text | un: sds

[fogsong]

My mother, Rose Da Silva, has returned to the ocean. I know she was close to a lot of people here and I thought it was important to let everyone know.

[ She hadn’t wanted to tell anyone, truth be told, but she knew she couldn’t selfishly hold onto the information when Rose knew and cared about so many people in this place and vice versa. But even this small amount of public acknowledgment cuts her to the bone. ]

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[grice]

[ that's enough compromise that he'll accept, even with the smallest of grateful smiles. he nods— they could help each other, as intended. giving her a soft thank you, falco returns the crutch's underarm pad where it should be, erects his posture and follows her inside. ]

It's nothing much . . . Like an injury, or something— [ that's to reassure her. ] I stayed quadrupedal for a really long time. It starts feeling more comfortable to walk that way, and . . . I forget.

[ since it actually feels more natural. he now has greater respect for pieck, who actually can stay this way for months on end. ]

It's just for me to remind myself to walk straight until it feels natural again. It should only take a few days.

[fogsong]

[ the way he phrases that makes her scrutinize him, searching for any obvious issues as if she could peel back his clothing and skin with just her gaze to reveal the red meat beneath. the explanation that follows doesn’t completely ease the worry nestled in her abdomen or erase her sudden desire to scoop him up in her arms to protect him with a wild fervency. ]

If you say so. [ but the way she says it and the tightness to her still wet and too blue eyes make it clear she has doubts; worries. she’s lost Rose and she fears losing Falco, too.

the kitchen is tidy. no dishes in the sink or cups upon the counters. she hasn’t come in here since she found out Rose was gone; there’s been no need. she hasn’t felt the familiar pang of hunger and hydration was far from her mind. she only suggested tea because she thought it might do Falco some good.

she pulls the kettle out and begins to grab all the little necessities for tea; the sugar and honey, the myriad of teas she’s collected over the months, and a pair of teacups hand painted with butterflies and flowers. ]

[grice]

[ he's fine— as much as a shifter could be. which is to say, he does really have nothing visibly daunting on him. he has no scars to account for his trauma, no lasting injury. just a ticking time bomb that no one could see but himself.

falco wishes to spare them of that. it's too painful a notion to have. he nods nevertheless and eases a hand reassuringly behind the woman's back as they walk into the kitchen. falco takes a seat and opens the flap of his messenger bag; there, nestled on top of books, notebooks and other student accessories, is a small wovern basket, covered by a cloth. inside are the eggs, and he sets them on the table briefly just to prepare them for show.

they're cute and actually hold a light blue tint to them. getting back onto his feet, he pulls himself toward the counter where sharon begins to work on the tea, using it for support with one hand and carrying the eggs with his other. at last, he holds them up to her. ]

I can bring more whenever you want.

[fogsong]

[ no visible wounds, no twist to his ankles or strange bends but it brought no relief; the fear still sat there pressed up against her chest and hummed like an insect. the only thing that did offer even a hint of it was the closeness of him behind her; the knowledge he was still there.

she fills the kettle and then looks over to him. the show of eggs brought a tiny grin to her face, one as fragile as freshly blown glass. they were cute —— as cute as little eggs could be. ]

They’ve got a pretty hue to them. [ she reaches over to grab one and examine it after she sets the kettle on the stove before she returns it to the basket. ]

Where’d you get them from? A lot of the eggs I’ve gotten here have been brown. [ there’s a definite curiosity to her tone. the light blue of these eggs would be almost ideal for what she needs eggshells for. ] These shells would make a pretty paint, I think.

[grice]

[ sharon, it is time. falco's building smile seems to have been anticipating this very moment, and once the egg basket is on the counter, he slips a hand in his pocket to retrieve his omni. ]

From my chickens— I had chickens in South Sister, last year, and they showed up on the beach about a week ago. [ while he looks for the photo— ] You can make paint with the shells?

