didn’t want those words anymore. They just wanted an answer. And Deirdre didn’t have them, either. The hand on their shoulder made them turn their attention back to her again, unsure of what to say, even in the face of her admission. Hadn’t Deirdre been the one to tell them that they were nothing if they didn’t fulfill their duty? Hadn’t Remmy accepted that fate? Yet, here she was, telling them, waste or not...they were friends. Remmy’s eyes blurred and they blinked, trying to wipe them dry, but only making more come. They turned away from Deirdre again, hands braced against the counter’s edge. “I don’t-- you said we--” DING! Remmy’s head swiveled, silently thankful for the interruption. They scrambled away from Deirdre and over to the oven, pulling it open and reaching in for the pans. They were already halfway out when Remmy realized they weren’t using any hotpads. The pain set in a moment later. There it was again, that dulled ache. Getting bigger. Remmy stumbled-- “Fuck!”-- tossed the pan onto the counter, knocking back the bowl of buttercream and toppling several bottles of food dye. Their hand was a searing red. All they could do was watch it bubble, blister, burn red, then start to fade. Just like everything else. Nothing lasted. They walked slowly over to the sink and started running cold water over it. More of a reaction than a relief. “It’s okay,” they finally said to Deirdre, not quite looking at her yet, “that you’re not good at being um-- comforting. Not everyone is and that’s...okay.” They turned the sink off and finally turned to face her again. “It does, um-- mean something to me. That we’re friends. It means...a lot.” They came back over to her. “You make me feel like...less of a waste.”

It was an odd scene to watch, and then suddenly very comical. Deirdre laughed, loud and proud the way that she did; head tipped back and teeth bared as though she could snap from laughing to anger in a second. Remmy, on the other hand, didn’t find it so humorous. And, given the heaviness of the topic before them, maybe it shouldn’t have been. But Deirdre knew to take life in stride, simply as it came. Likewise, she knew to take people like that too; exactly as they are. “I was just about to say that I thought this kitchen needed a little more red!” She laughed, leaning against the counter and trying to meet Remmy’s eyes. She went about righting the bottles of food dye a moment later, half a mind to at least spare Remmy the clean up (she didn’t plan on helping, naturally). “Well, good,” she crossed her arms and looked over at the zombie, “because you’re not a waste, in my opinion.” Nothing in life really was a waste, so it wasn’t that much of a lie. Even if the voice of her mother, often intermingled with her own, droned on about an undead’s use in the back of her head. “And it should mean a lot,” she reached out to jab her finger into Remmy’s shoulder, a playful gesture more than a spiteful one. “I’m not just friends with anyone. I have standards, after all.” She smiled, gesturing to the cake with her head. “There’s a fun metaphor about cakes being hot my mother would tell me; you have to wait for them to cool, and so too does time need to be obeyed to correct pain. Of course, none of that matters in the moment, where the cake is hot and you still feel like shit. So you focus on what you can do, however small,” Deirdre reached into the bowl of buttercream and swiped some with her finger, “which is to say, remember that things are hot next time, my friend.” She smiled, licking her finger. 

Remmy couldn’t help the smile pulling at their lips. Deirdre’s laughter was infectious. And so was her smile. And her presence. They shook their head, smacked her hand when she swiped for the bowl. “Hey! Save it for later!” They grabbed the bowl away from Deirdre and made sure to find their hot pad before moving the cake pan over to the freezer to cool, along with the other one. “Your mom sure had a lot of bits of wisdom,” they said, closing the door and looking back over at Deirdre. “Was she always like that? Or, um-- is she? She’s still alive, right? Cause you guys live for like...a long time?” Remmy wondered what their mom would think of them, now. If she even ever had an opinion on a child. If she’d be proud or happy that Remmy could bake a cake. That they tried their best to smile every day. Would she have been upset that Remmy felt like a waste? That they were wasting this gift at second life. “I’m glad you finally admitted it, though,” they said, coming back over and scooping a spoonful of butter cream out before putting it in the fridge to settle. They held it out to Deirdre, climbing onto the counter to sit. “That we’re friends. That’s the best gift anyone coulda gotten me today,” they smiled, soft, tired, little lines pinching at their eyes, even in their now immortal body. It was a weariness that didn’t ever quite leave. “Asshole.”  

“All we have is the present, Remmy! Let me seize the day and the frosting!” Deirdre pouted, foiled in stealing more buttercream as her heart desired it. “Hm,” she hummed, lost in her forsting-based thoughts. “My mother? She...well, yes. Everything is a metaphor or a lesson with her. She doesn’t believe in…” in waste, Deirdre swallowed the words back. “In not doing things simply for the sake of it. Everything needs to have a use with her.” It was easy then, to see where Deirdre got it. Who she learned from and how it shaped her. But she didn’t comment further, her mother was a topic she didn’t like to tread. She loved her, but that love was often hard to explain--and it was the sort of love that needed explaining. “She is still alive, she’s not even a century old yet. She is, for lack of better words, in her prime.” Deirdre tried to stop herself from hissing the words. Part of her mother’s youth contributed to a plethora of issues between them. None of which she wanted to talk about. “Admitted? I’m sorry--” her lip twitched, “I just decided right now that we’re friends. There was nothing to admit to.” But she broke into a smile and shook her head, accepting the spoon. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You’ve got a kitchen to clean now.” Her smile grew as Remmy went on. “So it’s my birthday too then?” She put the spoon in her mouth, freeing her hands to clap. “Thank you, Remmy,” she pulled the spoon out, “you’re the gift that keeps on giving, truly. Now, if only we could work on that confidence of yours.”

