ArchivedLogs:Home Cooking
| Home Cooking | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 10 December 2013 Hive comes home! Well, sort of. Geekhaus is still without heat... (Part of Infected TP and Prometheus TP.) |
| Location
<NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village | |
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. It's been a long day, but Jackson's been /bouncy/ all through it; even if a lot of this bounce has been contained at school some of it spilled out through pestery text messages throughout Micah's day. Even an interview with a reporter did not dampen it, and now as he stands in the kitchen preparing dal and fried okra for dinner, he's /just/ as bouncy. Tiny brilliantly coloured dragonflies (and dragonfly-winged pixies) flit around the kitchen in time with Florida Georgia Line's "Get Your Shine On"; between stirring he is /conducting/ the dance of little-winged-creatures with waves of the spatula he has been using to stir the okra. He's as brilliantly coloured as the dragonflies, metallic green makeup and purple-blue-green hair and blue-and-silver dragonfly eyepatch, rainbow hoodie, silvery miniskirt over peacock-feather-printed leggings. Flicker has been assisting with kitchen prep, chopping and dicing and now he's washing up the dishes generated during preparation; he's far less colourful than Jax in khakis and a green sweater, but he watches the little flying-creatures with a bright smile. While Micah is far less colourful that Jax, indeed, he is no less smiley. Having stopped at home just long enough to wash the worst of the grease and grit from himself after an afternoon at the shop, Micah quickly turned around to fetch Hive home from the Clinic just as soon as his hair dried enough not to freeze him in the process. His keys rattle in the door now, pressing open to admit one Micah, followed by one Hive in a borrowed wheelchair. “Hi, Jax! Hi, Flicker! Look what I've brought!” he chirps, pushing the door closed behind him. He removes his shoes, hat, gloves, and coat before assisting Hive to do the same with whatever outerwear he has on. Beneath, Micah is wearing his Batsignal hoodie, powder blue Totoro face tee, and faded jeans with socks that are polka-dotted with little balled-up cartoon hedgehogs. Flicker doesn't answer this. He's just /there/, in a heartbeat, stooping to curl his arms tight around Hive. Probably also interfere with the de-jacketing process. Hive doesn't entirely hug /back/ so much as just lean up into it. Weeks of bedrest preceded by months of not doing /much/ have left him in kind of /scrawny/ shape, muscles dwindled away to not much. Mostly just a loosely confederated collection of bones beneath skin that doesn't /quite/ seem to fit him properly anymore. << Smells good. >> His mental /voice/ is back to recognizable, distinctly. Unfortunately: it cracks hard and stinging like a whip into the others' minds. << Fuck you gone and done, reporters swarming outside. >> It has the distinct overtone of 'I just can't leave you alone for five minutes.' Jim /had/ been here, at Jackson's - until Micah's untimely visit, and his next stop known. At which point he /barnacled/ on to come with. He's the guy coming up behind, hands off and on wrapped around the handles of Hive's wheelchair. /Maybe/ he's aided in hoisting him around, but you wouldn't know it now. He's just kind of leaning elbows over the back of the chair, a fist out to knuckletap with Flicker to /pound/ it - like Victory! look what /we/ got. Go team. "Yeahthat." He comments, sniffsniffsniffing, "Kinda outted the labs to the media. Usual shit. Jesus /wept/, Jackie, feels like I just walked into the fucking Labyrinth ... movie. You make some bubbles?" Big FLOATY ones? "Ohmygosh hi you're home!" Jackson comes skittering around out of the kitchen in socked feet, spatula still in hand. "Well kinda, uh, your place is still an icebox so you and Flicker get the twins' room for now." A flurry of dragonflies and pixies drift into the living room after him, though at Jim's request these are joined by large wobbly bubbles, kind of oily-rainbow like soap bubbles or like his forcefields. "No, Labyrinth we'd need a lot more -- spandex somewhere, Bowie had that whole --" He gestures. Pantswards. His nose crinkles up at the question, hand lifting to rub against his temple. "We -- that." He waves his spatula towards Jim. "They were trying to play up this thing like Vector was malicious and these labs were trying to help -- anyway /someone/ already leaked about /him/ so we kind of just. Started. With the rest