pineslog | ( march intro ) WELCOME TO THE PINES!

( march intro ) WELCOME TO THE PINES!

INTRODUCTION LOG

waking up

There was an accident. That's basically the only thing you know for certain. Maybe a car wreck - metal and broken glass everywhere, and the sirens and the screaming. Or maybe there was an explosion. Maybe your bike hit a rock and you careened uncontrollably off a mountain path. You can't can't quite make out the details, not who was at fault or why. Try as you might, the chaos is all you can remember.

It's also the last thing you remember from before you wake up here.

When you open your eyes, the accident is gone. Instead, you're in a hospital bed. You're sluggish, covered in a scattering of minor injuries you only vaguely remember getting, not to mention the vaguely-healed remnants of any wounds you might've had before.

It's a shame you won't be able to tell the difference between the two. Your memories are an indiscernible fog if not absent altogether, only a few standing out in your mind with any kind of certainty.

Whether or not the room's empty when you wake, it's not for long. Nurses bustle in, taking your vitals and asking your name and anything else you might remember. Welcome to Wayward Pines, they tell you. You'll make a full recovery here.

Much of what you say (especially anything unusual, anything about monsters or magic or outlandish technology) will earn placating speculation of head trauma “from the accident”. You'll be told to stay put, not to push yourself, and to wait for the doctor to clear you before you leave... Then you'll be left alone. The hospital's population is quadruple the usual, and you get the impression the nurses are working themselves ragged just running damage control. You can even leave your room without much fuss - whichever doctor or nurse intercepts you gets called away almost immediately to deal with something even more pressing.

Mingle, visit your fellow patients, even poke around for a few basic answers. Or maybe, maybe just stroll right on out the front door.

heading outside

One step outside and it's perfectly clear that your hospital gown simply isn't going to cut it for long. the sidewalks and buildings covered in snow and a crisp winter wind whipping at you through the thin cloth. It's like a scene out of a holiday greeting card or a snow globe, picturesque and nearly untouchable. And yet you're here. Touching it all. Dressed in nothing but a hospital gown. You should at least think about getting some mittens if you're going to keep, you know, touching it.

Trees line the street at regular intervals, carefully manicured and coated in a thin layer of pure white snow. Cars cruise by at a safe and respectable speed. Pedestrians spare you glances, some wary and some concerned.

This isn't even the picturesque city center, though a colorful nearby sign reads "Main Street" with an arrow pointing due south, followed in smaller font by a list of businesses you don't recognize and one that you might: Wayward Pines Police Department. Whether you asked for yourself or simply overheard, you've likely caught wind by now that all of your earthly possessions now lie with the Sheriff until you see fit to claim them.

Might as well head that way, right?

items reclaimed

So you've visited the Wayward Pines Police Department and reclaimed... well. Most of your stuff, anyway, though you can't quite remember what's missing. Best to put it out of mind, as you head down the steps toward the Main Street sidewalk. At the very least, pedestrians have stopped looking at you like you're sick or crazy. (Then again, depending on what you're wearing, maybe it's gotten worse.)

The sheriff also forked over what looks like the key to a house ("A cozy place to stay while you're here in town."), plus the address that it belongs to. You could check it out, see what kind of digs they're putting you up in.

Or you could stick around Main Street and sight-see a little. Also a perfectly viable option. Hell, maybe it'll jog your memory a little. A few of the shops do feel inexplicably familiar...

( ooc notes )

Welcome to the second newbie mingle log! We apologize for the delay.

This log is meant to cover characters' first day in Wayward Pines. For the most part, only the five memories detailed in your character's application are remembered throughout the duration of this log, although the first couple of false Wayward Pines memories might begin to surface (in those who've opted to utilize this mechanic) as the day wears on. These memories, as noted in the FAQ, feel very real and are accompanied by as much emotion or sentiment as a real memory would be.

Any questions about the log or its contents can be addressed to our FAQ or the intro log's designated Plurk.

