MAY MINGLE

[etrayamods]

WHO: Everyone!
WHEN: May 17th-31st
WHERE: On Etraya
WHAT: A mingle log!
NOTES\WARNINGS: N/A, please note any needed warnings in threads.

⏵ a hero's return ⏴ As champions exit the Labyrinth, they’ll find that their environment has gone through some fairly drastic changes. Where there used to be larger bodies of water is now thinner rivers going through land; the amount of bridges connecting landmasses has decreased, given what had been individual islands are now much more connected. In addition, Etraya is significantly more green; flowers bloom, birds chirp cheerfully, and there are numerous additional species of insects, mammals, and aquatic creatures throughout the lands. Baby foxes roam through forested areas, bees pollinate the flowers to spread them more thoroughly around the inhabited areas, and it feels brighter. Or perhaps that’s just in comparison to how the Labyrinth had been. There are more areas to explore, new facilities, animals, and Etraya feels significantly more settled than it had before. Aurora’s promise of renovations had been true. And if one looks up, they may notice a city bubble visible on the closest planet that hadn't been visible before. ⏵ coffee break ⏴ After hearing Clarke’s suggestion, Aurora sets up a new cafe close to the apartment complex, and sends out notices to individuals with mandatory coffee hour times listed for them to come to Corrine's Cafe and make a few friends. While the note does state that it is mandatory, there will be no follow-up from Aurora nor the companion bots to ensure those who receive notes do show. Given this is Aurora trying to take suggestions in mind and see how successful they are among the citizens of Etraya, however, following directives may not be a terrible idea. It's up like a modern-day, smaller cafe. One walks in through the front door, and is greeted by a companion bot behind the counter who offers a wave of their hand and a friendly “Welcome! Let me know when you’re ready to order”. The menu offers lattes, mochas, espresso, black coffee, several different kinds of teas, and a few drinks that are a little odd to find in a cafe; ale, canned sodas and coffees, numerous bottles of wine, but only pinot noir. Soft music plays in the background, impossible to place but it sounds as if it may be based on tracks that were popular in the early 90s. Tables and booths are set up to seat two to four, with packets of sugar and small containers of creamer set out towards the middle. There are charging stations set up at every table, which may seem strange considering phones and laptops aren’t widely available, but Aurora’s doing her best. There are also a few bookshelves full of the classics, a few historical fiction, and several written by H.P. Lovecraft. Each seat has a placard in front of it, with a name, and a ‘fun fact’. One might say “Hello! My name is Joe, and I like to paint!” Another may say “Hi, I’m Jill! My sister died tragically in front of me and I’ve never gotten over it.” ⏵ new horizons ⏴ Several of the new bridges found in Etraya now have signs posted just outside of them, and on those signs is a QR code that the earpiece’s HUD can scan. Scanning this with the HUD will bring up a scavenger hunt, listing several items and circling areas where they can be found. Some of these objects will be obvious: find Corrine at Corrine’s Cafe - the companion bot who runs the counter, find a delicious meal at Bangsan Market, break into S.T.A.R Labs, or find room 87 at Point Blanc Academy. Some will be less obvious, like locating a bat, becoming friends with an archer, find a pink shirt, open bagged milk without making a mess, or get a drink at the mutant-friendly pub. Please feel free to make up your own items to find around Etraya! ⏵ NOTES ⏴ Welcome to our mid-month mingle! Please feel free to use this to explore Etraya, put up wildcard prompts (you don't need to use the above!), or use the open prompts to assist in jumpstarting cr. This mingle covers the period from May 17th to May 31st. Our next mission (and next mod log) will not go up until June 7th. ⏵FULL NAVIGATION⏴

Comments

[skaikru]

( very briefly, just for a flash, clarke favors hannibal with a scowl that really reinforces the fact it was his fault — i had that — but just as immediately, she's crouching to pick up her milk drenched swiss army knife. shakes a few errant drops of, then folds it into the hem of her shirt to dry more completely as the milk bag gurgles and seeps against the tiles.

she stands up again just as expediently, and has a better handle on her face. catches the thin little smile that dances across his. and while she still feels a twang of guilt for how things had gone down in maze, she notes that his nose bears no sign of bruising; the marks on her own throat almost completely melted away too, just the faintest shade of yellow finger indents remaining. )

It's fine. I'm kind of tired of diner food anyway.