of -- everything. There's some reporter from the Bugle collecting individual stories. It became a – thing." Micah sort of dances in and around Flicker, swooping under one of his arms, to complete the removal of Hive's jacket and shoes. Once all of that is taken care of, he leaves the matter of what Hive's up to next to /him/. For now, there is an incoming Jax who needs hugs! Excited hugs! Just another move in the dance that had left off with removing and delivering jacket, he pulls Jax in and squeezes him tight for a moment. Though the smells already in the air combined with the spatula have him sniffing. "Oh/gosh/, are you fryin' okra? Y'know, y'don't need t'keep findin' /new/ reasons for me t'love you. Pretty full up as it is." He steals Jax's arm to place a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist before releasing him to share greeting-times with the others. "An'...yeah, we would need some serious hosiery. An' someone who can contact juggle /without/ droppin' things on people's toes." His lopsided grin falls a bit at the talk of the press. "We had t'counteract what they were sayin'. I ain't had the chance t'look at what...came out yet. What the reaction's been. Pretty much been go-go-go since I got up this mornin'." << No heat still. Dusk sleeping here too? >> Hive's voice is growing no less abrasive; it presses in, too, instinctively pushing at the boundaries of the others' minds hungrily. Once shed of his outerwear he does not appear to /have/ much opinion on what to do next. He slumps back in his wheelchair, watching the dragonflies and soap bubbles with his eyes slowly shifting to track their movement. << Bowie's crotch /was/ the star of that movie. >> The news of the press puts a slow frown on his face. << How long till we're all dead? >> Flicker leans in past Hive to return the knuckletap. It takes a few moments before he actually straightens, though, tugging at one armrest on the wheelchair like he is guiding /Jim/ to push it into the living room. "Well, hopefully a really long time. I'm not sure what it's going to do for raids in the /future/ though. Now we really /will/ be terrorists. Instead of just – criminals." Jim extends a hand, fingers /summoning/ at Jackson's spatula. Life will be so much easier for hugs without something covered in delicious okra-fry oil. Whether he get it or not, he doesn't /make/ any 'vroomvroom!' sounds, but he kind of /radiates/ them when he wraps his fingers back around Hive's wheelchair handles and, leaning it back just slightly to pop a sweet WHEELIE, he otherwise deadpan strolls them on forwards deeper into the room. "Couch? Couch. Say now'r forever hold your peace." Because he'll otherwise be levering his hands under Hive's knees and back to heft him from his seat. "Eh - these /shots/ been fired long ass time ago, now you just have a /third/ combatant. The fucking MEDIA. They'll gum everything up every time. Terrorists. Heroes. Whatever." Jackson relinquishes his spatula in favour of hug, tight and fierce with a small bonk of forehead against Micah's shoulder. "Oh -- yeah, Dusk's --" His cheeks flush faintly, but he nods. "S'got the couch, he's good." Though around a telepath he can't /help/ the warmer-contented acknowledgment that Dusk may have been sharing /their/ bed more nights than not. "Oh I -- we don't got no plans'a bein' dead, honey-honey. It's gonna be rocky for a bit, no doubt. But this -- was prob'ly inevitable eventually. We'll -- cross the bridge'a more raids when we get to it." He /also/ can't help the unhappy guilt here, wondering just how many labs still are left and that much harder to /help/, now. "I do got okra! Crisped up. An' dal an' rice. I just gotta go --" He flits back off to the kitchen. Spatula-free, now, stirring at the dal and then frowning around the countertops like he is /sure/ he just put something down a second ago. "An' I mean, media bringin' all this to light, maybe it'll get the ball rollin' on shuttin' 'em down with or /without/ us." This is brightly cheerful, in tone, if inwardly his hope this will /actually/ happen is nonexistent. "Yes, Dusk's been stayin' over, too. We've had all kindsa people in, on an' off," Micah answers Hive, far more a cheerful observation than any form of complaint. A hint of colour warms his cheeks, as well. "Doug's apartment's been without heat, too. He texted me earlier sayin' he'd contracted an HVAC guy t'come look at things. We don't...have too much optimism on the state of the super," he adds for Hive's benefit, trying to get him up to speed. "He's not answerin' calls, voicemail's