someone crying in the dead of the night (october catchall)

[imperatour]

Who: furiosa + open, closed logs
Where: scrapyard
When: october
What: a catchall

Warnings: none yet!

Comments

logan.

[imperatour]

[ He hasn't been far from her mind. Maybe it's Laura. Maybe it's some lingering shit that she couldn't really name in the first place. The thing that called her out there in the first place. The thing that killed more than just the bodies she saw she thinks, more than the one in her trunk.

She should... not apologize. There's no fault. All she did was tell him to go home and make some snap judgements. Her snap judgments are usually good, usually keep her alive, but the farther away you get from base survival the messier things become.

There's a reconciliation to be done. She didn't have all the facts.

(Not to mention the secret she's got tucked between her metal fingers that she still hasn't fully figured out. That's a separate problem.)

She assumes she'll see him again in the scrapyard. On her drive back from the Fringes, she realized she recognized more than just his claws. It's a nice bike. She's got an eye for these things, and tends to catalog whatever ones she sees. Maybe she was too distracted by the dead bodies and the poised earth of it all to recognize it at the time.

Now that Furiosa works in one of the garages properly, she's out here nearly every day. She doesn't mind the long drive back and forth from Panorama. She can sleep wherever in her car, venturing in to truck shops to buy minutes of hot water or bumming them off of Kimiko and Frank. She drifts, alternating between reveling in the freedom in the abundance of choices and the listlessness of nowhere, not on this planet, not in this galaxy, not in the whole of the universe here or anywhere else having a home that she's set roots in.

It's one thing to be away from your home. She had even made peace with the idea of never seeing it again, as cut off from it as her arm. But there is a different pain from the wound of knowing it's gone, that it spoiled and turned sour with everyone in it. She had thought the pain was maybe the meteor shower — others had said how strange the event had been in stirring things long dormant. It still sits in her chest like a stone.

She does a small double-take, looking back as she slides out from underneath the car she's working on, back flat on the creeper. Makes eye contact with him, staring just long enough as if to make sure it's not some mirage in the desert. Seems real enough.

Gonna take fifteen, she tells Elara who gives her a casual thumbs up in response as Furiosa climbs to her feet. She grabs something. Looks like a bottle of chemicals (industrial strength solvent with anti-adhesive properties), and it hangs loosely in her hand while she pins her face to her other shoulder, a quick motion to wipe away sweat and grease. ]

Knew the bike looked familiar. [ She's not quite friendly, but not unfriendly either. More like walking neutral into a negotiation, letting him set the tone but she's not begging for a fight. ] Got the shocks changed back out okay?

[carcajous]

[ If you wanna know the truth, Logan never expected to see that woman again, at least not any time soon. City's big, she seemed like the drifting type, and Logan hasn't got a habit of staying put himself. After she left, he got drunk some more, stabbed an innocent man, got the man help and took off, and when he was finally sort of okay again, he hauled his ass to go talk to Charles. That was always where he was gonna end up. Home, like she said.

The Scrapyard's dusty as ever, smells of rust and sweat and beer, and the humidity in the air from rain clouds growing fuller by the minute doesn't help. Technically he came here to do real work, seeing as his bike's jacked up, but he's also crouched by its side, frowning at something.

Then he catches a familiar scent and looks up, surprised but also kinda not. Seems like the type who'd be working here. Seems fitting that this is where they'd bump into each other again, over the buzz of welding steel and power drills. For a second, he stares right back—not tense just curious what she's after.

Not a fight, apparently, and neither is he. If anything, he seems...better. Less on edge. He's not drinking, for one, but his clothes aren't stained with anything other than a bit of engine grease, and his hair's been tamed. ]

Actually— [ He digs around in his bag, then holds out the shocks she gave him. He didn't come here to return them, was just gonna hang onto the things in case he needed them again, but since she's around, she can have them back. ] Thanks.

[ Look, it's fine. He pisses off nearly everybody he meets, and nearly everybody he meets has pissed him off at least once. Charles included. It happens. She still helped him out. ]

[imperatour]

[ Honestly, she's surprised he hung onto them. He braves the world on a bike. Cargo and weight has to be worth it. Maybe it was a contingency in case it happened again, so she almost waves him off, tells him to keep them. In the end, though, she'll make sure they get put to good use and takes them back with a small nod.