( and cafeteria food, and gas station food, and just in general she doesn't feel very hungry. hasn't even noticed the day slip by towards the lunch hour. )

[relished]

[don't go crying over spilled milk. the knife will recover. he sees that her ego, unfortunately, still struggles. he sees the way she fights to truly look at him sometimes, the way her eyes would rather search other parts of him. he's nearly offended at her response. a diner? she thought he was suggesting going to a diner?]

No, no. A home-cooked meal. [he tilts his head down to the basket of food he's carrying.] I'm very careful about what I put in my body. I hardly ever dine out.

[the offer still stands to her; he truly would like to cook her a delicious (and nutritious) meal.]

When was the last time you had someone cook for you?

[skaikru]

( oh, a home-cooked meal.

...oh. a home-cooked meal?

the question doesn't hit her so hard as to feel akin to being punched in the gut or slapped in the face, but it does have an abrupt and visceral effect. because before earth, the answer would have been never. she and her parents had all taken their portion of soybeans and multivitamins from the commissary, just like everyone else onboard the ark. on the ground they'd hunted and farmed what they could, but none of that had ever been as intimate as the time john murphy'd gotten hold of becca franko's spice cabinet and shown a natural talent for operating a gas stove. that'd been a nice moment; he'd held a piping hot mixing spoon to her mouth for sampling and it'd changed her whole world, she'd gotten a shower and to touch a freshly made bed... but then of course a grounder had broken in and their group had deviated to human experimentation in the name of saving the entire race, sunken right back into the shit.

and then on the murder boat? well, once she'd gotten to help a too-kind man make chicken noodle soup, and was in charge of picking the shape for the pasta noodles included (stars). another time, another cannibal had taught her how to make an ice cream sandwich. those counted, right? she remembers both instances very fondly. )

...it's been a while.

( she immediately, desperately wants to take him up on the offer, but like — )

Why? I'm — ( the reason you bled, perpetually unfriendly, covered from sneaker to knee in milk, poor company? ultimately she doesn't know how to end that statement, but they've done well filling in the blanks before haven't they? )

[relished]

[he immediately notices the shift in her body language and is pleased by it. he managed to find a crack in the sturdy walls she so readily keeps around her. it seems that despite their initial rocky start, perhaps the trials of the labyrinth allowed such crumbling for a falter to present itself.

no hesitation in finishing her sentence, in kindness:] In need of comfort.

[he had been done shopping around anyway. while there's not much to be desired in the kwik trip, he can work with anything. his first outing from the labyrinth had him picking up as much as he could carry without looking obscene. he's managed a nice stock at his house now.]

If you don't have a change of clothes, you can wash what you have at my home.

[he motions to the exit in a ladies first, gentlemanly sort of way. he'll take that as a yes.]

cw: degloving & vomit mention (smh @ myself)

[skaikru]

( okay, no, that was not where she was going with that unfinished statement. and not even accurate, because she's fine now. sure, lost the people most important to her on day one of the labyrinth, ran scared from a mutated lion, a dragon, a hoard of monstrous amalgamations that might have been animals, and a minotaur. got stuck in a highbacked chair and partially degloved her hand in an effort to break away from the drill, then stumbled with infection. almost got eaten alive by the visage of her dead lover, then got beaten to shit trying to prevent that fate for someone else. hadn't slept more than an hour or two at a time and barely broke into her stash of provisions because adrenaline twisted an ugly knot in her stomach that promised she'd just throw up whatever went down.

but it wasn't like the first mission. where she'd actually had to kill someone — three someone's, who all looked identical to the real versions she cared deeply about. the sort of comfort required after that plight wasn't one that could be touched by hot, fresh food. hannibal hadn't been here for that, and internally she prickles, thinking he ought not talk about what it really looks like when she needs comfort.

just... color her curious. about what food was like in the old world, and what went into making it. leave it at that so clarke can have an easier time swallowing it.

he gestures towards the door, and for a moment she still stalls. )

No, but. Just — hang on a second.