full, an' Luci can't even get a response t'/give/ 'im money for stayin' next door. He moved in with the kids over where the twins were stayin' last summer, while his place is gettin' put back together." Micah snorts at the terrorist comment. "Like they wouldn't've cried 'terrorism' before? Everybody as does a thing the government don't like's a terrorist anymore. We just gotta...hope maybe somethin' /positive/'ll come of folks finally knowin' what's goin' on." << Couch, >> Hive affirms, even doing his part to attempt to put feet on the ground and stand himself to let Jim assist rather than carry him over; his body isn't entirely /thrilled/ at efforts to make it move but /he/ isn't entirely thrilled at just sitting around. << Lucien's here. >> It's hard to read a tone into this past the sharp stab of his mindvoice. << Pretty sure we were terrorists already, >> he acknowledges. << Now we're just ones they can arrest. >> "But you're glad you woke up now, huh?" Jim takes his time fully scooping Hive, letting him try out his legs for a moment with an arm loosely hovering behind his back, hand hooked up under his armpit. Then he's collected him up like a bride to be carried over some fucked up threshold, standing by to let Flicker shift the pillows around. "Y'know I was thinking - about how to take some decent pics. Can't exactly develop 'em at fucking - CVS. I got a dark room, right?" Sniffsniffsniff -- oh god hang on he's WANDERING OFF with Hive towards the kitchen. To try and extort a sample? Ahh? Open mouth? "S'pretty much been like a hostel 'round here," Jackson acknowledges, amused. He heads over to the kitchen table with the same puzzled-searching expression but in the end does not find spatula -- just his laptop, which he taps at to play instead /different/ country music. Lonestar, "My Front Porch Looking In". He returns to the stove no better off than he left it, though, grabbing a /new/ spatula out of a container by the stove to stir his okra. "Oh, yeah, we been terrorists for a while, honey-honey. 'leastways they'd say so if they said anything. An' yeah, Luci's right next door." He looks up with a small /frown/ at Jim carrying Hive, eying this uncertainly. He does, though, pluck a piece of fried okra from the pan, giving it a few seconds to cool and then popping it into Jim's mouth. "You got your own dark room?" "Not like they was gonna arrest'n try nobody before, was it? If /that's/ the way they take things now, s'almost better. S'a lot less...comin' t'kill an' kidnap folks under cover of darkness." With a heavy sigh, Micah follows Jax into the kitchen, seeing as everyone seems to be migrating there. And the food smells are best at the source, besides. He arches a brow at Jax's confused searching. "Y'gave Jim your spatula, honey," he finally clues in with a little smirk. "Might could be helpful, if they get t'the point of photo-documentary for the folks as want their stories told, if y'could do that, Jim. Think folks'd be less...skittish with somebody like you than whoever the papers would send." << Hey fuck you. >> This is sharp and annoyed with an uncomfortable /twinge/ of wounded pride as Jim scoops Hive up to /make off/ with him; he lifts a hand to whap at Jim's shoulder but it's a sadly kind of /feeble/ whapping. Admittedly, it'd have been a kind of feeble whapping on his /best/ of days, too. << I said couch asshole I'm not a /doll/ to cart around -- >> Though here there's a wash of kind of sick clenching half-memory, filtered hazily from beneath a heavy press of so /many/ memories. << ... anymore. >> He scrunches shut his eyes, /squirming/ to try and get back towards the floor. "Lotta us know you, too," he finally manages aloud, a little scratchy and rough in his spoken voice. Flicker's expression grows more pinched at Hive's protest. Or maybe at the 'anymore'. He squeezes Hive's shoulder and then skirts around them both to collect dishes; he doesn't so much set the table as place out enough dishes for everyone to take and sit where they /want/ with them. "Almost better. Anyway we can't know what they'll do. Just have to tell the story now and." And. He shakes his head, going to get glasses out as well. "-well okay, I got some black-out cloth and some good strips of velcro to fit it in my bathroom window," Jim amends bluntly, voice all casual though his pinched features are... not /unpinching/ as he kind of carefully stoops to set Hive's legs ground-wards. He slings one of those bony arms over the back of his neck, hanging onto his wrist on the opposite side, other arm hooking around Hive's