five ○ voice / action

[mylegacy]

Who: Caesar & u
Broadcast: Fleetwide!
Action: Marsiva, kitchens & gym!
When: Ostensibly 11/15, but really whenever

[His voice sounds muted, almost bored, but anybody who actually knows him might be a little worried at the lack of underlying irritation there. There's the clank of pots and pans in the background, also muted.]

Since we're stuck here for the foreseeable future - I understand that people are coping. [As people do. For what good it does.] I don't have the proper augment, but I know how to cook if anyone wants to learn. I don't have anything else to do. [Besides watch The Princess Bride on endless repeat.]

[. . . And then, almost as an afterthought:]

I can fight, too. If anyone wants that.

[Find him in the kitchens, or the gym on request. Close CR can assume a delivery of a comfort food of their choice.]

Comments

[sinuosity]

[ Impatiently, ]

I know it's food, why did you give it to me?

[mylegacy]

[He just blinks at her for a few seconds.]

Because I like you.

[Seriously, Nyssa, when you are making things too complicated even for Caesar, you need to chill.]

[sinuosity]

[ There are people — few of them — who will love as easily as they breathe, and always give something for nothing. She's had two in her life now, and misses them both fiercely, but they fought and earned their place. Caesar is a fighter, too. ]

[ So she doesn't take a step back in shock. Instead, she eyes the baklava, then him, then the food again, and decides the best way to win this argument with him is to sit at the table, open a box, and try some. ]

[ She chews one carefully; the flavour explodes on her tongue. She covers her mouth to chew, then, ]

This is delicious.

[mylegacy]

[The truth is that if she'd left, he wouldn't have been angry. She could have thrown the food on the floor and stomped on it on her way out, and he wouldn't have minded too much. Some people are like that. Sometimes he's like that himself. He knows not to take it personally.]

[But the fact that she doesn't makes him quietly happy. The fact that she comes closer calms him, and the fact that she likes it makes him smile, small but sincere.]

I'm glad. I wasn't sure the dough would work out. [Dryly:] I've never made phyllo dough in space.

[sinuosity]

I've never eaten phyllo dough in space. First time for both of us.

[ The sweet aftertaste lingers, and Nyssa pauses, her eyes assessing that smile, dissecting and reconstructing. Not all things are as simple to be taken apart, but she does it anyway. ]

« Do you prefer Italian? »

[mylegacy]

[This one might be just that simple. It's a caretaking instinct, one he's always had and honed by years of abrupt parenthood. The next one is a touch more complicated, because when she slips into Italian there's a lot going on in him, homesickness and longing and resentment and grief and simple pleasure at a familiar thing.]

« I do, if you don't mind. I don't know anyone else here who speaks it. »

[sinuosity]

[ Life with simple pleasures is one she's learning, and it feels more like stumbling around in the dark — she's never been so clumsy. But fits and starts hit the right points on the floor sometimes, too. ]

« I'm rusty. I'll improve quickly. »

[mylegacy]

« That's how it is with languages. »

[And love, too, maybe. He's still trying to decide on that one. Either way, he feels comfortable enough now that he can return to what he's doing, which is . . . bread, apparently. Time to punch some dough.]

« Could I ask how you learned? What else you know? I have English, of course, and a little German, but that's all. »

[sinuosity]

[ She eyes the dough, and then she sets out one piece from each box in a neat row, ready to try them all at least once. So it is a process. She's willing to build something of her own, that her father can't take. ]

« Arabic and English most of the time. Mandarin. Classical Persian, I'd be hard pressed to speak it. The same with Sanskrit and Tamil. Russian, Japanese, Spanish. Enough Pashto. Italian, as you know. A little French; I'm not suited to it. Men come to my father's house from all over; they took great pleasure in teaching his impressionable daughter who knew nothing of the outside world but what they brought with them. »

[mylegacy]

[There are so many things to latch onto here. So many languages, and the meaning in the way she sets them forth, the order they come in. Classical Persian gets a look of wide-eyed wonder, Tamil takes a moment to place, Pashto as well. They all do find a place in the end, though, and he's left a little dazzled. Knowledge in itself is beautiful to him; he likes learning things and knowing things, and language has such a practical application.]

[And then there's the other thing, these implications - impressionable, nothing of the outside world. It's hard to tell exactly how much of that is sarcasm, but he doesn't want to guess at something that important.]

