Who: Kat and Job What: The Morning After When: Morning after this. Where: Job’s apartment (Hamartia 103) Warnings: Job is morally opposed to clothes and makes little sense half the time, and Kat's grasp on 'polite conversation' is a little dubious, but by this point that's not a warning so much as fact. References to "the night before", but nothing graphic or even descriptive other than 'vague but specific and anatomically correct'.
Katya had taken one look in Job’s fridge and questioned just how the man stayed healthy. Donning one of his spare t-shirts and the pair of black denim shorts she wore over to his apartment, she had taken a quick trip to the store, ignoring the odd looks she received from various passerbys. She bought all of the essentials for a breakfast consisting of pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon, and coffee.
When she returned to his apartment, she took a quick shower and only bothered to put on his shirt once more before she set about making breakfast. Katya hummed quietly to herself as she mixed the batter for the pancakes and scrambled the eggs. She had two pans going on the stove and two plates warming in the oven. It was almost time to wake Job up. Job was already awake. It was a relatively recent development, and one he regretted almost immediately once he managed to get his eyes open - everything was far too loud, far too present, far too everything. He raised his head to survey the room, logging such important pieces of information as glue-factor, ambient temperature, and sense of balance. There was no lurch, which was good, but everything felt leaden and his head felt like it was filled with industrial cotton, so maybe not so good after all.
And half of the bed was half-cold. He’d had company, which explained the garbled images his brain was presenting him with. Nothing really salient, but...definitely company. He found himself pleased with this.
Pulling himself out of bed was really more falling than getting upright. It was something of a miracle he didn’t hit the floor, although his shin did take the brunt of the collision. He shouted and cursed. It neither removed the throb nor gained an apology from the offending object (a table, and he was pretty sure it hadn’t been there last night), but it made him feel better. Sort of. Feet, one in front of the other, and he wasn’t bothering with clothes. His skin still itched, like there were thousands of termites under the surface. It wasn’t a day for clothes.
Finally emerging in the kitchen, he took an experimental sniff and gave a questioning grunt, eying the redhead at the stovetop through a blearily puzzled gaze. Well that answered that. It was also too early for words, evidently. He blamed his tongue; it still felt a size or two too big, and unprecedentedly furry besides. “Coffee!” came the muddled demand, an arm extended out in front of him as he pointed at her, head still lowered because it just required too much effort to keep it where it was supposed to be. Katya heard him before she saw him, the shouting and cursing giving away the fact that he was awake. She flipped the switch on the coffee maker and it began percolating immediately. The eggs were nearly done and there were just a few more pieces of sausage and bacon that needed cooking. She opened the oven and bent down, peering in to see how everything was holding up. Everything looked quite nice.
By the time Job made it into the kitchen, Katya already had two mugs sitting next to the coffee maker and it was almost done brewing. She had finished off the eggs, piling them onto the two plates in the oven and turned her attention mostly on the breakfast meat. A quick glance over her shoulder told her that he was hungover, mildly awake, and very very naked. She didn’t mind any of those things. His grunted request didn’t phase her either, and she had a hot cup of coffee, black, in his hand a moment later. She pressed a kiss to his cheek as she did so, before turning back to the stovetop. “Are you hungry for breakfast?” she asked, careful to keep her voice at a reasonable level so as not to give him a headache. Which reminded her...”I also have Advil,” she added, glancing over her shoulder once more. Fingers closed around the mug, more to keep it from dropping than because he quite wanted the contents. It felt heavy in his hand, but he corrected the drop before he lost too much of its precious nectar, blinking in puzzlement at the pressure against his cheek as if he was searching for the definition. It escaped him at the moment, and so he let it pass with little more than a bemused grunt, other arm dropping to his side uselessly. And then she was gone, or at least away. Good; she was irritating the termites.
Job raised his hand again, this time to press the heel of it against his eyes in an attempt to relieve some of the pounding. It didn’t. Tattoos bunched and jumped with the movement, the rest of them itching in sympathy, but he knew that had to be in his head. It didn’t make them itch any less. “Maybe,” he muttered, sounding uncertain even to his own ears. “And I don’t need drugs. ...More drugs.” He sniffed, then dropped his hand, fixing her with an intent gaze marred only slightly by bloodshot and unfocused eyes. “But more importantly. Who are you, what are you doing here, and why are you using my kitchen?” Katya bent down and pulled both plates out of the oven, setting them on the counter carefully to add the last bit of breakfast while he got acquainted with his cup of coffee. She set the pans in the already filled sink, but she was pleased with the relative lack of mess she had made of his kitchen cooking breakfast. She shrugged with her back still to him at his answer about the advil (it was his choice after all) and brought each plate over to the (scrubbed and clean) kitchen table.
