[Rictor, Sharon] Taste-test
Apr. 10th, 2024 11:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xp_catseye posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsAfter a kidnapping, but before a party: the perfect time to get in your peer's business. (Backdated to 4/10)
It was unusual for Sharon to be seen using one of the main kitchens. It wasn't that she couldn't cook -- in fact, it was the opposite. She could cook, but she had quickly discovered that concealing this fact was the easiest way to get others to do so for her. She preferred that arrangement. Food prepared by others tasted like Winning.
Occasionally, however, she could be convinced to break her cover for the greater good. Now, for example.
There was a noise behind her. Without turning, Sharon lifted her nose and sniffed. The newcomer was accompanied by the distinctive scent of earth and fresh vegetation. The latter had become a persistent detail ever since he'd begun the job in Salem Center, but the former had always been a constant.
"Rictor. Opinion is required, please."
The young man obediently followed the request that he knew was more of a command, turning midstep away from the fridge to approach Sharon. "¿Qué pasa?" he asked gently, with none of the usual gusto in his voice. Maybe it was just exhaustion from a day in the gardens, as evidenced by the dirt all over his clothes and sweat on his skin. Or, given the dark circles under his eyes, maybe something deeper, more profound.
"Is experiment," the girl replied. Sharon gestured to the countertop before her: several dozen ring donuts with an assortment of colorful glazes. They were not the most uniform of creations, but the concept was there.
"Paige Guthrie is to have a birthday party," Sharon continued. "Assistance was promised. Cupcakes, these were planned, but gluten is not so good for every attendee, maybe. A second option is being attempted. You will sample?"
Even in a Mood, far be it from Rictor to reject a treat, especially something Sharon prepared, rare occurrence as it was. It looked like she was frying donuts, except instead of being a big solid ring, the confection was a circle of balls stuck together. He picked up one covered with a chocolate drizzle and bit in. Much chewier than expected, not rich and cakey like a traditional American donut. Delicious, though, if a little oily.
"I like that. What is it?"
Sharon's tail twitched in approval. "Is nutella glaze, but this is cheating maybe. Nutella is delicious." She turned her attention back to the tray still nestled in the midst of a number of bowls, each one holding a different-colored concoction. "Frying, this is not my specialty. The sample batch was large for purposes of practice. Also there is hot chocolate, strawberry, ube, matcha, cinnamon sugar. Matcha especially I am unsure of. Taste is too musty, maybe. Is under consideration."
"Add more sugar?" he suggested with a shrug, as if these unusual pastries needed to be even sweeter. "I like the color, at least. Very green. The Guthries will be appreciative whatever you do."
"Maybe. All is under consideration." Sharon glanced back at Rictor. "You will come to the party?"
He hesitated before he answered. "I think so. For a little while, maybe. I don't know her," he said with a Mariah Carey–esque shrug. "There is a lot of work to do, too, to prepare for the summer. Clea and I are preparing the greenhouse, the rose bushes need to be checked for pests . . ."
The girl's keen yellow eyes fixed on him. "Parties are not so much for me also," Sharon noted, "but plants, about these you display enthusiasm normally. Appear tired also. You are ill? Suffering under the yoke of capitalism at the job you have taken, maybe?"
That comment brought a small smile to Rictor's face. "Only when Miss Edith comments on what my uniform should be in the summer. But no, I'm fine. Maybe tired. Sleep has been hard since . . . never mind, it's not important." He forced the smile again and plucked off another ball from the donut.
"Since our dramatic abduction?" Sharon supplied helpfully. Her tail gave a quick, curious flick. "This experience was traumatic for you? This I did not expect. In January circumstances were surely just as dire, but the effects were not as intense." The last was uttered with the conviction of someone who almost certainly had not actually paid much attention, but had decided on the most convenient truth for her current narrative.
If denial was the name of the game, then Rictor was player 2. "I'm not traumatized," he insisted, the very idea foolish. He and Hope had gotten out in one piece, as close as it had been. He was closer to disaster when X-Force rescued him last summer. "I'm fine."
