2013.04.28 - Something Regular

Overcast, a bit chilly, all in all it's just another April day in New York City. After some quick arrangements, Fern is back at the semi-converted Weischel Carcass House. She came dressed for a workout, and had one, going through a second 'training' with One. Aside from her elbow issues, she didn't do bad on this second session. Nothing spectacular, she's no protégé, but it's promising that eventually she'll be of some good in defending herself.

With the workout over, she mopped off and changed into comfortable jeans and a t-shirt, her hair still a little damp around the edges, and moved on to her next purpose for being there. Well, purposes. There's a load of laundry going, as promised, but she's giving One the added bonus of cooking him something to eat. It's sort of a selfish move, knowing she's usually famished after exertion, but hey, home cooked food for him too. It's a simple meal with a few ingredients, eggs, mushrooms, onion, cheese, a sweet yellow pepper and some chunked ham. She does make a pretty mean omelet, and hums lightly as she waits for just the perfect moment to fold it.

As usual, One appears virtually from nowhere, and without making a sound. Freshly toweled and changed (though it's a similar outfit to the one he was wearing during their workout session), he pops in behind Fern and leans over her shoulder. "Smells good," he observes, smiling. "The deal was for laundry. You didn't have to cook, but I'm glad you did. I'm dying over here."

He leans back against the counter and stretches his neck until it produces an impressive snap-crackle-pop. "Ahhh. Anything I can do to help?"

Fern glances sideways as One is suddenly there, managing not to jerk and let him know that he startled her. She's been on her own again, and is back to not being used to his way of just materializing out of thin air. The spatula, which was borrowed from Anita along with the pan because Fern wasn't sure if he'd have the right equipment, is held poised, then lightly tests the outer edge. "You're always hungry after you've been physical," she says absently. "Yeah, can you hand me the grated cheese. Just about ready for it." She doesn't seem to notice his various pops.

One passes ingredients over as requested, stifling a small smile in the process. "Too easy," he murmurs.

Still chuckling, he turns to one of the cabinets and starts digging around. "What sort of wine goes with eggs? Chardonnay?"

There's an absent "Hm?" as Fern takes the cheese, but her attention goes right back to the pan, and she sprinkles cheese over the egg concoction, then folds it over. The flame is turned off, so the cheese can melt but the omelet won't be over-cooked and rubbery. Holding the pan handle with a cloth, she turns from the stove, giving it a light shake to make sure nothing sticks. "Box wine?" she ventures, with a grin. "Honestly, I have no idea. What kind of wine do chickens like?"

"Box wine? How dare you curse in this safe, wholesome place." The laughter continues as One pulls a bottle down from a shelf. "I find that chickens enjoy being paired with a nice chenin blanc. We'll go with that."

After a bit of digging, he comes up with a wicked, narrow-bladed knife. A quick stab and twist later, he has the cork out of the bottle. As poorly furnished as his place is, he still has wine glasses. Two are unearthed and generously filled. "Thanks for tidying up. And for coming over. This place is too big for me to be the only one here all the time."

Having made one rather huge omelet, Fern takes a knife and slices it in the pan, then quickly dishes out each half before everything inside can ooze outside. She puts the pan on the stove again, lips pursing lightly as she takes more care than necessary to make sure it's set back, the handle isn't where someone can catch it, the burner is off. Returning to the table, Fern slides into one chair, reaching for her wine glass, taking a sip, and speaking as she puts it down, her eyes shifting to One. "It's alright. I missed you." There's an evenness to her tone, and she looks back at the table. "Oh, I forgot the salt," she says, rising again.

A hand snakes out to grab Fern's wrist. "Leave it," he says quietly.

As always, he doesn't waver when he makes eye contact, and there's a curious, searching expression on his face. "I missed you, too," he continues. "I look forward to our lessons."

The touch stills Fern halfway up, her head turning to look at One's hand where it grips her, then up to his face again as she sinks back down. She nods, a smile that's almost guilty playing on her lips. "Yeah. I do too." While she's usually the first of the pair to slide her eyes away from his directness, she holds his gaze now. "So, the whole, I'm safer not around you deal? How's that working out for you?" Her curiosity mirrors his, one red brow arching with the inquiry.

A few silent seconds pass before One lets go of Fern. He sighs and shrugs. "It's not perfect. But what is, right? I... Yeah."

He turns his attention to his plate, slicing his eggs up neatly. "How about you? I know you've had some tumbles. You holding up okay?"

This might not be the first time Fern has held her gaze longer than One, but it can't be more than the second or third time. Her eyes linger on him after he sets about his carving. "Yeah, what is," she murmurs, finally turning her attention downward. She only uses her fork, hacking off a chunk with the side, letting it sit a second. "Oh yeah, it's been a quiet week. The only new bruises are the ones you just gave me," is added with that irresistible tendency toward levity she has, and the hunk of omelet disappears into her mouth. Of course, it's still kind of hot, so she ends up bringing her hand up, breathing through her mouth to rush air past the egg to cool it.

"What can I say? I like to be on top." One looks up and grins crookedly. The lighthearted turn of conversation seems to relax him quite a bit. "You're learning fast. I've got a new bruise of my own. I'll remember to keep my elbow down next time."

