kismet_loop_logs | because this guy has a GREAT track record with fire...

because this guy has a GREAT track record with fire...

Who: Sam and Hiro
Where: Their hip happening bachelor(ette) pad
When: post-April-Fool's-effects (April 20th-ish)
What: COOKIES also Hiro clarifying a few things
Warnings: Excessive amounts of cookies and sad attempts at baking

Years of watching sitcoms about people in wacky roommate situations had not adequately prepared Hiro for the reality of living with someone. All right, yes, granted, he'd never so much "watched" them as "begged Aunt Cass to stop watching them and let him change to channel to something with monsters or robots", but still -- this never happened to people on TV.

"This" being a sad, well-meant but poorly executed attempt at baking. The butter was a solid lump in the middle of the mixing bowl, the vanilla smelled amazing but tasted nasty, and most of the flour was spread over the counters and in Hiro's hair, and he was way too young to rock the grey-haired look. He may have been a certified genius, but when it came to baking, he was absolutely hopeless.

"Stupid space cookies," he muttered, glaring at the congealed mess in the mixing bowl. That was a good plan, blame Haven for his mishaps, rather than taking responsibility. That miiiight not work too well once Sam returned home, however, especially not when Hiro took into account what Dirge had said.

A witch. Sam was a witch. A witch who could apparently curse people (though Hiro wasn't too sure how much faith he should put into a conversation had between talking about robotic tongues) if she was mad enough. Would the total destruction of her (their?) kitchen be enough to make her that mad?

Hiro exhaled slowly, wiping baking soda off his face. Well, that was that. He was going to spend the rest of his life as a newt. At least until Sam needed his eyes for some secret deadly potion. A dismal end to a dismal day.

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"Well, yeah, but you didn't say anything about motive to specify. And I wouldn't blame you if you were a bit weirded out, but..." Once Hiro was stable again, Sam set her hands against the countertop, boosting herself back and up onto it so as to sit beside him. She paused to wipe her palms against her pants, leaving pale streaks of flour, and offered another shrug. "I want you to know that I'll be honest about this. Just be honest with me, okay? Was it because you made a big mess or heard about the whole witch thing you seemed sorta skittish when I got in?"

To avoid her steady gaze, Hiro's going to look down at his own flour-covered knees and absently brush at the marks, an unconscious, slightly nervous gesture. Honesty. Not so easy for someone who's gotten really good at evasion in the past few months.

But after a moment, he'll reply, quietly, eyes still lowered, "Sort of both?" It's embarrassing to admit that he still feels unsure to the point of genuine fear, but it's worse to feel that in the first place.

"Again, I'm going to be honest. As long as the mess gets cleaned up, I really don't care." Sam shook her head in emphasis, a crooked little smile creeping across her face. "Really. I'm assuming it'll be within a reasonable amount of time, but I acknowledge that that is an assumption, and even so? I still mean it. And about the witch thing..."

What about the witch thing? Her segue had stalled; with all of the things she could say, their conversational path did not fork but fan.

"About the witch thing, I don't know what to tell you. This is the first time I've had this kind of conversation, so I'm... searching for what I should say. I've never hurt anyone without a really good reason. My magic is more than that. My toast still lands butter-side-down if I drop it? And I mean well."

Hiro frowns, waving a hand vaguely at the still-somewhat-messy kitchen. "It's clean! I mean, it's making significant steps in that direction, at least." Then, with a sage nod, speaking as if the cleanliness of the Danger Zone is entirely out of his hands "I think we shouldn't push it too hard, to best show our support."

The fact that this part of the conversation is giving her pause is actually pretty comforting. If Hiro feels awkward, and Sam feels awkward, they're on the same page. Plus, her answer makes sense, and Hiro almost feels like he should let her off the hook -- "Well, I sort of guessed Dirge was exaggerating. But I get it. Sort of. You're not all fairy-tale-villain, you're more comic-book-superhero, yeah?"

"It was making significant steps in that direction, and you're right in that we should show our support... but the best way to do that is by pushing it to be the 'better' you and I both know it can be. The potential is there! Under assorted ingredients, but there." The banter was a welcome break, even if only for a few sentences; enough to get grounded, and so Sam heaved her most melodramatic sigh without a second thought. "Friggin' Dirge."

