driftfleet | everybody's starstruck in june.

[New month, new crew—and Rip just so happens to be one of that number. The recently poached cook from the Caprine doesn't know he's been bragged about a bit, and perhaps it's better that way. Unfortunately, Starstruck, the man responsible for preparing your food isn't exactly experienced in it. Blame food replicators that actually spit out any number of things, all of which are more desirable than any form of gel ration Rip's ever seen.

He is, however, at least making the attempt to get better. Not only is Rip taking lessons with Jarvis, but he's practicing what he's learned, refining his efforts until he's satisfied with the results—so hopefully, you all like eggs. Or, whatever the powdery substance labeled "egg substitute" truly is. Regardless, there's a lot of something resembling scrambled eggs and omelets to be found in the kitchen these days.

Only in the mornings, however. Rip isn't going to go through the entire supply of the stuff—nor make anyone suffer through them more than he has to. Notably, he's also willing to make tea for anyone who asks. When it comes to coffee, however, the heathens are on their own.

In light of this, one need not strain too hard to reason that Rip's been recruited for something other than culinary abilities. The answer lies in how he spends a good deal of the rest of his time: attempting to learn the functions of the Starstruck. Specifically, he's focused on piloting and engineering—unhappily so, it may seem, as it's not unlikely to find him looking over panels or wiring or engines and muttering in annoyance to himself at how little sense the bloody things seem to make. Without any sort of reference, it isn't exactly simple—nor is it truly intuitive, to hear Rip talk about it.

Yet the saying about all work and no play exists for a reason. Even someone like Rip, who does so much better with something to focus on, takes a certain amount of time to himself. They've got the new lounge, lopsided furniture and all, and Rip can especially be found there whenever Peggy has managed to coax Max out of his record player. After weeks of being stuck in a system obsessed with their version of punk rock and flamingos, it's almost heavenly to hear music far more familiar, and better, to his tastes. If he's not laying on a couch or sitting in a chair just enjoying the opportunity to listen, Rip might also be found reading one of the books that seems to be laying around.

Rip isn't the most social person, however. Sometimes he retreats to his room instead, where he's got another brand of indulgence: the bass guitar he managed to obtain during the disaster of a raid on the Dreadhorse compound. Of course, ask him and he'll tell you his intentions are to sell it—but until they get to somewhere he might make some credits off of it, Rip seems rather content to try and puzzle out how it works too. Fortunately, he's got some musical training in his background, so it's not all a disaster. He also tries to limit both the volume and the time he spends plucking away, not wanting to disturb anyone.

Sometimes, however, it's rather nice to have something to engage in that isn't a reminder of the augment so neatly implanted at the base of his skull, either because it's what he's supposed to be doing, or because he's frustrated by what he can't.]

Edited 2017-06-02 22:32 (UTC)

[ it's been a few days since rip has properly come aboard. peggy's allowed him the chance to get his bearings -- poke his way around the ship, learn the kitchen as it is, and so forth. but eventually it's time for a real chat. not just yammering on about any old safe topic. no, anyone who's chosen to to join the ship of their own accord ought to have a few things explained to them.

so! it's a standard issue morning and peggy pops into the kitchen for her first cuppa of the day. her heels announce her arrival well before she's seen. peggy doesn't always fall back on the pumps, especially during drifting weeks, but sometimes a uniform of sorts is a comfort. the same can be said for everything from her pin-curls down to her nail lacquer. she's well-assembled for the day, no matter what turmoil lurks below the curated surface.

and yet she smiles, friendly-like, upon her arrival. peggy doesn't ask before she grabs a fork and helps herself to a mouthful of scrambled egg. she touches the back of the utensil to her mouth while she chews. ]

-- Are you using Mister Jarvis's recipe?

[ it's not quite the same. but it's close(ish). enough to spark some recognition on her tongue. ]

[Rip glances over at the sound of someone else coming in; he's discovered in these early days that he really would prefer to be on his own while making these attempts at meals. Alas, being forced to work in a public space doesn't exactly make that possible--and Rip somehow suspects asking the captain of the ship to leave might not go over well.