( because she's going back for another bag of milk. and without distraction, holds the plastic by the seal and slits a little opening just below her knuckles. the bag opens without buckling and spilling everywhere and at least mildly content, clarke bends to prop it against the cool case at an angle it hopefully won't spill too much. there, her one and only scavenger hunt point.

afterwards she'll follow him. or rather, lead, since they're standing on some weird sort of decorum. the bell at the entrance dings with each exit, and she holds the door a split second longer than necessary, since his hands are potentially full of shopping. belatedly, a fragment of his offer hooks into her brain and wriggles around the syntax. )

Your home, like your apartment?

( because back after the flower incident, she'd at least made a note of how far away they were from each other. three floors, which would make it easy to retrieve fresh clothes for herself. )

jfc clarke

[relished]

[if only Clarke knew that he wasn't referring to immediate comfort, but to the twisting knots that snake inside of her gut and spit poison into her mind. too aware that one home-cooked meal can't fix anything, instead he's hoping to pry her thoughts open and allow for some dialogue. he sees through her, understands that his ability to do so likely angers her. he can't turn it off, can't change that part of himself.

she just doesn't give up, in more ways than one. he's patient, eyes following every step she takes. he silently watches as she slices the bagged milk open and leaves it on the shelf to be found. the scavenger hunt seemed to be lightening the mood for some, or at least allowed some new distraction for those looking for one.

the door is easily caught open with his free hand as she leads him out, then he's falling into step beside her. even though there are no cars and traffic is basically zilch, he still sticks to the outside of the walkways. others around him seem to give a wide birth, avoiding the possibility of bumping into them.]

My house. It appeared while we were in the labyrinth, it isn't very far from the apartments. I'm assuming you know where Bangsan Market is? It's north of there.

lodging formal complaints about the labyrinth rn

[skaikru]

( if anyone else out in the street consciously seeks to avoid them, clarke makes no note of it. the city had been reformed while they'd languished in an oversized stone prison, and while it'd been arguably beautiful to return to, it was still far too large for the slim population it currently held. she'd counted less than a hundred residents, and as an infuriating but occasionally wise faceless woman once told her, everyone's always from scary places. it makes absolute sense for everyone here to be inclined to avoid strangers in the street, and is only her stomach and curiosity that prevents her from peeling away from hannibal's side. )

A whole house, huh?

( hers is here, too. or at least the closest thing to it, the burnt out shell of a partially dismantled dropship and the rough built fence surrounding it; evidence of children playing at war, trying their best to avoid it, and inevitably dying with the failure.

but for the sake of this thread, she hasn't ventured that far yet or spotted any telling signage. clarke is distracted for a brief second, making the mental note of yet another location she could map to the exact person who'd unintentionally manifested it. )

I know of the market. Haven't really looked around it yet, but... ( at least in term of directional heading: ) Good to know.

( ... )

Did you ask for your house? Or was it just another one of Echo's grossly obvious attempts to help us "acclimate"?

[relished]

I think it's safe to assume it was her attempt for further acclimation. And I am grateful for it, however manipulative. I quite enjoy my home, and you'll soon see why.

[he's walking them back in the direction of the apartments first. there's no rush to lunch, and he doesn't feel any need to hurry. nothing is ever hurried when under Hannibal's care. now that the two of them are not under the pressure of an unpredictably hostile labyrinth, his energy reflects that. while he hadn't been particularly stressed in that annoying maze, the two of them had shared a rather emotionally charged experience, however one-sided.

here's hoping this interaction is less stressful for her.]

Did Echo extend that kindness to you as well?

