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I helped, yes. As much to steal morsels in the process as anything else, really.

Tell me of it, if you'd like. I can't imagine: my mother and I never did any such things.

[Hnngh...he's still a little loath to confess to this, particularly in text, what with the...everything. But look at what they've seen from their captors, lately. Monsters that prey on psyches, twists and turns that read feelings, that bend traits.

No. There's no sense in playing coy. If they want to know of her, they'll know of her. They'll find it regardless of what he does or not, so what sense does it make to remain in denial about it...?]

She doted on me. Sometimes I was terribly difficult, and wanted nothing to do with her, but sometimes I was very selfish and wanted to be the center of her attention, and when I did she would always indulge me.

So I would beg for treats, and if they wouldn't spoil my supper, I'd have them. And if they would spoil my supper, I'd still have them, just only after.

[She can't imagine any of this. Oh, she can picture him as a child, yes, but certainly not as a difficult one. He's so polite, so kind, so very mild-mannered; she can't imagine a spoilt brat of a boy. But perhaps that was when he was less used to his humanity. Perhaps he was still adjusting to the limitations of his new form, learning how to balance his own childish needs with his intellect. Yes, and now she can imagine it: a child with a sharp expression and bright eyes, alternating between desperately craving his mother's approval and sneering coldly at her attempts at bonding.

No, she can understand that. Far more impossible to imagine is his mother. Rosalind isn't stupid; mothers like that surely exist. Happy childhoods aren't uncommon. And yet it seems so odd, to hear of a mother who indulges a child in such a way.

Ah. No. She's thinking about it all wrong, isn't she? She's still stuck in her comparison. It's impossible to imagine a mother indulging her child like that when Rosalind slots herself in his place. But it's far, far easier to imagine a mother indulging her son.]

She loves you a great deal.

I was all she had, I suppose.

I don't mean that to sound so dismal, or so reluctant. I simply...think it's a sobering truth. Whatever sort of son I proved to be, I was still all she had.

No. Don't underestimate her feelings. You were her only child, yes, and I'm certain that was a factor. But simply because you were her son didn't mean she was required to love you, or indulge you. You may have been difficult, yes, and you certainly have your secrets, but she still loves you for you. Of that, I have no doubt.

[Hmm. That makes him wonder — and he starts to type something in response to it, but it's a phrase he stares at and quickly deletes, in favor of sitting and thinking for a long moment.

No. He's hurt her before with careless words and thoughtless commentary. A fool could see this is an issue that runs deeper with her than she's letting on. He'll have to go carefully, if he wants to hear more of it.]

You were an only child, too, weren't you? At least until you discovered a "twin".

Yes. Childbirth was not as safe a practice as it becomes in the future, and my mother was advised not to try for a second or third child.

I assume you are as well?

My father passed away when I was young. And given her health...I suppose it's unlikely that I'll have any biological siblings, no.

Did you want any?

Finding my so-called twin . . . it wasn't the familial relationship I longed for, but the companionship. But it would have been quite nice, I supposed, to have someone clever enough to keep up at that age.

Oh, no. I've always been quite the loner. Until recently, alliances and partnerships had always made more sense to me than...friends. Companions.

I suppose it's because to be a friend, one has to share a part of themselves, and I've never been one to share what's mine.

Up to and including your mother's affection, hm?

[Which is a teasing joke, actually. Better that than once again comparing the two of them. They know they're alike, and adding another point to that list won't help. Besides: he knows her well enough by now to know that without being told.]

Up to and including myself, as well.

I doubt it'll come as any surprise when I say that I've certainly given you a piece of myself. That's really what trust between friends means, isn't it? To trust a person, you'd have to be entrusting them WITH something.

In this case, I think it's with yourself.

I'm flattered. And honored. But I believe you knew that already. I was emotional enough the other week that it might be near impossible for you not to know.

Let me watch? As you (attempt) to bake your pie. Certainly between the two of us we can succeed.

You say it's my pie, but you're the one who'll be eating it. Perhaps with my help, however.

Did you want to stick with apple, or are you planning to swap to blueberry, now that you know the reason for the question?

Apple. Truth be told, I made the decision with a pie in mind. Blueberry pie is acceptable, but rather ranks lower on the list. It's far better for breakfasts, or-- ah, do they still have parfaits?

[And she's starting to make her way over, by the by, walking slowly through the streets, the wind whipping at her hair.]

Have you never experienced a Japanese parfait? They're called the king of desserts.

I'm told the optimal way to eat them is when they're shared — a single parfait too big for any one person, but just right for a pair.

Not a Japanese one. The French version made its way over when I was in my early twenties.

[One of the last things Columbia acquired from the world, actually, before it officially renounced all ties. But she won't say that, lest she spoil the conversation.]

I suppose you'll have to simply show me the Japanese version, in addition to how you make a pie. You're in your apartment, I assume?

As far as I know, the only particular difference is that the Japanese variant tends to be considerably more liberal with its fruit and decor. The French looks like a dessert; the Japanese looks like a meal all in and of itself.

At the apartment, yes. Are you bringing Punnett with you? I ask only because he's the sort of thing one likes to prepare for, not because he's unwelcome in any way.

No, he's at home. I set him in the tub, that tends to occupy him for a great deal of time.

[And oh, there she is: slipping in through the flower shop, pointedly ignoring Parappa, and coming up the stairs to his apartment.]

Kurama--?

In here, Rosalind.

[And indeed, there he is, standing at the counter with his hair pinned back and an assortment of fresh fruits in front of him, with baking needs piled in a cluster at one corner and a rapidly-growing mound of chopped apples on a cutting board in front of him beneath his knife.]

Parappa didn't give you any trouble?

We've reached an accord. I ignore him, and in exchange, I don't actually harm him in any way.

[That's not an accord so much as a vague threat, but it seems to be working for them. Rosalind finishes unlacing her boots, steps out of them, and comes to lean against the counter, watching him with interest.]

Can you control the type of apple you produce? Or is it a gamble?

I suspect you could pull his arms off to render him obedient, if you really wanted to. Apparently they're...some form of detachable.

[BAFFLING. But in any event, he makes room for her and smiles as he picks up a larger piece of peeled apple and offers it to her between two fingers.]

Would you believe I've never put that much thought into it? I suppose I could change one variant into another if I set my mind to it — they're all apples, after all, and it's only characteristics like sweetness and color that really differ. It's not so different than turning a rose into a whip, or a petal into a razor, I suppose.

[WOW, there's a lot to react to in those few sentences. First and foremost is the fact that kappas can apparently just straight up detach bits of themselves, a fact both fascinating and utterly disgusting. Rosalind's mouth opens to ask him how precisely he's found that out, and then he starts answering her apple question, and she decides she doesn't want to know that badly after all.

After all, she thinks as she takes that bit of apple and pops it into her mouth, the answer is likely to be disgusting. And while she still wants to know, perhaps not while they're preparing food.

Besides: she's got something far more fascinating to focus on.]

You can-- I'm sorry, you can turn a rose into a whip?

...Oh. Yes, I suppose that wouldn't have really come up before now, would it...

[I mean, it's so easy for something like that to slip through the cracks, between the Sinning Tree and peach-blossom daggers and throwing dart sunflowers and miniature pet ojigi.]

Yes, I suppose you could say it's my weapon of choice. Not much unlike your dagger, really.

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