2014-11-14 Conversations About Bacon
This scene is rated Everybody
Warning: Bacon
Players: Drake, Sparrow
GMed by Both!
Title: Conversations About Bacon

Summary: Sparrow, beginning to settle in at the Xavier's School, leans about bacon.

Drake has had a very interesting week, yessir. But today is going to be a somewhat lazy day. There will be training, studying, and all that good stuff - but in moderation. The teen needs a little bit of downtime. And to that end, he's kicked back on one of the couches, with an oversized flatscreen before him turned on to the news. The remote lies on the floor beside him, and a plate of waffles soaking in syrup atop him. To his knowledge, he's alone in here. Hence why he's avoiding getting fussed at. So far!

Mostly alone. Sparrow had a shower this morning and her tangled riot of hair had been all combed out. It hangs prettily almost to her waist — but she seems to prefer her faded dress and cardigan over the Xavier's-wear that was provided for her. Barefoot, she pads silently into the rec room, following the distorted voices and noise. Also waffles. Not the sound of waffles, of course, but the smell of them. She climbs up onto the couch beside him and perches like a gargoyle, mostly on her feet with her bony knees tucked up to her chin. Without so much as a good morning, she tears off a bite of waffle with her fingers and pops it in her mouth.
Drake catches on to her presence a bit before she climbs up and perches, earning a curious look. And then she steals a bit of waffle. He might fuss, but the bounty that is the Xavier pantries more than insist no one will go hungry. So instead, she gets a bemused smile.

"Look at you, all cleaned up'n lookin' nice. Still rockin' the hospital fashion, though." Using a fork, he stabs a bit of waffle for himself. The plate, however, is held a little more towards her invitingly. "How'd you sleep?"

Well, since he's offering… She takes one of the waffles whole and folds it up like a taco. "I slept very little," she reports. "But I'm glad. I've slept too much for — " she really has no idea how long she was in Bellvue. "For a long time." Nom nom. She hesitates, then offers, "How did you sleep?"

Drake blinks when she takes the waffle, then snickers at the redirect. "I slept okay. I always sleep pretty good when I have an exciting day. And yesterday was totally exciting." After a beat, he asks, "Any idea what you'd like me to call you yet? And you know you can just call me Drake…" Just to make sure she doesn't keep calling him that crazy-long made-up title.

"I intend to continue calling you McAwesome save for times when levity is inappropriate," Sparrow reports with a mouthful of waffletaco. "Insofar as I can discern those times." She swallows her well-masticated bite of breakfast. "Someone in the hospital called me a sparrow. I think because I didn't eat much. But it was a patient and one who was unobjectionable? After some consideration, I like it as a name."

Drake blinks at that surprisingly coherent thought. And with that, he grins and nods. "Sparrow it is! I like it. S'kind've cute." As for the McAwesome? That's fine, too. In the grand spectrum of nicknames, it could be far worse! "So, is there anything on t.v. that'cha like? I can see if it's on."

"I can never tell what's going to appear in the window," Sparrow admits, squinting at the television. She takes another big bite of waffle. "It seems completely random to me."

"In /that/ case, let's try and find something you like." Drake leans down to collect the remote, then squirms to settle into the couch. "News isn't very great. Even the people telling the news don't seem to like it," he notes. "So how about…"

Flip. Flip. Flip. Ponies. Candy-colored ponies, carrying on about friendship.

Drake sliiides his gaze aside to 'Sparrow'. "Ah?"

Sparrow frowns a frown that slowly becomes a grimace. "Are deformed horses supposed to be entertaining?" she asks, worried by the notion. WHAT KIND OF HORRIBLE PLACE IS THIS??


"Nope. Let's see…"

Flip. It's a variety show.

Flip. A cooking show.

Flip. Professional wrestling.

"Anything tickle your fancy yet, bright-eyes? We're coming up on the documentary stuff," Drake warns.

