driftfleet | This is the reason why no one on the Red Fish should have hobbies outside of punching people...

[She nods again unacknowledgement about her eyes. She knows exactly the instance he means. She tilts her tea cup to stare at the liquid.]

I don't like it much either, but it helps when I can't sleep.

[And then about food.]

Yes. Very.

[She gives him a look that is half grateful, half begging. Feed her, for gods' sake.]

Mm.

[again, eloquent. outright talkative of him, really, all this noise.

he stands up, takes his tea with him. he drains it on the way to the sink, even though that... kind of defeats the purpose of having tea to begin with. it's forgotten as soon as he opens up their little refrigerator unit and starts quietly digging around for ingredients. cupboards next. it's odd to move about the kitchen again, like this--it was his territory, until they got a cook.

but now the cook is gone and now they're down some ingredients... but he thinks he can still pull together something. he might not even wake anyone up during the process. he reaches into a drawer, pulls out a folded black apron. Syeira at least gets the pleasure of watching him put it on in complete seriousness.

doesn't want to get his clothes dirty, man.

if he had anything else to say about her eyes, it sure doesn't seem like he's going to bring it up.]

[It doesn't even occur to her that him donning am apron might cost him cool points. Because cooks wear aprons. That's just sense.

For her part, she moves her chair closer to the actual workspace of the kitchen, without being underfoot. This way she's keeping him company while he works, and not just waiting to be served. That's rude.]

It only happens when I'm really afraid. The kind of fear when there's no hope. Or if I'm blindingly angry. Not mutually exclusive situations either.

The Taint wells up inside me. My eyes glow when it's close to the surface. It didn't happen until after I lost my soul. But my brother's eyes would do the same thing.

[She's silent for a moment, under the weight of what she's about to admit.]

I was afraid of him. The look on his face, in his eyes. Irenicus looked at me that way. And I was terrified. It tried to take advantage, but I stopped it.

Edited 2015-06-30 21:10 (UTC)

[he may or may not notice her presence more than usual; he's busy bringing out a pan, turning on the stove, moving with precise attention while doing everything as quietly as possible. he sets some rice cooking in the back. finds a couple of cans of vegetables.

or... probably vegetables. they may technically be a root. like a potato. botanically a vegetable. nutritionally a starch. he's not sure where he learned that.

but he keeps one ear on the explanation, taking in her explanation as he works. he thinks he follows. if it helps, he doesn't seem particularly phased by what she admits. he finishes opening things just in time to turn, lean on the counter, and cross his arms again.]

...You lost your soul.

[yeah, the other part was important, but...]

[She watches him, to any outside viewer, (rimshot) it might seem she's far more interested in watching him cook than taking about the horrible things that happened to her. She's used to this. Talking about it, like it doesn't hurt. Like she wasn't pried open and emptied out, then stitched back together.]

That's what Irenicus wanted me and Imoen for. He was an elf once, but he tried to steal godhood and destroy his people. They cursed him. He lost his immortality, and apparently everything else that makes a sane person.

He wanted my soul to stop the curse. So he could live forever and retry stealing the powers of a god. Him and his sister, Bodhi.

[When she says that name, there's clear hatred. She feared Irenicus, but Bodhi. Were she alive Syeira would gladly kill her again. Possibly slower this time.]

[curses and soul-stealing, godhood... this is far more Coil's world than his. he's read stories like this in his master's books, but the science of it mostly escapes him.

he narrows his eyes a little, gesturing as he thinks... one hand plucking an invisible something away from his curved palm. after a moment, he reverses the motion and puts the 'something' back. it's all... very vague.]

...You got your soul back.

[...yeah sorry he's still on this soul thing.]

[No, it's fine. She was totally digressing to a thing about how she hates vampires. His bringing her back to focus helps.]

Imoen's first. Here's was easy. Kill Bodhi and the soul goes back to its owner.

Irenicus held on tighter. Dragged me and my friends into Hell with him. He was even trying to harness the power that I'd only accessed by accident. But I beat him. We escaped and he's trapped there.

I have it back, but I'm not the same.

[when she says "into Hell", he sets his jaw with another string of questions... that he quickly decides he does not actually want to ask. he also decides that he should never tell Coil about any of this. if just this incident caused a bad attack, he doesn't want to know what would happen if Coil actually had reason to try to capture and study her.