This was perhaps the wrong thing to say to a girl with a predator's ability to sense weakness.
"I think this is lies," Sharon said, circling around Rictor to seat herself in one of the kitchen chairs. She pulled her knees to her chest and watched him expectantly. "Traumatized, this is a clinical term trivialized by media and Tumblr. Application in this case was hyperbolic. Unsettled, this word is more accurate, maybe."
Rictor did not immediately refute that, though his toes curled at the assertion (accusation?) coming from Sharon. "I am settled well, thank you." He tore his donut in half and stuffed one half into his mouth. "You don't see anyone else having problems, so neither do I."
"This is lies also. The new orange one, Emily, expressed public discomfort. Kitten was most distraught to have lost control of an appendage, exacerbated by the immediate visit from his parents. Many times I was told they must never know of the abduction. Mel Guthrie I have witnessed in flight at strange hours. She lies badly. Is her expression. Too happy when she speaks to others, flat when she turns away. Shatterstar, he is more subtle, but an increase in training with corresponding decrease in sleep has been noted. Husband, he is unbothered, but instead is Jessica Jones who is upset on his behalf. Rogue patrols the grounds at night still, to provide safety." Sharon's long tail, draped behind her, flicked as she continued to watch him. "These things Rictor has not seen, maybe, but I am always watching."
"And I am working and living like a normal man, not a frightened little boy." He did not like implying that Shatterstar was a child, but he had his own manhood to prove. "Thank you for the concern, but I am fine. I talked with Amanda. We meditated, we had tea, I can feel the ground again. I am fine," he repeated, like an incantation that would make it so.
"Feel the ground again?" There was the distinct sense that Sharon's focus had suddenly narrowed, like a cat that had caught the twitch of movement in a pile of leaves.
"Metaphorically," Rictor clarified, "Spiritually, magically. Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Because is interesting." The girl's clawed fingers moved lightly against the tops of her knees, like a cat making biscuits. She gave him a blink so measured it could not have been anything but intentional. Unfortunately, it would have required fluency in Sharon to communicate anything useful. "My assumption was that it was abduction or subsequent trials which caused you worry, but perhaps this is not so. Instead is a loss of perception you reference. Is not like Liam, because for him it was proprioception which was disrupted, but similar, maybe. Some sense of which you were deprived. This is accurate?"
Though Rictor was pretty much fluent in English, he still found trouble understanding even Sharon's verbal language, to say nothing of body language. "I don't know that word," he admitted, chalking it up to translation error (understandable) rather than ignorance (unacceptable). "I just mean, since I received my gift, I have never been without it. When it was taken away from me . . ." He could not finish the thought out loud and turned away from her to hide his face.
Sharon peered curiously at the boy's body language, but did not move to demand he return his attention to her. "Once you said you could feel vibrations from the earth. Speak to it as it speaks to you, so for you is a constant cycle of information and response. A dialogue with the world. This is so?"
"And then it was silent and I could not hear anything," he conceded. Even with Hope there, he had been alone. Isolated. "But it has returned, I am myself again and not missing anything."
"Yet still you are unsettled." Sharon seemed to consider this, the flick of her tail taking on a more contemplative rhythm.
"I have been able to change shape always," the older girl ventured. "When I was too weak to do so, this I did not like. It is unsettling to have something that has been yours always taken from you. For you, a sense was taken. You have been made aware now, maybe, that it might be taken again. This is logical."
"Logic doesn't make it easier to accept or understand." Rictor reached for another of the deep-fried experiments, but turned to Sharon first to wordlessly ask her permission. "I am learning that everyone thinks differently about being a mutant. Some people call it a gift. I like that. That's how it feels to me. And for someone to so easily take it away from me . . . have I lost favor with whoever gave me this gift in the first place? How can I hold onto it to make sure I can't lose it again?"
