[Seasonal Event] Good Gourd

Amalia i'll light a fire in your new shoes Rory's praise lights a smile on the girl's face, igniting her with warmth as she continues to eye Deimos, her quiet gaze coaxing him to indulge her fancy and try a treat. His carefully concealed discomfort only heightens her need to appease, to incite some mirth onto that stoic face: a part of her aches to make set the world alight, though she struggles at time to keep her own inner fire lit. The curve of her lips deepens as he finally gives, acquiescing to her low entreaty with a single syllable yes. He takes a scone and she sets down the plate, letting it join the now-deceased gourd on the gut-splattered table, her attentive eyes never fully leaving his face. She loves this- the anticipation, the moment her work comes to fruition, the expressions that tell a truth no matter how one may try to hide. Food is a language, her grandmother would say. It is a language of honesty, and kindness, and love. You cannot hate someone you share a meal with, or the language will fail and the taste will fade to ash. Amalia is a girl of limited eloquence, but food is a language she can speak, and one she suspects the silent behemoth who inhabits her kitchen may be able to understand. It is only when he speaks again that she allows herself to grin, beaming broadly at the quiet praise, a vibrant echo of his shadow of a smile. "I'm glad." Warmth blooms in her cheeks and heart; at once she turns away from him, self-conscious, snatching up the butchered pumpkin and sweeping back toward the waiting oven, ready to deposit it within. She does not look at Rory, either, but busies herself with checking the far from ready seeds. But the smile stays, and the warmth: Amalia's heart flutters with trepidatious delight, heated by the simple pleasure of friends. image by tambako @ flickr.com

Rory

The scone was practically melting in his mouth: he couldn't help but imagine what a dangerously delicious combination it would be with some butter on it, melting and running between his fingers. Alas, butter was precious, probably best used for other things in a baker's kitchen, and besides—they were amazing anyway. Rory took another bite out of it, relishing both the taste and how he could pretend to be engrossed in it, while truly he was watching Deimos.

Was his senses fooling him, or had the larger man sort of stilled when Amalia approached? Like an animal unsure of your intentions—

Could it be that he, who seemed so rock solid, was uncertain beneath all that leather and muscle?

Perhaps, perhaps not; Rory took another bite of his scone, watching the other do the same. It was amazing what a little bit of baking could do. Magic, in a pure and simple form.

As the shadow of a smile flickered over Deimos's face and Amalia beamed in return, Rory let his attention go back wholly to his scone. He closed his eyes again, savoring the taste and the warmth, thinking about this—here—now, committing it to memory. Even if the sun was absent, there was warmth and light enough in here, and it eased something that had been tight and painful in his chest.

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