[ It will definitely not taste like his mother used to make, because his mother hadn't cooked once in her life. She was a warrior, like him. She had little in the way of nurturing skills, because Kree aren't typically called to be nurturers.
He's never had chicken and leek soup before, essentially. He looks from the tin to Havoc, a bit bewildered, framed in the rover doorway with the low hazy light streaming in behind him. Blood and dirt are smeared on his face, the side of his body. He looks wrung-out. ]
Thank you.
[ He's going to need a shower, first. ] Can you keep it warm?
She doesn't panic, because even with the emotional weight of caring whether he was injured or not, she's seen far worse. And despite her initial few seconds of silent observation, breath still in her lungs, eyes widened only just slightly- he's standing. Talking.
So Havoc only nods, resumes breathing, drops her gaze, curls her fingers around the tin. She can reheat it- that's the good thing about soup, after all. What made it so popular as a food for the ill and weak.]
I can. You go ahead.
[She could guess what steps came before eating in this scenario. She had others things she could do in the time being- but nothing, she found, that she would rather do, besides wait.
[ He reaches up, wipes the corner of his mouth, his hand coming away with a red stripe that makes him frown. His lungs have long since ceased bubbling, but his sinuses haven't entirely stopped leaking blood. It's annoying.
He steps past her and into the bathroom. Setting the shower to the hottest it can go, he lets the scalding water roll down his back and wash away the evidence of the day. The drain runs red from blood and black from dirt. His skin is an angry pink where he passes over it with the washcloth. In his mind he runs over the mission again, over and over, as if inspecting it for faults. Frustrated when he finds none, he steps out, drying himself as he goes.
Emerging back into the body of the rover, he pauses to consider her for a moment. He wonders if she feels strongly enough to be affected. Can she even parse it? Enough to want to feed him, obviously. ]
This is the soup you told me about? Chicken and leek, for illness.
[Waiting is never something that had bothered her- Contractor, Regressor, or... Whatever she was now. As a Contractor she'd lacked the impatience and sense of offense that led to such frustrations, and as a Regressor every moment seemed so full of stimulus that even if she was merely sitting, she never feel anything remotely close to bored. As it was now, she sat somewhere between the two, in a slightly disconnected slump, as if she physically (but only physically) shut down somewhat without others around, something that didn't turn in to movement until she heard the sounds of the shower ending and took herself to the stove, to reheating what little temperature had been lost.
It was better hot. But her mind is also on the mission as she stirs, repetitive as her thoughts. She'd done the best she could with her... Emotional situation, it could be said. No one she was charged with protecting got injured. The objectives she'd been set had been achieved. But it was unclear to her still what caused the end results, and the guilt in her ached for punishment of her own. Not out of masochism, but something else.
His voice is a welcome relief. The guilt is still heavy in her gaze (has been ever since that night), even through the wane smile she manages. The attempt at comfort that seemed to come with soup, with care. Something she'd felt once and wanted to feel again in order to give it away.]
Right. It's... More shille than chicken but. I did what I could.
[She's always been a long-range fighter, always been too powerful in her own world to come close to death... Save the time death actually came for her. She doesn't remember what her appetite had been like. It's with a slightly awkward pause that she follows up with.]
[ He considers the idea of 'comfort food' a strange one, and not something he'd encountered before Earth. Certainly, he enjoyed eating, in the sense of gaining nourishment, but the idea of food as a reward or for soothing emotional distress is new. The Kree are utilitarian in their cuisine, as are the Skrulls and most other alien cultures Noh-Varr knows. Humans attribute great significance to food, as a source of pleasure, a social vector. That Havoc wants to share this with him, he thinks, is significant.
His hands close around the tin. ]
Very.
[ It's the truth. He's famished. His body burned through a tremendous amount of energy in healing him so quickly, and he finds himself tipping the can back to drink it down. It's piping hot, and the warmth feels exceptionally good.
He drains the whole can of broth, leaving only chunks of vegetables and meat behind, which he then attacks with his spoon. It's very good--but not surprisingly good--and he doesn't believe he can solely attribute that to how hungry he is. ]
[There's pleasure in watching someone enjoy the food you've made. It's not something Havoc had ever considered nor would have been able to understand as a Contractor. Taking joy from just seeing others enjoying something. Being happy just because someone else was happy. If it didn't do something for you directly, what good was there in it?