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Okay, no potatoes. She drops it back onto the pile unceremoniously and follows him over to the much redder organic matter. She's left holding a bunch of tiny tomatoes while he goes off to get a cart and just... kind of stands there, awkwardly, staring down them. Is this what marriage is? Holding out of season fruit for your partner while they get the cart? Oh god. Hopefully they're more interesting as a couple and this is just an off day.

Ugh, his arms even look good pushing a cart-- ... under another man's jacket. Listen, she knows what they look like! She can imagine. The sex has gotta be iiiinsane. Shit. Thinking about it is just making her all hot and bothered and blushy and pathetic and he's looking at her and-- she panics and just drops the tomatoes in the cart instead of gently depositing them. They're fine. Probably. Mostly fine. It's fine.

"Not lettuce? Literally everything except lettuce is not lettuce." She picks up a cucumber, "This isn't lettuce." And then a nearby green pepper, "This also isn't lettuce."

She's not being a little shit on purpose, she's just... hungry.

"Lettuce keep looking...?" Eh? EEEEH? It's a joke. A really bad joke. Stupid pun. Please don't divorce her.

Rumlow looks at Kenzi like she's grown a second head. It lasts a good few seconds before he's rolling his eyes and laughing. Great. He's married a goofball. Well, at least now he has someone who will tolerate his puns. No one really appreciated them on STRIKE. Or maybe he just doesn't remember if they do. Either way, he puts a hand atop her head and gives her a gentle pet.

The cucumber earns a thought, however, and another at the green pepper. Familiar, but not it. Next to it are red bell peppers though and he browses through those until he picks one. They move on, Rumlow plucks up some broccoli. It's coming back to him, he thinks.

"Zucchini," he states, looking around for where the green squash might be. He pushes the cart through the produce stands, then pauses, looking back at Kenzi. "If you want to grab anything else, go ahead," he says, gesturing towards the various fruits and vegetables. He's the snacking type himself, keeps the metabolism up. Or at least, that's how he feels when he looks over at the bags of tiny carrots.

OH THANK GOD, HE LAUGHED! Everything is okay forever now. He laughed. Now she knows this isn't some kind of fluke and they are definitely a couple. A couple of total dorks, but it still counts. She smirks, clearly very damn pleased with herself after she earned that head pat.

The cucumber and the pepper, much like the potato, get tossed aside. Green peppers are her least favourite pizza topping. She's not sure where she stands with cucumbers. They go in the maybe pile of her brain until she can remember whether or not she's had some sort of traumatic childhood experience of being forced to eat them instead of cupcakes or something. Whatever.

Zucchini is another unknown factor, but she somehow trusts Rumlow's opinions on vegetables. Probably because he seems to be Italian as all fuck. Is that stereotyping? Probably. But she's Russian and the first thing she picked up was a potato, so who's really at fault here?

"Anything?" He gestures towards fruits and vegetables, but her mind is on sugary cereals, baked goods, and ... alcohol. Also popsicles! Oh, also chips and garbage basically! ... She does pick up a bunch of red grapes in a bag, twirling past Rumlow to gently lob them into the cart on her way to seek out this anything she was promised.

"I feel like you're gonna regret saying anything. BRB." Yes, she did just say brb in real life. She wanders off to an aisle, in her bright-blue raincoat, peeking at him slyly before disappearing behind shelves of canned goods.

She may or may not still be thinking about what the sex is like.

When she returns, her arms are full of boxes of honey bun-buns cereal, rosehip jam, some generic pancake mix in a box, and a bottle of vodka. She dumps them ALL in the cart.

"If you drink the vodka and eat a grape, it's basically like having wine with dinner?"

Who actually says 'BRB,' Rumlow thinks as Kenzi disappears. He shakes his head and lets her go search for whatever he's supposed to be regretting. Meanwhile, he slowly moves around, remembering zucchini, carrots, summer squash and mushrooms. He starts towards the aisle where he presumes the pasta is, since he definitely remembers that when Kenzi comes back with an armful of -- junk.