[skaikru]

( jury's out on if a lunch invitation proves less stressful than almost willfully dying and being half strangled, but it feels like it should be, right?

yet regardless, clarke keeps a careful sort of distance between the two of them as they walk. isn't even consciously intending to, but she matches his pace and keeps level — neither ahead nor behind — while also maintaining a solid two feet of empty space between their shoulders. which is not quite the average for the length of a human arm, but enough distance that she could duck out of range if he were to weave into it. bruises take up to two weeks to heal completely, and the fingertip impressions on her throat are a light sort of yellow that almost camouflage in the shadow of her chin, but they're there. if not completely able to put a name to what exactly unnerves her here, clarke at least seems perpetually aware that he's older, taller, more well spoken, and stronger than she.

she is also now aware of is the squelch of milk soaked into her shoes. it's uncomfortable, but manageable. )

Not that I know of. But I've never owned a house.

( a beat, then a mild correction. )

I've never lived in a house.

[relished]

[he notices the birth she puts between them, one that he respects. she sends many messages his way without saying a thing. while his nose had only slightly bruised, his complexion allowed for any light bruising to be hidden. he had no swelling, and didn't even comprehend the pain. it didn't exist for him.]

That's a very concerning thing to hear. Did you not have somewhere you called home?

[he does sound honestly perturbed, a lilt to his voice that isn't normally there. a few more minutes to the apartments and Clarke hopefully also has a change of shoes there, too. while they're outside now, the smell of soon to be spoiled milk brought into his home is unacceptable to him.]

[skaikru]

( must be a nice thing, not to notice pain. )

I had a home, ( clarke elaborates, mildly offended in kneejerk response his mild perturbance. but she recognizes that it's valid and based for someone from the later months of 2013, and soothes herself in record time. despite how keenly hannibal lector had stared at her across the fire they'd built in the midst of the labyrinth, no matter how deeply he'd seemed to recognize to the point it made her skin crawl — she reminds herself that he doesn't really know her.

can't know what he's never told. and thus when it comes to explaining, she keeps to the careful script of things already stated to others, or publicly on the network. it should be enough. )

I was born in space. We had quarters on board the Ark, sort of like the apartments. Just not houses.

[relished]

[so easy it is forget Clarke hadn't been on an Earth like his before, but not a detail goes unnoticed. one of their first conversations he asked about her life, but she skirted around it in a manner that suggested she was offended he had asked. well, she had been offended for even waking him in his apartment that day. not much he could do about that.

to be born with so much technology surrounding her but very little nature must have been normal for her, but also limiting. he imagines whatever they had for sustenance was either harvested unnaturally or they hardly ever had true food, all of it likely artificially made for survival. was she kept in darkness, with harsh lighting? does she enjoy being here, or would she prefer to return to wherever she had been before? she didn't like to talk about herself enough to know, so he can only theorize.]

A home doesn't need to be a house. Did you consider it a home? Were you comfortable there, could you rely on it to make you feel safe?

[she is so fast to bristle to his questions he has to assume the worst. a quick glance forward and he sees the apartments are within eye shot, finally, then his focus is back on her, curious dark eyes prying into her.]

[skaikru]

( it's only a little personal, hannibal; clarke griffin is offended by most things, and after years of routine disappointment, the intervention and investment of a grown adult ranks highly on the list. coupled with that screaming gut instinct that something's wrong with him despite no actionable proof, she can't get a beat on how to conduct herself in his presence. thus far hissy and snarling have gotten the same level response as rattled to her bones and genuinely apologetic. and now they're at cordial and conversational, willingly walking with him, slightly curious about his house and what goes into his style of cooking — and she still doesn't like the way he looks at her.

or the follow up questions he asks. all perfectly normal, but prying. like bamboo shoots beneath fingernails, like a knife in the lip of oysters, a crowbar embedded in floorboards.

like, how does one quantify and speak aloud of course i did, of course i was, it was all i ever knew and all i ever expected to. i was a good girl when one wants to give away absolutely none of that insight. )

Sure, when I was younger.

( three questions, one resolute answer, no further explanation or at least not a real one. clarke does figure she can share: )

My parents both had seats on the Council. By comparison to others, we were well off.

