originallutece | ic contact;

[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.

Will you show me?

[A beat, and then she waves a hand and clarifies:]

Not now. One wondrous task at a time. But I'd be interested in watching the transformation sometime.

[She supposes he does the same thing with the whip that he had with the sunflower: changed the properties in order to make it into a weapon. Making the stem longer, yes, but also thicker and harder, getting rid of the blossoms, perhaps, but not the thorns, no . . .

Odd. And yet she can see the benefits, she supposes. It seems a great deal of effort when one might just buy a whip, but what does she know.

She waits until he's stopped chopping before darting her fingers forward to steal another piece of apple, because they're sweet and she can be childish, on occasion, especially in front of him.]

Of course. It goes rather fast, typically — ah. That's right, you don't normally see me grow plants in haste, do you? Generally I slow them down when you're around, so that you can watch.

[Which is, really, a sort of offhand but incredibly significant thing to admit, isn't it.]

Normally it's one smooth motion. From a seed in my hair to a weapon in my hand in a matter of seconds, one draw and snap of the wrist.

[God, he can do it that quickly? Rosalind blinks, a little taken aback despite herself. And though she'd just thought that they ought to concentrate on the pie instead of more unsavory things, well. She can't ever help but be curious about the demonic world.]

Was it always like that? Or was that something that came with age?

I suppose it's a little of both, really. Certainly it's a technique I've refined, to hone it to its peak efficiency. But I don't know that it's really something that I had to work up to from a baseline of zero, either.

[He shrugs a little, chopping another apple in half and beginning to cube it; as he does, he makes sure to trim off one particularly good-sized piece and leave it at the edge of the cutting board for her to sneak again.]

Would it surprise you to know that as demons go, an acquaintance of mine can kill at speeds that make my own technique with the whip look positively glacial?

Precisely how fast do you mean?

[She can't say she's surprised, precisely, if only because demons seem to sharply exceed any limitations she normally thinks of. Why shouldn't his friend be able to achieve such speeds? He can take the seed of a rose and turn it into a whip, so why not?]

And is it the demon you've mentioned before?

Yusuke, a friend, and I witnessed him kill a foe — he uses a sword as his weapon of choice, I should mention. I asked him afterwards how many times he'd slashed his enemy, when he'd lunged at him.

Yusuke counted seven or eight discrete strikes. I'd perceived the first two, and then afterward had only followed the flashes of light. Our third friend hadn't been able to account for any of his slashes at all.

[There's no need for a dramatic pause, and so he doesn't bother with one; he simply returns calmly to his cutting with a hint of a fond smile on his face.]

He'd struck sixteen times. So yes — Hiei is quite fast.

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