She understood it slowly, awkwardly, gradually, as she relearned how to do things like smile, and laugh, and be glad for things as simple as a warm meal or a sunset.]
... I'm glad.
[And she was, no matter how understated her emotions were. She'd almost seemed more normal as a Contractor faking it, because the she'd always been sure to make the expressions at a noticeable level, use the commonly understood markers of each emotion she wanted to convey, when this... understated as it was, it was natural. Sincere. Small little bits of happiness that managed to show through the cloud of regrets and confusion.
She watches him eat with a quiet contentment, her smile warm despite it's weak appearance.]
I'll make you a better one once we have more supplies.
[ He eats, and eats, and eats, barely chewing. Humans consider it poor manners, but Noh-Varr's body is acutely aware of its own loss in vitamins and protein. The can is empty by the time Havoc speaks; Noh-Varr's eyes flicker from the edge of the tin to her face. She looks so pleased, almost nurturing, and he finds himself smiling in return.
He presents her the empty tin, looking almost mournful for its loss. ]
So there's no more?
[ They're low on food as-is, with their collective 'pantry' stocked with Kyrie meat and little else. Still, he's hopeful she might have seconds stashed away. What's more, he wants her to know he appreciates what she's given him--her care, her effort. Noh-Varr doesn't need to be cared for, but that Havoc is willing to offer it is a kindness he won't refuse. ]
[It's... kind of funny. The way he scarfs down the food. Even though she knows that it must be because everything he's been through has taken its toll, because he's starving and wanting for something to fill his stomach... it's funny.
Because he's still alive. He'll be fine. He wants seconds.
The laugh comes out of her in awkward, rusty stutters of sound, a bit deep for a woman her size, ending too soon as if she frightens herself with it and cuts herself off in shock. But that moment slowly blooms in an indulgent smile, something learned from time mimicking a woman long a mother, reaching out to pinch the edge of the empty tin in her fingertips, pulling it out of his hand.]
Maybe there's a little more.
[She's gathered ingredients from various other recruits with promises to pay them back, and there's still a bit left in the pot. Not enough to fill the tin back all the way-
But enough that she puts it back in his hand three-fourths full, and warm.]
[ Her laugh is strange. It's like watching a cat try to bark, or a bird croak. He can't help it, but he begins to laugh along with her, and it only becomes stronger when her own tapers off too fast to be natural. He finds the effect hilarious. Maybe the day's been too long, or he's too tired, but it feels like almost anything could set him off right now.
His grip on the tin slackens in his laughter, enough for her to pull it free without effort. Her words are what make him stop, but his laughing only trails away, lowered, his smile fixed in place, full of delight.
It's doubtful she understands the weight of what she gives him. ]
I'd like that.
[ He lets her take off with it, watching intently as she refills the tin. It isn't enough for a full second portion, but he'll take what he can get.
He won't be as quick, this time. He'll savor it. ]
[His laugh is nice. It's a good accompaniment to her own unnatural sounds, and she appreciates the way it builds, louder once hers stops, covering for its absence. It's warm sounding, alive sounding.
She likes it.
Havoc sits down once she releases the second partly-full tin in to his hand, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers lacing together. Watching, happy to be watching at all.]
Is there a song for times like these... ?
[The music that had seemed to make him so happy. The happiness in others that made her remember how happiness was supposed to look and feel.]
[ His amusement gives way to a brighter enthusiasm, and he's abruptly torn between staying where he is and eating, or moving past Havoc to where his records are. Hunger wins. ]
There's always a song.
[ It's said around a mouthful of soup, as he regards her with real warmth. He loves her budding interest, even if he doesn't say it in so many words. Watching Havoc blossom has been interesting. There's one track that comes to mind, almost instantly, and his gaze becomes more contemplative. ]
I can think of one. Do you know Nina Simone?
[ If Noh-Varr had his way, they'd broadcast Nina Simone across the reality spectrum, but alas. He'll have to settle for spreading the good news himself. ]
["There's always a song". That sounds nice, too. Always something that fit, always something that could be enjoyed. Positive. She supposed people needed something to keep going- whether it was a song, or whatever else could get them through the day.
It was about that, wasn't it. Getting through the day. Living, not just surviving.
(Contractors survived. But after you have a taste of living... you'll do anything to get it back.)
At the question, though, she can only shrug, her small smile turning sheepish.]