(not that it doesn't occur to him, too, that a power like hers could be helpful to them--but he shoves the thought aside. this isn't the time, she isn't the person. not like this.)

so, then, what does he say to all of this? he looks up at the ceiling while rice simmers behind him, as if the answer might be written there. it's not. so...]

Fucked up.

[His response startles a laugh out of her. Because that is such a simple but exact way to put it.]

Yes. It really is. And that's just the end of the story.

[Her life is a mess.]

[he reaches behind himself to turn the heat down on the rice, and turns again to busy himself with pouring cans of things into the pan. the whole talk is momentarily put on hold as he moves to the protein machine (he thinks they have some real meat, but it's all frozen solid right now) and tries to decide which flavor is best.

they all taste... kind of the same, to him. teriyaki is his personal preference, because it tastes more like something than the rest of them. but... bacon and chicken are both meats. technically.

he... points to the machine. between those three flavors. which does she want? nevermind that two of them would probably taste atrocious in whatever it is he's cooking.]

[She gets what he's asking, which is saying that she's starting to understand Zhas speak. Which is as few words as possible, coupled with gestures and punching. She'll be fluent in no time.

And she just shakes her head.]

You pick. You're the cook. You know what you're doing.

[well... shit.

...chicken-flavored, meat-textured protein it is. the stuff gets dispensed and cut up into thin slices and fried in the pan as if they ever had a chance in hell of tasting anything like real food. he'll be done pretty soon, and no one's come to bother them yet...

he has little to say, in the meantime. he's starting to get tired again, and is focusing on keeping anything from burning.]

[She's pulled her knees up and hugs them, making herself look tiny on the chair. A petite girl with miles of hair, just watching him cook, feeling sleepy and yet restless.]

You think you'll sleep after this, or would you like to go beat each other up for a while?

[She is not going to sleep again tonight. She'd rather not be the only one awake on a quiet ship.]

[without looking, he frees up a hand to give his favorite so-so hand wobble gesture. does he not know if he's tired enough? or is he more on the fence about the fight? either way, he won't have a better answer until after he's turned off all of the burners, shoveled some food together, and put it all into a couple of bowls.

he takes the apron off, folds it up again, puts it back in the drawer. the dishes can wait. soon there's a bowl of fried vegetables (?) and chicken (??) and rice placed on the table next to Syeira, along with a fork.

Zhas continues standing with his own. completely lacking table manners and entirely too used to eating on the run, he shovels down half the bowl in under a minute--and that's him going slow.

when he finally pauses to, you know, breathe or something, he voices a thought:]

Scattered. [he tries to meet his head with his shoulder because he can't point to his temple with a bowl and fork in his hands; it looks more like an overly exaggerated shrug of some kind.] Head's not in it.

[Syeira takes her bowl and eats as voraciously as he does, holding it in one hand and almost shoveling with the fork in the other. She has table manners, but she doesn't need them at the moment. It's not like this is an estate dinner or anything. At least she doesn't talk with her mouth full.]

That's fair.

[Again, no argument. But after a few more mouthfuls of food, she adds a bit more.]

I'll listen, if you need an ear.

[so they're eating in good company, then. Zhas is actually pleased to see that she's got an appetite, since he'd noticed her looking thinner. between his partner's lacking a tongue and his sickly master's poor eating habits, he's always keeping an eye out for that kind of thing.

he'll probably never say anything about it, but he still makes a mental note to push food at her more often. she's already a hell of a lot easier to feed than Coil.

he falls so easily into this little project, mind finally setting to work on an easy, systematic task, that her last comment is a little jarring. if he needs an ear? to talk about his thoughts? he considers it, but only hits a long list of things he doesn't really want to put into words. they become real when they leave his body. he's still too unsure about... a lot of things.

he finishes his food silently. as soon as he sets it down, he wants to be doing something. mending or fixing or building. pensive, he tugs absently down on his shoulder.

...he has an idea, but it's stupid. it shows in his posture, though his eyes drift away too.]

[She's not a mind reader, but she can see him thinking awfully hard about something that's clearly not quite making it out of his mouth.