Her tone said 'that fucker,' quite clearly, overflowing with weary exasperation.

"I should've known---and that's a story. Before crackin' that can of worms, though..." She held up her hands, tone lightening---she'd've liked to laugh. "I'd sure like to think so. But, more than anything, I'm just me."

"You just can't see my artistic vision that's trying to express itself via mess," Hiro huffs, leaning back on the counter and letting the broom drop towards the floor, only to catch it with his feet. Because he's fourteen and the idea of staying still for more than seven seconds is inconceivable.

Sam's reaction to the mention of Dirge gets a sheepish laugh, which is really more relief that he's getting most of the irritation, rather than Hiro himself. "I kiiiiinda figured he was full of it, or exaggerating or whatever. Wasn't sure if he was totally lying though..."

But then this gets a frown, and a slight headshake. "Maybe to yourself, but I'll bet to whoever you helped out during the riots you're much more."

"You're right, I don't see an artistic vision. What I do see is right through that excuse." Sam grinned, and again elbowed her housemate. "I was working in an art gallery, you know. Before all of this."

Her grin shrank to a smile as her own words hit home; what remained was a little rueful, but a reassurance; it was okay. 'Before' was a world away, which was... bearable, even if it still stung, (and even if it stung more than it might've at the mention,) not that that mattered much. Hiro's assertion mattered more---at least, in her here-and-now---and so Sam shrugged concession, considered, and agreed: "An incorrigible anglophone, yeah. Even if I swear in sacres." The wiseacre answer widened her smile once more, and she shifted to sit more comfortably.

"What exactly did Dirge tell you?"

Edited 2015-04-29 23:52 (UTC)

"--nuh-uh. Were you seriously?" Hiro's going to lean in and squint a little, trying to imagine Sam offering a cheese plate and trivia about landscapes to snobby art patrons. Full disclosure: he knows nothing about art galleries.

It's easier to talk about other people's hypothetical "before", especially since Hiro already tended to think of his life in terms of "before" and "after, with one particular cataclysmic event dividing them. But Sam is overflowing with snark and teasing and even in the serious moment, that feels right.

The question is shrugged off, answered oh-so-casually, "That you were a witch who cursed people."

"Yeah, seriously. It was a smaller place, one of the ones that only showcases stuff for sale, but while also offering custom treatments for pieces purchased elsewhere. Matting, framing, mounting, that sort of stuff. It was actually pretty good; I liked having the hands-on stuff to do." Hiro's incredulity had sent her eyebrows up, but they sank as Sam bobbed a shoulder. "Dressing up I didn't mind, but I could do without 'as often'."

Small surprise; the tee she wore (that day, and more often that any other) advised its audience ♔ FREAK OUT AND THROW THINGS rather than keep calm or carry on.

"I haven't cursed anybody yet, but if that changes, it will probably be Dirge. I did threaten him the once, and it's a threat that I mean to make good on, since I'd said if he ate or otherwise killed a person I would take his ability to taste away. It's not something I've ever tried to do before, but.... I think it might be manageable."

Edited 2015-04-30 06:20 (UTC)

"...was it like...weird sculptures or splattery stuff or real art?" Again, most of what Hiro knows about art is gleaned from when art studios get smashed in the course of a monster movie. Also, he naturally thinks Sam has impeccable fashion sense (which doesn't mean much coming from a kid who owns maybe two pairs of pants).

The explanation is surprisingly benign, and well within what Hiro would consider a logical and rational response. So much so that he blinks a couple times and asks, without thinking -- "Sooooo not a newt, then."

"Real art, the on-canvas kind." The witch considered, frowned, and corrected herself; "Mostly. Every so often we had something mixed-media, but all of it was stuff you could fit into a frame."

Any additional elaboration---on her history, on art, or on the practical invoking of plausible magic---was lost at 'not a newt,' which derailed Sam's train of thought as effectively as torn tracks. The corner of her mouth tilting towards a smile, she spent several seconds just looking at Hiro before turning her eyes to the floor, to the ceiling, and only eventually back to the boy.