( class privilege? in this apocalyptic economy? )

[relished]

[something about the way she words it sounds insincere, but whatever he senses from her, he hides well. his response to her is only a small nod accompanied by a twitch of his lips, perhaps a smile, like that's all he needed. he can poke and prod at people like Clint and Vanessa, without needing to consider an explosion. with Clarke, a more delicate approach is needed. he drew some of her darkness from her in the labyrinth, but she'd been shaken, vulnerable.

his head tilts back as he looks up at the apartments with a rather empty expression. he slows to a stop at the entrance. no longer will he have to live around people, thankfully.]

I'll wait here for you.

[he's sure she would insist on it, too, but he would like to explore her apartment while she's not there. he likely will, at some point. he'll be able to get more information that way.]

[skaikru]

( she sure would insist on it, but at the same time, for a single moment — color clarke confused. she follows his gaze up to the door of the apartments, then back to hannibal with her lips parted to ask why they'd stopped and what he was waiting for. but just as quickly as the question had formed on the back of her tongue, it dies off and she drops her gaze to the milk splatter across pant legs and drenched in shoes. shifts her weight from one foot to the other with the faint sound of a sponge being wrung out for soapy water. and simply climbs the steps, wet impressions of her shoe tread left behind on the sun dried concrete.

cut to the inside of her apartment, and clarke has toed off her shoes and stripped off her socks just inside the doorway. sunlight filters in through the drawn curtains and for another split second she considers crossing over and pulling them aside to look down to street level; the opportunity to observe the good doctor when he might not be expecting to be watched summarily quashed with the realization it'd give away which room was hers. (what she doesn't think about is the fact she'd flipped on the lights when she'd entered, and flips them off when she leaves.)

sum ten minutes later, she's back street level. athletic leggings replaced with an identical pair, sneakers trashed and back in her steel toed boots from the labyrinth. they are not exceptionally clean either — dried droplets of saltwater doomed to stain the nubuck leather forever, the faint trace of blood here and there, dust from the walkways of the maze stuck in the tread — but they are at least dry. )

Better? ( clarke asks, a thin strain of annoyance clearly expressing that anything other than a yes will lead to her having a quiet lunch all by herself in the market place. )

[relished]

[the moment she enters the building and he's sure she's gotten upstairs, his gaze is fixated on all of the windows within view, slowly ticking by each one to look for movement or -- light. he counts the windows, makes sure that he has the right one. it's confirmed when the light is turned off and Clarke reappears, looking much more comfortable (and clean).

two quick blinks at her as she greets him with an attitude. that really is no way to treat your soon-to-be host. but his expression, however impenetrable, allows some humored disbelief.]

We were stopping for you, Clarke. I thought you might want to change.

[a half truth. he didn't want her dragging in more dirt than necessary, and certainly not shoes with remnants of drying milk. fine now, very obviously acrid later. she may not have noticed it, but he certainly would.

he makes a point to give her a once-over.] Come.

[it's a bit of a walk, but nothing too bad. he makes small talk here and there with her on the way, but for the most part the walk is quiet, comfortable (at least for him). they cut through the Bangsan market,going further north until finally, a large home comes into view, looking oddly fitting for the area. his home likely came from a more populated area, but settled nicely into the nature around them. it's private, quiet. he looks at her just once as they stand before it briefly, then he's leading up to the front door and opening it for her.]

Kitchen is just down the hall to your left.

[and no way is he letting her wander around unattended. not that he does so with other guests, but he has to be watchful of Clarke. she's a sharp girl.]

pov: me neck deep in the hannibal house wiki gallery

[skaikru]

( (fourth floor, second window from the left, facing the street. and no, there is no security past the standard deadbolt ✨)

does she feel better out of wet clothes since it was an option this time? yes, absolutely. is comfort still a bit of a foreign concept? also absolutely yes. milk too if we're being completely honest, and tomorrow when her sneakers are dry but sour, they will be summarily tossed. fast fashion and the accessibility of brand new clothes are still a bit of a novelty, another trip to roxx will not be too big of a burden — and at least this time it's not because of blood spill.