Now the look the girl gave him was puzzled. "You speak of this power as a spiritual thing, but it was taken from you by technology. Surely this is circumstance, not disfavor."
"Or it's a test," Rictor countered, "And even if I passed it this time, will I pass again next time? Can I avoid a next time?"
"To avoid how? By remaining in the mansion always? Or by maintaining proper moral conduct?" Sharon plucked a donut from the tray and raised it to her nose for a sniff, gazing at him over the neat round. "But even this cannot be assured. Was Job's virtuous nature not the impetus for his torment at the hands of the adversary? A life piously lived tested to determine if he could be pious still. Religion is not for me, but this story I know."
Rictor finally smiled. "I don't think this is the time or place for a homily, and I don't think it would benefit either of us, anyway."
"Is your belief we may not solve this fundamental question of causality? So little faith in your own capabilities. Disappointing." Sharon did not smile, but her eyes took on a sly crinkle. She took a bite of the donut with a delicacy shocking to anyone accustomed to watching her eat in one of her feline forms. "This loss is yours. My interactions are always beneficial."
This level of Sharonese was comprehensible, at least, so Rictor did not tear the kitchen down in frustration. "Please forgive me if I don't listen to a white American's perspective on faith," he teased.
"A miscategorization. As Feline-American such a perspective is not mine to offer. You are not aware? Cats do not worship. We are the worshipped." Her reply was deadpan, but the return flick of her tail was unmistakably playful. Sharon took another bite of the pastry and gave Rictor another long, slow blink -- then suddenly paused in her chewing.
"But this matcha flavor . . . this maybe is not."
It was unusual for Sharon to be seen using one of the main kitchens. It wasn't that she couldn't cook -- in fact, it was the opposite. She could cook, but she had quickly discovered that concealing this fact was the easiest way to get others to do so for her. She preferred that arrangement. Food prepared by others tasted like Winning.
Occasionally, however, she could be convinced to break her cover for the greater good. Now, for example.
There was a noise behind her. Without turning, Sharon lifted her nose and sniffed. The newcomer was accompanied by the distinctive scent of earth and fresh vegetation. The latter had become a persistent detail ever since he'd begun the job in Salem Center, but the former had always been a constant.
"Rictor. Opinion is required, please."
The young man obediently followed the request that he knew was more of a command, turning midstep away from the fridge to approach Sharon. "¿Qué pasa?" he asked gently, with none of the usual gusto in his voice. Maybe it was just exhaustion from a day in the gardens, as evidenced by the dirt all over his clothes and sweat on his skin. Or, given the dark circles under his eyes, maybe something deeper, more profound.
"Is experiment," the girl replied. Sharon gestured to the countertop before her: several dozen ring donuts with an assortment of colorful glazes. They were not the most uniform of creations, but the concept was there.
"Paige Guthrie is to have a birthday party," Sharon continued. "Assistance was promised. Cupcakes, these were planned, but gluten is not so good for every attendee, maybe. A second option is being attempted. You will sample?"
Even in a Mood, far be it from Rictor to reject a treat, especially something Sharon prepared, rare occurrence as it was. It looked like she was frying donuts, except instead of being a big solid ring, the confection was a circle of balls stuck together. He picked up one covered with a chocolate drizzle and bit in. Much chewier than expected, not rich and cakey like a traditional American donut. Delicious, though, if a little oily.
"I like that. What is it?"
Sharon's tail twitched in approval. "Is nutella glaze, but this is cheating maybe. Nutella is delicious." She turned her attention back to the tray still nestled in the midst of a number of bowls, each one holding a different-colored concoction. "Frying, this is not my specialty. The sample batch was large for purposes of practice. Also there is hot chocolate, strawberry, ube, matcha, cinnamon sugar. Matcha especially I am unsure of. Taste is too musty, maybe. Is under consideration."
"Add more sugar?" he suggested with a shrug, as if these unusual pastries needed to be even sweeter. "I like the color, at least. Very green. The Guthries will be appreciative whatever you do."