He blinks at her as she tumbles the stack of groceries into the cart. The vodka catches his eye and he suddenly remembers that she's Russian. Right. That shit probably flows in her veins.

"You really gonna compare vodka and wine to an Italian?" Rumlow asks, quirking an eyebrow at her. "Thought you knew me."

He adds, pretending to look hurt as he continues pushing the cart. Two aisles over, there's an assortment of pasta noodles lined up on the wall and now he's got to pick what shape he wants. Part of him considers fettuccine, but maybe farfalle? He runs a hand through his hair as he thinks.

"I didn't see any wine, okay? Actually, I didn't look. I saw this and just bolted." They'll clearly have to go back and stock up on wine. She'll let Rumlow pick something out because she's pretty sure she'd go for the cheapest one, regardless of it being in a bottle or a box.

... But if he's gonna be as picky about the wine selection as he is about the pasta, they could be here for a while. Kenzi eyes the shelves, not exactly seeing the big difference here. Pasta is pasta. It just depends on how much of it you want to be able to fit into your mouth at once. That's how you pick a shape!

He looks seriously engrossed in this shit, though, and she likes the way he runs his hand through his hair. It's cute. He's cute. She comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his waist, swaying slightly and pushing up on her tip toes to rest her chin on his shoulder.

"Don't hurt yourself, babe." His brain has been through enough trauma! Just pick a fucking pasta already! "What about the shells? Not the little ones, they're weird. The big ones."

Giving Kenzi a cursory look and an amused huff at her remark about the wine, he keeps his attention on the pasta. Looks like they're either out of farfalle or it's further down the aisle. Rumlow is about to take a step forward when Kenzi's arms snake around him. He hums a note, a smile automatically settling on his lips. He reaches back for her, hand stroking down her side.

It's all sweet and affectionate and domestic; all that shit -- until she suggests conchiglie. His brows grow sharp and he pulls out of her arms to look down at her with obvious (and over-dramatized) disgust. Really? Conchiglie for a pasta primavera? He might have hit his head and gotten amnesia, but he hasn't forgotten something so important as choosing the right kind of noodle.

"If you wanted a poorly distributed sauce and vegetables."

Rumlow snatches the box of fettuccine and puts it in the cart.

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? Did she just get pasta-dissed?

Kenzi just stares in complete disbelief, mouth hanging open, arms out to the side, totally shocked at the pure, unadulterated sass that just came out of him about sauce and vegetables. The fettuccine snatch up was the last straw, Kenzi just starts laughing. She desperately clings to the shocked face but can't get over it and ends up pinching at his ribs.

"Listen, you prima donna! I'm just trying to eat sometime this century, okay?!" And since she's starving, she's just gonna playfully chomp on his shoulder until he gives in and stops being DISGUSTED at her pasta ignorance!

Oh, she's biting Steve's coat. Whoops. It's fine. He'll never know.

"Sei fortunato che ho voglia di cucinare!"

The Italian just sort of slips out, but somehow that aspect of his person is the least surprising. His entire spiel about the noodles, while true, is also just to tease her. Apparently it's worked, because now she's chomping at the shoulder strap of the borrowed jacket. Well, it ain't his.

Rumlow gently peels her away and sets her back down on the floor. He shakes his head at her, grinning. "Go get me some olive oil, dolcezza."

He's still teasing, but Rumlow imagines Kenzi will like it anyway. He's got a few dried herbs to pick up in the next aisle anyway. Not for this meal necessarily, but they've got nothing in stock, so he might as well start supplying them. He has no idea how long they'll be here.

"I have no idea what you just said, but it was hot." Ugh, he even speaks Italian, is there anything this man isn't good at? Hopefully she didn't just jinx herself in the bedroom department. She can't see herself getting hitched ever if he couldn't deliver on the goods, though.