[ It's a small matter, so he moves away from her, taking the can with him. Absently, he sips from his soup with one hand and uses the free arm to move his record player into place, thumbing his records until that singular disc comes out. He considers it, his gaze vacant, remembering the feelings and memories he has associated with it. Soft crooning notes. Maybe Havoc will like this. Maybe she won't. But that's the beauty of it, isn't it? Music isn't always swelling happiness. ]
Here.
[ The track he puts on is, perhaps predictably, Sinnerman. It's Simone's best-known hit and one of her easiest to listen to. It opens with a brisk piano and doesn't let off.
He stands there in stark contrast to the powerful, sharp, unrelenting sound, eating slow and methodical. He doesn't look at her, his focus turned elsewhere, outwards. ]
[Maybe she will, and maybe she won't. That was the thing about blank slates, she supposed. When most everything was new, everything was fascinating- even Havoc couldn't guess what music she really liked, not having listened to enough of it. Oh, she'd heard plenty in her years as an agent- radio in the background, live music at events, classical at fine restaurants, buskers on street corners.
But she'd never really listened.
So she listened now, eyes closed, thumb rubbing along the two of her fingers stiffer than the rest absently in time to the pace, paying attention to everything she could. To lyrics, to sound, to the tone of voice. To don't you know I need you? The clapping sounded like something she'd heard in completely different context, in the village square as the men and women stamped their feet and clapped their hands, as the young jumped and whirled, skirts and scarves whirling with them, fast paced, celebration.
Contrasted with the lyrics, that made her think of running, (like she'd run for five years, from the group's who wanted her dead or activated as a Contractor once more.
Her fingers kept time, slowly, a slight tap of her knee joined in.
I need you.
Havoc waits until the gap, spin of the record, to murmur,]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
unfavoured
aggressively actions!!!
He's never had chicken and leek soup before, essentially. He looks from the tin to Havoc, a bit bewildered, framed in the rover doorway with the low hazy light streaming in behind him. Blood and dirt are smeared on his face, the side of his body. He looks wrung-out. ]
Thank you.
[ He's going to need a shower, first. ] Can you keep it warm?
aggresively loves the aggressive action
She doesn't panic, because even with the emotional weight of caring whether he was injured or not, she's seen far worse. And despite her initial few seconds of silent observation, breath still in her lungs, eyes widened only just slightly- he's standing. Talking.
So Havoc only nods, resumes breathing, drops her gaze, curls her fingers around the tin. She can reheat it- that's the good thing about soup, after all. What made it so popular as a food for the ill and weak.]
I can. You go ahead.
[She could guess what steps came before eating in this scenario. She had others things she could do in the time being- but nothing, she found, that she would rather do, besides wait.
Worry, however fruitless an endeavor.]
no subject
He steps past her and into the bathroom. Setting the shower to the hottest it can go, he lets the scalding water roll down his back and wash away the evidence of the day. The drain runs red from blood and black from dirt. His skin is an angry pink where he passes over it with the washcloth. In his mind he runs over the mission again, over and over, as if inspecting it for faults. Frustrated when he finds none, he steps out, drying himself as he goes.
Emerging back into the body of the rover, he pauses to consider her for a moment. He wonders if she feels strongly enough to be affected. Can she even parse it? Enough to want to feed him, obviously. ]
This is the soup you told me about? Chicken and leek, for illness.
no subject
It was better hot. But her mind is also on the mission as she stirs, repetitive as her thoughts. She'd done the best she could with her... Emotional situation, it could be said. No one she was charged with protecting got injured. The objectives she'd been set had been achieved. But it was unclear to her still what caused the end results, and the guilt in her ached for punishment of her own. Not out of masochism, but something else.
His voice is a welcome relief. The guilt is still heavy in her gaze (has been ever since that night), even through the wane smile she manages. The attempt at comfort that seemed to come with soup, with care. Something she'd felt once and wanted to feel again in order to give it away.]
Right. It's... More shille than chicken but. I did what I could.
[She's always been a long-range fighter, always been too powerful in her own world to come close to death... Save the time death actually came for her. She doesn't remember what her appetite had been like. It's with a slightly awkward pause that she follows up with.]
Hungry?
no subject
His hands close around the tin. ]
Very.
[ It's the truth. He's famished. His body burned through a tremendous amount of energy in healing him so quickly, and he finds himself tipping the can back to drink it down. It's piping hot, and the warmth feels exceptionally good.