Sparrow perks up. "Documents?" She nods brightly. "I like documents."

"Close. Only all talky'n stuff." Drake flips the channel again, and it lands on a documentary concerning ancient Egypt and the pyramids. Those bright emerald eyes flit back over to the girl at his side.

Sparrow watches in silence for a time, thoughtfully and methodically demolishing her waffle. "The contention that the pyramids were built by or to contact aliens is absurd." She denounces, during the commercial. The commercial (I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!) makes her frown more. "People are disturbingly credulous."

Drake lets her sink into the documentary, which indeed dares to espouse aliens as being ancient architects. And when she makes her claim, Drake leans to the side to gently nudge his arm against hers. "I shoot lightning from my hands," he points out. Counter-point!

"That you can shoot lightning from your hands is a fact," Sparrow notes, reaching for another waffle. "That aliens were the architects of the pyramids is not. You're perpetuating an equivocation fallacy."

"Just sayin', weird stuff abounds out here." His waffle is taken, left only with a syrupy plate. Drake shoots it a forlorn look, then just refocuses on Sparrow. "For example, I've fought extra-dimensional alien frost giants in Time's Square."

Sparrow considers this with a thoughtful frown. "If they were jotnar, I would submit that extra-dimensional is more correct than alien. Unless you're using alien to mean 'non-indigenous.'"

"Jotun. They call'em jotun," Drake notes. "And extra-dimensional aliens. Because they're from a different dimension /and/ different planet." Beat. "I think." It's hard to untangle the web of weirdness that is everything involving Asgardians. "Now, did aliens make the pyramids?" Beat. "'Course not."

"Midgard is analagous to Earth," Sparrow counterpoints, sucking syrup off her fingertips. "Jotun is the singular form."

"Yeah, but the Jotun don't come from Midgard. They come from their own wonky planet, or something." Drake squints his eyes at her. "You ever meet a frost giant? Ever talk to an Asgardian? I have!" So there.

Sparrow shakes her head. "I've never met a frost giant or spoken to an Asgardian," she replies, taking another big waffle bite. "I'm not convinced I believe in gods, as such. Though it's possible there are god-like beings. They're from another planet?"

Public has been removed from your channel list.
"Uh-huh. And between you'n me? I don't think they're /gods/, either. Just… not human." Drake eyes the waffle intently as she bites onto it, eating it. "I… need to get some bacon or something. Y'want bacon?"

"I've never had bacon," reports Sparrow, shockingly. "I know what it is, and that there's a semi-facetious, radical enthusiasm about it that's spawned excessive marketing initiatives." Blah blah blah. Even she can hear herself blah-ing. So she stops, and asks honestly, "Should I have some?"

"You should. Plus, you should clean off your fingers. C'mon." Drake sets a hand to her elbow to attempt coaxing her up to her feet and, ultimately, following him. Not until she's standing will he begin walking. And all that extraneous information floats into one ear and right out the other to make room for a far more pertinent question! "What foods do you know that you've tried? What's your favorite?"

Sparrow unfolds herself easily enough and follows, sucking and licking syrup off her fingers assiduously as she goes. "I'm not sure any of the food at the hospital was properly representative of its namesake," she mumbles around mouthing the heel of her hand. "So I'm not sure."

"Probably not. It never is," explains Drake as they leave the rec room behind - t.v. left on, remote on the couch, but at least Drake still has the plate on-hand! "Y'know, life's probably gonna be really interesting for you for a while. If you can't remember anything, you get to.. like.. rediscover /you/."

"That's a theory," Sparrow agrees, finding to her frustration that one's mouth — while the process it tasty — isn't the best way to remove syrup. Her hands remain sticky. "How can one he sure one's rediscovering an old self, and not simply creating a new self from new experiences? You're presupposing an authentic self."
"Ooh. An alternative?," offers Drake as he turns his head to regard her. "Who~ cares? Either way doesn't make it any less exciting! It's still a fascinating trip for you, and either way y'look at it, you're expanding your current horizons!" He flashes the girl a bright, playful smile. "You're surprisingly analytical."

