Not to hype it up too much, but I'm going to mix some cinnamon into the pancake batter, 'cause it's Christmas.
⟪ flora, it's november. early november.
she's back on her feet, though, and back by the stove. now, she wouldn't say that food is going to fix it, but she's had enough dark days to know that no food is usually worse, and there's something soothing in knowing that, even if he might not have an appetite, he's at least willing to give eating a try. pancake number two already spreads in the pan, and this is one's going to turn out perfect, she feels it. ⟫
( he repeats that like he's trying to grasp the passage of time, and glances out a window. no, can't be december yet, the house next door always puts up their lights on the first of the year. hyperbole. right, that's a thing that exists and that flora uses sometimes. he lets out his breath in a huff. )
It was always hard to tell on deployment. Hundred and twenty degrees never really felt like the holiday spirit, you know?
⟪ with holidays, it's not so much hyperbole and more of a... habit she's picked up ever since she managed to scrape her way off the streets. holidays are hard to miss, and that's just about the worst thing about them – nothing like a thirty-odd days-long stretch of reminders that this must be just about the loneliest time of an already lonely year. now that she has people to spend these times with, her enthusiasm is...
well. hard to rein in. but she hears his hesitation, catches the glance. he must have lost track of time, and hard, on his timeout. ⟫
No, I guess not. ⟪ can an unexpected turn still be expected? she flips a pancake, fetches a plate so it's ready to go. ⟫ The whole of it doesn't sound too much like it'd be feeling like any kind of cheer, to be honest.
( he pulls the plate towards himself when she puts it down. normally he'd insist that they eat together once there's enough, but he really is famished and knows she won't mind. he leans across the island so he can grab cutlery out of the drawer, butter's already on the countertop in a little dish. syrup... shit. cupboard?
honestly he doesn't even care. butter's enough for now. he's slathering it up as he continues; )
Hoi was a fucking Buddhist, but he — you know, he always found a way to decorate for the rest of us. We used to do this thing with ammo boxes. They were already green, so... you know. A couple strands of lights from back home, some kitschy candy canes, Jefferson's fucking... Harry Potter scarf. Gaudiest thing I've ever seen, I think his girlfriend made it or something. But we made it work.
( he doesn't talk about his team. but he always does swear more when he mentions anything military. call it a tic. )
⟪ they're not names she's heard before, hoi and jefferson. 'course, she knows where the syrup is, she bought the stuff in variations, and she sets the bottle of it down in front of him, even though he's already chosen butter. seeing him eat, and eagerly so, is as much of a relief as she thought it'd be, and she's not about to waste time watching when she could instead make some more pancakes. looks like he needs them.
and it keeps her hands busy while she wonders if hoi and jefferson are out there somewhere, too. jefferson with his girlfriend and (what she suspects might be his own, enthusiastically-purchased) harry potter mugs – they make mugs, right – having coffee in the morning. hoi, elsewhere, turning over for an extra five minutes. better that way than to think of the alternative.
she knows she's being overly optimistic. he's talked of the desert, even if it hadn't been much. ⟫
Somehow the only stockings I can picture got holes where the toes should be.
I will have you know, Kurik was an expert tailor. We used to pay him with smokes for all obligatory uniform mending.
( something about being raised by his grandma. he wishes he'd paid more attention. if he'd known how much those men would come to mean to him, he'd have listened more and talked less in those early days. and now the door is closed, no going back. )
⟪ there's the 'was' again, right by the image of a guy who was, what? maybe twenty? calling sam 'crowe' and wrangling his entire hand in the gash of a uniform shirt, incredulous or amused, but with a cigarette between his lips for sure.
she wonders how many things sam sees on the day to day that remind him of those friends. ⟫
Oh, I never really smoked. Cherry cigarillos a couple times a year.
( he was a highschool athlete with scholarship prospects. somebody would've killed him. whether it was his parents, or bill and hers, or his coach remains to be seen. plenty of rangers smoked, but sam'd learned by then to value his lungs. which is probably a good thing, now that he's missing part of one. )
But they were good currency. Kinda like prison that way.
⟪ flora's never had the money to waste on cigarettes, and really... most else had felt like a slope to fall down on. hell knows she's not drinking anything at all these days for good reason. ⟫
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⟪ flora, it's november. early november.
she's back on her feet, though, and back by the stove. now, she wouldn't say that food is going to fix it, but she's had enough dark days to know that no food is usually worse, and there's something soothing in knowing that, even if he might not have an appetite, he's at least willing to give eating a try. pancake number two already spreads in the pan, and this is one's going to turn out perfect, she feels it. ⟫
no subject
( he repeats that like he's trying to grasp the passage of time, and glances out a window. no, can't be december yet, the house next door always puts up their lights on the first of the year. hyperbole. right, that's a thing that exists and that flora uses sometimes. he lets out his breath in a huff. )
It was always hard to tell on deployment. Hundred and twenty degrees never really felt like the holiday spirit, you know?
no subject
well. hard to rein in. but she hears his hesitation, catches the glance. he must have lost track of time, and hard, on his timeout. ⟫
No, I guess not. ⟪ can an unexpected turn still be expected? she flips a pancake, fetches a plate so it's ready to go. ⟫ The whole of it doesn't sound too much like it'd be feeling like any kind of cheer, to be honest.
no subject
( he pulls the plate towards himself when she puts it down. normally he'd insist that they eat together once there's enough, but he really is famished and knows she won't mind. he leans across the island so he can grab cutlery out of the drawer, butter's already on the countertop in a little dish. syrup... shit. cupboard?
honestly he doesn't even care. butter's enough for now. he's slathering it up as he continues; )
Hoi was a fucking Buddhist, but he — you know, he always found a way to decorate for the rest of us. We used to do this thing with ammo boxes. They were already green, so... you know. A couple strands of lights from back home, some kitschy candy canes, Jefferson's fucking... Harry Potter scarf. Gaudiest thing I've ever seen, I think his girlfriend made it or something. But we made it work.
( he doesn't talk about his team. but he always does swear more when he mentions anything military. call it a tic. )
no subject
and it keeps her hands busy while she wonders if hoi and jefferson are out there somewhere, too. jefferson with his girlfriend and (what she suspects might be his own, enthusiastically-purchased) harry potter mugs – they make mugs, right – having coffee in the morning. hoi, elsewhere, turning over for an extra five minutes. better that way than to think of the alternative.
she knows she's being overly optimistic. he's talked of the desert, even if it hadn't been much. ⟫
Somehow the only stockings I can picture got holes where the toes should be.
no subject
( something about being raised by his grandma. he wishes he'd paid more attention. if he'd known how much those men would come to mean to him, he'd have listened more and talked less in those early days. and now the door is closed, no going back. )
no subject
she wonders how many things sam sees on the day to day that remind him of those friends. ⟫
Kinda hard to picture you with cigarettes.
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( he was a highschool athlete with scholarship prospects. somebody would've killed him. whether it was his parents, or bill and hers, or his coach remains to be seen. plenty of rangers smoked, but sam'd learned by then to value his lungs. which is probably a good thing, now that he's missing part of one. )
But they were good currency. Kinda like prison that way.
no subject
Probably more brotherly than straight up cash.