2019-09-24 - Canelé

Hyacinth texted Vy on her way home. "It's done. Now shower. Booze." And that was all she texted post exorcism. Does she have work left to do on teh stupid box? Yes. Is she getting breakfast first? OH yes. Mind bending the beyonders takes callories. That is what today's fix is: Coffee. Crepe. All she has to say to teh litle minion behind the counter is, "Do me a favour. I know Vyv is back there. Tell him that Hya needs him to cook French at her." He should be able to decipher that or come up with better.

He, in this case, is Daniel, who looks somewhat lost at these instructions. "Um," he says, looking over to the somewhat older man at the register, currently ringing up a well-coiffed elderly lady for a fair-sized box of various pastries. Trey shrugs at Daniel helpfully, being somewhat distracted, and once change is handed over, looks over to give Hyacinth a smile, and then Daniel a slightly sharper one. "I can hold down the fort," he assures, and Daniel looks brightly appreciative of this in a way that suggests he's entirely unaware that this might not be quite such a kind offer. "'kay!" he says, giving Hyacinth a smile, and he heads off toward the kitchen door. He doesn't really give the impression of being the brightest bulb on the tree. Very pretty, though. They both make pleasant scenery, really.

It's hard to make out the words when the door opens, but the voice is Vyv's and the tone is... displeased. Daniel glances back over his shoulder uneasily, but too late, he's been spotted. "Well?" comes from within, and the counter boy slinks into the kitchen to pass on the message, looking far less enthusiastic about it than before. It's only a few seconds before he emerges again, looking both relieved and a little confused. "Um. He said to send you back? But you should probably try not to touch anything." It's unclear if he's reporting that second one as being said, or if it's just advice.

Hyacinth assumes the obvious, "Oh, he doens't want me to get anyhting on me. Isn't he the sweetest thing." she's tired and in a foul mood and this? This is the best news she's heard in three hours. Purse slung behind her she lets her shosies tak-tak-tak-tak their way back into the kitchen. "Sweetness, I am in need of something that tastes French and good company. Where are you saving the world from itself at?"

Well, at the least, it's probably true that he doesn't! And there would certainly be danger of it; the kitchen may be scrupulously clean and neat at base, but it's also busy right now, with several people bustling about and preparing things, and that means various ingredients out as well. The youngest person in the kitchen, an exceedingly (surely bleached-) blond young man, is currently looking like he might cry, and chopping apples like he's had the fear of God put into him, or at least the fear of Vyv.

He hasn't been stabbed, at least. Shame he doesn't realise how much closer to possible that was today than usual.

Vyv is, of course, in his whites, and they continue not to be spattered with blood, so all in all one might presume things are going all right in the scheme of things. He looks at a fairly high level of Irritated, however, and appears to be taking a moment to breathe and center himself. This is handy, since his eyes are briefly closed and he doesn't see the look a couple of the bakers give each other on hearing him addressed as 'sweetness'. It's probably for the best for all involved. His eyes open not a moment later, though, and he gives Hyacinth a small smile, glancing her over. "Good," he says, to what he sees rather than what he hears, "I was mildly concerned." He was worried. "Come, there are chairs in the office." To which he leads the way. It's small, but very neat and tidy and decorated rather nicely for what it is, because it's Vyv's. And there are, indeed, chairs. "Fair time for a break, anyway, so company I can provide. Anything French, mm?"

The fear of Vyv is worse. God has Mercy. Vyv makes no such concessions for inadequacy. Hya has found her tribe!

Her fingers fall briefly on his shoulder leaning for one air smooch but instead says, "Well you were busy this week. I didn't want to distress your schedule." Yes, I was scared as hell too.

Walking into his office she sighs closing her eyes and setting her purse in the other chair, "Hmmm Anything French. A crepe, a Sophie, a Jean-Paul, or a croissant. I am not particular so long as it gets the taste of adrenaline out of my palette."

Once they're close enough, she of course gets the usual air-kisses of greeting, which in theory technically already qualifies as something French. But alas it only fulfils figurative versions of taste. "Mn. Some Jean-Pauls are definitely superior to others," Vyv says just a touch darkly, "...and sadly I haven't any on hand these days in any case. Nor a Sophie, for that matter, and my Sophia is out ill. Flu, she says." Simultaneously annoyed and approving, probably the former that she's out and the latter that she isn't here spreading germs. "...plus, I think she's Greek."

He studies her thoughtfully a moment, arms lightly crossed against his chest and one finger tapping at the opposite arm. "All right," he says then, with a quick nod, and lifts that finger in a 'hold on' gesture as he strides back out into the kitchen. It's remarkably swiftly that he returns, the frightened blond behind him bearing two cups of coffee and looking as though his life depends on not managing to spill them. At present, who knows, it might. He lives to fear another day, however, setting them down on the desk and fleeing.

Vyv sets down a plate in front of Hyacinth, then steps around the desk to set the other down for himself, and settle into the chair. "Canelé," he says; it's a small fluted cylindrical pastry, with a dark caramelized crust over the outside, and it smells of sugar, vanilla, and rum. There's a napkin, but no fork. "Hold it in your hand," the chef instructs, "take in the scent, then bite it. Like an apple." He demonstrates. The crust crackles when bitten, the inside soft and custardy with the rum and vanilla tastes the scents suggest. As far as replacing most other tastes on the palate, it does the job fairly well.

Hyacinth coos, "I'm partial to Greek." Still she's been gone into wherever for a damn exorcism of what have you proportions and she's chit chatting menial shopping for delicacies to flirt with. This is for the trained eye the grasp back to normal fueled by need.

But lo, the cavalry appears in pastery form and one eyebrow goes up. Well this confection is its own curiosity. She listens, attentive and happy to focus on this; the new. Something bizzare to sensation through bewitching that she can forget about being pelted at point blank range with bits and chunks of bone brain and skull. A screaming ceramic affair she can still feel impact her skin like an unwanted caress sending a shudder through her spine and feeling the backlash of the mental feel crawl through her skin-

Vyv may have absolutely no idea how much she needed the distraction to just make that restless, tense sensation stop. Abruptly. There is aromatic pause to take it in trying to replace the acrid memory of blood and fear with sugar and the tang of the rum. Biting into it, eyes closed, tears slide down her face as the small reprieve from the fallow existential futility and frustration of being forced to be the victim taken apart. Not in this bite. Not here.

"God damn you this is better than sex, Vyv."

"Rather a fan myself," Vyv replies, the slight upward twitch at the corner of his lips not bleeding into the tone in the least. "Remind me next time to make you some karydopita." He is, of course, curious... but that need for normal is familiar on a soul-deep level, and he can be patient. When it's her, at the least.

So pastry it is, and once his demonstration is done, he lets the rest and the side of hand settle against the edge of his plate, watching Hyacinth bite into the canelé rather than continue with his own. Yet. Her true focus on the tidbit, the way she follows the instructions and allows in the full array of sensory charms as if it were the small work of art it is rather than simply a snack: these things are a balm for a soul currently even pricklier than its default state, and they soothe his overactive hackles into a deeply needed moment of calm. Her reaction elicits a small, slow, but genuine smile, his head tilted just a fraction as he regards her.

His free hand moves to the upper desk drawer, opening it just far enough to withdraw a neatly folded white cotton handkerchief, which he offers unobtrusively. "Mm. I worry you may have been doing it wrong," he murmurs, gently arch, "...but thank you."