amicustenebris | Duplicity

[ Carver shrugs. He's not good at judging that sort of thing, but going on sight alone, he'd suspect Gold and Pope are around the same age. ]

Don't know. Mid fifties?

[ He suspects the answer is something a touch stranger. ]

[ ...That's fair, honestly. ]

Add about two hundred years more.

[ Well damn. All right, then. Carver doesn't react overly much, just watches Gold. ]

That unusual, with the magic?

It's just part of who I am.

[ Only the Dark One has life eternal, after all. ]

[ Carver wonders if that's separate from the magic. Some people are innately good at shit. He's watched movies, he knows that much. Magic has rules like anything else. Only thing is, he doesn't know them.

He needs to, he thinks. ]

Is it just you, after all that time?

There's always people. [ Whether he wants them around or not. They're kind of needed; the Dark One is nothing without magic to sell for the right price. ]

Sometimes close ones.

[ And then, well.

He's here, now. ]

[ Close can mean a lot of things. Could mean family, could mean the sort of people you'd run through the fire for. Absently, Carver reaches up to touch the pendant he wears. Just for a moment. He doesn't own many things - not that he can hold in his hands and say, this is mine. This means something.

He turns away before that thought can spiral. He'll find his people again.

He always does. ]

Kale won't take long. I'll cook the sausage. When the noodles are done, I'll just toss everything together. Easy.

These will only need a couple minutes in boiling water, so when the sausage is nearly finished, let me know.

[ It's clear that neither of them much care for having other people in their space, so it's unusual and a touch refreshing that Gold just...doesn't mind. It's a rare instance of occupying space with a person, technically spending time with one another, but not having to speak at length or engage each other heavily. ]

[ Carver just nods and returns to his work. Talking would mean acting social, checking his reactions constantly, and that shit's exhausting. He isn't fit for company anymore, not beyond the circle of his people - a circle that grows smaller with every death and every passing day. Pope's gone. So are Bossie and Turner, Powell, so many others. He fears, deep down, that one day he'll forget their names. That he'll start to say them and stumble.

That would be unforgivable, he thinks.

He cooks, in the meantime. It's something real, something concrete he can focus on.

Eventually: ]

They're about ready now.

[ Gold brings over a gently made bundle of fresh and floured noodles. The other pot, as with the other one, seems to spring to life and heat on its own, bubbling up to catch the delicate objects the second they fall in. ]

They'll need straining in a couple minutes.

[ Carver stains the kale, in the meantime, and then sets it aside. It’s not a complicated meal, in the end. You follow the steps on down the line, one after another m, and then at the end you have something good. His grandmother taught him this one. A raging alcoholic, but she was a good goddamn cook.

He rinses the strainer out, then sets on the counter next to the stove. Ready when needed. ]

That’s a Hell of a trick.

[ He watches the water, curious. It’s almost alive, isn’t it? ]

It's a cheat, and I'll probably pay for it later.

[ But he didn't want to throw off Carver's timing or keep them waiting another half hour at best. When they're ready, it's no trouble to get them strained off and cooled enough to stop them cooking. ]

Pay for it how?

[ Whatever it is and however it worked, it saves a chunk of time. The noddles are stained and cooled. Ready for the last bit.

Carver steps forward and mixes the whole lot together. Cheese, peppers, the kale, spices. Everything in a large bowl, until it’s evenly spread. Then he taps the spoon against the rim, satisfied.

Good. ]

All right. You squeeze the lemon on last, right before you eat.

I'll have to let you know.

[ He gestures for where the table is already set for two -- and he is reminded yet again that nothing here is his style. ]

So after serving then.

[ The phrasing is interesting. Carver tucks it away to think about it later and hefts the bowl. ]

C’mon.

[ He doesn’t want to do small talk in the kitchen. This isn’t what it’s about. He came here to cook, and the food’s been made. ]

[ He points him toward utensils for serving -- there aren't many, just the basics before they settle, and once they have reached that step and it's no longer work, he looks a good deal less confident. It has become unusual again. ]

[ Back home, this would have been done around a campfire, or wherever they'd found themselves. A circle of some sort, his brothers and sisters gathered around. They always ate together whenever they had the chance. It helped, he thinks, when things were bad. To know the others were there, that they were still together in the ways that mattered.