[fogsong]

[ she watches him with barely concealed curiosity, ready for anything to distract her from how she feels. his chickens showed up? this place was one surprise after another. ]

Yeah, it takes a little work and I haven’t perfected it yet. Brown eggs don’t make the nicest of colors. [ show her the birdies, Falco! let her see the babies! ]

[grice]

[ it’s something he’d like to see— there’s interest in his eyes. she’s surely have to show him when she’s done with the contents. for now, falco finishes getting to a picture with a boyish smile, and holds the omni up to her.

they are divas. ]

Their names are Catherine, Lucy and Gertrude.

[ he points them out from left to right! ]

And— there’s Austin, in the back.

[ somewhere in a blue is a big white rooster with . . . are those human eyebrows–? ]

[fogsong]

[ it’s hard to keep a grin from blossoming across her face at the sight of the chickens. had this been any other moment, she’d have laughed until her sides ached. she’s never seen chickens like that before, all floof and beak. ]

They look like such fancy ladies. [ they need bonnets. ] Austin, though… He’s got some brows on him. [ the kind that would make it obvious he was judging you. jeez.

she opens up a lower cupboard to the pots and pans and bends down ] So, how do you want to cook up the eggs?

[grice]

[ heheh comes a breath from falco. austin is definitely a piece to behold, but he adores his fancy ladies, and could spend just an awful amount of time watching them cluck and scavenge the grass for seeds and things. ]

I like them scrambled up. [ he is a simple being and likes to see all that jumbled up yellow. ] How do you eat yours?

[fogsong]

I like ‘em scrambled, too —— usually with cheese and onions and loads of hot sauce. [ she pulls out a round pan and places it on the stove before she gathers a bowl and a whisk and a bunch of seasonings (salt and pepper, garlic and onion powder, and even some chili powder just in case) and sets them all on the counter. ]

I actually used to hate eggs, especially the yolk. I liked sweets for breakfast. Poptarts and sugary cereals, all eaten with a big energy drink or a glass of coffee.

[ this place kicked those habits, not that she still doesn’t indulge her sweet tooth now and again. ]

[grice]

[ oh, seasoning is just. chef kiss. diamonds of the world. there is one thing that catches his attention out of all of this, and he has to ask as he helps crack an egg for each to whisk: ]

A Poptart— like pop?

[ soda!! pop!! ]

[fogsong]

[ she snorts at the question. even after so long in this place, there’s still moments where she remembers that not everyone came from a world like hers. sure, there was a ton of overlap in some places but there was still so much different. ]

You know, they did do a soda flavored one but… [ she digresses! ] Poptarts are these breakfast, uh, pastries back home. They’re two pieces of pastry with a sweet filling, usually a fruit one but there’s brown sugar fillings and chocolate ones, and the top has this layer of frosting…! [ she touches her fingers to her thumb and brings them to her lips and makes an exaggerated kissing sound ]

Mmm.

[ she starts to heat up the pan in the stove as he whisks, drops a little oil into the bottom, and checks on him as he works in case he needs help ] But they got their name from the fact they were precooked and you just put them in a toaster to heat ‘em up and in a few minutes they’d pop up. [ there were many a mornings where they would startle her ]

[grice]

[ time to pour in those eggs and, mm, scramble. falco does chuckle at the pop tart’s apparent delicacy. he is glad that 1961 indeed had toasters, so he’s at least seen what one of those were instead of adding to the question. oh, thank haunted california, maybe! ]

Would it be hard to make one here, you think?

[fogsong]

[ as he scrambles away, she pulls out the dishwater they’ll need. ]

Hmm, I can’t see it being too difficult. [ it’s just pastry right? And how hard could making pastry dough be?]

I think I’d need a good pastry dough and royal icing recipe but I’ve got plenty of things for the filling. [ she doubts she has either the knowledge or skill to make a true Poptart and that makes her a little sad. but homemade might be just as good? even if it lacks in preservative goodness. ]