hadriel_logs | [open] how can we expect

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[open] how can we expect

Who: Sanji and OPEN
What: Someone didn't take the last event well.
Where: The permafrost ice cellar dug vaguely close to Sanji's restaurant
When: January 13th
Warnings: Angst. And a boo-boo.

The visions have ended. They haven't plagued anyone for days, and Hadriel has settled back into its modicum of twisted peace. Sanji's restaurant-slash-home-slash-kitchen, however, is eerily empty. His equipment is clean, the lights are all out, and his tools have been carefully slotted into their proper places. All except for a single kitchen knife still lying atop his pristine counter. The very fact that Sanji's left it out is concerning. The dots of red on its blade? Those are a problem.

Sanji himself is now holed up in the very ice cellar he helped dig, cross-legged next to a pile of frozen game as he glares at the bloody cut marring his right pointer finger. He's angry at the stupid, shitty noise that had made him jump, at himself for being distracted enough in the first place to jump with a fucking knife in his hand, at this whole damn situation for tearing him away from his life. But most of all, he's angry at the bone deep ache that's managed to penetrate every single one of his defenses and just won't go away.

He'd never even considered that his crew could die without him. That's the way it should have stayed. Sanji believes in every member of the Straw Hats with absolute certainty. Every member except himself.

The weary cook wraps the wound with his towel again, soaking up more blood but also just so he doesn't have to look at it anymore.

What if he never makes it back to them? What if they spend the rest of their lives looking for him? Luffy's voice echoes in his head. It's usually such a guiding light; now it only stings like his damn stupid cut.

"Without you, I can't become the pirate king!"

Sanji leaps to his feet and slams his shoe into the wall with devastating force. The whole cellar shakes.

"Shit!"

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Scott was doing what he could to keep himself busy and productive, and seeing as how he helped with the ice cellar he felt he should at least occasionally bring something to put in it. Ice fishing was easy enough for him; he just waited until some came close to the surface and biotically pulled them up and into a sack. Easy. He may as well take it to where it'll be put to good use — not to mention where's the harm in helping the guy who loves to cook, right?

Speaking of, when he approaches the house/restaurant — he's not sure what it serves most as, so he knocks lightly, with a bit of a jovial tune to it, just so he doesn't take anyone by surprise upon entering. The darkness only serves to tell him that maybe no one's home, so he decides he'll just go toss the sack of scavenged meat in the ice cellar and be on his way. It's passing the knife with droplets of blood that finally clues him into something not being right.

"Oookaaay," he murmurs to himself, becoming more aware of his surroundings as he proceeds forward.

He arrives in time to see Sanji kicking the wall, brows raising in surprise at the force of it, the cellar shaking from that single kick.

"Whoa, whoa, there are better ways to test out this place's sturdiness, you know," his tone light, but mild concern laced his words.

Sanji freezes at the sound of Scott's voice. It's a blow to his pride that the guy's managed to get this close without Sanji realizing he's not alone. Then again... The cook sighs, unable to release the tension tightening his shoulders against his will. Then again, his pride's already been reduced to cracked glass, hasn't it?

"Right. Sturdiness," he snorts under his breath. It takes a great deal of effort and suffocating self-control for Sanji to remove his heel from the permafrost wall and return it gently to the ground. He can't quite bring himself to go one step further and actually face Scott. His visitor receives only a shake of stray blond hair. "I guess it passes."

Scott stares for a moment, almost on the verge of squinting at Sanji. He was never one to beat around the bush when it came to this sort of thing, so he decides to just go for it.

"Alright," he starts with that tone that says, 'we're talking about this', probably presumptuous given they hardly know each other. But the man's distressed and Scott feels inclined to help in some way. "What's happening here?"

It's food, so there is that. She's taken to attempting to hunt the smaller creatures around, although the stampede had left some meat around as well. Carolina still hasn't made it out ice fishing, not entirely certain what, if anything, is required for bait for that. It had been easier on the islands, where there had been shallows and a net could easily catch some of the smaller creatures.

The sack holds a few creatures about the size of rabbits, skinned and gutted, and she does recall him speaking about cooking. Isn't too hard to find make her way there either. There is a knock that is given as she waits a few moments, before another knock, more insistent this time. "Sanji! Open up, or I'm just coming in."

That it looks dark doesn't matter. It's more the threat that might make some hope to action with the tone of her words. A few more moments, and by now the red head is starting to wonder if he is here, before she does hear a noise, followed by a shit. With a slightly perplexed look on her face and an alertness to her posture, she follows the sound to it's source, arching an eyebrow ever so. "Uh. Dare I ask what it ever did to you?"

Not that Carolina is one to talk. She's punched shit. She's thrown stuff around. She has fit the red head temper to a T some days.

"...It was looking at me funny."