At least she can handle olive oil. That is a no brainer. She smiles back at him, possibly getting a little too happy about that pet name, and wanders off to to complete her mission!

The more she thinks about them as a couple, the more she starts to remember. It's like her life is falling into place and the picture is getting clearer. Her morning routine of getting tea from Jefferson, going to work at.... somewhere. She had a job! Doing something...

She still can't remember a damn thing about the accident, but she's really not sure if she wants to. Her mind continues to wander as she does, absently picking up the first bottle of olive oil she finds. It's near the syrup for some reason, but that's fine, too, they'll need it for pancakes. The least she can do is make him pancakes.

Figuring she wouldn't, Rumlow lets her remain in awe of his linguistic capabilities. He seems to recall her doing much the same in her own tongue, after all. It's only fair. And while she goes off on her errand, Rumlow goes through the spices and herbs, picking out a few to put into the basket. He grabs some flour and sugar too, even if Kenzi's gotten a premade mix, he'll need this for other things.

Eventually, they meet up again and Rumlow notes the syrup Kenzi has procured. He lifts his brows at her, but says nothing to it. They make their way towards the dairy and Rumlow grabs some milk and butter.

"You need anything else?" he asks, looking into the cart to try and jog his memory. It seems to be working okay now, at least in terms of food. He's glad. Forgetting had been a Hell of a scare.

"A metric fuckton of ice cream?" Or a pint. She can already see the differences in their dietary wants and needs. Hers seems to involve a lot more sugar and processed fats and transcarbs and wheats and stuff. His is very farm-to-table, one ingredient, wholesome and shit. That must be why he's so MASSIVE!

... Speaking of massive, they're gonna have to carry all this shit home. It's making her rethink the ice cream until they get a car.

"Nah, I'm good." She beams up at him, putting the two bottles in the cart. "I mean, I might need one more thing." The way she's leaning towards him proooobably indicates that it's not something stocked on the shelves. Those silvery-blue eyes of hers are staring up at him from under her bangs, and she's got a slight smirk on her face before her lips get kinda pouty.

Are you picking up this INCREDIBLY OBVIOUS signal, here, Rumlow? Are you getting the VERY LARGE hint? Just kiss her already, god.

Snorting his amusement at the suggestion, Rumlow is a little relieved when she decides against it. He already knows he's carrying all this shit, and he doesn't really need a 'metric fuckton' of ice cream rubbing against his leg as they walk home in the snow. His pants aren't that thick. Besides, he doesn't want to have to resist the temptation.

At her request, Rumlow blinks down at her. It takes him about a second, and then he's giving her an equally expectant look. A kiss, hunh? Well. They are married.

Rumlow leans down, hand coming up to cup her chin, tilting her face towards his. He kisses her, and it's chaste -- except for that little slip of tongue at the very end before Rumlow pulls back. He's got that devilish look on his face, smirking as he starts to push the cart towards the cashiers. She's welcome to ask for more. Just when they're not in the middle of a grocery store. They'd probably get kicked out if he lifted her onto these shelves.

He arrives at the register and begins to unload the items, glancing back to Kenzi.

The glance gives him a great view of Kenzi dazedly floating along behind him like she's on a cloud, surrounded by butterflies with the distant sound of harp music following her around. In reality, she's just wearing a really stupid smile on her face after that kiss. It was... it was a good kiss.

She rests against the counter, slowly grabbing items out of the cart to put up on the counter with the smile still going from ear to ear. Every time she looks back to Rumlow, it makes her cheeks turn pink and she has to laugh off her embarrassment. He's... really hot. And they're married. And together. And wHY DOES SHE LITERALLY HAVE A STUPID CRUSH ON HER HUSBAND? Maybe because she doesn't remember knowing him. It feels really new when it's not, but it still DOES!

"Stop looking at me!" She blurts it out without thinking. This is a disaster. It's like that time she tried to hit on the pizza guy and he was totally oblivious-- oh hey. Another memory. Pre-Rumlow. Or... pre... this place? There was definitely someone there, she just can't recall who it was.

