originallutece | (no subject)

[ Eames glances down at her rebellious stomach, pointedly, before going back to his cutting. ]

More than a few, take your time.

[ Obviously she rarely cooks for herself so why would she know anything about how long these things take? Either way, she has something else to do other than watch him chop vegetables and season fish. So he listens for the water running and once he does, goes about focusing on the task at hand.

By the time he hears the shower turn off, there's a couple shallow pots on the stove and the oven is slowly but surely ticking its way up. He might've also hunted down the tea kettle; he leans against the counter while he waits for it. ]

[She returns in clothes that are slightly less formal, and in turn a bit more comfortable. Her damp hair is braided back, and there's a flush to her cheeks that speaks of hot water-- but the most noticeable difference is that she seems a bit more relaxed. The dried blood is gone from beneath her nails; there's no dry drops of it. It's nice to be clean, and she's a bit more at ease as she settles in at the kitchen table.]

Is there a reason you're here today, Eames, or are you often moved to cook your neighbors dinner?

I'm often moved to annoy the people I've made connections with, yes.

[ Sorry, Rosalind, you met him and that was the end of that. Now he's like some semi-permanent fixture. Like an outdoor cat that occasionally comes in to receive attention and treats. ]

There's also only so many days one can do calligraphy with only the company of perhaps two people.

[She huffs a laugh at that, shifting to rise up and come to look at the food. Not over his shoulder, because there's very few people for whom she can peer over their shoulder, but at least come to stand by his side.]

Poor thing. Do you want to become one of my assistants? I can promise you shan't be bored.

Mm, maths were not my strong suit. Nor is following directions.

[ He knows where his strengths are. ] Do you drink tea at all?

Very much so. It's on the top shelf, to your left.

[She does not offer to help.]

You seem to be taking direction quite well right now.

That is simply because I am a very selfish man.

[ After all, he wants tea something fierce. So he pulls a couple of the boxes down, inspecting the flavors with a hum of interest. He opts for a plain Earl Grey– nothing wrong with a classic. ]

Preference?

That's fine.

[She lifts up, stepping behind him, wandering over to his other side.]

I, myself, happen to be a very selfish woman. And yet somehow, I don't find myself playing kitchen maid for others on a whim.

So. What do you get out of this?

You get food, I get company. Is that so difficult to swallow?

[ There's also the fact he might be avoiding someone. And well, he hasn't seen Rosalind in a little while. He was perhaps, a bit worried about her.

His hands don't shake, though, as he pulls down mugs and pours tea for the both of them. ]

Yes.

[But it's not a mark against his character. More of an indication on how suspicious she really is. Or unused to friendship, maybe. But the tea smells good, and the dinner even more so, so she takes a mug and wraps her fingers tight around it.]

But. I will admit. Being in this place can breed . . . familiarity, I suppose.

I will admit my –self– can make things seem rather disingenuous, so I can't fault you there.

[ His personality is polarizing. Either people buy into the charm or they're constantly trying to see past it. Always prying at the edges to see what's underneath.

Somehow, he always gets drawn in by the latter. ]

The word you're looking for is friendship. Or perhaps companionship? It happens between humans sometimes.

Yes, thank you, the sarcasm isn't necessary. My point was that this city, for all it's hideous, does bring out certain resilient bonds, beyond a casual companionship.

Mm, probably has something to do with the trauma. Or maybe most of us are normally not the type to remain in one spot, so when forced...

[ He makes a vague gesture, as if to say this is what we get.

Right after, the oven beeps to let him know it's reached a specific temperature– almost like an underscore to his point. A short flurry of motion sees the fish set in the oven, a timer set, and the pots stirred. ]

Alternatively, all the fucking might be the cause of lasting bonds.

[Another small noise, which indicates she might have just smothered the urge to laugh.]

Why can't it be both? Though admittedly, my working thesis was more towards the former than the latter.

Honestly, it's a pity: I'm sure a psychologist would have a field day in a city like this. Can you imagine? The Freudians alone . . .

Knowing people, I'd be leaning towards the latter.

[ Physicality goes a long way to making things feel important. Feel as if they matter.

Maybe he's just jaded. ]

Not exactly into the psychology field, then? The Freudians would have much to say, though I doubt any of it would be particularly valid.

He was the basis of a great deal of psychology, Eames. Regardless of whether his theories were later disproved or not, he had a great deal to say. Especially on sex.

. . . mostly on sex.

I'm familiar with him. They were still disproved, is the point.

[ Because they were nonsense. ] Besides, I don't want to listen to what a dusty quack has to say about sex. Why listen when you can get a hands on experience?

[She glances over at him, her eyes cool. Not repulsed, not at all, but she doesn't impress easily.]

Is that an offer?

Only if you want it to be. Personal philosophy, otherwise.

[ He's fine leaving it at that. But if she's interested– well, he can't claim that he'd ignore it. She's got a fiery personality, something he's always had a difficult time staying away from. ]

[She looks up at him for a few seconds, searching his face, contemplative.]

. . . yes, I think I'd be amiable to that. After dinner, though, don't stray from the more important task.

Darling, I'm not going to let the fish burn.

[ Please, he went through all this effort, the least they can do is actually eat it. ] Go on, relax, this'll be done in a few.

I'm not your darling.

[She says it tartly, going to take a seat, crossing one leg over the other. Her eyes are a little darker now, taking him in as a prospective partner, not just as a friend.]

So? Anything I ought to know before I lead you to my bed?

No, I suppose you aren't.

[ Oh, that's an odd realization. He's been using it as a part of speech, an affectation for so long; now he attributes a person to the pet name.

(And it isn't Rosalind). ]

Mm, I'm very good with my hands. [ After all, that's part of what being a thief is all about. The timer goes off and he sets off taking the food out of the oven, turning off burners, and pulling down the plates once he figures out which cabinet they're in. Within a few moments, it's set out on the table. Nothing too fancy, but certainly a step up from the usual fare. ]

Anything I should know?

If you hit me, I'll throw you off the building.

[It's said cheerfully, but she's absolutely serious.]

Beyond that . . . I'll be certain to tell you if you do something I don't like.

[With that said: she settles in, smiling faintly at the dinner. It's well done, she has to admit, and she nods in thanks.]

. . . I appreciate this, though. It was kind of you.

The only reason I've hit women is if they were trying to kill me.

[ Then all bets are off, honestly. At that point, he doesn't care who's holding the gun, just the fact that they're holding a gun. ]

Although, there was this broad who liked to get spanked. [ Ah, memories. ] At any rate, I'm sure you'd be righteous if you felt the need to throw me physically off a building.

[ Really, he'd deserve it. ] It's no matter. We both get something out of it, yeah?