He delivers the most fatal deadpan of his life. There is a gorgeous woman at his door, delivering the precious food that will keep everyone on this miserable tundra moving, and yet that lifeless, monotonous string of dull words is all that comes to mind. He deserves to be executed for that bit of misconduct alone. But for Carolina at least, he turns his head, acknowledges and appreciates her as every man should, and does his best not to hate himself for wanting her gone.

His palm tightens around the bloody towel, and his fresh cut renews its cry for attention.

"Had to teach it a lesson before sweeter company arrived."

She may or may not know a thing or two about things looking at her funny... She has her own ghosts, just as she assumes that most people do, at least to some extend. Many might not be as grand as the one's that weight Carolina down, but from one to another, she can hazard a guess.

Her lips purse a little, putting her gift of meat down as she glances around. He might not be his chipper and annoying self, and that along doesn't have her turning heel to get out of there sooner rather than later. "You got something better than a towel? Because I don't think that's cutting it."

Immediately, she draws the conversation exactly where he doesn't want it. He's happy she's worried for him; he's not happy that she has to worry for him. Frustration quirks his brow, but he gulps back as much indecision as he can.

Just be happy. Just be happy.

"It's okay. Seeing your face in my darkest hour was so exciting that it got my blood pumping, that's all," he insists with an off-balanced smile, as if the weight of the expression itself is too much to carry without slipping. "It'll stop in a minute."

It's hard to pull the wool over her eyes, and she's not someone that is easily distracted, unless one knows how to distract her. It is a fairly good job, as her lips do purse at his words. Well, either he's not that badly off, as he's still being ridiculous, or he's just always on.

"Do you ever turn it off." But she does know something about keeping things to herself, as Carolina has never been the type to share too much about herself. "If you don't want to talk about whatever it is, fine, but if I find out you pass out from blood loss, I'll kick your ass."

[Margaery hadn't participated in digging the ice cellar. she's still too delicate and ladylike for that, despite her skill with a katana. however, she has been searching for Sanji to set up their cooking lessons. she'd asked for them a while back, but Hadriel, being Hadriel, had gotten in the way.

she ventures into the restaurant tentatively, looking around for any sign of Sanji's presence.

she does see the bloody knife while she's searching which is alarming, but it doesn't look as though he's lost enough blood for it to be life-threatening, at least not yet.

however, there's no sign of Sanji himself in the restaurant. confused, she stands there for a moment before deciding to try looking for him.

the next likeliest spot to find him would be the ice cellar, wouldn't it?

so she ventures on into it and she calls out as sweetly as she can] Sanji? Are you here?

Edited 2019-01-26 01:02 (UTC)

[Fucking shit-sucking piss-faced mother fucker dickless son of a-

All too suddenly, Sanji whirls around. His eyes are wide, and his foot's still stuck in the permafrost wall, but he knows that voice. That's Margaery's voice. He squeezes the cut on his finger even tighter within the confines of his towel, as if willing the wound away with sheer pressure. Then he pastes on a smile.]

L-Lady Margaery! [He calls as if he's not stuck in the most awkward pose imaginable.] Were you hungry? I've done you a terrible disservice! Never fear, I'll fly back to the kitchen immediately! The queen of my heart awaits!

Edited (words) 2019-01-26 23:43 (UTC)

[really now, language.

she blinks at his sudden turn. surely he'd heard her approach? perhaps not, given his . . . precarious position. and she does notice the towel wrapped around his finger, the likely source of the blood she had seen earlier. she can also tell the difference between a real smile and a false one, having been the master of the latter for years. nevertheless, she smiles back as though nothing is amiss]

Sanji. [she returns with a disarming smile] I am hungry, though I mostly came with the intent of settling a time for our lessons. There's no need to make a fuss over me. [even though she must admit that she quite likes having a fuss made over her]

Nonsense! [He immediately shoots back before turning to properly dislodge his shoe.] If all I had left in the world was to fuss over your exquisite majesty, I would die fulfilled!

[It's not a lie, per se. If she really was all he had left, he would convince himself she was all he needed. He's capable of that, he knows now, and the only person he seems able to lie successfully to is himself. It feels like he's lying to her anyway though, and only compounds his guilt.]

Th-Then! Let's get back to the kitchen, and I'll teach you how to whip up something perfect for your distinguished palate.

Edited 2019-01-27 07:28 (UTC)

Indeed? Then I suppose I must allow myself to be fussed over.

[she's still a bit uncertain as to how he's truly feeling, but she's trying to act as though all is normal in hopes that it will help him steady himself]

Thank you very much. I truly appreciate your help. If I can learn how to cook, it will lessen the burden on Sansa to provide us all with meals. She works hard enough for us all as it is.

You must, you must! As a favor to your most devoted fan!

