originallutece | (no subject)

...All right. Do you happen to have eggs and rice?

[English recipes, she'd said, and maybe that's what he ought to be trying to come up with instead, but when she'd mentioned cooking his mind had immediately gone to comfort food, and obviously his definition of comfort food has its roots somewhere else.]

Yes.

[It's instant rice, but it's a full box, so they'll have plenty. She gets to her feet and tugs out a box of a dozen eggs, then glances over at him, waiting for instruction. This is going to be something Japanese, clearly, but that's perfectly acceptable. It'd be more interesting than an English breakfast anyway.]

All right, then. Come here.

[For a second, he hesitates, visibly seeming to debate with himself about something. But whatever answer it is that he settles on, he seems to be committed to it, folly or not.

Which is why, when he crosses over to her, personal space goes a little by the wayside as his hands come to rest on her shoulders and he steers her over to stand in front of the stove where he wants her.]

The proper ratio for rice is a half-cup of water for every third-cup of rice. That's an important ratio to remember because one third-cup of rice is approximately one portion. All right?

[Oh. Oh, well, and though she doesn't resist, she does blink down once or twice at the stove, taken aback by the way he moves her so efficiently.]

--all right. So a cup of water, then, and two-thirds of a cup of rice, if it's for us.

[There's a pot already on the stove, and she has a set of baking cups, so soon the pot is filled. It doesn't look like much water, and that doesn't sound like a lot of rice, but she trusts him.]

That's right. Water only first; you'll not add the rice until it's up to a boil.

[He reaches over, finding the top that fits the pot in question and retrieving it for her.]

Bring it up to a boil first, and then call me. I'm going to see what else you have in the refrigerator.

[Which is a liberty so egregious it's almost an invasion of privacy, in a way — and yet there's something of a change that's come over Fawkes right now, it seems. He's more decisive than usual, more gently commanding in the way he's smoothly steering things, and the obvious implication here is quite simply that somehow, this sort of crisis management — or this sort of tending to someone in distress — is something he's done plenty of times before.]

[Having little else to do, she leans back against the counter, watching him curiously. It's odd to see him so commanding, but not so strange she finds it disquieting. He gets a little like this when she puts him in charge of things in the classroom: doing a lecture instead of her, or instructing the students before an exam. But she's never seen it like this, in so intimate a setting. He moves as if he has every right to be here, going through her refrigerator and picking out what he likes.

It's fascinating to watch.]

There's bread, if you want to add toast to all this.

[But beyond that . . . she has most of the staples. There's some chicken breasts and ground beef; quite a few vegetables, which suggests Rosalind is planning on living on salads for a bit. Quite a few leftovers, too.]

[Oh, well. Good, vegetables are just what he wants, really, and he sifts through them with quiet purpose, picking out the ones he wants and bringing them over to her — onion, carrot, garlic if he can find it.]

We'll see how you like it without, first. You don't happen to have soy sauce somewhere, do you? I know that might be a bit of a particular thing to stock.

[Does she? There are occasions, despite what she says, where she'd made some effort into trying to cook new things, and she'd had a hankering for fried rice last month. So there ought to be--]

Ah. Here.

[--half a jar of it, and she pulls it out of the back of the fridge with a smile. Joining him at the counter, she glances over the vegetables.]

Do you put the soy sauce on them?

It's going to go in the rice, ultimately. These will get chopped and added, too.

[He pauses, then tosses her a slight smile.]

I'm trying my best not to do it for you, though I'm tempted to. You'll learn better for having done the motions yourself.

You can do it for me next time, hm?

[She's not good at cooking, but at least she knows how to cut things. The carrots and onion are cut fairly quickly (not prettily, but in vaguely even portions), but she offers him the garlic bulb.]

What is this? --the meal, I mean, I know what garlic is.

It's my mother's omurice recipe. Fried rice in a mound with an omelette coating over.

[He pauses, taking the garlic from her and removing the skin with quiet ease. Then, almost absently, he reaches over and closes his fingers around hers on the handle of the knife, setting the bulb onto her cutting board and turning the knife sideways to rest the flat of it atop the garlic before giving it a brisk pound or two with his free hand.]

There. Crush it first, and now mince it and mix it in with the rest.

[There's a little pause-- just a few seconds, nothing more-- before she obeys that instruction. Her fingers flex around the knife, and she doesn't look over at him.]

You could make this with your eyes closed, I suspect.

I wouldn't recommend that for you, however, which is the only reason why I'm not offering to demonstrate how right you are about that.

[He pauses, taking a moment to check on the rice before drifting back to her.]

It's comfort food. I figured it's an appropriate night for it.

Mm.

[She'd been right: this is distracting. She can still feel her fear at the edges of her consciousness, and surely it will come back later tonight, but for now . . . for now, she's calm. Between the conversation and the food, she can focus all her attention on the present, not the past.