Whatever he's working on, she can't quite see from this vantage point. That isn't why she came over, but the gearhead is hard to turn off. She takes a half step around his bike to take a look. There's a temptation to just dive into that problem. Something mechanical she can solve. Those problems were easy. ]

Talked to Laura. [ Kind of a non-sequitur, but there's a weight in it of an explanation. ] I— [ am sorry ] —made assumptions.

[ Her gut is usually better with those, but turns out that everyone's moved far enough away from the most basic animal instincts of survival here that the problems twist themselves into things that aren't so easily explained by her hasty judgements. ]

She's a good kid.

[ And that's really all she came over to say. She doesn't need absolution or forgiveness, but Furiosa realizes it was her own twisty shit speaking when she got pissed with him out in the Fringes and she thinks that she's appropriately conveyed that. So really, she should go, but—

She feels a fat raindrop land square on her forehead. She looks up at the dark storm clouds, on the precipice. She pivots to another practical problem. The kind that the solution is easy and obvious for. ]

My boss is out, and the garage is quiet today. Got a corner you can set up in before the sky opens up on you.

[carcajous]

[ It's a stupid problem, is what: the dumbest fucking sticker slapped onto the side of the tail. He knows exactly who put it there, and he's got every intention of stabbing the culprit in the voice box later, but first, he needs it off.

His eyebrow lifts. She did, huh? Logan absorbs that for a second. Honestly, he didn't think twice about it one way or the other. Wasn't in the best place to begin with, and explaining himself was never his strong suit. Sometimes, a lot of the times, it was just easier to let people paint the picture they wanted than dig into the meat of everything that he is and was and doesn't want to be. Y'know, he's—whatever, he's not trying to make friends with everybody he meets.

So she doesn't owe him a reason, either. And neither of them need to do anything more than this, but she offers and he considers before he accepts with a wry: ]

Thought only the first one was free.

[ Yeah, he'll duck out of the weather. He moves his shit into the corner she points out, following behind her as the clouds roll. He spoke to Laura a few days ago, spent a couple of hours with her, and while he's not sure where it leaves them, it's not. Bad. He thinks, anyway.

For a minute, he's silent. His eyes drift over the garage. He's been at the Scrapyard plenty, but this is the first time he's bumped into her, so. Must be a new job she picked up. ]

What'd she tell you?

cw forced breeding, slavery

[imperatour]

[ His wry tease gets only a wave of her hand as she leads them over to the garage. She doesn't have a problem with silence, that much they had established the first time they met. But— ah, she supposes that's the natural next question. Furiosa doesn't answer immediately, her hands stalling where she's occupied herself with cleaning the grease from the main shaft of her prosthetic arm. Enough time passes that he might think she didn't hear him, or she's ignoring him.

She doesn't think she'd appreciate having all of her business spilled to a stranger and then having that stranger repeat it all back. So instead, she decides to tell him something else. Something parallel. ]

Where I come from... [ She starts, leaning against a sturdy counter-height tool chest, crossing her arms in front of her. ] It's not an easy place to live. When I was young— [ She has to squint, thinking about the conversion actually. People like years here, not days ] Ten maybe. One warlord traded me to another as part of a deal. And after that Joe owned me until he died.

[ It's not a very scary name for a Warlord all things said and done, but Furiosa continues with her story, expression still and calm. She also killed him, but it is not quite relevant to the story yet. ]

Joe wanted two things more than anything. He wanted an indomitable army to lay waste to anyone who stood in his way to controlling every resource, every drop of water, ever scrap of food, and every person in a dying world. And— [ She pauses here. ] He wanted a son. A healthy heir. He kept a harem of breeders.

[ She stalls only slightly here, the smallest of verbal trips. She hasn't told anyone here this besides Laura, and that was text only. She hasn't even said it to Frank in as clear and obvious words. ]

I was supposed to be one.

[ A tool. A thing to be used and tossed out when she didn't perform. No choice in the matter. She looks at Logan's eyes now, a solemn expression holding his. Laura told her how she was made. A commodity, a means to an end.

A choice stolen from Logan. Different, but not that different. ]

No one should be used for that. Not ever. Not for any part of it.

[carcajous]

[ Normally no, he wouldn't. Normally, he steers clear of his past, not only 'cause he doesn't like to talk about it but because he hasn't got the tools for it, either. The memories, they're not there. Not all of them. Patchwork, bits and pieces he can't trust. Did he ask for it? Who was he before they took him?