does any of that mean clarke buys that she wasn't being casually directed and that rankles. there is no outright retort, but the twist of her lips speak volumes.

some of the attitude lessens as they walk, though. her with that same careful distance and him with the mildly grating small talk. most of clarke's responses are clipped but more so out of a lack of practice at casual conversation than any real issue talking about the weather, the plant life, the city itself. passing through the market she is very obviously distracted by the sights and smells, and watches a companion bot behind a counter so intently she outright misses a conversational cue or two. then they draw up to his house and she pauses on the sidewalk just to take it in. the architecture is entirely foreign but striking. the tall windows edged with dark wood in contrast to the relatively light brickwork are like gaunt eyes on a pale face, the portico evoking a sense of modern/old world extravagance despite her having no basis for it. it's a nice house, and clarke can imagine a whole block lined with similar dwellings the same way a fish can imagine traveling through the stars — it's oddly alienating, to now know what life used to look like.

if it's at all daunting, that sensation is overshadowed by the sensation of just feeling weirdly out of place. but hannibal moves to open the door and clarke follows. she's just as keen on taking in the foyer as she had been the exterior, and when he directs her towards the kitchen she almost just walks.

but the paintings that decorate the walls...

those distract completely. )

Oh, those are nice.

( she doesn't crowd the walls to look closer, but there is a definitive tilt to the head that broadcasts she wants to. )

pov: me also in the wiki gallery bc i forget how much stuff he has

[relished]

[such a fussy girl.

a fussy girl that appreciates artwork. he pauses after he closes the door behind them, taking off his jacket to be hung up nearby. there's a little stir inside of him as he watches her. a tickle of pride.]

You have a good eye. I can tell you more about the art while I cook.

[translation: you are not going to wander around in my home unsupervised.

but he sounds so kind as he says it, almost a second thought as he makes his way to the kitchen. the island is organized nicely, bowls of colorful fruits and vegetables decorate it. the kitchen is morgue-like, surgical in its design of light greys and blues. everything is organized right down to the placement of knives, straight and clean. a smaller wooden table sits beside the island that acts as a standing cutting board. the only hints of use are the indents and slices of a blade. he motions to the chair in the corner should she decide to sit.

he is efficient, but a show-off. some groceries are put away in the refrigerator, while others are left out on the counter to make for easy access. he's planning on making an omelet for the two of them. he would like to be more extravagant, but he has no idea what her palate is like and doesn't want to overwhelm her.

before he really gets started, he pulls out a decanter of freshly squeezed orange juice from the fridge, pouring her a glass and holding out to her.]

I hope you like eggs.

[skaikru]

( his meaning is loud and clear, and clarke's eyes drag from the framed painting of a tree back onto hannibal with the mild annoyance of a child denied. the tendency to speak in such carefully curated sentences that could never be construed for anything but exceedingly polite has to be something of an artform too, but it is nowhere near as enjoyable to bear witness to as brush strokes on canvas. if it would have taken him a few moments longer to shuck off his jacket and make off down the hallway, she might have objected. dug her feet in, lofted a casual just a second his way just to prove a point.

the careful distance she'd kept while walking the city lengthens here, clarke is several steps behind and her head is on a swivel — taking in everything from the wallpaper to the woodwork to the stiff but luxurious choices in furniture and the distant smell of mint. every room they pass she peers into, at least until catching sight of a few too many antler motifs and barely suppressing a shudder. they make it to the kitchen, and she's decidedly seen enough of them (two, literally just two kitchens in her entire life) to know this one is different. it straddles the line between fancy and ominous, elegantly arranged but no one who'd ever woken up in a morgue could look at the doors of that fridge and not imagine being locked behind them. the island is reminiscent of an overlarge surgery table, the cutting board akin to a beheading block. but it's so clean and sterile and neat; so obviously just a place to prepare food that she has to banish any negative connotations, write them off as a lacking familiarity.

the gestured invitation towards the corner chair is wordlessly declined as clarke lingers by the doorway for a long while. if she drifts anywhere closer, it's towards the standing cutting board — something tangible to place between herself and hannibal as he works within his domain and she watches.

sometimes people do this really weird thing where they accept anything that's handed to them, despite not necessarily wanting it. and sometimes people is just clarke with this decanted orange juice because what. the pulp floats to the top, fresh individual juice sacs preserved and she can feel the gradual chill through the thick glass. what had he just said? something about eggs? )

Oh, I'm — ( so uncomfortably out of place ) — not picky.