"Pay the dude and quit judging with your judgey eyes." She snickers and moves around him to start bagging this shit up, determined to carry her fair share of groceries. She's not gonna make him do all the work. That's bullshit. They're in this together.

Edited 2017-03-18 02:39 (UTC)

Is this high school? Rumlow's not entirely sure it's not high school. Kenzi practically has hearts for eyes, and she accuses him of staring, so he looks away. But he's amused. Oh, how he is amused. He doesn't even remember the last time he got such a reaction out of a girl, though again. Shoddy memory. But he thinks it's probably because he usually skips this phase and goes right for the action.

"I ain't judging. It's cute."

Rumlow pays, surprised by the total. It's a lot less than he'd imagine, but then again, they aren't exactly in DC or NYC. Not a bad thing though, means he's still got money for a while longer. At least until he figures out the exit plan. Kenzi finishes bagging and he grabs the remaining bags. They set off together towards the exit and Rumlow braces himself for the cold air.

At least it's a short walk back. Benefit of a small town, he supposes.

"I'm guessing you don't remember kissing me before," he remarks casually, nudging Kenzi with a bag.

If this was high school, they'd be cutting class and making out in the balcony of the auditorium or something... but Rumlow would be the hot teacher. That is the LAST image she needs in her head right now.

"M'not cute." Is all she mutters as they leave the store, bags in hand. Is this, like... the worst possible outcome? Her giant, gorgeous, super hot Italian man thinking she's cute instead of totes bangable? Probably. But hey, he put a ring on it, he's kinda stuck with her so he'll just have to deal.

"Kind of? I mean. There's remembering and then there's actually doing something." She shrugs. You can remember eating a delicious cookie every morning before work, but actually eating the delicious cookie is so much better. "Do you remember stuff about me?"

Does he remember what she looks like naked? Because she only has very hazy images to go off of where he's concerned. None of them are bad in the least. She can't even remember their wedding night, but that's probably because she'd already been INCREDIBLY drunk for the ceremony.

"It's weird. It's like having to get to know each other all over again or something and I'm kind of--" She trails off, hefting one of the bags a little higher on her arm to give her hand a break, "What if we don't like each other?" That's not going to happen in his case, she can already tell she likes him.

This is what happens when you secretly have really shitty self esteem and cover it up with being a badass. People think you're tough and awesome and egotistical at arms length, but as soon as you have someone close to you, they can see all the cracks and the flaws.

If you ever share that fantasy with him, Kenzi, you will find Rumlow willing to play it out. Just saying. He smiles again at her petulance, which he would offer a reassuring pat for, but his hands are full of groceries. Instead, he gently knocks her with the bag again.

"That's fair," he remarks. Doing is always better than just recalling, even if the latter can be helpful. "I remember a few things. Not much," he adds. "More like impressions."

At least right now, that's what he's got. He knows certain things, but it feels more like an outline, rather than the natural progression of memory and ideas. Like Kenzi says, it's weird. He shakes his head at the thought that they wouldn't like each other. Partially because Rumlow likes to think he's easy to get along with. It's why he's a good team player. There's another reason too, but he can't put his finger on it.

"I get what you mean, but I don't think that's gonna be what happens. I mean, I like you plenty now and I hardly remember more than just the fact that we're married and why. I get pictures of you in my head, but it's like there's not a lot of story to connect them. But I remember some things clear as day. Whatever accident we were in," Rumlow pauses, shaking his head. He feels fine and that's the weird part.

"Anyway, I guess I'm saying that us is probably the last thing we gotta worry about."

She stumbles when he knocks her with the bag, laughing as she catches herself before face planting into a snowbank. It snaps her out of any melancholy she might be falling into and she looks up at him with a brighter expression and no more blushing.