"Maybe. All is under consideration." Sharon glanced back at Rictor. "You will come to the party?"
He hesitated before he answered. "I think so. For a little while, maybe. I don't know her," he said with a Mariah Carey–esque shrug. "There is a lot of work to do, too, to prepare for the summer. Clea and I are preparing the greenhouse, the rose bushes need to be checked for pests . . ."
The girl's keen yellow eyes fixed on him. "Parties are not so much for me also," Sharon noted, "but plants, about these you display enthusiasm normally. Appear tired also. You are ill? Suffering under the yoke of capitalism at the job you have taken, maybe?"
That comment brought a small smile to Rictor's face. "Only when Miss Edith comments on what my uniform should be in the summer. But no, I'm fine. Maybe tired. Sleep has been hard since . . . never mind, it's not important." He forced the smile again and plucked off another ball from the donut.
"Since our dramatic abduction?" Sharon supplied helpfully. Her tail gave a quick, curious flick. "This experience was traumatic for you? This I did not expect. In January circumstances were surely just as dire, but the effects were not as intense." The last was uttered with the conviction of someone who almost certainly had not actually paid much attention, but had decided on the most convenient truth for her current narrative.
If denial was the name of the game, then Rictor was player 2. "I'm not traumatized," he insisted, the very idea foolish. He and Hope had gotten out in one piece, as close as it had been. He was closer to disaster when X-Force rescued him last summer. "I'm fine."
This was perhaps the wrong thing to say to a girl with a predator's ability to sense weakness.
"I think this is lies," Sharon said, circling around Rictor to seat herself in one of the kitchen chairs. She pulled her knees to her chest and watched him expectantly. "Traumatized, this is a clinical term trivialized by media and Tumblr. Application in this case was hyperbolic. Unsettled, this word is more accurate, maybe."
Rictor did not immediately refute that, though his toes curled at the assertion (accusation?) coming from Sharon. "I am settled well, thank you." He tore his donut in half and stuffed one half into his mouth. "You don't see anyone else having problems, so neither do I."
"This is lies also. The new orange one, Emily, expressed public discomfort. Kitten was most distraught to have lost control of an appendage, exacerbated by the immediate visit from his parents. Many times I was told they must never know of the abduction. Mel Guthrie I have witnessed in flight at strange hours. She lies badly. Is her expression. Too happy when she speaks to others, flat when she turns away. Shatterstar, he is more subtle, but an increase in training with corresponding decrease in sleep has been noted. Husband, he is unbothered, but instead is Jessica Jones who is upset on his behalf. Rogue patrols the grounds at night still, to provide safety." Sharon's long tail, draped behind her, flicked as she continued to watch him. "These things Rictor has not seen, maybe, but I am always watching."
"And I am working and living like a normal man, not a frightened little boy." He did not like implying that Shatterstar was a child, but he had his own manhood to prove. "Thank you for the concern, but I am fine. I talked with Amanda. We meditated, we had tea, I can feel the ground again. I am fine," he repeated, like an incantation that would make it so.
"Feel the ground again?" There was the distinct sense that Sharon's focus had suddenly narrowed, like a cat that had caught the twitch of movement in a pile of leaves.
"Metaphorically," Rictor clarified, "Spiritually, magically. Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Because is interesting." The girl's clawed fingers moved lightly against the tops of her knees, like a cat making biscuits. She gave him a blink so measured it could not have been anything but intentional. Unfortunately, it would have required fluency in Sharon to communicate anything useful. "My assumption was that it was abduction or subsequent trials which caused you worry, but perhaps this is not so. Instead is a loss of perception you reference. Is not like Liam, because for him it was proprioception which was disrupted, but similar, maybe. Some sense of which you were deprived. This is accurate?"