His question merely garnered a raised eyebrow from her as she sat at the table. “I am making breakfast for you, which will get cold if you let it sit too long. I am Katya, I sent you cookies when your article was published. You called me a tease, and I am fairly certain I proved that I could follow through with what I say,” Kat replied, a teasing smile tugging at her lips as she took a bite of her scrambled eggs. “Come on, eat. It will help with the over hang.” The explanation received a critical look, eyes narrowed in mistrust as he raised the mug to sip from it carefully. Another few minutes passed until he was satisfied that she wasn’t there to kill him or poison anything, and he shuffled over to the table, first lowering the mug before sliding into the chair opposite.
After a moment he slid his chair back to duck his head under the table to verify there wasn’t anything untoward hidden underneath. No microphones, no ninjas, no bombs or weapons caches or anything. There wasn’t. Just empty space, floor, underside of table, and...knees. And things that were above knees. He spared a moment for a glance he probably shouldn’t have indulged in, then reversed as fast as he could, cracking his head against the table in the rush.
It hurt, made his brain echo in ways it wasn’t meant to. Job cursed. Loudly and creatively. Then scowled at the table as he straightened the rest of the way, and took a sip from his mug mutinously.
“Hangover,” he muttered in correction of her encouragement, and pulled one of the plates closer to himself before poking at its contents with his fork. It didn’t look like most of the things he ate. They came in cartons, or strange piles of burnt matter, or bowls. Not on plates with recognizable shapes. “...You’re wearing my shirt.” He hadn’t realized until just now, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about the development. There was another moment, a few blinks as more pieces fell into place. “We...?” Katya was completely at ease for a freshly showered woman wearing nothing but a man’s t-shirt, oversized as it was. She ate unconcernedly as he dipped his head beneath the table, though she didn’t bother shifting to cover herself. She wasn’t the type to be ashamed of her body, and he had certainly enjoyed it last night. A smirk was hidden behind a forkful of pancakes as he banged his head on the table and cursed rather colorfully. A different sort of girl might’ve blushed.
“Hangover,” she repeated quietly, more to herself than anything. Katya always strove to learn as much as possible. “Yes I am,” she confirmed, glancing down at the random grey shirt that had some sort of person on it that made no sense to her. “Do you mean did we have sex? Yes, quite a bit. Thank you for your vigorous efforts. You are quite talented.” An honest answer from the redhead wouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone else, but for Job, it might have been. She enjoyed more of her breakfast while she waited for that particular answer to seep through past the fog of alcohol. That explained the flashes of tangled limbs that kept cropping up when he wasn’t paying attention. He speared some pancake and meat product experimentally before shoving it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully, ignoring the lurch his stomach gave at the intrusion. He needed food more than he needed its absence, he would not be fought on this by his own body. “Enthusiastic. Experienced. Probably desperate, if it started with an ‘e’. ‘Talented’ would not be a word I would use. But you’re welcome to shower compliments on my prowess anyway.” It was too early to sound surprised by anything that came out of her mouth, too early and too...loud. He slurped at his coffee some more, the world coming into sharper focus around him as the caffeine and bitter started to burn off some of the lead. Katya shrugged, enjoying her breakfast despite his nitpicking. “You really should take better care of yourself, Job. Your kitchen is very poorly stocked. I have remedied this for now. Your groceries should last a week,” she replied, glancing at him. His own nudity didn’t particularly register with her; she was more concerned about his hangover.
“It is sex and you have an average sized penis, talent makes it enjoyable not enthusiasm. I particularly enjoyed...reverse cowgirl I believe you called it,” Katya added, spearing a piece of sausage off her plate and taking a generous bite. “Why would- You-” The commentary on the sex went unnoticed in the face of the larger issue; the invasion of his cabinets and refrigerator. “You went shopping?! That’s...My kitchen’s fine! I’ve got the basics, and that’s all I need, why...? That’s not even- I don’t-” He sputtered for another few moments aloud, and then continued the one-sided argument in a mutter as he glared at his food, a word discernible every now and again around a mouthful. Things like ‘hamster in a cage’ and ‘throttling octopus’; nothing that would have made any kind of sense without context, which was in distinct absence.
Finally he quieted, evidently having come to some kind of conclusion. “Do you usually go around stocking people’s cabinets for them after fucking them? Because ‘intent to invade privacy’ is probably the kind of information that’s useful to know in advance.” At first she thought she had offended him with her frank observation, but she soon realized he was worked up over something as trivial as food shopping. Kat did her best to hide her smile behind her own cup of coffee as he started muttering under his breath. He really was rather adorable, though she thought that observation might be best kept to herself. “Of course I went shopping. There was hardly anything appropriate for breakfast. I paid for everything, there is nothing to get so worked up over,” she replied dismissively. As far as she was concerned, she had done something nice for him.
She actually paused to consider the answer to his question carefully. “No, not stocking their cabinets. Most men I have sex with have the appropriate ingredients for breakfast, which I frequently make the next morning. If they do not, I purchase them and make breakfast. You are a...hmm...special case, yes? An exception?” “But they’re my cabinets,” he muttered mutinously, ignoring the fact that it made him sound like a petulant child. His things were his things, and he didn’t appreciate people touching them without asking first. Although. It could have been worse; in the grand scheme of things cabinets were nothing - if she’d touched his laptop it would have been a much more egregious offense.
