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WHO CALLED FOR DOMESTIC PURPLE PALS? ME. I DID.
2016-03-27 04:17 am (UTC)
[The sound of crepe batter hitting a pan, Jay thinks, is extremely satisfying. It’s a true and proper sizzle, the soft crackle of ingredients coming together. It’s been over a year since he last made crepes with Pippo—(on the morning of the day where he waved goodbye to the Oresoren, who had nearly made him late to Werites Beacon with all their farewells and well-wishes, and took his first dizzying step from one world to the next)—but he hasn’t lost the knack of it. His wrists still remember the right number of times to spin the pan; how to properly slide the spatula around and underneath a half-cooked crepe to flip it.
Which is exactly what he’s in the middle of when he hears the soft, sleepy sounds of someone else moving around in another room. Jay glances up from his work to the clock on the stove, a small smile quirking around the corner of his mouth as he reads the time: six-o-clock.]
Right on schedule.
[He says, entirely to himself. He neatly finishes turning the crepe, jiggles the pan to smooth out the wrinkles, and reaches over to turn on another burner on the stove to start warming up the tea kettle.
Miriam has several comforting habits: one of them is the fact that she, without fail, starts her morning every day at six-o-clock. It’s a fact about her that he can rely on and plan around; a constant that doesn’t change, even when she joins him for a cup of tea or mug of cocoa for half an hour of comfortable, companiable silence in the dark hours of the early morning. In this case, it makes surprising her with breakfast a relatively simple affair. Miriam is a light sleeper, but Jay wouldn’t be a spy worth his salt if he couldn’t sneak past a bedroom door to the kitchen.
When Miriam peeks her head out of her bedroom, this is what she will see: Jay, her not-quite roommate, standing at the stove, lightly transferring a final crepe from the pan to reign supreme atop a fluffy stack of fresh pastries. There’s a bowl of cream and another of sliced strawberries dusted with sugar nearby. His hair is only loosely tied back behind his neck, to keep it out of the way while he cooks, and he hasn’t bothered with his makeup or his earrings yet; he’s even still in his pajamas, slacks and an oversized shirt that hangs loosely on his bony shoulders and only comes to his elbows.]
Good morning. The kettle should be ready soon, if you’d like some tea.
[He reaches for a nearby plate, to give his fingers something to hold instead of self-consciously running them over the scars on his arms, old white ones crisscrossed with the marks left behind by Tobias’ talons, or to rub at the one over his throat. This isn’t the first time Miriam has seen them—that had been a few days ago, on the first morning in their collaboratively paid for living space. It’s still new. It’s still a little uncomfortable. It's not like how it is with the Oresoren, who have never minded them. But it's not like how it is with other people, either; just the idea of anyone else seeing them leaves his stomach twisted and knotted up. Miriam, as usual, stands in a baffling middle ground.]
How many would you like?
[He pauses, before elaborating:]
… crepes, I mean. They’re best when they’re still warm from the pan.
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I CERTAINLY DIDN'T WANT DOMESTIC PURPLE PALS TOO, NOT ME. NOPE
2016-04-01 02:57 (UTC)
2016-04-01 05:27 (UTC)
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