( when she eats, which is not incredibly often and absolutely does not follow the traditional breakfast-lunch-dinner pipeline, it's for sustenance. because she has to, not because she wants to. the same could be said for sleeping, and just like clarke would never complain about waking up with a crick in her neck from slumping over a desktop, she doesn't have much to say about the way beef jerky and prepackaged peanuts get stuck in her teeth, or milkshakes make her feel a little ill. )

[relished]

[a small smile at her obvious discomfort, though it's masked by his response to her inexperience in a kitchen.]

I'll remember that.

[a clean apron is wrapped around his waist and he washes his hands before he begins handling any food. he places a large cast iron skillet on the stove, which he turns on a medium heat setting. another pan is taken out, too, for later. he talks as he preps, making his way around the kitchen and organizing his workspace with the chicken, eggs, tomato, dill, sour cream (the portion is scooped into a small glass bowl and the container is returned to the fridge), butter, and a small block of parmesan cheese.]

Usually this recipe calls for liver, but I'll be substituting it with chicken breast. I don't quite trust the butcher here and it doesn't seem like they'll be providing the cuts of meat I prefer. I'll have to source it myself next time.

[get Hannibal in the kitchen and it's one of the places he's most comfortable. his conversation and ease reflects that. he grates the cheese as he continues,]

That painting you were admiring was done by Frederick William Hulme. He was an English landscape painter and illustrator in the 1800s. He illustrated several books, including ones written by Edgar Allen Poe and S.C. Hall. [a quick glance up from grating,] Are you familiar with those authors?

[skaikru]

( by this point in her interdimensional, world hopping shenanigans, clarke has had quite a few meals she'd consider delightful. from chocolate cake, to her first properly seasoned, slapped-together stew on her home planet, to steaming piles of mashed potatoes, crab legs, and beef tips presented buffet style on the serena eterna, to the greasy burgers and frothy milkshakes served in the local diner, and the wide array of dishes offered on rotation in the hospital cafeteria. from food prepared by enemies, by friends, ghosts, and robots.

but she's seldom ever gotten to peek behind the curtain; had the opportunity to witness the raw ingredients and the process it takes to transform them into a full plate, let alone the undertaking shouldered with ease and... dare she call it glee? parmesan looks like any other cheese, dill is only vaguely recognizable from years of earth skills lessons which highlighted which vegetation was poisonous and which was edible, she cannot even imagine willingly eating liver. but hannibal pulls on an apron like scrubs, and preps his cooking space like a surgeon. and she's stuck on the sidelines like an unnecessary anesthesiologist, nothing to do with her hands but rub her finger in the condensation collection around her chilled glass of orange juice and watch.

and he talks. about inane things like butchers and poetry, and all clarke would have to contribute to the former is a reinforcement of skepticism — for all they knew, cuts of meat around here could be from humans as easily as they were from the local wildlife. )

I know Poe. ( the weird urge to list all the other poets she's become familiar with within the two years spent on a cruise liner that boasted a decent fiction-only library swells — frost, melville, dickinson — but is summarily popped like a bubble. why try to prove herself to him? ) What's Hall written?

[relished]

He was better known for his journalism. His wife was also talented.

[he sets the grater aside and places the shredded cheese into a glass mise bowl, moving along to dicing a couple tomatoes and garlic that he picks from the wooden bowl that holds a colorful arrangement of vegetables. he's preparing a salsa, yet still anyone watching is allowed a performance. the simplest tasks become a form of art itself.

after enough preparation is done, he saves the rest for later. chicken is taken from the refrigerator, too. he seasons it, loves it, fingers pressing into raw meat; a ceremony. olive oil is dashed onto the pan before the chicken breast is placed delicately into it. he doesn't need a timer.

again, washing his hands before moving on, pace a bit slowed. the chicken needs time to cook and there isn't much more for him to do. he motions to the painting on the wall behind her.]

