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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The things she did end up remembering throughout the day don't really make her feel like a person. No, that's not right. They don't add up to a fully realized, proper, decent human being. She knows she's from Canada, but she wasn't born there. She was born in Russia. She can speak, read, and write Russian. That's a start, but then she remembers how to hot wire a car and pick a lock and that doesn't seem like stuff a nice, married woman would know how to do!

Then there's the thing with the sword. Where did she even get a sword? She was holding it at some guy, threatening to cut him if he didn't-- ... if he didn't... there's a face she can't quite see just beyond the edge of that memory and trying to think about it hurts her head and tugs at her heart and she just feels so empty and lost. That feeling has been building up all day, ever since the hospital, but in Rumlow's arms it's less painful.

She sniffs, squeezes him tight for another second, and nods. That sounds like a decent plan. Better than any she's got at the moment. She steps back, smiling up at him, but keeps one arm around his waist like she's scared of forgetting him again if she lets him go.

"Did we buy this place furnished, or do you just have bad taste?" A joke. See? See, she's feeling better. Minor scrapes and bruises and massive memory loss can't keep her down for long!

She should also probably shrug out of this jacket. Not only is it warmer inside, but it's kinda weird wearing another dude's jacket when you apparently have your own giant, muscular hottie at home. Just gonna... slip out of it and gently fold it over the arm of the couch when they get close enough.

Kenzi peels away, but only just, arm still hanging around his waist. Rumlow laughs at her comment, his own gaze swinging around the room. The decor is definitely not his taste either. If it is a safe house, which still seems to be the only thing that really makes sense -- except it doesn't either because it still feels like home -- then that stands to reason.

Rumlow keeps it together. Gives Kenzi a little squeeze and shrugs his other shoulder.

"I'm gonna say it was furnished," he replies, leaning slightly away as Kenzi starts to shrug out of her coat. Or rather, the coat, since it's way too big for it to be hers. Makes him wonder who lent it. A guy, obviously. Good taste. He glances at it as they walk by, Rumlow guiding them through the house until they come across the kitchen.

"I wonder if it's stocked," he says, peering down at Kenzi with brows lifted. It's a hope. Rumlow doesn't even remember the last time he ate. That he doesn't remember much at all, notwithstanding.

Food! The last thing Kenzi ate was that cookie at the tea shop! And who knows how long she was out at the hospital before then! Rumlow gets her hopes all the way up when he makes that comment and she heads straight for the fridge. Maybe there's leftovers in there. Maybe there's a bunch of fresh fruit and yogurt, something quick that they could whip up in a few minutes and shove in their mouths as soon as possible--

She opens the door and just stares. Light pours out of the fridge, illuminating the heart-shattering disappointment on her face.

It's empty. Like, new-fridge empty. Spotless. No weird stains, no ancient condiment bottles forgotten in the back, nothing. There is no food in here.

She slams the door shut and opens the freezer door instead. Still nothing. Next, she goes to a cabinet only to find some plates and bowls. Another one holds cups. The drawers have silverware, but nothing edible in sight.

She looks back to Rumlow, completely heartbroken, and her stomach actually growls. Wow. That's embarrassing.

"... We could order a pizza?" She shrugs, not sure what else to suggest. Oh god, what if he doesn't like pizza? WHAT KIND OF A MONSTER HAS SHE MARRIED?

Also disappointed by the lack of food, Rumlow frowns. He reaches into his pocket to pull out his wallet, hoping he's got some cash on him so they can hit up the local grocer. He flips through it and relief. He's still got a few hundred. He hates credit. Too easy to trace.

He puts his hand on her shoulder again and slides it down to pull her back into a hug. Rumlow knows all too well the odious disappointment of no food. He peers down at her at the suggestion. Pizza is a good choice -- except they're in bumfuck nowhere, and he seriously doubts they've got any good joints around.

"Could make something, if you don't mind waiting long enough for me to find the grocery store."

Rumlow shoves his wallet back into his pocket and rests his chin atop Kenzi's head. Thoughts wondering why this feels so right and familiar continue to float through his head, but even with it? It's just nice. Comforting too, and there's a real scarcity of that with the whole amnesia business.