Was his life even worth a damn before that?

(Something tells him no. It really wasn't.)

But it's Laura. In his mind, if anybody's got the right to tell his story, it's her. They made his story her story. She's so fucking tangled up in it, he's got no idea what to do with it.

He's not working on his bike while the woman talks. (At some point, he'll get her name.) His annoyance with the sticker on his bike is forgotten, exchanged for not quite rapt attention, but quieter, focused. Processing. It's not the same thing, her story. But a bunch of kids patented as tools of war—

Yeah.

His pause is nearly as long as hers. If he's got questions (he does), he keeps them to himself for now. That's not why she's telling him. She's not saying it as an invitation to pry.

It feels important to put at least one thing out there: ] I don't remember. Whatever they did to me, they tore up my life with it. One day, I came to and I was just... [ Existing. ] I dream about it. Sometimes I lose myself.

[ He picks at the sticker, not so much intent on taking it off as he's just. Doing it. He doesn't mean to say more. He doesn't want to say more because this shit is none of her goddamn business. But she's also offered up a piece of herself she didn't need to, and he knows whatever his feelings about her, she obviously cares about Laura. And something about that feels...

Laura deserves that. People around her. 'Cause he was alone for a long time, and his head's not so deep in the sand that he hasn't realized how it ate at him, until he found the one man who managed to help him get his shit together. ]

We didn't find those kids 'til they were grown. I don't know how the hell we missed it.

[ That was their job, that was his job. Laura never should've been born the way she was. But even if she was, she never should've been raised how she was, either. Not for all those years. Everything about her reflects a series of failures, long before he knew she existed, and as much as he's been trying to shake it, he hasn't figured out how. In a way, he can see the same in Laura, too. It's not accurate to say she tiptoes around him. She's not afraid of him. More like—her expectations are in the ground.

But he thinks of her saying, I'm starting to think I don't know the kind of man you are. And there's something to that he's been holding onto, like maybe he could show her, like he might have what it is Charles believes he's got to give. Does he? There's nothing about himself he can claim with certainty except that he's real good at tearing people apart. He's two hundred fucking years old, still scraping together the shards of the kind of man he is. The kind of man he wants to be.

It shouldn't matter so damn much. He's not all she's got. Strictly speaking, she doesn't need him. It's just, despite himself, he can't pretend Laura doesn't mean something he's never had before. ]

[imperatour]

[ I don't know how the hell we missed it, and Furiosa can only nod, just a little move of her chin as she settles back against the tool chest, eyes cast past him. She can say it was survival, the way she looked at her boots when a new wife was thrown into the vault or when the body of an old one was dragged out. She can say it wasn't her fault.

But she still wears the chains of it. Shame. It sits on her shoulders. It's locked around her ankles. There's no erasing the cost of her waiting, the cost she said she'd missed but really she'd just turned away from. ]

I've only ever been any good killing people at fixing cars.

[ And that's what kept her alive for many, many days. Being impressive with her ferocity. Being unimaginably savage. Being so cruel that myths start about how her sweat and spit are venomous. She had to be be so ruthless and effective as one tool it would be unimaginable that to use it for any other purpose.

She was good at it. She was so fucking good at it that he trusted her with the things he couldn't replace: his wives. ]

Turns out I probably don't know a damn thing about redemption. But I don't think you find it looking backward.

open garage hours

[imperatour]

[ Elara's off sourcing specialty parts so Furiosa's at the helm today. It's a slow day, so she's got the Valiant up on the lift hoisted up a few feet while she crouches underneath, following a careful mental inspection checklist. She's rough on her car, but she knows the Valiant can handle it as long as she doesn't neglect this part too.

Honestly, Furiosa probably takes better care of her car than her body. She pushes that too hard and rides the accelerator too long. Wears down her break pads and never cleans out her tubes. One day the organic equipment is gonna fail on her. Happens to everyone sooner or later.

But at least her car will outlast her.

Furiosa hears someone pull up, tips her head to listen for any problem she can diagnose by ear alone or at least get pointed in the right direction. She doesn't turn around, just waves a hand indicating whoever it is can stop and she'll be right there. She casts a middle-volume shout as she hoists herself out of the pit, and crawls out from under the car. ]

Gimme a minute to get this one down, and then I'll take a look.