back, "Okayokayokay." His mind, up through most of this, has been braced and deeply rooted as usual, green branches and latin repetition pressed hard and solid and /firm/. It's not a perfect filter - strange memories exist, filtered through odd plant awareness, of being inanimate. Of Hive sitting below his branches, in a silent orchard - << fuck we should go back there sometime. >> “Yeah," he mutters, chewing on his snabbled sample, "But I mean - dude, if they get to the point of photo-docu -- dude, even more than freaking stories, you're gonna want them to see shit like. Brain surgery scars. You know this is gonna turn into a mud slinging fest, right? Only a matter of time they start saying 'oh, well the subjects /participated/'. Act like the shit they were forced t'do to each other was their own god damn idea. - We ever keep any of those. Fucking brainchips when we dug 'em out?" "-- Ohhh. I thought I was losing my mind." Jax blushes faintly when the issue of Spatula is resolved, turning his attention down to the food. Which is done; he shuts off the burners, opening up the rice cooker to let it vent its steam, too. "Okay. Rice, okra, dal. Eat up." His gaze is following Hive with a determined /resolve/ not to fret. He fills a plate with a modest serving of food, and there's (despite resolve) a moment of fretting indecision, chopsticks or spoon, which would Hive wield easier, /is/ he back to feeding himself? After so long tending to him the urge to do so is kind of habitual. He fills a glass of water, taking dinner and water over to set them down on the living room's coffee table. With /both/ spoon and chopsticks beside. "I don't know if anyone kept them. Doctor Toure might have some. -- S'also a darkroom at the school. Might be a good idea to go out there anyway, some'a the older kids'll likely want to go on record. An' I don't -- usually like involvin' the kids no more'n it needs but. /Kids/. Their stories'll -- hold a fair bit'a weight." “That was...rather what I meant by photo-documentary. That those are the things that would be better told with images.” Once Micah sees that Jax is already tending to Hive, he stands back a bit, waiting for guests to gather their food. In the meantime, he pokes through the tea cabinet, his voice a bit shelf-muffled, though raised, when he addresses the group at large. “Any requests for tea with dinner? I can put a pot on.” He nods at Jax's recommendation. “That would be a good idea, Jax, t'ask around the school what the kids think of it. There've been...too many that we've taken over there just since /I/ been here. I'm sure plenty enough before that, too.” He bites at his lower lip, eyes scanning distractedly over the boxes of tea. << Coffee, >> is Hive's tea request. He makes his slow way over to the couch, leaning heavily on Jim and exhaling a sigh of relief when he makes it to the couch. "Thanks." To Jim or Jax either, once he's settled with food in front of him. His mind presses back to Jim's with the soft sense of leaves rustling, a breeze, the smell of ripening peaches. "We could go back." He's staring at his food as he says this, reaching out not for the food but for the water, to take it and drink it slowly. "Lotta kids. Lot at the school, lot -- ff." He waves his glass towards Jax and Flicker. "/These/ motherfuckers were" << teenagers when we started, >> he slips tiredly back into mental communication. << So many. Fucking kids. >> "Ohshitsorry," Jim grimaces - << christ, Jimmy >>, thrusting a HIP at Jax - where he'd crammed the handle of the spatula into the hem of his kilt. Go on. Fish it out. "Y'make that two coffees? Uh. I'll take that milk... plant... product? -- /Not/," he smiles hard, to Micah, "'too many'. Not enough. We're gonna get /more/, too." He stands up to, presses against, Hive's mental lean. The want to curl around, twine roots into, is there, in his deep fibers, there to fight. In the slow-motion battle of plants working their way into a cement foundation. It's something else to focus on, rather than trying to imagine a teen Jackson. It's - not terribly accurate, or even properly aged. He's kind of thinking of Spencer with make up and a pretty skirt on. "Ffff - think we /all/ could stand a vacation. Could take fucking - shifts. Teams of threes and fours, shipped out for a week's mandatory fuck-all. God, this is a miserable welcome home - You know about Jackie an' Mickey yeah? Made honest /men/ of themselves. Oh hey," he looks to both Micah /and/ Jackson, "You tell y'all's folks yet?" "Oh! Oh. /There/ it is." But Jax leaves his spatula down Jim's skirt, instead moving to put a fresh filter in the coffee machine. "Oh -- oh some Assam would be lovely, honey-honey. -- Go back where?" He looks between Hive and Jim, a little puzzled. "I was -- I was /going/ to send these two," he flicks his fingers between Flicker and Hive, "away for a vacation before --" His head shakes, nose crinkling up. "Still time now," he agrees cheerfully, "can ship all y'all off somewhere nice and /far/ away from all this." His smile quirks a little lopsided, and he turns aside to grab coffee beans and grind some fresh. "Oh -- yeah, I called 'em up Friday night when we decided t'go through with it. Told 'em we'd do a /proper/ weddin' in time, kind folks can actually /come/ to." His tone's still lightly cheerful, though there's an uncomfortable knot of tension coiling itself unhappily in his mind at the memory of this phone call. Micah starts to shift for making coffee, though stops when Jax seems to have this well in hand. Instead, he locates a tin of Assam and adds water to the tea kettle, putting it on to heat. He pulls two mugs down for coffee, another two for tea, and measures the leaves out into the tea cups. “Too many who've had to be through that,” Micah corrects Jim. “Of course we want as many /out/ as've been in. Goes without sayin'.” He nods at the question of telling parents. “Yep, told m'momma 'bout it 'fore it happened. Of course with assurances that this was for the paperwork an' that a ceremony where people get /invited/ is still happenin'...some time.” Twinges of concern regarding what his /father's/ reactions might have been to his mother's telling of it later likely echo Jax's tension in a paler fashion. “Though I think she's more tickled 'bout the kids than anythin'.” "S'Jax even met your parents? You've met his. Think half of every goddamn Promethean's met his, we used to go after the raids --" Hive closes his eyes, slumping back in the couch and scruffing fingers through his hair. "Shit. Congratulations. Congratulations, that's --" This trails off again. His fingers scrub along the side of his head. His mind sort of /settles/ in alongside Jim's, and here it's a struggle not to reach grasping claws into it. "Tea for me too, please," Flicker pipes up quietly, getting another plate of food together to deliver it to Spencer's bedroom. "-- Think Spence has got a pretty skirt or two," Hive adds, answering this mental image aloud. "Be surprised as hell if B hasn't put makeup on him a time or two. -- Your folks freak the fuck out?" He asks Jax this with eyebrows raising. And then to Jim: "We could. Ski." This suggestion is made with a healthy dose of self-directed mockery. He leans forward, kind of an effort even just to drag his plate onto his knees and pick up the spoon. "/Good/," Jim says bluntly, "Let's have a fucking party sometime. God damn vacation SKI party. Shit." He sits down on the couch alongside Hive - a physical return of notched minds, that painful guilty yearn to grasp and settling instead to brace - /nearly/ putting his feet reflexively up on the coffee table before remembering that's kind of /dick/. Inwardly, stomach muscles are clenched and he /ignores/ them. Commenting flatly, "I'm gonna start taking pictures again. - What color?" Of skirt? This is suddenly important. "Why, your folks kinda..." He see-saws a hand the way people gesture 'so-so', baring his teeth. "Oh -- no, my folks are. They're real sweet on -- real sweet on most things but they ain't never been thrilled about --" Jax gestures between himself and Micah with a blush. "So hearin' 'bout the wedding, they weren't real -- I think it kinda lost their hope that this was just a phase. -- Should definitely meet /yours/, though, sweetie, they ain't even /met/ the kids yet." He sets the coffee to start brewing, frowning over his shoulder at Flicker. "Tea like what kinda -- got a new one with cinnamon an' almonds an' apple that's kinda real -- nice for cold weather." He blinks over at Jim, uncomprehending both the skirt comment and the following: "What colour what?" He makes up another plate of food, delivering it with spoon and fork out to Jim. "There's still /plenty/'a time left in ski season, we ain't even proper /hit/ winter yet. You spend more time on your feet, could be just the thing later on." Micah blushes faintly at Hive's question. "No, he hasn't met them yet. We were gonna try an' go visit, maybe, over Thanksgivin'. But then the whole month of November got eaten by zombies." His fingers rake through his hair, mussing it further as he leans back against the counter. "The Assam's not decaf, honey. I know