"Not a newt." The straight face she'd approximated fell away the instant her admission was out, and the 'why' was two words: "Not yet."

"Was it of, like...disaffected youth? Or close-ups of fruit?" Hiro still isn't totally confident that Sam worked with real art and not weird alternative stuff, the kind his Aunt Cass was always trying to hang in the cafe.

The reaction to Hiro's clarification gets an attentive, completely unperturbed look, waiting to see if maybe there had been some newt threats in the past that Sam had forgotten. Apparently not (disappointing), but Hiro takes comfort in the fact that it's still a possibility. "Maaaaybe...someday a newt?"

"Some and some, though there were also a lot of landscapes and abstracts, too." Although of the opinion most art was real art, Sam could understand why someone would ask after specifics---there were some notable exceptions... especially among 'performance' pieces. "A lot of it was actually really nice, but a lot of it was also overpriced like whoa. Though, I guess that's how it usually is."

Leaning back to prop herself up, with both arms behind her, she considered Hiro and his question---but briefly. Her conclusion? "You sound strangely hopeful. ...but that's not why I'll say 'maybe someday' a newt. No, I'll say 'maybe someday a newt' because there's a chance---slim, sure, but still significant!---that someday that'll be something I'm able to do."

"How'd you even get into that? ...are you a starving artist?" This is asked with some interest -- Hiro's heard of these things, but he tends to move in circles where starving biologists and physicists are the norm. Besides, an artistic witch just makes sense.

If Hiro sounded hopeful seconds before, now he looks and sounds disappointed, head lowering, feet kicking at the cabinets, very morosely. "It just seems like a handy trick to know," he mumbles. Yeah, he's very devoted to the idea of Sam turning people into small semi-aquatic lizards left and right.

"Ah, honestly? With a slightly more sophisticated version of 'I can be charming, and mount any item for framing so that it looks good. Please hire me?' buttressed by my waving electives and explaining I'd like to save to go back to school, study art restoration. Wasn't going to happen, because I wouldn't've been able to afford it, but it was still what I would've liked to do, which I suppose sort of answers your question. To answer it properly? Still 'sort of.'" She chuffed, unembarrassed. "I like fussing with acrylics, and had to have some severe budgeting standards even picking up casual hours working at my most recent main tattoo place, but managed. Sometimes by being the girl with a purse of Tupperware take-away, but, y'know."

Moving on, Sam moved over, shifting her weight enough to pat at Hiro's shoulder. "It would be a handy trick, no lie. If I have half a chance to get my mitts on the right ritual, I'll jump at it---even trade two rituals in turn, if that's what it takes, and tell you before anybody else."

Hiro nods slowly, shifting back on his palms. "I can respect that. You've gotta make the money somehow, right? My brother used to pick up shifts in our aunt's cafe, and that involved an apron." What's this? Casual references to his life "before"? Don't point it out, or he'll spook and clam up.

Then, scrunching his nose up -- "Rituals? You mean it's not like...wave your hands and poof?"

"Exactly. Ink's expensive, whether you're dealing with a place charging by time or surface area." She couldn't keep from smiling at the admission, or the emphasis. Of course the apron would be a point to press. "An apron was one thing luck kept me out of, which was probably for the best. Not like I'm a terrible cook---you know this!---but the temptation to pilfer would've been brutal. As it was? 'Business dressy' or 'short sleeves strongly encouraged.' People come into a tattoo parlor and the staff they see are all inked up, it's good for business."

She laughed a little at Hiro's question, adjusting her position enough to set a companionable arm about the boy's shoulders. "For a few things, it's like look and poof, there. For other things, though, it's go-go-go all afternoon, break a sweat just setting up."

Edited 2015-05-03 14:58 (UTC)

"How many places have you worked?" Hiro's now imagining Sam as some sort of tattoo parlor bouncer, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Of course, there's also a generational and cultural divide here. Sam's world probably still uses fossil fuels.

Also he's so busy trying to think this out that he doesn't even act awkward at the arm around the shoulders. If anything, he leans against her unconsciously, brow furrowed. "So...it's like...work."