He drains the whole can of broth, leaving only chunks of vegetables and meat behind, which he then attacks with his spoon. It's very good--but not surprisingly good--and he doesn't believe he can solely attribute that to how hungry he is. ]
It's delicious.
[ Soon to be was delicious. ]
no subject
She understood it slowly, awkwardly, gradually, as she relearned how to do things like smile, and laugh, and be glad for things as simple as a warm meal or a sunset.]
... I'm glad.
[And she was, no matter how understated her emotions were. She'd almost seemed more normal as a Contractor faking it, because the she'd always been sure to make the expressions at a noticeable level, use the commonly understood markers of each emotion she wanted to convey, when this... understated as it was, it was natural. Sincere. Small little bits of happiness that managed to show through the cloud of regrets and confusion.
She watches him eat with a quiet contentment, her smile warm despite it's weak appearance.]
I'll make you a better one once we have more supplies.
no subject
He presents her the empty tin, looking almost mournful for its loss. ]
So there's no more?
[ They're low on food as-is, with their collective 'pantry' stocked with Kyrie meat and little else. Still, he's hopeful she might have seconds stashed away. What's more, he wants her to know he appreciates what she's given him--her care, her effort. Noh-Varr doesn't need to be cared for, but that Havoc is willing to offer it is a kindness he won't refuse. ]
no subject
Because he's still alive. He'll be fine. He wants seconds.
The laugh comes out of her in awkward, rusty stutters of sound, a bit deep for a woman her size, ending too soon as if she frightens herself with it and cuts herself off in shock. But that moment slowly blooms in an indulgent smile, something learned from time mimicking a woman long a mother, reaching out to pinch the edge of the empty tin in her fingertips, pulling it out of his hand.]
Maybe there's a little more.
[She's gathered ingredients from various other recruits with promises to pay them back, and there's still a bit left in the pot. Not enough to fill the tin back all the way-
But enough that she puts it back in his hand three-fourths full, and warm.]
no subject
His grip on the tin slackens in his laughter, enough for her to pull it free without effort. Her words are what make him stop, but his laughing only trails away, lowered, his smile fixed in place, full of delight.
It's doubtful she understands the weight of what she gives him. ]
I'd like that.
[ He lets her take off with it, watching intently as she refills the tin. It isn't enough for a full second portion, but he'll take what he can get.
He won't be as quick, this time. He'll savor it. ]
no subject
She likes it.
Havoc sits down once she releases the second partly-full tin in to his hand, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers lacing together. Watching, happy to be watching at all.]
Is there a song for times like these... ?
[The music that had seemed to make him so happy. The happiness in others that made her remember how happiness was supposed to look and feel.]
no subject
There's always a song.
[ It's said around a mouthful of soup, as he regards her with real warmth. He loves her budding interest, even if he doesn't say it in so many words. Watching Havoc blossom has been interesting. There's one track that comes to mind, almost instantly, and his gaze becomes more contemplative. ]
I can think of one. Do you know Nina Simone?
[ If Noh-Varr had his way, they'd broadcast Nina Simone across the reality spectrum, but alas. He'll have to settle for spreading the good news himself. ]
no subject
It was about that, wasn't it. Getting through the day. Living, not just surviving.
(Contractors survived. But after you have a taste of living... you'll do anything to get it back.)
At the question, though, she can only shrug, her small smile turning sheepish.]
No, sorry.
[But she seemed willing to find out.]
no subject
Here.
[ The track he puts on is, perhaps predictably, Sinnerman. It's Simone's best-known hit and one of her easiest to listen to. It opens with a brisk piano and doesn't let off.
He stands there in stark contrast to the powerful, sharp, unrelenting sound, eating slow and methodical. He doesn't look at her, his focus turned elsewhere, outwards. ]
no subject
But she'd never really listened.
So she listened now, eyes closed, thumb rubbing along the two of her fingers stiffer than the rest absently in time to the pace, paying attention to everything she could. To lyrics, to sound, to the tone of voice. To don't you know I need you? The clapping sounded like something she'd heard in completely different context, in the village square as the men and women stamped their feet and clapped their hands, as the young jumped and whirled, skirts and scarves whirling with them, fast paced, celebration.
Contrasted with the lyrics, that made her think of running, (like she'd run for five years, from the group's who wanted her dead or activated as a Contractor once more.
Her fingers kept time, slowly, a slight tap of her knee joined in.
I need you.
Havoc waits until the gap, spin of the record, to murmur,]
I like the words.
[Eyes still closed.]