[First and foremost:]

« Men are often very stupid. Men who think they're powerful are even more often stupid. »

[This is something he's learning.]

« Why do you say you're not suited to French? »

[sinuosity]

[ They are knowable things in a world where a lot is uncertain, and when Nyssa latches onto something she drinks of it greedily and without mercy. She agrees and she doesn't, that Father can be stupid about things. He is stupid about love, and a hypocrite about choice. He knows even less of strength as only a fool would say Sara wasn't. ]

« That might be true. »

[ She's not intending to go down that road right now, so, she recites Les Enfants D'Hiver, and then makes such a face. ]

« It doesn't fit. »

[mylegacy]

[He can't even begrudge her following this topic of conversation; it was the one he was more interested in anyway, and her face is hilarious enough to make him pause in his kneading to choke down a laugh.]

« How doesn't it fit? »

[sinuosity]

[ She shoots him a glare, half with real bite. ]

« I don't know. You had better not be mocking me. ​»

[ Pitch changes, with language, and she's used to the air of command and clarity. French is hardly different from Spanish or Italian, but the words echo on stone, off walls, they don't feel like they flow. ]

[mylegacy]

« I'm not! »

[He holds up his flour-covered hands defensively. Really, he would never. He mocks a lot of people, but not people like her. Hatred grows quickly in him, but respect does, too.]

« I feel it a little with English, maybe. It's clunky. »

[sinuosity]

[ It softens her; the piece of baklava she pops into her mouth softens her more. ]

« It is, a little. Half of English is French, perhaps that's it. How do you know German?​ ​»

[mylegacy]

« I'm from Venice. »

[Well. Nominally from. Anyway--]

« There's German influence. And I had a friend, his name was Mark. He's dead now. »

[Plenty of people are dead. But Mark was important to him; he isn't good at having friends.]

[sinuosity]

[ Something small cracks in her expression, and she nods at him. ]

« I grieve with you.​ ​»

[ Friends are hard to lose. She wouldn't know, she never really had one. She just lost her everything. That's not half as bad. ]

[mylegacy]

[He nods in return, and brushes it away along with a patch of flour on his sleeve.]

« The one who killed him is also the man who killed my father. And he's dead now, too. ​»

[For a few moments he kneads, and then realizes his error.]

« Not by my hand. I wasn't able to do that. But it was done. ​»

[sinuosity]

[ Her eyes narrow. ]

« A shame. Justice was yours to deliver.​ ​»

[mylegacy]

« It wasn't taken from me. I tried and failed. ​»

[Is it worse or better, saying that in his father's language? He can't decide. Even his last words were English. It's like slipping into a scalding bath, and then breathing it in.]

[In his indecision, he punches the dough a little harder than necessary.]

[sinuosity]

[ There are balms, and then there's Nyssa, who cuts it out and doesn't know where the panacea goes. She comes over to stand next to him. So, this is what he regrets; this is the cause of the ruin and why the stone cross won't lift. Is it? ]

« He killed you, didn't he?​ ​»

[mylegacy]

[It's fine; he doesn't do very well with kindness anyway. Not subtle kindness, for certain. Blunt edges and sharp words do nicely.]

[He looks up at her from the dough. It's almost shy, but not quite.]

« He killed me. And then I was here. ​»

[The soft huff of a laugh as he looks down again.]

« Sorry. I'm not good at small talk. ​»

[sinuosity]

[ She is all sharp edges, but Nyssa's expression in turn is almost soft, and not quite. Softness is something held, and oxidised, not unlike blood under fingernails. ]

« I'm condemned to death. And then I was here. Small talk is overrated. ​»

[mylegacy]

[Condemned to death. Maybe sometimes he felt that way, even if he didn't let himself think about it so explicitly. Slowly, his arms begin to move again, slowly kneading.]

« He killed my father. Ate him, actually. And then Mark. And then . . . I went to get revenge, and we fought, in the place you saw. And I thought I'd won, but I hadn't. He was a better fighter than me. And I had a choice between a slim chance to save myself, or a sure bet on saving my friend. So I took the sure bet. ​»

[sinuosity]

[ She is silent, for a moment. ]

« I know someone who'd say you made the right choice. I'm not so sure. I desire justice above all else. ​»

[ And she's never had friends. ]