[primepool]

[Wade doesn't spend much of his time thinking ahead, and he definitely was not thinking about the fact he was going to roll his Beetle into the nearest garage he spots on the way back and say:]

Holy shit, was that Charlize Theron?

[As if he can't hear that voice in his dreams. Wade undoes his seatbelt (yes, even a man who can't die can wear a seatbelt, thank you) and peeks over the door, half-hanging out the rolled-down window of the passenger side. Unfortunately, for the first meeting, she's getting the full kit-and-kaboodle: bare-faced Wade with his goblin gonorrhea skin and big, brown eyes tracking the garage like he's gonna spot the Evil Queen ready to lob a poisoned apple right into his gullet.

Not that she'd probably get caught dead workin' in a garage, but --

With the convertible roof still up his Beetle it's not to obvious to a woman even listening for it what's wrong with his car. And she won't know until he has a full tag to give it a dramatic and comedic reveal.

First off: when she stands up, his question gets answered. And considering she's neither blonde nor radioactive, she may be the best end of the Theron spectrum. The arm is completely un-fucking-mistakable.] Yes, ma'am. You take as much time as you need. [He's seen what she does with other cancer-filled bald guys, thanks! He's not inviting that kinda evil into his life (yet).

Wow. She's... actually a lot shorter up close than he thought.] You been working here long?

[He only barely suppresses a girly little fangirl giggle as he clears his throat. If Sir Princess Peach Lips himself pops out after a few minutes in complete silence, Wade might completely lose control of his bowels in his excitement.

That's a promise.]

[imperatour]

Mmn. Just a couple weeks now.

[ She's distracted multitasking, cleaning grease from her fingers on a show towel, lowering the car from the lift. This thing always gets stuck, Furiosa thinks it's electrical but a swift kick to the base gets it the rest of the way down. Don't over complicate the fix if you don't need to.

And then finally she can turn around and take a look at the car and — Furiosa does a bit of a double take. Not because he looks weird (well, actually it is that), but it's a very specific type of weird. He looks like a war boy without his paint. War man? War person. They don't usually know the word ma'am, but then again they don't usually live that long either. If their own suicidal impulsiveness didn't get them, the tumors did. ]

Do I know you?

[primepool]

[Holy fuck. Queen Furiosa herself is here and no one thought to tell him?? (No one tells him anything. He gives everyone ever all the relevant info they could use to figure out they're dead in canon or in the past or that the future is cool and no one tells him anything important, like how they met the monthly quota of Women with Guns. Anyone who is reading this, fuck you.)

She's just as dirty and stinky as she is on the big screen, too. And here he thought his heart would be a cold, dead thing forever.

Wade's hairless browbones raise. Okay, that's not how these threads usually start.]

Lady, I wish. Maybe if there's a cross-over one day... a girl can dream. [But he's curious to know -- even if he could guess --] Why? I look familiar? If so, man, am I sorry for that guy.

[imperatour]

[ What's a cross-over? Mentally, she adds this to the list of things to ask Nash later. Thank you Nash, for being the designated modern-to-apocalypse translator.

Don't mind her as she does one circle around Wade though, eyeing his neck for a brand. ]

It's uh. You know, never mind. Not important.

[ Furiosa doesn't particularly feel like telling a stranger he looks like he got cooked out under the unrelenting sun in the irradiated Australian landscape and that isn't exactly common here, cause she thinks they both are pretty aware of that. If he isn't, good for him. ]

What's wrong with your ride?

[primepool]

The bald? The good, the bad, the ugly? [He waves a hand.] Don't worry, I get it all the time.

[He's absolutely not gotten it ever, in his life, besides that one time that kid whose cat he saved called him Caillou. Which was insanely fucked up, by the way. It's one of those insults that he remembers when he wakes up at three in the morning sometimes.

She's really staring him down, huh?] I'm not hiding Kuato under my shirt. I mean, I could take it off to prove it --

[Oh, right. He came here for a reason. He just wasn't expecting the modern-day equivalent of straight(er) Xena being the one around to fix his car.

Finally, Wade sinuously slides out of the car after he pushes the switch that lowers the convertible roof. Slowly, with more than a few squeaks, the thing starts drawing back to unveil what he's about to say is the problem, with a displaying gesture of his hand.]