“Huh,” Remmy said off-handedly, “your mother would hate my dad. That’s not even including the uh-- human thing.” They moved their feet up and down a little, finding it hard to sit still for some reason. “All he ever did was complain about shit and do whatever he wanted for whatever reason. Nothing had meaning to him.” Not even me. They leaned back on the counter, hands bracing against the cool stone of the tabletop. It was almost as cold as Remmy’s skin, and the smoothness of it was a small comfort. At least they could still feel texture. Remmy’s brow rose. “Uh huh, sure, right,” they said in a soft mocking tone, “just now admitted. Of course, sorry. And, you know, I say this from like the bottom of my unbeating heart: my bad.” A cheeky grin spread across their face as they waited for Deirdre’s response, giving a slight bow as she clapped for them. “Hey, I’m not being dramatic! It’s the truth. I’m not a very dramatic person, anyway. Thought you knew that by now.” They shrugged. “Well, I’m getting more confident around you, so like, that counts for something, right?” Because it had to. If Deirdre’s mom was right, and everything needed to mean something, then their friendship needed to mean something, too. And if it wasn’t enough, Remmy would make something more. Because they weren’t lying-- this was the best gift to receive today. It made their unbeating heart feel just a little bit lighter.

“She would hate him, and for what it’s worth, I hate him too.” Deirdre sighed, though not annoyed by the conversation or Remmy’s nonchalance about it. She was, however, angered by the mere idea of a man like that.The failure of a parent struck her as the worst kind. Children were vulnerable, innocent creatures. The most like animals that humans got, before instincts became coated with intent and opinion. “That is the unfortunate benefit to being human: the freedom to act as you please. Bad or good, kind or cruel.” Her family had spent generations observing humanity, she knew them well through teachings. She’d seen enough death to know them better, or to think she did. “And I say this from the bottom of my slow-beating heart: shut it,” Deirdre laughed, licking up the rest of the frosting off her spoon. “Oh? You’re not very dramatic? You just bowed for me,” the banshee smirked, “saying friendship if a great gift is a wee dramatic, Remmy.” More than a wee, if she was being honest. “It does count for something, and I’m honored I inspire this confidence. You’re better confident, just like you’re better with that hair. Better comfortable, everyone is.” Better making jokes, better taking their bows. Better like this, baking a cake. Better than thinking they were worthless. “I don’t think I said it, Remmy...but...happy birthday.” She smiled, “what great fortune you’ll get to celebrate again when Moose Day rolls around.”

Remmy didn’t respond at first. They weren’t sure how they felt about their dad, after all. It was only logical to hate him, after everything he’d done, but-- they often found that, when they thought about him, they didn’t hate him. They just felt...sad. For him, for their loss, for the fact that they’d never get to know what it was like to have a true, caring father. It just hurt, like everything else right now. So they didn’t think about it. Remmy looked at the timer and went back over to the freezer, testing the cake temperature with a thermometer. “That’s not dramatic,” they said back, pulling the first pan out and setting it on the table, “that’s just being showy. There’s totally a difference.” They pulled the next one out and set them side by side, prepping the counter to spread them out. They took a small moment to run their hand over their hair again, at Deirdre’s compliment. “You really didn’t like my long hair, did you? And um...thanks,” they teased, reaching to put on the rubber gloves and start removing the cakes. “Okay, here goes nothing.” And-- plop! The cake came out perfectly. For once, everything was working right. They plopped the next one out and stacked them up, then started the carving. It wasn’t so hard, though carving pliable, spongy cake was a tad harder than carving wood or clay. Still, it went well enough, and soon enough, Remmy was coating the thing with pink, cherry flavored buttercream. “See? I told you I could do this,” they said after a while, stepping down and motioning to the slightly lopsided brain cake. It didn’t look half bad for a first attempt. “It’s lumpy, just like regular brains.” They held up the knife to Deirdre. “Would you do the honors?”

“Right...dramatic and showy are different…” Deirdre trailed off as the conversation meandered. Yes, she did hate the longer hair. It was messy and betrayed a sense of self-apathy that unsettled Deirdre. This was better, a look Remmy could be proud of was better. She’d support that, even if they weren’t (newly-made) friends. She watched the zombie work, a smart comment offer here and there, but largely devoid of anything that could be too distracting. There was a joke in it somewhere, but Deirdre did enjoy watching people work--it was better when they seemed to like it as Remmy did. “I didn’t doubt you, Remmy.” She smiled softly, unsure if she might have actually said that she did; she really couldn’t keep track of most of the things that left her mouth. But there were a few that mattered enough to remember, Remmy being her friend was one. She eyed the cake, now done. She couldn’t see the lumps, weirdly enough. The objective merged seamlessly with the subjective and she knew, without doubt, that she was looking at the perfect brain cake. Deirdre nodded, taking the knife and cutting and plating herself a slice. With her spoon, she took the first bite...then the second, and the third and the fourth until she remembered that Remmy was awaiting an opinion. “It’s goob,” she spoke with her mouthful, swallowing it a moment later. Somehow, in some strange way, it was better knowing Remmy had baked it. That paired with its objectively good flavor made it an exceptional cake. “Remmy…” Deirdre put the plate down, staring at the zombie, “I promise you this is the best cake I’ve ever eaten.” And she didn’t tremble, didn’t even offer a cough--the promise was true and she’d meant every word. She hadn’t expected the zombie she threw in front of a cab to call her a friend, or to bake a cake largely just for her, but it was the present moment that mattered. And what mattered was that her friend had baked the perfect cake.