Sparrow blinks, then laughs. "Why is that surprising?" She sighs and tries to wipe her hands on her dress. "My hands won't stop being sticky!" she whines.

Drake snickers at her despair and hastens his pace a little. "Soon! We'll take care of that soon! And I'unno, it's just surprising. You sound really smart. Wasn't expecting that, when I first saw ya." He tilts his head slightly to the side, those bangs wafting over his right eye a little further. "And have I mentioned you clean up well?"

"I'd believe you, except that I'm not presently clean," Sparrow replies, continuing to frown in distraction over her sticky hands. "Nor are my attempts to become so going well. Your argument is invalid."

"So you've gotta re-master fork technology," Drake notes. "But I believe in you." With that sentiment, he pats a hand over his heart, eyes fluttering shut in a playfully significant way.

Sparrow eyeballs him. "Are you mocking me?" she inquires. "That's not very nice. I don't mock your silly hair."

"Only a little!" And then a blink. "Hey!" A hand lifts to self-consciously run through those bangs, his eyes lifting to the locks of obsidian in question. "You think my hair's silly…?"

Sparrow smirks a dimple onto her cheek. "Well. Only insofar as having hair that could potentially obscure one's vision is silly. Mine could very well do the same, but I don't wear it in front of my face."

Drake drops his hand to his side with a small, annoyed frown. "Whatever," is all he has to say about it. Newbie making fun of his hair. Tch. The door to the kitchen is pushed open finally and he waves an arm, shooing her inside. "Sink. Water. Clean those hands."

She blinks. "That response contributes nothing to the conversation," she observes. But then! Sink. Water. Awesome. She proceeds to clean her hands. She even uses soap. "This is much more effective," she says with satisfaction.
Drake leaves for the Kitchen.

Drake follows in after her and leaves her with the sink. She's surely more than capable of handling that on her own! And with a glance spared over his shoulder, he can confirm this! So his attention turns first to the stove, then to retrieve a skillet, and finally, to the fridge to fetch the package o' bacon. It's all arranged on the counter beside the stovetop, which is presently heating.

"Today's a special day; the first day - as far as you're aware - that a guy's cooked something for you. Something that's worth eating, anyway."

"It's possible, even probable, that the people preparing meals at the hospital were male. On some days." Sparrow hops up to sit on the counter nearby. Then, she allows, "But I'm sure the difference is they weren't cooking specifically for me." She's letting him be special! So nice. Then, with a sigh, "It's unpleasant to have the hospital as my only frame of reference."

"Something. Worth. Eating," Drake repeats pointedly. "Hospital gruel don't qualify." Bad grammar ahoy! Still, the bacon is set in the skillet for his little contrarian guest. And soon, it starts to sizzle, letting off the very distinctive aroma of bacon. "Anyway, you've only been out of the hospital a day. You'll have a lot of other experience to pile on top of it.

Sparrow leans over to see, and smell, what he's up to. "Then is seems desirable to accumulate as many new experiences as possible, quickly."

"Yep. More or less. Just, don't do the things that are gonna hurt ya," Drake advises. And realizing she's suddenly scampered over to his side, Drake slides his gaze to her with a coy smile. "Oh, the lady likes the smell of bacon, does she?"

She nods, inhaling deeply. "I do. If it tastes anything like it smells, it might be my new favorite thing." She smirks again, settling back into her own space. "Which, at the rate I'm accumulating new things, will probably have that distinction for about five minutes."

"Well, there's no shortage of new things to try," Drake chirps. "And out of all the things that could be your favorite, you could do way worse." He slips aside to fetch a spatula to begin poking at the sizzly strips of meat, turning them over carefully. "They won't be too much longer…"

"That doesn't look like a sufficient quantity," Sparrow says, dubiously. "What are you going to eat?"