[If he knew how carefully she was navigating his mood, he'd be ashamed but also extremely flattered. As it is, he cluelessly takes advantage of the time she gives him to recompose himself.

The situation is no less suffocating, but at the very least, his need to be the proper gentleman every woman deserves gives him a reason to keep breathing anyway. After he manages a few deep breaths, certainly his head will be back in the right place. Right? Then he can treat Lady Margaery with the adoration she deserves.]

You'll have to take everything we make during these lessons back to her straight away.

You're far too kind.

[she's been trained to read people and situations for as long as she can remember. she can tell when a person is not exactly feeling themselves and she worries.

she truly does like him. he seems a gentleman at heart, but she feels that there's more to him than that. not that she'd pry, their association is still relatively new and it wouldn't be fair to him]

I shall! May we start with something [she stumbles slightly over the word] vegetarian? I must admit that I haven't eaten very much in the way of meat since I came here. I've heard rumors that the meat is tainted.

Vegetarian?

[She can no doubt see the gears beginning to turn in his head, the prospect of preparing food distracting him from his turmoil in a way not even Margaery's fine feminine physique could. Standing right in front of him is a beautiful woman who needs to be fed. He'd damn well die to sate that need.]

I don't have many fresh fruit or vegetables stocked. This damn barren wasteland's made sure of that. But I found a jar of peanut butter the other day, and I have a few cans of tomato paste saved. Then... How do you feel about peanut soup?

[she can and she's glad that it's a distraction from the turmoil he'd clearly been feeling earlier. he'll likely have to wrestle with his demons at some point and she hopes that he has a friend there when he does who can help him through it. in time, she would hope to be one of those friends, but that time is likely not now]

Yes, it's been simply terrible here. If I'd wanted to go North, I'd had ample opportunity to back home. [she listens to the rest of what he has to say] I feel. . . I don't know! I've never had peanut soup before!

"Ah, should you do that? Aren't a cook's hands his treasure?"

Ianchus' voice is soft and gentle, coming from the entrance of the cellar. He'd seen the door open as he'd passed by, and that's what had made him curious. He'd become ill soon after meeting Sanji, so he hadn't been able to see the man in action. He'd thought he'd get to have the chance now, but...ah.

Then he notices the blood on the towel, and his expression grows concerned as he steps forward.

"...You're hurt." Perhaps in more ways than one, judging by that strike against the wall.

A cook's hands are his treasure. Which is why it's such a huge damn deal that he let this happen. Sanji is slipping in every way imaginable, and it makes him want to scream. Instead, he gets caught kicking walls in a glorified freezer, so involved in his own pity party that he doesn't even realize he's not alone until Ianchus is already at the entrance.

His gaze drops to his hand, and he sighs, tugs his foot out of the wall, resigns himself to do everything he doesn't want to. Like be responsible and do his damn job.

"Just a cut," he reassures with a shake of his head. "It's inevitable for any cook, you know."

Any cook except Sanji.

"Come, let me help you. Let's go and clean that off."

Now that he can see better, he's a little surprised that it was his foot that caused that damage and not his hand...all the better, but that doesn't change anything.

He moves forward, glancing at Sanji's face, trying to get a feel for the what he may be feeling. At the very least, Ianchus is well-attuned to others' emotions. Focusing on the hand should be first, and then, perhaps, they can figure things out as they patch the hole in the wall.

Sanji's lips are pressed into a tight, thin line, every once in a while twitching for the cigarette they're sorely lacking. It's clear when he turns to the side that he's purposefully not facing Ianchus head-on. That's because his glare is focused on his own hand and the wound he inflicted upon himself. He doesn't want to leave the dark cellar, doesn't want to be seen moping like some stupid kid. He can't even bring himself to rattle on about how he'd rather be helped by a cute girl, and that only frustrates him further. Because that's what he should be doing. The fact that he doesn't feel up to it is just more proof that he's losing his cool.

No, he's already lost it. How else could he allow the complete stranger he's supposed to be cooking for to worry over his damn hand?

"It's just about stopped bleeding. We can use the restaurant's sink," he offers warily. He needs to wash his knife properly anyway. If he lets the blood sit too long...

It takes another few seconds, but after wrapping his hand with the towel so the cut isn't visible, he takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax his shoulders. Finally he pushes his legs to move, slow and heavy steps leading his aid back through the exit.

Ianchus follows, carefully. The man is struggling with something Ianchus doesn't know, and they're not really friends, so he knows to keep his distance. If Sanji wants to talk to him, he can, otherwise...well, Ianchus can see to the hand.

"Do you have bandages? If not we can use some clean cloth. I can help you wrap it so that you have some mobility but so that we can keep the pressure on it, ah? It seemed...deep."

But wounds are always easier to talk about. Physical wounds are impersonal.

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[open] how can we expect

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Obscenely late I'm sorry

no worries!

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