He gets two bowls together. Cuts the lemon into wedges and sets it aside, and then pushes Gold's at him.

He doesn't say a prayer. Not in front of Gold. That's not for him. And then he digs in without a word, because Carver's a lot of things but he's practical to the core. When there's food in front of him, he eats. ]

Thank you.

[ And he does eat and appears to like it just fine. When it's the only thing to disappear into, he does. His eyes close, he savors. It's simple, but in the way old things are: intricate in the care and time and combination, but uncomplicated in the pieces that make up the whole. That feels right; though nothing he encountered as a young man in the Enchanted Forest was anything like Italy, that still makes this dish feel very much like home. ]

[ There's no small talk. Carver pulls his bowl close, instinctively defensive, and doesn't break the silence as they eat. It's good pasta. More spices than he's had access to for a long time. Good, strong garlic. Lemons. A feast of riches, the sort his family used to joke about sometimes. All the food they missed, that Carver and some of the others tried to recreate occasionally. That they tried to make for Matthew because the kid ought to know what it was like to have something good.

He liked candy corn, Carver thinks absently. That weird, waxy shit. Kid couldn't get enough of it.

Stow that shit. Don't ever go there.

He doesn't go there. He eats, and he watches Gold, and he doesn't say a word until he's done.

Carver lays his fork down deliberately. ]

You want to fuck or not?

[ It was all Gold could do not to drop his own fork, really, or the bowl he was holding, and just set them down. Like it was a question he expected to be asked eventually, with tension, and was all the while uncertain how he would answer.

He remembers the conversation on the network, and that he had been careful in how he worded his answer to his proposition -- the direct one. Not the offer that came before. He didn't technically require this in exchange for a meal.

However, when Carver said he would provide if needed and asked for, he had said he could do the same, and there was every possibility that the man was looking at the same deadline he was.

And that mattered.

Maybe the slightest bit of color touched his face. ]

I do not want you to feel obligated.

[ Leave alone that if the man came out just then and said that Gold, himself, was obligated, he would probably set him on fire.

He rewords. ]

...I don't -- [ He shuts his eyes. ] -- make a habit of taking that sort of thing from people that don't want it. [ Or me. ]

[ Thing is, none of this feels casual to Carver. Before he got thrown into this place, he hadn’t been with anyone in years. Sometimes he’d lie down next to Fisher or Shaw in the dark, or reach out to clap his hand to their shoulder, hold them when they were injured, but the rest -

That died when the world fell. He had someone once, more than a decade ago, and that was good and real but he fucked it up. Chose his family, like how he always chooses his family. And then this place happened.

Carver tips his head back. ]

No one forces me.

[ No one. ]

You wouldn’t be taking anything from me.

Edited 2022-03-12 17:38 (UTC)

I believe you.

[ He makes a point to look at him when he says that. ]

It's still not something I'm accustomed to offering or being offered as something...owed.

[ Even when he was with his first wife, when things started to go bad, it wasn't as though he behaved as though he were entitled to anything from her. Sometimes she came to him and seemed confused, if not insulted it he was slow to respond. And maybe sometimes he took care of her out of some...obligation. To apologize for being less. Maybe hoping she would remember she loved him.

That was also centuries ago. ]

And I'd be lying if I didn't say there is something about you. But this is new territory for me.

[ Carver watches Gold for a long, silent moment. Uncomfortably, he remembers how it felt to be with Riley. That was a long time ago, ended even before the world fell, but he thinks about it sometimes. How it felt to have Riley sleeping next to him at night, when they were out of the Army and no one gave a shit what they did. His people knew - must have known - but no one said the words. And no one gave him shit when Riley finally got tired of dealing white Carver's shit and kicked him out.

These things happen. Kind of like how this is happening. ]

It's just a moment.

[ Nothing more, nothing less. Or he'd like it to be that way, anyhow. ]

You don't want to, then we won't.

[ He swallows. ]

It doesn't matter if I --

[ He's not going to finish that. He knows how it sounds, especially given what he just said. ]

[ Carver tips his head to the side. ]

I don’t force people, either.

[ Not with this. Never with this. He’ll take a knife and render a stranger into pieces if it means getting information his people need, but there are always lines.

There have to be. ]

You want me?

[ He tips his head back. The tattoo stark on his throat. ]

Maybe I want out of my head for a bit.

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