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[anewlanguage]

[Cain has flour on his cheek, and he's in the kitchen, taking a break.] Y'know, worldwide there's room for comfort food after a real shitty day. I'm takin' requests.

Me, I always went for pierogis. Stayed in Poland just long enough to learn how to make 'em. [And to kill a diplomat. But. You know.] Kid seemed to like 'em pretty well, too. Pretty sure tastes change, though...

Anyway, give 'em here, give me all your requests.

Comments

[private]

[anewlanguage]

They're cinnamon-sugar coated pastries. In these long, star-shaped sticks. Pretty good, from what I can tell.

[But he pulls her over, hand roughly in her hair, and kisses her. For a good long while.

He feels shame for taking comfort afterward, but what can you do.]

[routemistress]

[He smells of flour and spices and pain, the sort of pain she can't touch, and Iris throws herself into the kiss with everything she has, because of everything she can't do to fix it.]

S'pose we should find a recipe or summat. I daresay Dean'd notice if we just made it up as we went along.

[Just going to talk about cooking.]

[anewlanguage]

[Another one of those humorless chuckles. He and Dean are not great.

He picks her up, instead, and sets her on a table.]

Maybe I'd rather make something for you.

[routemistress]

[She loves it when he does that. And she didn't miss the bitter in that chuckle, or the non-private parts of the conversation; there will, she resolves, be some kind of olive branch for Dean later. She did promise.

The table puts her at his eye level, and she looks across at him, her smile the barest wry suggestion on her lips.]

...We still talkin' food 'ere, are we?

[anewlanguage]

Pretty sure my Warden's goin' to kill me. Might as well eat drink and be merry while we can, right?

[He smiles back at her, darkly suggestive. But also very raw. He leans in, and at the last second instead of kissing her he just lays his head on her shoulder. He needs her. He's damn well going to let himself need her right now.]

[routemistress]

[It's like watching something crack. Iris was more than prepared to take this the usual way; drown the real stuff out in sensation and banter, and another time they would have - another time they probably will.

But this isn't unexpected, either; it's not like she couldn't see that need under the surface. It's not like she didn't see this coming.

There's nothing she can say that wouldn't just be noise; no words that can change anything, so she says nothing and just holds him there, stroking the back of his head, loving him regardless, in spite of everything. Just being there.]

[anewlanguage]

[He's not one of those people who's joked about being unable to cry. He hasn't in a very long time, he doesn't keep track of how long. But he doesn't cry now.

It's somehow too deep for that.

Those little, scarce pleasant memories he has with Cassandra were his anchors and one of them is gone. It makes them all feel dirty and suspect, and he could see her hatred of him when he spoke to her earlier.

He feels very, very sick just now.]

Want a drink after m'shift? [He asks, in a hoarse croak.]

[routemistress]

[She can't tell what it is he's lost: the only memories Iris has walked through are the ones that were hers already. The rest of his life is a nebulous shape to her, a dark landscape she knows only from stories told and the limited view from her path.

Nonetheless, the seismic shift in it is plainly perceptible; would, in this moment, have been perceptible if she had nothing but her eyesight to go on. She answers him softly.]

Aye. Always. Want me to stay?

[anewlanguage]

Yeah. But it's probably better if you go make sure things are okay out there. No angry mobs to dodge.

[He doesn't want to let her go just yet, though.]

[routemistress]

[She's not going anywhere. But if something doesn't break the tension Iris is going to cry, so she gets in first.]

Pfft, let 'em come. I tell you I shot Batman in the paintball?

[anewlanguage]

[He lifts his head to look at her, and then to laugh.]

Yeah, where'd you hit him?

[routemistress]

[She still has her hand on the back of his neck, and the tears are still threatening in the back of her throat. Iris loves that she can throw a rope and count on him to catch it. She's so tired now. She's cried on this man what feels like too much for a lifetime already.]

Right in the... well, to be honest, 'e shot me first, so I didn't get good look. But I did paint 'im pink.

[anewlanguage]

Bet he looked pretty, too. [His arm slides around her waist and he rests his head on her shoulder again. Just five more minutes, he wants to say, but he doesn't think he could manage to make it sound like a joke.]

Hey what team were you on anyway?

[routemistress]

I rigged up a machine gun. Didn't reckon I'd 'ave a chance else.

[...just try getting rid of her. Although she's been up since Silent Hill, had her own inmate holding her at gunpoint, still has stitches holding her leg together, and may pass out before much longer.]

Pink. Me and Wade teamed up anyway, though. There was cannons.