“I’m a Journalist,” he corrected her, as if that were truly an explanation let alone a distinction actually worth making. “I only need the basics; I can survive on shoe leather and cat litter if I have to.” He seemed strangely proud of this absurd and - probably - exaggerated fact, straightening in his seat and grinning at her challengingly, daring her to argue. Katya merely arched an eyebrow at his muttered reply. Really, he was quite cranky for someone who had just woken up from multiple rounds of vigorous sex. It wasn’t as if she had cleaned or redecorated. She had merely purchased groceries for the man. His reply about just what he needed to survive really was just too much.
“Shoe leather and cat litter? Honestly, you are not an animal,” she reminded him, her tone making it quite obvious that she disapproved. “Journalists are respected, yes? You should be properly attired and well nourished as well.” Given the state of the apartment, she didn’t think he had anyone living with him. “If you have no one to insist that you do these things, I will do so,” she offered. And the narrowed eyes, evaluating her every move with laserlike intensity, were back. “Why?” People didn’t just...offer to, to...to buy your groceries, not unless there was something they were expecting out of it. But what?
And then, he had it. It was there, blinking, glittering, SHINING right in front of him. And why hadn’t he seen it before?
“NO.” He stared at her openly, aghast and more than a little bewildered. “No, no, NO. That’s....just...NO.” Katya gave him a confused look. She didn’t understand why he was asking her about her motives. They were from the kindness of her heart. She did good, acted kindly toward those who were kind to her. Job had treated her well sexually, and was more confusing than anything else. Plus, everyone deserved to have someone take care of them. She had Gideon, Scarlette, and perhaps even Roger. She wasn’t too sure where she stood with him.
His abrupt repetition of the word ‘no’ startled her. “No what?” she asked, completely unaware of what he meant. “I just wish to help you. Why are you so adamant that I do not?” “This isn’t going to turn into some...twisted barter system. I’m not fucking you for groceries. I’m just not. I have enough on my plate as it is without throwing in Adult Bartering too.” Somewhere he knew he was overreacting, that in the grand scheme of things this was actually fairly usual behavior in most circles, but he didn’t care. It was early, termites were still under his skin somewhere, a fact evident by a sudden all-consuming itch under his shoulder blade he was determined to get to, and the coffee wasn’t working fast enough. He took another few bites of his food, and another sip of the liquid caffeine, and looked at her pointedly. Katya was beyond confused. Fucking for groceries? “People do that?” she asked, utterly bewildered at the concept. “Why would anyone have sex for groceries? That is just...odd. Do people not have sex for the enjoyment of sex? I assure you I am very satisfied. I did not make breakfast because I was dissatisfied. I only wish to help,” she added, glancing down at her plate unhappily. She was upset that he seemed to think so poorly of her. “It has nothing to do with whether you’re satisfied or not and everything to do with balance,” he commented, almost as if he were giving instruction. “Give and take. Everything is a give and take. And if you don’t think so, you’re not looking close enough. And I REFUSE TO BE PART OF THE SYSTEM.” He huffed loudly, but the new forkful he shoved in his mouth indicated that he truly wasn’t as against certain elements of it as he was claiming. “You are very odd,” she commented, returning to her breakfast. Kat was no longer concerned with any fears she might have had before. He was just odd, and his quirks just made him that much more interesting. In his own way. She, however, was concerned with what his apparent isolation seemed to be doing to him. She made a mental note to check in on him from time to time, as both Katya and Starfire. He was bright; he’d figure out that she was Starfire after seeing or speaking with her. With that, she finished up her breakfast and brought her plate to the sink setting about washing the dishes. “Just figured that out, did you?” Job asked with a toothy grin before draining his mug. His plate was still half full, but he figured he’d finish it later. That or leave it for the rats and cockroaches; if he was going to be sharing the space with them he figured he might as well feed them now and again. “I prefer to think I have character. And you’re a redhead, so now we’ve gotten past ‘state the obvious’ time.”
He rose from the chair, bored with being stationary, and stretched, taking his time. His fingers were itching now, joining the lingering itch behind his shoulderblade but for a completely different reason; he needed to write. He wasn’t sure what about, it was more of a compulsion than any desire for productivity, as it always was when he was amongst vast numbers of people. He might not even write anything in full, and he still had a half-finished article collecting cobwebs, but that required Inspiration, not need. “I am indeed,” she replied with a smirk, knowing that they both knew full well that she was a natural red head. His movements didn’t go unnoticed, but Katya focused her attention on the dishes. Once they were done, she wrapped up what food was left and tucked it in the oven for him to heat up later if he wanted to. Wordlessly, she disappeared into his bedroom and dressed, keeping his t-shirt, though it looked oddly matched against her short shorts and high heels.
She walked up behind him and placed a kiss on his cheek, not bothered by his nudity in the slightest. “I will see you soon, Mr. Arakkis,” she promised before walking out the front door and closing it behind her.