"I'm going to do bacon in two different ways," Drake explains. "The first way is the 'traditional' way. Crispy bacon. A lot of people like it that way. The second way is more chewy, more like.. like other meats. Me? I like'em both ways. Bacon's all aces /anyway/." And speaking of which, it seems that it's time to clear the skillet! A plate is hurriedly fetched from the cupboard, and with deft use of the spatula, a series of bacon strips are arranged over it.

"Protip: let'em cool a little. They don't take long, but they'll obliterate your tongue if you have at'em right off the skillet. Resist the temptation."

"A burnt tongue sounds unpleasant," Sparrow agrees, watching the master at work. Then, smiling faintly, "'All Aces' is an entertaining phrase."

Drake glances back to her and winks an eye. "Use it as much as ya like, turtledove." His gaze returns to the plate, and he begins bobbing on the balls of his feet anxiously. It's hard to resist the siren scent of fresh bacon. But finally, he lifts the plate and whirls around to face her. "Try one."

The expansive kitchen is meant to accommodate any number of ravenous students at any time. The large, stainless steel fridge is well stocked, the wooden cupboards kept full of accessories and necessities. Toasters, microwaves, ovens… if it can be used to make food, it's in the kitchen.

"Protip: let'em cool a little. They don't take long, but they'll obliterate your tongue if you have at'em right off the skillet. Resist the temptation."

"A burnt tongue sounds unpleasant," Sparrow agrees, watching the master at work. Then, smiling faintly, "'All Aces' is an entertaining phrase."

Drake glances back to her and winks an eye. "Use it as much as ya like, turtledove." His gaze returns to the plate, and he begins bobbing on the balls of his feet anxiously. It's hard to resist the siren scent of fresh bacon. But finally, he lifts the plate and whirls around to face her. "Try one."

Sparrow blinks at the whirl and flourish of presentation, laughing. "This is clearly a seminal moment in my very new life," she observes, delicately taking a crispy strip from the plate. She examines it, sniffs it, then takes a bite. It crumbles in her mouth. Her eyes widen, then lid. The little moan she makes could bring to a young man's mind things somewhat more awesome than bacon. "Oh… oh, my goodness," she murmurs, opening her eyes again. "This quite explains the hysterical fanfare." She takes another bite with a delicious sigh. "You should make more. Lots more."

"That's uuusually people's reaction," nods Drake, not even a little surprised by how it's received. He turns to set the plate aside, then digs out more bacon from the pack. The pieces are lain out across the skillet and they set to sizzle rather quickly. "Next up - the chewy kind. I think they come out like jerky when it's done like this." Beat. "Oh, and beef jerky is amazing, too. We'll try that later."

The slip of a girl shakes her head. "Nothing is more amazing than bacon. Bacon should be a key component of all edible things."

Drake laughs modestly at her assessment. "It might not be as amazing as bacon, but beef jerky is sort of like bacon you can take with you. Just.. bear with me." He spatula-pokes the meatstrips around the skillet a little more, but soon begins doling them out onto the plate. These were cooked for a significantly shorter period of time, preventing them from going all crispy and firm. He turns around with the plate again and advises, "Still gotta let'em cool a little."

She finishes her first strip and greedily goes for another crispy one. "Why can't I take bacon with me?" WHO SAYS? The soft-cooked ones get a suspicious side-eye. "Those look squishy."

"They /are/ squishy," Drake informs. "And you can't take'em with you because that's the rule. Jerky is for travel. Bacon is not." He just made that up. But jerky has to have a place in society somewhere, right? He snatches up a strip of crispy bacon and wags it at her, "You can probably try one of the softer ones now," before chomping onto it.

"I object to this rule," says Sparrow with a little scowl. One of the floppy bits is picked up between thumb and forefinger. Examined. Sniffed. Crammed wholesale into her mouth. She squints one eye as she chews. And chews. And chews. "Thiz peez does nod wan to dizzove." Disapproval conveyed, she swallows. "That's an unacceptable way to treat bacon." She points at the plate of soft bacon. "Fix it."

