bat winged man eating lion (mortale) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2015-12-15 11:08:00 |
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It wasn't the scrape of kitchen utensils or the smell of something cooking that had Cas stirring, but it certainly contributed to the groggy confusion he directed toward the ceiling once his eyes had opened. His clothes, but not his bed, not his place. Waking up in someone else's bed was no real surprise — it was the sheer exhaustion in his bones that gave him pause, all of Hector's bruises imprinted in his skin, and everything that day before had offered humming in his veins. He lay there for a while, coiled in Ireland's sheets and losing track of the time slowly but surely. Eventually enough was enough and he was up, forgoing all the tucks ins that normally accompanied his careful morning ritual. Half-unkempt and tired still, Castor followed the sounds originating from the small kitchen and leaned, dazedly, up against the open doorframe to watch the other blonde from behind. The absence of the B52's terrible racket of a floor made him quiet, and he stayed that way for the moment, trailing his gaze down Ireland's spine and over the back of his shoulders. He stirred the mixture inside the bowl, dipped the contents onto the frying pan and continued adding to the stack of pancakes. Normally he would do something else for breakfast but since Castor had missed the pancakes from yesterday, there would be a repeat this morning. One stack with chocolate chips and another with blueberries. Leftovers to be slipped inside the fridge in case Dix showed up with an appetite. Despite the high tensions yesterday, at home Ireland was lethargic, at ease. "You can sit down, breakfast is almost done." Ireland turned, soft at the edges(domestic - he could do this with as much ease as handling the navigation charts on the B52). A quick smile. "Made pancakes." Ireland crossed the small space, it was such a tiny apartment, and offered Castor a spatula covered in batter. "They say it's not good for you, but want to try anyway?" The offered utensil was eyed for some moments as his captain didn't trust his voice to work just yet — and it was easier, sometimes, to communicate with no words when it came to Ireland. He reached out and took the spatula in careful fingers, avoiding eyes as he sampled the corner with only minor (fleeting) self-consciousness. Pressed it back into Ireland's hand before he'd even swallowed and slipped past without a word (not out of rudeness, not in this). Ireland, on the other hand, had no compunctions about shoving the spatula in his mouth before dumping it in the sink. The invitation to sit had been needed: he already felt like he was imposing, intruding, almost, as he took that seat, his elbows coming down on the tabletop. A plate with a generous stack of pancakes, and bacon on the side was deposited before Castor. "Blueberry and chocolate chip, thought you might like bacon." He steered away from discussing the reasons for Castor's stay, thrown off kilter by the strange realization that he wanted Castor there, stepping over the threshold of his very private life. They were about to be privy to many things about each other's lives, undoubtedly, a realization that hadn't yet hit Castor himself as he set his gaze on that looming stack of pancakes instead. He was both hungry and horrified at the sight, but not so much was evident in his eyes as he glanced up. Faltered, for a moment. "Is this for one morning, or a week?" Roughness around the edges of his words; he hadn't spoken since waking up. "One morning." Large quantities were a must when Dix was around to eat, "Going to make sure you eat properly, and drink as well." A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice was pushed in his direction. Ireland was always happy to fill in the silence, smoothing Castor's rough edges. "You seemed to have slept well." Though whether that was due to a lot of exercise or just emotional exhaustion, Ireland was not sure. Both, really, and the light bruising around his captain's wrist, scattered up his forearm, said as much of the former as he leaned over for that juice, intent on clearing out the hoarseness. The combination of Seo-Jun (shooting those lights had been horribly cathartic, more than anticipated) and Hector (always rough, always the right person to unwind him in more ways than one) had been ideal, and Ireland welcoming him into this other, hidden part of his life was — like being strangled with something that could have been, and probably was, relief. Against the rim of the glass, he mumbled, "Because your bed is a goddamn marshmallow." Sipped, grimaced slightly when the aftertaste of batter met with pulp. It was slightly bitter, no sugar added but Ireland liked it, thought it was healthier . His glass hiding the smile at the comment made by his captain. "Dix likes comfortable beds." Ireland added the comment the way he did everything else that related to his proclaimed platonic soulmate: happy, proud, and amused. "Can't have him crashing somewhere uncomfortable." Although, he would admit that Dix was right, marshmallow beds were much better than the bunks of their ship. That was an argument that could be met with agreement from all crew, even captains who had once spent time in their own before the single room upgrade. Castor replaced the glass in hand with the fork, but paused, suddenly uncertain of where to even start on the plate. Christ. He fiddled with it in his fingers, halting that decision. "You didn't have to give it to me, you know. I'd be fine with the couch." A comment that made Ireland pause, fork halfway to his mouth and he shot Castor a mock incredulous look, as if the notion of that happening was more than ridiculous(and in Ireland's world view it was, no guest in this situation ought to be left on the couch). "The couch does not fit you properly." Or Ireland for that matter, "The bed fits two for a reason." But he was not going to get into the same bed as Castor, it was an issue of boundaries and respect. He was still his captain. The pancakes were good, Ireland gave himself a mental pat on the back in appreciation and chewed slowly. The descent of Castor's fork was a little more unsure where it cut through three pancakes at once, if only to do something with it rather than nothing at all. Close quarters in one bed were, in theory, a far better alternative than having Ireland banished to a couch that didn't fit his equally tall frame properly, either. He sighed. Metal clattered where he set the fork down. "So get into bed with me or alternate for the couch, Ireland, because you not sleeping properly because of me being here is not okay." "Funny coming from you." But there was no heat to his words, no judgement - nothing but mild attempt at humour along with the smell of fresh breakfast; all so painfully domestic. "We can share the bed." There was nothing awkward about this. Nothing at all. "But now eat or it'll get cold. Bacon is good, right? I figured most people like bacon." Since he didn't eat meat, but kept it at hand for his sort-of roommate. Ireland was watched for another moment, as if in quiet disbelief of the first half of that, and with no protest to offer (Castor couldn't be bothered, not now), that fork was picked up once more. Tapped, lightly, against the side of the plate. He didn't want to argue at this hour, though he was sure it wasn't early by any real standards. The forgotten utensil was pressed into a piece of pancake, but not lifted yet. "I'm not— trying to be ungrateful," he pointed out quietly, the words almost stunted; he'd always had a difficult time saying Thank you, where Sorry was less like sand in his mouth. He knew how to admit his mistakes when they were made clear. And so the sigh came again, irritable— irritated with himself. "I don't know how I'm so fucking bad at this. Don't even listen to the shit that comes out of my mouth anymore." After smearing his personal business on the network so publicly, word vomiting his past on Star, it was safer for everyone if he shut up. Except Ireland was in firm disagreement of this. His hand reached over, fingers and fork trapped beneath in a steady grip. "Don't really mind it though." Words were a tool Ireland employed with frequency; at times he felt like he was repeating himself ad infinitum and ought to stop(but he thought the reminders were needed, every single step until the point was sunk inside - beneath Castor's armour until there were no questions). "Whatever you say to me, don't worry about it. I know what you mean." Tyler had been such a surly addition to his life, Castor was easier to deal with: a softness to him that Tyler lacked, a degree of control, a touch of hope. "I won't argue that you're not very good with 'this', but you're very good with other things." Ireland didn't just know, he understood, the sum of all parts made Castor the captain he had sworn to follow. Flaws and virtues. The look that his guest shot him was half out of exhaustion, half exasperation. "It's too early for compliments," he mumbled and received a beaming smile in return. Ireland had not intended for his words to be a compliment, but well, if they had come out like that - in his opinion- Castor was always deserving of one.
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