But at first it seems harmless enough. Like Rip, Peggy prefers tea over coffee. She's in luck to that end: the kettle has only been recently moved off the burner, evidenced by the steeping cup of tea on the counter next to where Rip stands. He expects, then, that she'll opt to get a mug for herself, or worst case, ask Rip to do so.

Yet it seems that won't be the case. Instead of any sort of glassware Peggy opts for a fork, and in place of tea? She tries the eggs. The ones still cooking in the pan, and before he can quite stop himself, Rip frowns at the audacity shown in the gesture.

She could at least wait until he gets them properly onto a plate.

But then--then--Peggy makes it worse in a way. The question may be nothing more than harmless observation itself, but given the whole situation? The words work their way under his skin far more than they likely should.]

Yes, as a matter of fact. [He huffs out a breath. It's rather difficult trying to figure out where the lines might be with her--and if Rip should try drawing a few of his own.]

[ she taps the fork's back-end against her chin but the gesture is (in effect) soundless. her head bobs back and forth. it's no jarvis-level dish -- but then again, so few are. peggy at least knows better than to give that distinct verdict a voice.

she doesn't lean in for a second taster; although, that may simply be for the sake of some belated good manners. instead, she tosses the fork gently onto the counter. presumably, she intends to keep using it in conjunction with a plate. ]

Good.

[ -- either the effort itself, or simply the concept that he's basing his beginner's repertoire off mister jarvis's recipe book. ]

With any luck, we may find ourselves with some real eggs.

[ and peggy lapses back into the task of getting herself a mug. one of the plainer mugs, this time. not the lovely painted cups kept on the top shelf. ]

[At least she spares Rip the dignity of a direct comparison. While he stands entirely aware that he is a beginner and Jarvis a worker of miracles in space food, Rip's already wounded sense of pride does better for not having it spoken aloud.

He's willing to take the compliment without question then. Whichever it means--or both--serves well enough. What doesn't is the utterly haphazard way she tosses the fork down, directly on the counter, happy as you please.]

...There are napkins, Miss Carter.

[Right over there, see? Just within reach.

But the news of real eggs does warrant his attention, at least equally so. Rip gives what's in the pan another stir.] And here I've just started getting the hang of the fake ones.

[Don't let him fool you; Rip would be quite happy to have access to *real* eggs.]

[ he points out the existence of napkins and peggy -- almost entertained -- lets her brows slip a little higher. look at you, mister hunter, and your sassafras. perhaps it's a good thing that the day is still young and she's so looking forward to having meals aboard the ship once more, because she takes his rebuke in remarkable stride. everyone gets one freebie. surely.

even so, she doesn't go reaching for a napkin. ]

It can't be that different. [ says the woman who certainly doesn't cook. ] Barring, one supposes, the act of cracking the lousy things.

[ she tosses a nondescript teabag into her chosen mug -- a few loose particles of dried leaves cling to the porous mesh, suggesting they'd been hand-assembled by someone. and then it's a simple case of drowning the darling thing in hot water. ]

We should talk.

[ no time for banter, it seems. she's all business. ]

[Shockingly, Rip has not pointed out the napkins merely for Peggy's amusement--nor for her to ignore. She arches eyebrows as if he's said something ever so witty, rather than a quiet reminder that neatness is appreciated, particularly in shared spaces where there's food to be kept from the space rodents.

(And not only because somehow, Rip suspects that Raymond's method of capturing a rat and presenting it as a gift won't go over so well with Peggy.)]

Spoken with all the certainty of a person who has likely never attempted to cook either one. [He plucks out one of the napkins, and does one better now that Peggy's left the task to him. Abandoning the stove for a moment Rip takes the fork and tissue both over to the table, setting the former on the latter in front of one of the chairs. It takes a step or two, just as many seconds. Good thing too.

Fake eggs don't take too long to cook once they're on the heat.]

I suppose we should, yes. [If this morning is any indication, it would seem the shine's worn off. Rip's committed now, and he can only assume there's some manner of speech concerning expectations and such to be had. He's listening, though he's also busy. The eggs get turned out onto a plate, and set on the counter as Rip gives Peggy a glance.

They're hers if she wants them--to eat at the table.]

Rip Hunter | OTA

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

1/3

2/3

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject