ArchivedLogs:Stress Cooking

Stress Cooking
Dramatis Personae Hive, Flicker, Isra, Micah
In Absentia	21 January 2015 '
Location <NYC> {Geekhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
There's an open airy feel to the floorplan of this unit. The door opens up into a wide expanse of common space that is not so much divided up into rooms as it is simply multipurposed. Ash-grey resin flooring underfoot runs up against the paler grey of the exposed stone in the walls; between the stone support there are wide floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the river on one side of the home and the Commons' central yard on the other. Half of the space has a ceiling at one-floor height, though half of the space is left open with a balcony up on the second floor overlooking the living space below. A slatted stairway heads up to the second floor balcony; on the other side of the room, a fireman's pole running straight down to the basement provides a quicker way /down/. The wide open space here is combination living and dining room; near the windows there are a pair of couches and large armchair around a wide coffeetable; further off a steel-and-glass dining table is surrounded by eight tall black chairs. A full bathroom behind the stairway is done up in dark granite; the glass-doored bathtub/shower is rather expansively large. The kitchen is tucked off in back, beneath the half-height ceiling; in here the appliances and cabinets and shelving recessed into the wall are in brushed steel, wide grey sweeps of tempered glass countertops running around the edge of the room and a large central island holding stoves and oven and deep double sink. Adjacent to the kitchen, beneath the ceiling as well, is a sitting area structured largely around the enormous television against one wall, a wealth of video games for a number of consoles held on the shelves around the television. Crates and beanbags and one low futon folded against the floor are arranged in good viewing distance; opposite the television, a sturdy large pen built out of wood shrines a couch amid a sea of brightly colorful playpen balls. A door in one wall opens up to the apartment next door; a door opposite leads down to the basement. The house smells like dinner, or dinner-in-progress, at least. Hive's period of hermitage has meant a drastic increase in the amount he's been /cooking/; tonight there is a green mango salad waiting ready in a bowl on the counter as Hive fries up catfish, crisp and spicy. A pan on the adjacent burner has rice noodles, stir-fried with a copious amount of veggies and chilies and basil. Though outside it's cold, snowy, frigid and white and flurrying against the windows, in here it is toasty-warm. Cosy. The stove's going and music playing quietly; Hive is in short sleeves as he cooks, jeans and socks and his brown hedgehog tee as he tends his pans. Where Hive tends the pans Flicker is tending the fireplace, adding the cozy-warm. Crackle-pop as the fire catches, lights, just a little bit more snug-wintry soundtrack to go with the -- Garbage that's currently playing. "Only Happy When It Rains". Maybe it doesn't go with the homey-cheery ambiance. Flicker seems cheery enough to be listening to it, though. He's half-dressed in Clinic uniform, pants but undershirt, indeterminate if he's going-on or coming-off a shift. "... pour some misery down on me." A little too bright for this as he bops over to the kitchen to steal a pinch of salad. Isra perches on a stool at the counter, wrapped in a white linen himation that lends a suggestion of classical statuary to her monstrous form. Her skin, jet black in places and cobalt blue in others, sports a myriad of gleaming silver stars as well as swaths of luminous purple and pink nebulosity. The horns that spiral back from her temples match the gleaming metallic silver of her talons--all thirty of them. She has her laptop open in front of her and a tablet propped up on a stand beside it, operating one with each hand. Micah has been home from work long enough to thaw out in the shower and equip himself with a large thermos of chai. He is dressed typically for him: Batsignal hoodie, turquoise tee on which Toothless is sharing a book with a group of Terrible Terrors, navy henley, patchy jeans, and soot sprite slippers. Whatever his original intention in wandering over to Geekhaus, he is drawn straight into the kitchen by his nose. "Oh/gosh/, it smells amazin' in here. I was gonna share chai 'cause this /weather/, but I don't know if m'tea can stand up t'this." "My only comfort is the night gone black. -- I always feel like Jim should be around when this song is playing," Hive murmurs, down into his pan. He eyes Flicker's /thieving/ hand with a frown, looking at it, then looking at his spoon like he's thinking of /rapping/ his roommate's knuckles. Which he does not, alas. "Black tea chai?" Now he's turning his frown on the chai, assessingly. "Isra evaluate the chai." "He's here for it. In spirit." Flicker pinches another mouthful of salad and vanishes from the kitchen like he /knows/ his knuckles are tempting fate. Reappearing at Micah's side to sneak a rapid-quick hug, disappearing just as quick to take up a seat beside Isra at the counter. One leg rests on a rung of his stool, jitter-bouncing up and down. "It's pretty much been a feast all month. Some people stress-eat. Hive stress-cooks." "Good evening." Isra looks up from her work when Micah walks in. "I have not yet experienced any subpar chai from your house, but I strive to keep an open mind about such matters." She rises and crosses to Micah in a few long strides, wrapping him in a massive hug--two wings and an arm. To Flicker, with a quick, fangy grin, "Just so, you have uncovered the real reason I've more or less moved in." Taking the thermos from Micah, she plucks her black NASA mug from the drying rack and pours herself a sample. Swishes it around. Inhales deeply. Sips. Tips her head back. "Strong black tea--Assam? Masala blend heavy on cinnamon, clove, and ginger. Some kind of milk substitute. Not excessively sweet." Another sip, and a faint nod. "I approve." "Haven't seen 'im much lately. Though, that could've enough been from /my/ end lately, crazy as things've been." Micah nods at Hive's question of the tea. "Yes, /strong/ black. I mean. Strong for tea. Not for Captain Espresso over here." He winces a little, glancing over at the thieving Flicker. "On account of I /always/ forget 'til I get over here that Flicker can't do caffeine. I can make a similar thing with a rooibos base? I usually add some vanilla with that, though. Smoothes it out." The speed of Flicker's hug leaves Micah hugging the air in the teleporter's wake, though Isra soon fills this space well enough and earns a tighter squeeze for it. "I'm familiar with the stress-cookin'. Been known t'do it a bit m'self. An' I did marry Jax, so. Stress /bakin'/. Him, that is. My bakin' just /causes/ stress." A genuine smile spreads across his lips as Isra takes to the tea, the easy warmth in the room pleasant and comfortable. "S'been this delicious over here for a whole month?" His head cants to one side, just observing Isra's evaluation. "S'almond milk. Correct on all the rest. I feel like I wanna sit you an' Lucien down with a sample of teas an' just watch what happens." "Yyyeah most people forget." Hive's frown remains, his tone critical. Scowl. Perhaps despite Isra's evaluation the tea does not get his vote. He flips over his catfish, scowling down at it, too. "... fucking. /Stress/-cooking," he grumbles, half to himself. "/Maybe/ I'm just /glad/ I can finally fucking /eat/ again, goddamn months of fucking puree soup and now my body isn't in fucking revolt anymore. It's been /more/ delicious stir-fry is clean-out-the-damn-fridge night." His lips press together, his scowl deepening. "... /fancy/." He says this with some sort of grudging approval. Flicker shakes his head, his own smile undimmed despite the faint twinge of something faintly wince-like itself that flashes briefly across the surface of his mind. "Most people haven't lived with me the past six years," he reminds Hive, light and easy in contrast to the other man's scowl. "Eating again is nice. Maybe by the time it's climbing weather you'll actually feel up to --" He doesn't finish this thought, though; his mind has drifted off, briefly, to a dream of them on a sun-warmed cliff face. The mechanical arm at his side twitches just slightly. By the time he stretches across the counter to steal another bite of mango his thoughts have slid off to a dank sewer and the tromp of incoming robotic soldiers. "/Wicked/ fancy." He pops the mango into his mouth, licking his fingertips clean. Plunking back into his seat. "Do they have tea-tastings like with wine? Get all prettied up? Swish it around, talk about the body and the nose." Isra resumes her seat after filling her mug, though she does not bother to awaken the screens of her devices, since gone dark. "Stress-inspired or no, certainly preferable to the diet of semi-solid coffee and delivery upon which I had subsisted previously." Her wings fold down across her shoulders, the expansive membranes hanging down to cover most of her actual clothing. Her thoughts have gone calm and guarded--admittedly not an uncommon occurrence--perhaps at the talk of Hive's long illness, perhaps not. "I don't think Lucien would enjoy any such thing, and in any event my palate for tea needs a great deal of work. I can only identify Assam by sheer overwhelming familiarity. But yes," Inclining her head at Flicker, "they have tea tastings. Different jargon. I would get laughed out of any such thing even if one would admit me to start." "Apologies. I promise I can make a wicked herbal. Just say the word," Micah reiterates, the apology kind of split between Hive and Flicker, but the remainder just for the teleporter. "I'm /nothin'/ but happy if you're eatin' in addition t'cookin', sugar. An' if Isra's eatin' better for it too, so much the...better. Meanwhile, smells /amazin'/." He chuckles at all the additional tea banter. "Y'wanna mug, Hive? I'll fetch. An'...goodness, y'got plenty on /me/ for tea knowledge. Ain't like that's too hard t'do, though, I'll admit. If it didn't come in a pitcher with ice an' half the sugar bowl, didn't rightly know what t'do with it 'fore I moved up here." Hive's teeth grind. A slow long creeeeeak. The hard shove of his mind up against Flicker's is rough, thudding; it doesn't settle there so much as /claws/ there with sharp fingers that pry painfully inwards for purchase, /more/ abrasive than usual for long rusty lack of practice. Clenching at that sunny-cliffside-image like its anchored topropes are /actually/ a lifeline. "... You staying for dinner?" Hive is frowning at his pan again. He shuts the gas off, resting his palms on the counter's edge by the stove. "You can get plates with those mugs. One for Dusk, too, he's kind of drowning in work upstairs. -- Does Lucien enjoy /anything/? I've never seen it." The brief shiver-jump of motion that displaces Flicker from his seat is almost too quick to catch; he just /is/ standing where a moment before he was sitting, hand curled tight against the counter and his smile /juuust/ a little more /fixed/ than before. "... tea. That would. Be fantastic." Another minute-jump. Not enough to go anywhere really but back to his /seat/ a half-inch to his left, but the momentary displacements are enough to slip the tightening telepathic collar from its attempt to fasten itself around him. Only after he's settled again, foot once more bobbing against its rung, does his mind -- slowly. tentatively -- relax itself. /Inviting/, now. Summoning that brighter memory back up like a lure. "Think he enjoys dressing well. Probably also tea." His good shoulder shrugs. "... Do they have coffee tastings?" His brows hitch upward. Green eyes flick curiously to Isra. "Bet you could hold your own there." "I'll put the water on." Isra uncurls from her perch and refills the kettle, then examines of the shelf of tisanes. "Citrus lavender sage, perhaps?" Her eyes linger on Flicker, then snap to Hive. Her thoughts weave between concern for her de facto housemates and herbal flavor palettes--what would go best with the stir-fry? "Or strawberry mint basil, perhaps?" Her ears press back against her head. "Coffee tastings? Yes, elaborate ones, and though I have never attended a formal one, I imagine I /would/ rather enjoy it." "Yessir," Micah replies to Hive with a sharpish mock salute, fetching plates enough and mugs enough for all present plus Dusk (minus Isra on mugs, since she already has one) and delivering these to the counter. "If that's an invitation, I'm not sayin' no. Didn't mean t'be invitin' m'self, though." He chuckles at the insinuation that Lucien doesn't enjoy anything. "He enjoys rather a lot of things. I mean, laundry list of food an' drink. Good books, his fish, music of the appropriate varieties, chess, cigarettes...though he /quit/ so dunno how much that counts, singin', /very/ rarely conversation that's adequately stimulatin' without bein' annoyin'..." The list trails off, not so much because Micah couldn't think of more but because he /could/ and distinctly doesn't plan to in Hive's presence. Even without fully-formed thoughts, he still manages a faint-pink blush. "Um...if y'wanted the rooibos chai I can fetch, Flicker. But sounds like there's also a few real nice ones here an' Isra might be /on/ it if y'prefer one of those." "Yeah it's an invitation -- fff. I don't think I want to know what conversation stimulates that motherfucker." It's said in a low grumble and /yet/ there's part of Hive's mind that's reflexively /poking/ at Micah's. Pokepoke. Not a very large part, /most/ of his mind is occupied with hooking sharp claws back into Flicker's, sinking in a little quicker now that that the terrain he latches on to doesn't fight him back. The transition isn't a particularly pleasant one, once Hive's mind has melded itself to the other man's; he doesn't have a throb of headache and nausea and discoordination to bring with him any more but he's replaced it with a hungry-yawning pit. Rotting-dead eyes and glowing-robot ones and somewhere down below, perhaps, his family. Buried deep beneath a jumble of nightmare-pasts and equally nightmare-futures. Hive lifts his hands, rubs briefly at his face before reaching for the plates. "... glad as fuck I can build houses /and/ smoke, Christ. Shoot myself in the damn head if I had to give up those cancer sticks." He starts to dish out food, fried noodles and catfish fillets and salad. "I'd go with the basil, personally. Hm." His brows have pulled back together. He's scowling again as he slides Isra the first plate. "Bet I could find you a nice. Fancy. Coffee -- fff. Hrrn. Problem is your sorry-fucking-boyfriend, he wouldn't know goddamn /fancy/ if it hit him upside the head, does Dusk even /own/ a fucking tie, he thinks fancy is putting on a goddamn shirt." "Thank you," Flicker murmurs. Soft and a little distracted, elbow resting on the counter and fingers curling into his hair. His eyes close momentarily. Jaw tightening, mind loosening. Meeting /hungry/ with full -- but where Hive has nightmares he has dreams. Sun dancing on rocks and the pleasant sore-muscle ache of a long day climbing. Dusk's acid-trip paint-splatter wings out in a storm of chocolate rain. The twins chew-wrestling Isra's painted talons. Horus's endless stream of photographs of New York captured from above. Jax recruiting Micah into a brightly-colored snow-war. He has the /feelings/ to go along with it, warm and bright and /alive/ to supplement where Hive is lacking. There's a small delayed-reaction flush to his cheeks when Hive's initial comment about Lucien catches up with his /ears/ but he glosses past it. "-- Oh. Basil Strawberry. Sounds pretty great. Thank you. Dusk thinks fancy is putting on /pants/, come on. But he cleans up. When he tries." "Thank you. This looks and smells delightful." Isra accepts the food with a surge of eagerness that never makes it to her face, though her tail swishes fast several times before she contains herself. "One needs no great expertise to enjoy a cupping--coffee tasting--and depending on the cultural background of the organizers, standards of formal dress may vary quite significantly." She retrieves a tin from the tea cabinet, its label plainly clipped from the bag in which the tisane came, decorated here and there with small cartoon stickers of strawberries and green leaves. "In any event, I imagine Dusk would don a tie if given adequate incentive." This without any prurient undercurrent, although her very next thought comes with plenty. "Speaking of getting him to put on pants, I should ascertain whether he wants his food brought up, or if I might pry him from his work." So saying, she disappears up the stairs, her inhuman legs bounding up three--sometimes four--steps at once. "Mmn, thanks." Micah pours two mugs of the chai, keeping one for himself. The other could be for Hive if he claims it. Or Dusk, if he doesn't. It's there, either way. The redhead wriggles a little as if the mental poking somehow /actually/ tickles. He slides right on to the next topic of conversation. "Shoot, though. Dusk walks into a room, how many people y'think're gonna be checkin' or noticin' one way or the other whether he's wearin' a tie?" A nod of agreement is given for Isra's thought that Dusk would comply with tie-wear in certain circumstances, though this turns into eyes following her with an /impressed/ look at how she tackles the stairs. Hive eases, small tics of tension slipping out of the set of his muscles and clench of his jaw, his smile briefly hooking up in a ghosting mirror of Flicker's bright-warm one. He's slower to serve the next plate of food, though, stiff and uncertain for a moment before he transfers the serving spoon to his off-hand and continues dishing up food. "Think people would still notice if he had no pants, though." He sets the other plates down on the counter, picking up his mug and his own plate to carry it out of the kitchen and over to the dining room. "C'mon. Let's eat."