A small side table manifests next to Brix's chair. On it is a tray bearing the same tea service as last time, with a cup for Andrew as well, although without the muffins this time; Baby's waiting for his order.
(And also, apparently, suggesting subtly that he might want to sit somewhere besides the mattress.)
"Um ... " He hesitates. "Grilled cheese? And, and do you want anything else?" This to Brix.
"Uh, it's -- do you have sandwiches in your world? Um, where you put some sort of food between two slices of bread, or in a split roll, or like ... wrap it in flatbread? And then --" he gestures vaguely, a grasping and lifting motion -- "pick it up in your hands to eat it?"
"Right," he says, "so grilled cheese is a type of sandwich. You put cheese in between two slices of bread, and butter or something to hold it together, and you fry it in more butter in a hot skillet until the cheese melts and the bread gets all crispy."
This time his smile is very close to full -- only a little hesitant, only a tiny bit fragile -- as he shifts to get to his feet.
"Okay, so -- grilled cheese for two, please?"
A plate appears on the little table next to the tea service: four grilled cheese sandwiches cut into triangles, on a bed of frilly green lettuce, garnished with a scattering of halved cherry tomatoes.
It's less germ theory in his mind now, and more that he really wants an excuse to wash his face after crying.
At the sink behind the privacy partition at the back of the cell, he runs cold water into his cupped hands, splashes his face. Stares at his own reddened eyes and stubbly cheeks, wet and dripping, in the mirror he's barely used since getting here.
Is it the custom in your land to wash the head before supper? something in his head asks, and he blinks; and places the quote in another moment. The Two Towers, Ithilien, one of Faramir's men asking Sam --
Water trickles into his eyes. He shuts them, gropes for the towel.
In a few moments he's out again, hands and face clean and dry, and carefully takes the stack of books off of the second chair so he can sit level with his guest.
If Brix notices a change in him, she shows little sign of it; other than a
little less tea in her cup, she doesn't appear to have moved.
She gives him another of those small smiles as he sits, and puts down her
tea. "I'm hungrier than I thought," she admits, "but I didn't like to start
without you."
Brix chuckles, and launches into a passable description of D'Angeline cuisine -- the roasts of the feasts, the delicate pastries they make in the City and the heartier fare you find in the country or the pubs of Night's Doorstep.
Andrew listens, drinking tea and munching on another grilled cheese; he asks a few questions, and volunteers a very few comments, but mostly he listens.
Talk about nothing important, he said before, and it feels weirdly peaceful to be able to do just that.
She does, after a time, start to run out of steam; Andrew would not be the first patron she's had who wanted to listen to her ramble, but this isn't a topic she's well-versed in.
(And given that earlier not-quite-flinch -- and the general context -- she's disinclined to switch to the Eluine Cycle, or the gossip of the Night Court.)
By this time he's eaten most of two sandwiches, and just about finished his tea. He's also starting to run out of steam, and can't think of anything else to talk about, but somehow he doesn't mind.
"Thanks," is what he finally says, softly. "For staying."
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stilljustandrew) wrote2016-10-18 07:36 pm
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He takes a breath, nerving himself.
"Do you maybe want to stay a little longer? And have a snack, and just talk about ... nothing important, for a little while?"
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She looks surprised, but then smiles and nods.
"I'd be happy to. Thank you."
Taking the chair again, she adds, "Baby, could I have a cup of tea, please? Mint with honey. What will you have to eat?"
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(And also, apparently, suggesting subtly that he might want to sit somewhere besides the mattress.)
"Um ... " He hesitates. "Grilled cheese? And, and do you want anything else?" This to Brix.
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"What's grilled cheese?"
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"Like a pain or a bouchée," she says, nodding, pouring two cups of tea.
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". . . That sounds unbelievable. I'll try one."
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"Okay, so -- grilled cheese for two, please?"
A plate appears on the little table next to the tea service: four grilled cheese sandwiches cut into triangles, on a bed of frilly green lettuce, garnished with a scattering of halved cherry tomatoes.
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Brix's expression, over her teacup, is caught somewhere between amusement and suspicion.
It does smell kind of amazing, though.
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Andrew seems to agree that it smells amazing, by the way he inhales and then exhales, slowly, almost reverently.
"I should --" A touch shamefaced. "Let me just go, um, wash my hands?"
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She inclines her head. "Of course."
She doesn't make any move to follow his lead, though; neither grilled cheese not germ theory have quite made it to Terre D'Ange.
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At the sink behind the privacy partition at the back of the cell, he runs cold water into his cupped hands, splashes his face. Stares at his own reddened eyes and stubbly cheeks, wet and dripping, in the mirror he's barely used since getting here.
Is it the custom in your land to wash the head before supper? something in his head asks, and he blinks; and places the quote in another moment. The Two Towers, Ithilien, one of Faramir's men asking Sam --
Water trickles into his eyes. He shuts them, gropes for the towel.
In a few moments he's out again, hands and face clean and dry, and carefully takes the stack of books off of the second chair so he can sit level with his guest.
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If Brix notices a change in him, she shows little sign of it; other than a little less tea in her cup, she doesn't appear to have moved.
She gives him another of those small smiles as he sits, and puts down her tea. "I'm hungrier than I thought," she admits, "but I didn't like to start without you."
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To cover his confusion, he reaches for the nearest sandwich triangle.
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. . . She wouldn't class it as a religious experience, but it's really good.
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"That -- is decadent."
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"It's not even hard to make, seriously."
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Also mostly she has servants make food for her so the difficulty of cooking it is not really an issue.no subject
"What sort of thing do you have at home?" he asks after a moment.
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Talk about nothing important, he said before, and it feels weirdly peaceful to be able to do just that.
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(And given that earlier not-quite-flinch -- and the general context -- she's disinclined to switch to the Eluine Cycle, or the gossip of the Night Court.)
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"Thanks," is what he finally says, softly. "For staying."
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