Sam paused, thinking her answer over. "Are we counting festivals? And if so, are we counting individual years? Self-employment? If we aren't, then five. If we are? Frick, I dunno, double that and then some. I've done something for Folk on the Rocks almost every year since I was sixteen. Big outdoor music festival, always a blast, and easily one of the best things the Northwest Territories has happening." If not the best, it came close.

"Yes and oh no, no, no, dude." Sitting straighter and releasing Hiro to gesture with both her hands, Sam grinned. "It's something to work at, but for all the effort that goes into it, not like work. Unless maybe work the way fine-tuning Megabot was work."

Hiro's looking at Sam with wide, reverent eyes now. He knows Festivals. There's always some sort of Festival happening in San Fransokyo, and they've always been presented to him as something big and somewhat dangerous and forbidden and therefore awesome. "You...seriously? For real? What...what do you even do there?"

Sam already speaks Hiro's language, prompting a thoughtful nod. "So, it's like...time-consuming and takes energy and stuff, but it isn't a pain. You like doing it, cause it's what you do. Yeah?"

It was more of a reaction than Sam had expected, but she shrugged and answered as if it were all only a matter of fact---which it was, the way she saw it. "Yeah, for reals for-real, and for the most part help lost people find their people, or a way to get to wherever they were trying to go. But I started with working desk at Warm the Rocks, which is this fancier-but-still-fun party or I guess 'gala' the festival always opens with. I didn't mind desk. That was the summer after the spring I busted my leg, so it was probably the best place for me to be." She shrugged again, nodding as Hiro spoke.

"Yeah. It's..." She stopped herself from shrugging a third time, frowning in thought. "Like 'me, at potential'. It's what I have a hold on."

Ugh, desk jobs. Hiro frowns over this, kicking his heels again and wrinkling his nose in thought. Then, with an arched eyebrow -- "Were you also a bouncer? Did you ever throw anyone out for disorderly conduct?" Can you blame him for assuming the most dramatic thing, Sam? You did open with the riot/ski mask story.

That, on the other hand, gets a knowing nod. "I get it. You do stuff cause it's just what you do. Cause you can't not do it."

"No, why? Why bouncer? And no, but---" She broke off, laughing and turning her hands up as if to ask why me? or what's with this kid? "But I was a safety escort seeing people back to their cars or wherever so that they didn't get jumped or anything. And I have never yelled 'come at me bro' without the person I yelled at thinking better of it. Can that count for something?"

The oven chimed and Sam slid off the counter, turning to Hiro to answer since the topic seemed serious enough to call for face-to-face. "Pretty much. Can I give you the shape of it? No, but I have a hand on it to push or to pull, and it's in arm's reach, and there's no not knowing that." She turned away and opened the oven, setting the bowl with the butter inside.

"I can only hope that made sense. If this doesn't, be cool; I'm just melting the butter without resorting to the microwave, since you got some other stuff in it."

"Cause I could totally see you bouncing! Bouncering. Whatever." Hiro's eyes light up at that, and he manages to somehow bounce in place, while sitting on the counter. "Do you yell "come at me bro" at lots of people? Like, random hooligans and stuff?"

Oooo, wow, something neat is happening with that there butter, have Hiro hopping off the counter, still covered in flour, and hunch down to examine the bowl in the oven, expression dubious. "Are you talking metaphorically now? Or about the butter? Cause you could totally give me the shape of the butter: screwed up."

He straightens, sighing softly. "The butter is screwed up and whatever's in the microwave is probably alive. It was making noise, at least."

"Why's that? And the word you want is bouncing." Although the correction would probably help cement Hiro's idea that Sam was bouncer material, she didn't mind---much, or at all. It struck her as funny, for one; for another, fairly flattering. "A respectable number? If 'respectable' is the right term? Sort of a seasonal practice, though. Summertime stuff."

One spoon on the counter was still clean, save for a few flecks of flour; Sam picked it up, deemed it serviceable, and crouched in front of the oven to monitor the butter's melting. The action of crouching was slightly awkward, showing the stiffness in her off leg ('busted' wasn't an exaggeration; 'busted' it had been,) but after some six years, it didn't really register, with or without the issue of "Alive? What did you put in there?"

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