we got at least chamomile, ginger-mint, an' a lavender rooibos for decafs if y'want one of those. Or that appley one Jax said." Micah fetches another mug but waits on Flicker's answer for doling out tea, poking through the tea cabinet again. "Spence's definitely gotten into B's make-up before. Don't think it was B's idea at the time, though." He nods at Jim's party suggestion, with a little half-smile. "Yeah, we been talkin' about needin' a party, too. Missed half of /everybody's/ birthdays recently." "So they freaked the fuck out. That's shitty." Hive looks up towards the ceiling. "... they'll still let us crash down at the farm though, won't they?" Flicker ducks back out from Spencer's bedroom after delivering food. "Hive. Priorities man that's probably -- stressful." "Jax is always stressed. -- What color skirt," Hive clarifies. "Does Spencer own. -- Yours is coming up." He nods to Flicker as Flicker returns. "Oh -- oh. Apple -- no. The ginger mint I think, I love that one." He ducks his head a little sheepishly. "I always think I'll try new things and then I just always have the same ones." "You know what you like." Hive slowly scoops up a mouthful of dal and rice, eating it slowly with a rather /pleased/ smile. "Tube food," he tells them, "not fun. Yeah. Shit. Let's have parties /and/ ski. I heard something about ice climbing, too." "I'm /totally/ signing us all up for ice climbing," Flicker says excitedly. "-- Guys can we bring Spencer?" Still thinking of photography, of the angle of a ski slope, powder thrown up in against a blue sky, thinking << when's the last time I even >> Jim is only hearing half of this dialogue. Except that below the latin and bark are thoughts that clarify when he mutters abruptly. "Man, I know I - kinda met your folks once, when we were all down visiting but I can't even fucking--." He scratches behind an ear, "remember their damn faces." He drops back his head, "Augh, a year ago if someone told me I knew a sausagefest household of two fathers and three sons and there was somehow /skirts/ all spread out amongst 'em I'd have laughed in their face. You get /used/ to stuff." Said like getting used to things is YOU people's fault. And then, absurdly he /does/ find himself prompting with kind of Oh-God-I-Wanna-Know eyes, "No, but for real. What's he got." "Ice -- oh /gosh/ are we really doing that?" Jax bites down on his lip uncertainly. "Well, I don't know if you can bring /me/ but if Spencer's down he can go." The talk of his parents /is/ slightly stressful, a low-grade unhappiness built up over many years of /trying/ to make them proud. He shoves it away, looking over to Jim instead with a crooked smile. "You were kinda -- tree most of the time," Jackson remembers with a slight blush, leaving Jim's food and returning to the kitchen. This time to /actually/ get food for himself, and for Micah; he takes /these/ to the living room too to set on the coffee table. "Oh -- um. He's got a pleated pink and grey one that's pretty identical to one of Bastian's but smaller. And he has a long green and purple -- it's kind of like sweatpants except it's a skirt. He likes that one sometimes for pajamas but he likes the grey one for -- whatever." He looks back towards the kitchen with a small frown, once again that I-forgot-something kind of look. Mostly, just /fretting/ about what else he's supposed to be doing instead of sitting and eating. "A year ago I'd guess you wouldn't have been picturing a /lot/ of your life now." “Hey, if y'like ginger-mint, y'like ginger-mint. S'one of my favourite decafs, too.” Micah reaches into the cabinet to retrieve the tea box, prepping Flicker's cup. The kettle on the stove is ready by that time to get things steeping. His smile broadens at Hive's food commentary. “Jax's food is /usually/ amazin'. I can only /imagine/ after a good long stint of tube-feed an' hospital food...” His nose crinkles at the revived talk of ice climbing. “Y'all have fun with that. I'm gonna stay where it's warm an' I'm /not/ breakin' m'neck.” After setting a timer on the tea, he follows Jax into the living room. Because /food/ just went that way. "You can make us lots of hot cocoa. For when we get back from ice climbing." Flicker grins bright at Micah as he gets his own dinner, settling down on the floor to rest up beside Hive's legs. "Oh, that one. S'a cute skirt. And I have /missed/ the fuck out of your cooking, man." Hive takes another slow bite, not just sluggish out of uncoordinated disused muscles but clearly /savouring/ his food. << ... missed the fuck out of all of you. >> | |