Though Rictor was pretty much fluent in English, he still found trouble understanding even Sharon's verbal language, to say nothing of body language. "I don't know that word," he admitted, chalking it up to translation error (understandable) rather than ignorance (unacceptable). "I just mean, since I received my gift, I have never been without it. When it was taken away from me . . ." He could not finish the thought out loud and turned away from her to hide his face.
Sharon peered curiously at the boy's body language, but did not move to demand he return his attention to her. "Once you said you could feel vibrations from the earth. Speak to it as it speaks to you, so for you is a constant cycle of information and response. A dialogue with the world. This is so?"
"And then it was silent and I could not hear anything," he conceded. Even with Hope there, he had been alone. Isolated. "But it has returned, I am myself again and not missing anything."
"Yet still you are unsettled." Sharon seemed to consider this, the flick of her tail taking on a more contemplative rhythm.
"I have been able to change shape always," the older girl ventured. "When I was too weak to do so, this I did not like. It is unsettling to have something that has been yours always taken from you. For you, a sense was taken. You have been made aware now, maybe, that it might be taken again. This is logical."
"Logic doesn't make it easier to accept or understand." Rictor reached for another of the deep-fried experiments, but turned to Sharon first to wordlessly ask her permission. "I am learning that everyone thinks differently about being a mutant. Some people call it a gift. I like that. That's how it feels to me. And for someone to so easily take it away from me . . . have I lost favor with whoever gave me this gift in the first place? How can I hold onto it to make sure I can't lose it again?"
Now the look the girl gave him was puzzled. "You speak of this power as a spiritual thing, but it was taken from you by technology. Surely this is circumstance, not disfavor."
"Or it's a test," Rictor countered, "And even if I passed it this time, will I pass again next time? Can I avoid a next time?"
"To avoid how? By remaining in the mansion always? Or by maintaining proper moral conduct?" Sharon plucked a donut from the tray and raised it to her nose for a sniff, gazing at him over the neat round. "But even this cannot be assured. Was Job's virtuous nature not the impetus for his torment at the hands of the adversary? A life piously lived tested to determine if he could be pious still. Religion is not for me, but this story I know."
Rictor finally smiled. "I don't think this is the time or place for a homily, and I don't think it would benefit either of us, anyway."
"Is your belief we may not solve this fundamental question of causality? So little faith in your own capabilities. Disappointing." Sharon did not smile, but her eyes took on a sly crinkle. She took a bite of the donut with a delicacy shocking to anyone accustomed to watching her eat in one of her feline forms. "This loss is yours. My interactions are always beneficial."
This level of Sharonese was comprehensible, at least, so Rictor did not tear the kitchen down in frustration. "Please forgive me if I don't listen to a white American's perspective on faith," he teased.
"A miscategorization. As Feline-American such a perspective is not mine to offer. You are not aware? Cats do not worship. We are the worshipped." Her reply was deadpan, but the return flick of her tail was unmistakably playful. Sharon took another bite of the pastry and gave Rictor another long, slow blink -- then suddenly paused in her chewing.
"But this matcha flavor . . . this maybe is not."
no subject
Date: 2024-05-04 03:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-05-04 05:15 am (UTC)Oh, poor Rictor. Great to see him parse what happened after TILT — this log does a great job covering a lot of ground in his feelings, reactions, and aftermath through asides and half confessions.
Sharon, Feline-American, continues to be wonderful at prodding out truths and calling out lies, and this time with biblical references! (And nutella, which is cheating)
no subject
Date: 2024-05-05 02:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-05-05 04:22 am (UTC)Love this reference to Sharon's observational abilities - it's often used for comedy, but I like that she is a character who works to see things around her, and has a strange clarity for things like this (with blind spots because, well - cat).
"And I am working and living like a normal man, not a frightened little boy."
Rictor with a little bit of machismo there - I love the way you brought out this distorted thinking, the idea that a 'normal man' wouldn't be affected by the loss of (essentially) a sense.
Just a great conversation between these two on the classic topic, but seeing Ben write on the spiritual side this time was lovely.