So, uh. This.

[The interior is covered, entirely, in a dark-brown, almost black, fur, with slight variations of lighter honey-colored strands. As the roof collapses, it looks to be shivering a little, like the skin of a horse as it shakes off a fly.] Ever seen anything like it? It didn't come this way.

[He looks between himself, her, the car, hands on his hips as he chuckles.] Kinda funny when you think about it. The hairony.

[imperatour]

[ Funny is not the word she would use for it. Actually, she's not sure what she would use but funny isn't it. Her expression is pretty plainly confounded, deep lines worried between her brows. Very clearly communicating No. I've never seen anything like it.

She leans in, taking a long sniff. Scent can be a helpful sense! It doesn't smell like it's dying. Actually, it smells very animal and alive. Then she pokes it with one firm jab, flinching back a little when the whole seat ripples in response. ]

How long has it been doing that?

[freakymagoo]

[His no-longer-waterlogged engine doesn't sound like it should be giving him any trouble when he pulls up outside the garage's doors. He barely hears her voice over the sound of the ignition turning off but he catches the tail end loud and clear as he swings one leg over and slides off the saddle.]

No rush.

[It took him a while to track her down. And he's not looking for her to ask for any favours. In fact he looks a little more polished than when she picked him up dripping wet from the side of the road. Plain white tee, dark jeans, leather jacket, gloves. Standard non-descript biker fare. Nobody can see the congressman or be able to discern which one of those arms isn't like the other.

Although one of those hands is definitely holding something completely foreign, completely frivolous, completely hand grabbed off the side of a freshly rained upon highway and hastily bundled together. Because a gentleman cannot show up empty-handed to greet a lady to whom he owes a rather significant debt and they weren't exactly overflowing with options of vintage pinot noir at the local bottle shop. Hopefully she knows what to do with it.]

Furiosa. I-- just came by to thank you. [Here. Have some uh... partially dried out hayfever?]

[imperatour]

[ Furiosa looks skeptical when she peels up her welding goggles, little red marks from the plastic seal forming circles around her eyes.

She half expected to never see him again, or, if she did, it would be the carcass of his bike him lost to the world somewhere. It's a nice bike. She wouldn't say no to a free bike if she found one, but the raiders usually beat her to it. ]

What's this for?

[ She doesn't hate it. Actually, the gesture is sort of nice. She takes the plants gently, examining them closely. That doesn't mean she totally understands the purpose though. ]

[freakymagoo]

[Bucky's eyebrows rise by half an inch. What are these for? Um. It seemed. Obvious enough. Nobody has ever asked him that. If anything, he got shit for it for being old-fashioned. Some young ladies might find it creepy these days.]

It's. [Error. Blue screening. Rebooting. Please wait...] For you...? I. Would have-- bought you lunch, but. Men aren't allowed? To do that. Anymore. I... was told.

[imperatour]

[ She didn't expect a straightforward question to set him off balance so much. It's not the first time it's happened here, like everyone is operating on relatively the same set of unwritten rules and they don't know how to explain it to someone who hasn't ever experienced this kind of small gestures and politeness. Low stakes when it's not about survival.

She also feels little need to curb the awkwardness, and has found time often gives people a minute to work through their resetting while she busies herself with another task. She's got an empty tin for varnish she just cleaned out, so into that the roadside flowers go. A makeshift vase. It's a nice bit of life in the garage.

She's apparently amused by his squirming, leaning back against the counter and crossing her arms in front of her chest. ]

I'd take lunch. [ Food honestly makes more sense to her than flowers. That's a utilitarian gift. ] Is it just men that aren't supposed to give people food or do I need to apologize to some women too?

[ She's teasing him. ]

[freakymagoo]

It's just men, who can't buy women food. [This one he knows the answer to, because he was miffed and challenged this, especially when people tried to claim chivalry is dead but also not allow him (albeit struggling financially at the time, after having been declared dead for so long and then that little pesky war criminal conviction when he became undead...) to foot the bill. It should be noted he insisted on paying regardless of his personal circumstances.]

If I pay for your meal I'm supposedly pressuring you into-- spending the night with me. [He's deliberately avoiding the f word. The s word. He can't remember the other colloquialism - was it... put in? Put up? No, that still means tolerating, last he checked... anyway he's avoiding that slang too.] Well, you're obviously beautiful but I had no such intention coming here today. I suppose... if that was your intention then you would have to apologise to those ladies.