Drake gives a little snort or derision. "You don't /fix/ bacon when it's done. If you don't like'em chewy, don't eat'em. You can have the others." Of which, there are still a few. One of the chewy ones are lifted and, like she had before, stuffs the entire thing into his mouth. Chew, chew.

"Well, then, you should have made them properly in the first place," Sparrow points out, primly. She takes another piece of crunchy, though, and consumes it with a happy sigh.

"But they /are/ done properly," reports Drake after swallowing. "Your pallet's just not as refined as mine." And to complement the implied 'neener-neener', the teen sticks his tongue out at her.

Sparrow scrunches a face and tucks her chin back. Eww with the tongue exposure. "That I am more specific on the kind of bacon I'm willing to accept obviously indicates the opposite." Crunch crunch. "My palette is more refined than yours." Neener.

Hah! Look at that face she's making. Drake can't remember a time where sticking-out-the-tongue would actually be even remotely effective! "You don't even /have/ a palette," he counters. "Mine's more refined, cuz I've tasted lots more!" Another strip of chewy bacon is lifted and popped into his mouth. Chew-chew.

"You can't possibly say that with certainty until I've tasted all the things you've tasted," says Sparrow. SCIENCE, God damn it. "And I can already surmise, by the difference in our personalities, mine will be more refined. I'm more precise." Crunch. "And pickier."

"You couldn't know that until you've tasted all the things /I've/ tasted," Drake replies. So neener again! "Picky'n fussy doesn't mean refined. It just means picky!" The last of the chewy bacon is lifted and dangled at her. Wibble-wobble. "Suuure you don't want it?"

"That's exactly what I just said!" Sparrow protests, feathers ruffled. She pulls another face as the limp pork is wobbled at her. "No." Flat out. Manners aren't, apparently, her forte.

"You're not sure?," asks Drake, playing with her wording. "I could give ya more time to decide…" But evidently he's just being facetious, as he pops the bacon into his mouth anyway. Turning, he sets the plate of remaining bacon on the counter and steps aside, letting her get at it.

Once that last piece of bacon is swallowed, he continues, "We'll try eggs with you tomorrow and see how that goes."

Sparrow snatches up another piece of crunchy, quick as a bird gets a worm. Nom crunch crunchity. "Eggs can be had in a wide variety of ways," she reports, like she's laying him down some learning.

"And we're gonna try two of'em tomorrow," says Drake with a firm nod. "That is, if you want." He leans aside, propping his elbow on the counter.

"Why only two?" asks Sparrow, cocking her head to the side. "That seems inefficient. If I'm supposed to cover the undoubtedly broad array of food you've sampled." She needs to catch up, yo.

"Don't try to live seventeen years in a couple days," Drake insists. He leans off the counter again to slip past her and to the sink. His hands set under the running water, rinsing off whatever bits of grease remain from the bacon before shutting it off again. "You've got a lifetime ahead of ya, Sparrow."

Sparrow is happy enough to try cleaning her fingers with her mouth, again. Because bacon. "No one knows how long a lifetime is," she says, pragmatically.

"The trick is to try to live forever." Drake flashes her a cheeky smile. "That's my plan. So far, so good." He watches her slurp at her fingers for a few seconds before grimacing a little. "It's gonna be the syrup situation all over again. Come'ere, clean'em off this way."

"The human body and mind deteriorate enough, in time, that forever wouldn't be desirable." Sparrow shrugs, sucking bacon grease off her thumb. "The knowledge that our time is finite drives us to… do things." With a resigned sigh, she submits her delicious hands to soap and water.

Drake moves to the side enough to grant her easy access to the faucet. "I do things because I like to. Or because I should. 'Sides, we're just getting to know what's going on with us. We might /not/ deteriorate over time at some point, who knows?"

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