The way he describes the memories really sum everything up. Yeah. Yeah, she gets that entirely. Some things are like BAM! Crystal clear. Other things are like looking through a really dirty window with the lights all dim. He's also hella reassuring. Like he totally knows what's up and is wise and stuff. It's weird how he's been able to put her completely at ease since she got home.

Weird, but nice. Really nice.

"Good point." She nods, looking up at the darkening sky. After a moment, she gets another urge to just blurt something out. "Do you remember seeing my tits?!"

Watching to make sure Kenzi doesn't upend herself in the snow, Rumlow scoots over slightly to give her some more room on the sidewalk. They're only about a block away from home now and Rumlow's eager to get inside. The jacket's warm, but his hands are cold. No gloves. He really just wants to be front of the stove where hopefully he doesn't end up having another Alzheimer's moment.

Kenzi's sudden question breaks Rumlow from his thoughts and he blinks over at her before barking out a laugh.

"What? Jesus. I mean." He tries to remember. Nope. Nothing. That fucking sucks. "No, I don't. I'm gonna guess it's a combination of the booze we drank that night on top of our mega-amnesia causing that because there's no way I'd willingly forget those."

Kenzi might not be stacked, but that's never stopped him. Boobs are boobs. He's sure hers fit nicely in his hands. And yep, there goes the brain. Amnesia apparently has no effect on the imagination. Sorry for the slightly glazed over look in his eyes, Kenzi.

Edited 2017-03-18 16:51 (UTC)

Flattery is definitely the way to go with her, Rumlow. She appreciates the comment, especially since she's always been a little insecure about the girls and their size. She grins wider, though, when he laughs. When he says he wouldn't forget them. It makes her feel better about not remembering every detail about his seemingly-fantastic bod.

"Right? Like, we must have fucked a thousand times and I can't even remember once which is just-- I mean, it's a goddamn tragedy." It's like a weight has been lifted! The awkwardness between them is gone now that she can swear and talk so blatantly about boning and not be shy and weird, because obviously they've fucked. You don't marry someone this hot and not fuck them. Even for a green card.

She rushes up ahead of him to set one of her bags down so she can unlock the door and let them both in. Maybe not all the shyness is gone. She's still feeling a little shy about it, but that's just because she's never been amazing at flirting or getting dates with anyone but scumbags. Rumlow doesn't seem like a scumbag in the least. He seems like a great guy.

If she wasn't so hungry and eager to actually eat something a little more filling than his junk, she'd probably jump him as soon as they got through the door. Hunger overrides her thirst right now. She should just let the man get to cooking.

"I'll put this junk away if you start making dinner?"

A thousand times, hunh? Well, Kenzi's not wrong. The thought is a tragedy. They must have fucked on their wedding night. Even if they were drunk and he probably had whiskey dick. But they could have before then -- Rumlow doesn't feel like he's the kind of guy that waits, and neither does Kenzi. This selective amnesia sucks.

As Kenzi unlocks the door, Rumlow gives her a murmured 'thank you,' and makes his way into the kitchen. He deposits the bags and starts to unload them, putting the ingredients on the counter and letting Kenzi put the rest away. They might not have had food, but at least they've got crockery, Rumlow thinks as he pokes around in the cabinets to find a pot and a cutting board.

"You can watch if you want," he remarks, feeling a niggling sensation that they've been here before. He reaches for her while she's near, putting an arm around her waist and drawing her up against him. He kisses the crown of her head because that feels so natural and smiles because it makes him happy to be near her.

"Yeah? Do you like when I watch?" She laughs as he pulls her close, not settling for that kiss in the least. There's no cashiers watching now, no little old ladies buying groceries, it's just them. In their kitchen. She holds his face in her hands and pulls his mouth to hers. This kiss is far from chaste.

It simultaneously feels familiar and new. The way she tilts her head to invite him in, the way she sucks on his lower lip before going back for more. It feels like they've done this so many times, but this is the first time she can actually commit to memory. It's so strange, so surreal, but all the more exciting.