Jean-Honoré Fragonard. Influenced by the artists Reubens and Rembrant. Or do you prefer landscapes?

[skaikru]

( hey hannibal, that is potentially the most explicit handling of raw chicken humanly possible. and like most people when a weirdly intimate act is being committed in front of them, clarke averts her eyes from the actual counter. choses instead to focus on the back of his head and the bits of profile she can catch from this angle. the far painting is a welcome distraction, at least until she actually looks at it and finds the color used to illustrate the naked women a little too similar to the look of the chicken breast he was just kneading seasons into.

she finally brings that glass of orange juice to her lips and takes a little sip just for want of something to do with herself. the juice is fresh and bright across her tongue, acidic and a little pulpy — which is absolutely the only reason she needs to clear her throat with a light cough before responding. )

I like landscapes. ( once upon a time she'd defended them when another called them boring; they could only really be interpreted as lacking substance by a person who hadn't grown up hundreds of thousands of miles above earth's surface, one who'd had the opportunity to grow bored of the dirt and the grass and trees that sprouted from it. when the impossibly green foliage of the ground was potentially the most benign and beautiful part the planet'd had to offer her and her like, clarke always carries a special place in her heart for a bit of scenery. )

I think Pissarro's the best at them. ( odd choice maybe, but from what little she'd seen the man had mastered the vibrant greens of the countryside as thoroughly as he had the hustle, bustle, and dark grime of the old world. little snapshots of a time she'd never know herself, but could almost extrapolate from canvases stored in the fallout vault of mount weather. yet, in truth, her heart belongs to — ) But Berthe Morisot is my favorite though, I like portraits more.

( a beat, and then unbidden, the urge for one more divulgence: )

I like to draw portraits more.

[relished]

[sorry Clarke, his meals are where parts of himself are actually allowed. it's where it's safe for him to be more primal; he enjoys the feel of flesh running along his fingertips. to be in his kitchen is to be graced, few are blessed with it.

there's a distinct (albeit brief) sparkle behind his eyes as Clarke speaks. nothing engages Hannibal much more than the talk of art, and for her to have even some experience on the topic opens parts of him that she likely hasn't been able to see until now. they have only been rough and tumble, a blood diamond in the making.]

The impressionist. He finished his paintings outside in one sitting, did you know that? Very impressive work.

[he could go on and on and on with little facts about artists, something that she will likely catch on.]

Portraits are more intimate. [a cocked brow,] It was your art of the flowers on the flier, no? I kept it. You have a good eye.

[should they make their way into his living room at some point (or if she stealthily creeps around his home later) some of his work is laid out on the desk there.]

[skaikru]

( if she'd been served up the choice between keeping their interactions brief and rough and tumble, or outright being called out with mentioned evidence of a good deed that probably served none — well. clarke would then have to contend with the fact she'd made most of her own choices. she'd followed him willingly into this kitchen, she'd demanded warnings splattered around the town then saw fit to do it herself. logic doesn't override emotion though, and the beat of her heart ticks up a mild amount in what can only be described as embarrassment. you ever do something but want to keep your name out of it?

a haze of purple flushes up her neck and through her ears, but once again orange juice saves the day. clarke takes another measured, slow sip in order to give herself time to recompose before answering. )

...yeah, it was. Figured since I looked at it, no one else had to. I don't know if it helped, but. I tried.

( a beat, then a hint of sass. )

Your house is really beautiful, by the way. Big upgrade from your apartment.

( stubbornness could probably be extrapolated as a trait human beings developed as some sort of survival method; stake your claim, stand your ground, defend what's yours. but today it is just being exemplified in clarke griffin being absolutely incapable of getting over their first meeting, and expressing she's still a little salty about having woken up on his couch. )