[imperatour]

[ Beautiful is not a way she hears herself described particularly often, and she marks it only with a single raised eyebrow, questioning. That's the kind of thing she thinks is for other women, with long clean hair, faces that aren't smeared with grease, and none of their limbs ending in gnarled twisted messes. Just a weight to it she doesn't like. Pretty things get kept in cages.

She's not available either, but that doesn't seem like any of Bucky's business. He's not asking, so she's not volunteering. ]

Old fashioned.

[ She says it like she thinks that's strange. Arbitrary rules that don't really matter. Euphemisms to seem polite. There are a lot of those, she's finding. ]

So the flowers would be, what, a kiss on the cheek?

hope this is cool!

[windriding]

[ It's Ororo who pulls up to the garage, with her mini-van that she's starting to get attached to. Attached enough that she's laid enough attention to notice small things, like the check engine light blinking on, or how one of the tires is a little off.

She's more cautious than most, so she checks it out herself a couple of times and suspects - well, there's probably a nail in it somewhere if it can't keep the air in. Time to get it replaced - or at least patched. Whatever is the more affordable and sensible option right now.

The garage Furiosa is in was the nearest, but that's a stroke of luck, isn't it? Ororo's tight, tense frown softens into something approaching a smile when she recognizes her. ]

Oh, hey. I didn't know you worked this place.

of course!!

[imperatour]

[ They exchanged numbers, but Furiosa is not the most, let's call it sociable person. So, without any urgent need to reach out, Furiosa's left that particular contact untouched in her phone.

There's a friendly recognition in her expression when Storm steps out of the car, though. ]

Started recently. They needed extra hands after the meteor shower, but Elara, the garage owner here, kept me on after.

[ Talent recognizes talent. ]

[windriding]

That's wonderful. It's hard to find reliable work around here. [ Storm smiles wryly, but she means it. It's a struggle for her to find anything, not having any particular skill that would lend well to a typical nine-to-five or what have you. But she's glad to see things work out for her - friend? Acquaintance? Something.

The smile gentles into something kinder at the prospect of having a go-to garage, though. Maybe she doesn't need to keep jumping from one place to another anymore. ]

But I'll come by whenever I need help with this one, then. It's proving more troublesome than... well, maybe I should have expected it to be troublesome, given how I got stuck with it. [ But she's stuck with it. That's how it worked around here.

She nods to the minivan in question. ]

Can you help me? It says I need to check the engine, but I've no idea where to start checking.

doing a little time skip if that's okay!

[imperatour]

[ A soft, amused noise. For everything everyone else seems to know about social grace and society, Furiosa at least knows she'll always have a leg up on cars. These things are as integral as breathing where she's from. If you don't have wheels you'll live and die your whole life in the spot where you were born. ]

Yeah. [ A nod. She gestures over with her chin. ] I can show you.

[ Time passes with the both of them in front of the car with the hood up. Furiosa gives her a basic lesson, but speaks confidently and easily. Clearly practiced. She stops for questions, tries to suss out what Storm does and doesn't know about maintenance. Inventories everything that will likely become a problem, but triages in a systematic, organized way. Nothing urgent.

In the end, the check engine light is a pretty minor issue. A damaged plastic cap that's letting vapor vent in a spot it shouldn't. Furiosa pulls a tin with a bunch of spare caps off the shelf and fishes out one that's the right size and presents it to Storm. Ta-da. ]

Wanna do the honors?

all good!

[windriding]

[ Storm takes to the quick, impromptu lesson quite well. She listens closely and mentally files any helpful tips Furiosa mentions away for future reference. Scott had been the one who was good with maintenance and upkeep of all of the mansion's vehicles, so it helps to have this refresher for the next time she was in a sudden tight spot like this.

When they finally find the cause, Storm almost has to laugh. Such a small thing, causing her grief! She's smiling faintly when Furiosa offers her the replacement cap, nodding her thanks. ]

It's funny how something so minor and so easy to address would take so long to find. [ It should be easy to address, right? There's only so many ways to screw a cap on. She does it as best as she can and hopes Furiosa will step in if she's done it wrong somehow. ]

I'm glad it was simple in the end, though. It feels like the sort of thing that could easily become something terrible if I'd just ignored it.