When she finally pulls back, she's beaming at him. Nothing but adoration on her face as she strokes his cheek. "There's more where that came from." Aaaand boops his nose with her index finger, "Dinner first."

There's no need for a clever retort. Not with Kenzi pulling him into a kiss that's a lot more than cute. The arm around her waist turns into hands at her hips, keeping her flush while one kiss turns into two and then more. She pulls away and he actually makes a noise of discontent. She reminds him about dinner though and he accepts the responsibility with her promise for more.

At least, until she pokes his nose. That earns her a smack on the ass. Nothing hard, just enough to make her jump.

"Brat," he retorts, but his tone is teasing. Quick enough he's back to business, getting everything prepped. He sets aside the vegetables and goes to find a knife and cutting board. A few minutes later and he's chopping up ingredients and setting them aside in neat little bowls. He's got the water on boil, ready to put in the fettuccine.

"You wanna hand me the box of noodles?" he asks.

That smack does a little bit more than make her jump. Why you gotta go and make her regret bringing up dinner, Rumlow? She wants to hear him make more noises like that when she decides to actually be a brat. Now her mind is all kinds of occupied as he gets to work in the kitchen. She really lucked out with this guy.

"You love it." More snickering as she leans against the counter, jutting her hip out and as she watches him closely. He's good with a knife. She makes note of that right away. Amateur chef much? She wonders what else he can make, reaching for one of the little bowls to grab a piece of zucchini to snack on.

"I mean, I guess so. Gotta trust in your sauce to veggie ratio." She is never forgetting about the complete disregard for shells! You will NEVER live that down! Kenzi grabs the box and hands it over, peering into the bubbling pot from a safe distance. "Aren't you gonna add salt or something?" She vaguely remembers... someone... adding salt before cooking pasta. Maybe her mom? She can't tell. It doesn't stick.

Kenzi turns so her back is to the counter, next to the stove, and pushes herself up to perch on the edge so she can have a front row seat. Wait. She scoots over just a bit to avoid any splash-back because she is not all about adding burns to all her cuts and bruises today.

Giving her a sidelong smile at her retort, Rumlow keeps her in his peripherals, enjoying the lines of her body while still keeping focus on the task at hand. No need to get distracted and cut himself. He tosses her a look as she mentions trust, brows lifting.

"Oh, you'll trust me when this's ready," he says, all confidence. He might have had a lapse of memory before, but this feels like riding a bike. "But nah, salt just ups the boiling point temperature so the pasta cooks faster. I ain't in a rush."

He's still got to prep the oils and the cheese. He finishes up the vegetables and opens the box of noodles, measuring out enough for the two of them and slowly easing the fettuccine into the pot, letting the heat bend the noodles so he can fit them in the rest of the way. He grabs the olive oil and adds a small dollop of that, however, taking a wooden spoon and mixing it in with the water.

"Keeps them from sticking," he remarks.

How does he know all this stuff? Kenzi can barely boil hot dogs, while Rumlow is going pro-chef on veggies and knowing about boiling points and pasta cooking and how to measure it out so you don't end up with like five more servings of it than you actually needed! Kenzi watches in awe, not just of his cooking skills, but his life skills. His... experience, probably.

...Hahah, oh fuck.

He's likely got a lot of other experience. Dude this hot? How the fuck did he end up tied down with her of all people. She can't even remember fucking him, can she remember fucking anyone else? Barely. No, not barely, not at all. What if she's bad at it? What if she has no idea what she's doing and looks totally pathetic? What if he starts sleeping on the couch before eventually moving out and leaving her the entire house?

Or, you know, vice versa.

Get it together, Kenz. He's just making some pasta.

"Did someone teach you all this stuff?" He might know the answer, he might not. That's part of navigating this whole memory situation. She reaches for the spoon so she can give the pot a stir and let him get back to other things if he needs to.

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comesfrompain - 2017-03-23 13:30 (UTC) - Expand

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