When he takes his first bite, he's waited long enough not to burn himself. "Mmm. This is good."

Finally she can chew, and swallow, and Fern nods as she reaches for the wine to cool her tongue even a little. She waits to speak until she's had a sip. "You're a good teacher." That and she might have been able to call up a spark of anger to add a little force to her effort. "I'll keep practicing, I have my own elbow issues." There's a pause before she adds, "Anita's pretty angry at you. She wouldn't let me bring any cannoli." She tsks softly, shaking her head. "I've been trying to smooth things over, but..." The words trail off into a deep sigh, but her tone is lightly teasing.

"Uh. Yeah." One actually turns a little pink around the cheeks. "I stopped by the restaurant last week. I was looking for you. She may or may not have chased me out with a broom. I was actually afraid." Helplessly, he shrugs. "Needless to say, I haven't had decent cannoli in... a while."

Another bite, then he takes a hefty drink of wine. His eyes drift down to his food, over to the wine bottle, and finally back up to Fern's face. "Ahem. Thanks for putting in a good word for me."

Fern nods, accepting the thanks casually, "She'll get over it. And when she lectures me she usually lapses into Italian, so it's not as bad as it could be." There's a shrug with this, indicating that perhaps this isn't the first time she's been lectured and it certainly won't be the last. "I did appease her a bit... I took some cannoli over to Sif and Thor. Have you heard of them?"

"I have." One gives his head a little shake. "I'm designed to be so analytical. Scientific evidence over theory and faith, that whole thing. Still, I figure if I can exist, anything can." Another long, bracing drink of wine. "It's weird just knowing you met mythological figures."

There's a huff of breath, a soft laugh, "Huh. You think that's weird. I'm going to a party they're throwing. That's why I took the cannoli over, to see if they'd add it to the desserts." She pauses, looking very pleased with herself. "They loved it. They placed a huge order for their feast." Fern pauses for a bite before she goes on. "I met them during one of those weird things. He lost his hat... helmet. I picked it up, and returned it to him."

By now, One's most of the way through his meal. He tips a bit more wine into he and Fern's glasses and raises his eyebrows. "Really? Wow. Not many people can say that."

There's a pause from him, too. "I miss cannoli," he admits. "And clean laundry. I'm glad we're doing this."

Fern is only halfway through her portion, but she's slowing visibly, her appetite near to sated. "I'll try and smuggle you some cannoli out," she promises, which shouldn't be at all difficult since Anita usually gives her some a couple times a week. "You want me to plan on coming back in a few days again?"

"I'd like that," One says, nodding. He smiles crookedly and shoots a glance at Fern. "It's good to have an exercise partner. And I'm not going to lie, I'd kill or die for anything stuffed with that cannoli cream. You can drop by whenever you like."

Done with what she's got room for, Fern slips to her feet, stepping closer to One and bumping her hip against his arm lightly as she holds her plate over his, depositing what's left of the omelet onto his plate. "Maybe I'll bring something to cook again." It's just as good for her as it might be for him, she doesn't cook for just herself and she's been far from eating well. She moves to set her plate aside, knife and fork rattling lightly as she sets them on top.

One reaches out when Fern makes contact, laying his hand on the small of her back. Even seated, he's not much shorter than she is. When he brushes the backs of his knuckles against her cheek, he barely has to stretch. It's something that's happened dozens of times before, but not recently. Still, at the moment, it feels natural. "Thanks for dinner," he says.

Again, his touch stops her, the brush of One's fingers both familiar and foreign, and Fern brings her hand up to catch his. Her head turns, eyes fixing somewhere around his nose, perhaps a shade lower, before they drop away. His captured hand is brought to her lips for a light kiss before she releases it. "You're welcome." She turns away toward the stove, "I'll wash up the dishes before I go."

There's a long, slow exhalation and a blink-blink-blink from One. He looks down at his hand and nibbles at his lower lip, then smiles and nods. "Yeah. Thanks. This has been fun. It's been a long time since I've just done something... regular, y'know?"

Fern's sort of sideways to One as she stands at the stove, retrieving the dirty pan, and she looks toward him. "Yeah." There's a pause, before she adds, "I don't -feel- safer, being farther away from you." It's said simply, as a matter of fact, before she gets busy with the dishes. Before she leaves they've been washed, dried, and stacked away, and the laundry is down from three loads to one. "Leave the last, I'll do it next time," she says, shrugging into her jacket and slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Call me." And she's ready to slip out as he disarms the 'security measures' for her.

After another disappearing and reappearing act, One is standing next to Fern. For the second time in one night, he lays a hand on her arm to stop her. "I don't, either," he says. "Feel safer, I mean. Sending you away was supposed to fix things and it didn't."

He hesitates, then lets his hand drop. A click from his transmitter disarms his security systems. "I'll call you soon."

While she stops, Fern doesn't look up at One. "Made things worse," she says softly. "I think, anyway." As soon as his hand has fallen away she's on the move, heading out, the bag over her shoulder swinging lightly with her steps. "Alright," she says to the promise to call. "Then I'll be back." There's one last slam as the outer door closes behind her.