Perhaps it would have been better if she'd yelled and raged. But she doesn't regret her choice, not when it comes with him at her side, quietly instructing as he keeps her company.]

. . . thank you. Again. I know I've said it, but it bears repeating. I know it's late, and I know you likely have better things to do, but . . . I truly do appreciate this.

I don't mind it. And I can't think of anything better I could possibly be doing, that would be more important than this.

[He leans on the counter, half-angled to face her and supervise the whole operation while she works.]

...I meant what I said. Earlier. I — I won't leave, if you don't want me to.

[No. That's what she should say, and the word springs to her lips, an automatic answer born from lecture after lecture on this very thing. No, that's unprofessional, that's not what we are, we aren't friends, we're barely colleagues, go home. He shouldn't even be here in the first place, but there's still time to fix things.

And yet . . . god, the thought of not having to face an empty apartment is so tempting. The thought of spending hours with him, relaxed and soothed, distracted to the point where she forgets her fears and simply focuses on how good a time she's having . . . god. God, but she wants that. They could stay up, watch a movie, talk and laugh and be irresponsible until dawn, and she wouldn't have to think about anything but the company she was keeping.]

. . . do you want to stay?

You have to understand . . . if we're-- if you're-- if we're to do things like this, things outside of the professional environment, I have to be sure you're not simply doing it because I say so. I have no authority over you like this. If you don't want something, or do, or-- or whatever, that's completely within your rights. Comforting me, keeping me company, teaching me how to cook . . . none of that is an obligation. And you won't suffer academically if you leave.

...I understand why you need to say that. I — I know that sounds overly formal of me, but I mean it. I do understand that...it's a situation where transparency is needed. Where it's vital, even.

[He ducks his head slightly, crossing his arms across his chest in a comfortable resting position while he seems to think about what he says.]

I don't feel coerced. I don't fear retaliation if I don't meet your supposed demands, or anything of the sort. I know that I don't like it when you're upset. If there's something I can do to alleviate that, then...I know that I want to do it.

...It's a hard feeling to describe properly, in words. It's not that I'm staying because I want to be here, because this isn't about my entertainment or my satisfaction. But I want to be here for your sake; I think that's something separate.

. . . all right.

[It's still a poor idea, and she's a fool for not ordering him home. But as long as he's staying here of his own volition and not out of fear of what might happen if he displeases her . . . as long as he knows he's here as a friend and not a student, this can happen.

She takes a deep breath, then glances over at him and offers a slight smile. It's quiet and a little ragged, but she means it.]

Tell me: do you know how to play cards?

I know a few games. Don't forget to keep an eye on your rice.

[But he's returning her smile, faint and soft.]

Which one did you have in mind?

Oh--

[She reaches for it, but no, she's still got a minute or so left. Rosalind glances back at him. This is getting easier. Not lighthearted, no, but there's a little more energy to the way she answers him.]

Rummy. It's fairly easy once you get the hang of it, and it's a good way to pass time while you talk to someone. Victoria and I used to play it when neither of us could sleep-- we'd end up getting snacks, a few hard ciders, and play until dawn.

We have our snacks, and perhaps I'll even indulge in a cider now that I'm not driving. But I shan't make you bet, not the way we used to.

[Now that I'm not driving, she says, and that's when it really sort of hits him that ah, yes — she's not driving, no, because he's not going anywhere. Oh.

When she puts it like that, there's a second when he finds himself feeling a little bit in over his head. It's a second where he second-guesses himself, and wonders if he ought to make some sort of hasty follow-up or clarification to his word.

But then he decides — no. Because nervous or not, clarifying his position would mean suggesting that his commitment to the substance of it had faltered, and that's not something he's willing to allow.]

I'm appreciative of that. I didn't bring any sort of money with me.

Not with money. With favors. Or dares, or exchanges . . .

[Now the rice is done. She tugs it off the burner and glances over at him curiously.]

Anything that was low stakes enough that we didn't mind losing, but high stakes enough that we'd be invested in the first place. Now what?

Ah. Now you'll want to put it on a plate and spread it out to sit and cool a bit, while you work on the rest here.

[Which is a distraction he's grateful for, because favors or dares or exchanges sounds like one of those things that maybe someone like him shouldn't be getting into with someone like her in the middle of an already-emotional night.]

I'll bet you were a devil when it came to dares. You have the creative mind for it.

Certainly she ended up getting to know some of our neighbors better. I liked--

[Ah. She hesitates, then focuses a little too hard on the plate and spreading the rice out evenly.]

Well. I was fond of getting her to do things, yes. Hers were more along the lines of my doing her homework for her.

It's a good thing we're not exchanging dares and favors, then. Surely it's a conflict of interest of the highest order, to have a professor doing my homework for me.

[Hopefully that will make her laugh, anyway. With the rice done, he starts getting together the things they'll need to properly fry it for the omurice.]

And I really can't think of anything I'd have you do, anyway. So I suppose I'd be a rather poor sport at that sort of wager.