She sets her own empty bowl aside, puts her feet back on the floor and leans forward, arms resting on her knees, until she is able to put her gaze in line with his. Head tilted to the side, she gives him a look that is somehow equal parts expectant and patient. Tell her your thinky thoughts Zhas.

[...oh, he's been followed. he's a little surprised that she bothered.

now he almost wishes that he'd started teaching her how to sign with them, just so that he wouldn't have to say what he's thinking out loud. the words don't come off as wholly appropriate, to him.]

...Can I brush your hair.

[...yes. yes, that did sound stupid. that's a stern lineface of immediate regret, right there.]

[Oh. Well. She wasn't expecting that. To be fair, she didn't know what to expect, but asking to brush her hair would not have even made the list.

But she doesn't think it's stupid. So she smiles gently at his obvious chagrin, nods.]

[he was very ready to voice that it was stupid and that she should forget he said anything. especially under the wrong "face", he's painfully aware that it was a strange thing to suggest. but he... doesn't get an odd look for it, and she... agrees to it? so his shoulders drop a little in silent relief, and something about his demeanor eases up immediately.

what a comforting answer. he's exhausted and troubled, but this'll be nice.

he holds up a quick finger (one minute) as he stalks off to the washrooms. he'll be back in a second.]

[It's not weird, really. Everyone has their comforts, and this is hardly a strange one. She used to brush Imoen's hair, when they were little. It was mostly a practical thing, but it was a soothing practice. Unlike when Gorion would try to brush out her hair, which she believes almost certainly built up her tolerance for pain. That man always started at the top. Needless to say, she'd learned to do her own grooming fairly fast.

So she waits, because he asks. In his way of not asking anything ever. ~~Because Zhas is apparently allergic to question marks.~~ It gives her time to take their dishes and clean them. Which takes her all of no time, but it's something to do other than sit and watch the door.]

[and lucky for her, Zhas is not going to notice the insufficient way that she cleans them for now. he appears again with a comb (he thought that a brush might be better, but he doesn't own one, and he didn't want to dig through the ladies' things to find one--so this will do for now) and is already waving at her to take a seat again in her chair once he's in the room.

"excited" is not a word you can ever really use to describe Zhas, and he isn't smiling or anything that would normally indicate happiness... but his movements at least seem a little more awake. he looks alert as he waits for her to sit.]

[A brush would be fine if he wanted to make her hair puff out like a staticy poodle. So it's probably good that he only found a comb. Brushing only worked if her hair was damp. There's a lot of interesting perks to being a godchild. Perfect hair is not one of them sadly.

She sits, pushes her hair behind her shoulders for him. And she realizes suddenly she's a little... nervous? Giddy, maybe? No one's ever done this for her, not for this reason.]

[he still remembers the first time that Saoirse asked him to brush her hair for her. he was still very small, standing awkwardly to the side during some meeting... she called him over, said she was too tired to do it herself, and handed him a brush.

it was a frightening task, at first, but it gave him something to do. it helped him focus instead of anxiously fidgeting at nothing. it also let him hide behind her, rather than stand out in the open. she made him do a lot of things--pick out her clothes, paint her nails, feed her stupid, ghouled pet tiger--but brushing her hair was always tied back to those early memories. even on her worst days, where she'd scream and claw at him while he tried to take care of her, she'd settle down once he started sorting out her tangled mess of hair.

with Syeira, he starts at the bottom. goes in little handfuls. it feels different than Saoirse's, and she obviously takes better care of her hair... but the color is the same. it falls about the same, almost the same length. and he doubts he'll find matted blood clumps anywhere, which makes this a perfectly acceptable trade-off.]

[She certainly takes better care of it now. Once she'd been given that special hair soap, she's been extremely attentive to her hair care. It's softer now than when she would scrub it with lye soap. Felt cleaner, and certainly smelled nicer. And it didn't fluff up nearly so much anymore, actually looking less like an angry cloud and more like actual curls. She's not sure how she'll cope when she goes home and won't have the luxury anymore.

And this is very soothing. It's not long at all before her posture goes from upright, perfectly straight, to shoulders easing down and her head falling a little forward.]

This is the reason why no one on the Red Fish should have hobbies outside of punching people...

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