ellectrical | (no subject)

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She's done this enough that she knows where to look in X's kitchen without having to ask. It's been about fifteen minutes she started, and various vegetables are scattered across the counters, one steel pot already on the stove. A look into the latter would indicate she's making soup, though it's not as simple as the kind X likes to order, nor is it coming out of can, the way Elle would normally choose.

At the moment, she's standing aside from the stove, using a large knife to slice up carrots across a cutting board. Elle's careful about it, the knife hitting the board at even and precise intervals.

(This really isn't her favorite part of cooking.)

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She gives a small shrug, looking up, though still turning the spoon between her fingers.

"Because I don't want to date."

Okay, maybe want has something to do with it.

"No," X says.

Her frown has only gotten deeper.

"I do not think it is a requirement."

Is it?

"All right."

She does seem perfectly content with this answer, and finally lifts her spoon from the soup.

X waits another few seconds, as if to make sure further questions aren't forthcoming.

Then she, too, starts eating her soup.

There's a few minutes yet before the oven timer goes off.

After a couple minutes, her eyes flicker to it.

Then, she says, "It's okay."

It's not entirely clear what she's talking about.

"Yes," X agrees.

It could be about the food. It could be about everything else.

Either one would be correct.

"It is."

"I haven't done it without a can before."

Apparently it is the food.

"I have not, either," X acknowledges.

The soup, of course. Not the bread.

"Next time we can try tomato."

If Elle likes that, anyway.

"I thought this would be ..."

She's not quite sure what word she's looking for, and eventually decides on, "... harder. To make."

"Most of the recipes I have are not difficult."

As if that is reassuring.

Or something.

She gives another small shrug, glancing over at the oven again.

"Sometimes I like doing the harder things first."

"Okay," X says agreeably.

The timer goes off.

"I'll get it," she says, putting her spoon down.

"Okay," she repeats.

Elle, after all, knows where everything is.

Farrah and Steve follow her into the kitchen. Just in case she drops any food.

Elle nudges the cats out of the way with her feet as she pulls the oven door open. The tray is taken out and placed on the stove next to the pot.

After a moment of staring at the loaf, "I think it has to cool."

"Minutes are okay," X says, pitching her voice to be heard from the kitchen.

It does not take much.

"To make it easier to cut."

She picks up the knife, playing with it idly between her fingers while they wait.

"But you're okay?" she asks.

Again.

"Yes," X repeats.

She uses this brief span of time to feed the cats. It keeps them from being underfoot, at least.

For a few minutes.

"It has been quiet."

She's still playing with the knife. There are a couple close calls, but she doesn't seem to notice them.

"And that's good."

There's only a touch of uncertainty to it.

"People worry less," X says carefully. "When I say that."

She's silent for a second.

"And it is good when people are not dying."

"You don't want me to worry?"

A single spark snaps from one of her fingers to the blade. Someone may be getting a little distracted.

"You know missions are better."

It seems self-evident to X.

Elle lowers the knife and starts slicing into the bread.

"But you haven't had one."

"Training exercises. Sometimes."

She doesn't sound frustrated.

"There is a larger operation. But it is in the planning stages."

She nods, cutting the bread into even slices.

... well, close enough, anyway.

"Do you want to do something? Now?"

(Elle can ask the want question, too.)