"You can cook?" Of course he can cook. What kind of a moron doesn't remember Rumlow's skills in the kitchen? God. She can see it in her brain meats, clear as day, sitting on the counter, and watching him cook. Occasionally passing him things and trying to "help" just to agitate him enough that he makes that cute, don't-test-me face, eventually devolving into giggles and tasting things straight from the pot.

"I can definitely wait if you're gonna make something, babe." Even that feels right. There's a solid connection here, it's the only stable thing she's had all day. Green card marriage or not, they were at least together before that and together now and she has no idea how the fuck she lucked out this much. "It's coming back in pieces. Slowly."

Like waking up from a dream and only remembering faded fragments at first. Then you start recalling things later on in the day because of something someone said or something you saw no matter how inconsequential. He summed it up pretty well earlier, shit's freaky as all fuck.

Kenzi pulls back just enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "You want me to come with?" Pleaaaaaase say yes. She doesn't want to be alone here. The town has her on edge and she's not sure how much of that is memory loss and how much is just this place.

"With my luck, you'd probably remember what a terrible wife I am and never come back." Haha... another joke. Oh god, she hopes it's a joke. He definitely didn't marry her for her cooking skills. They'd probably die of starvation if it wasn't for him.

Edited 2017-03-12 15:23 (UTC)

The pet name, like everything involving Kenzi so far, is both weird and good. He's just going to have to come up with another word to describe it or just stop altogether. She says her memories are coming back in pieces, and they sort of are for him too. Images mostly, the sensation of familiarity. Kinda like deja vu, but without the unease.

He glances back towards the living room, and the coat Kenzi's left behind. He does't have one of his own, unless this place is stocked with clothes instead of food, so Rumlow's considering asking to borrow it. Looks like it would fit him.

"If you want, but I was gonna ask for the coat you were wearing," he says, feeling his cheek warm from where her lips were briefly pressed against it. He hums a note. "Maybe we got clothes here."

Rumlow beckons for her again, heading back into the front of the house to check what he imagines must be the coat closet. Opening the door, he notices there are a pair of raincoats, one in Kenzi's size, and one in his. It's tacky as Hell though, so he's definitely going with the coat she's brought. At least her raincoat isn't fugly. Rumlow gestures towards it and notices the galoshes underneath. Helpful, if the snow turns to slush, but right now his tac boots will cut it.

"Your choice."

"Sure, it's not mine. This guy let me borrow it earlier." Steve. She didn't have the same reassuring connection to him like she did with Rumlow, but he'd been a real nice dude and had confirmed a few things that made her feel a little less crazy. She'd have to get the jacket back to him sooner or later, but that didn't mean she couldn't at least offer it to Rumlow... right?

At the mention of clothes, Kenzi perks up. She can't even remember what their bedroom looks like or what she likes to wear! Judging from what she's got on now, she's kind of... alternative. The grey hoodie is a lot warmer than the scrubs she stole from the hospital, but she could stand another layer to keep the chill off her.

Yeah, you head to the front of the house, Rumlow. Kenzi's just going to follow behind and continue checking you out. She knows she should probably be more wary, more careful about this entire situation. Nothing's been sitting right. She has her suspicions and there are things she knows she can't, or shouldn't, trust, but Brock isn't one of them.

The smaller, light blue raincoat is a hell of a lot cuter than his fisherman-looking shiz. Not very thick, but enough to give her that extra warmth she was looking for on top of her hoodie. She pulls it off the hanger and shrugs into it, having made her choice. She's going with him. If anything, having him close by might make her a little more willing to start prodding people a little more incessantly for information.

"Can I ask you stuff? Like, is it gonna be weird if we go all 20 questions on each other until I actually know what's up?" She looks up at him expectantly, shoving her hands into the pockets of her new (old?) rain coat. Her finger curls against something cold and she pulls it out.

Rings. Her wedding rings. The fuck were they doing in the pocket? Kenzi stares down at the stone for a moment, trying to glean anything she can besides the fact that maybe Rumlow does have good taste after all.

It's about what Rumlow expects. Nice guy to do that for her, he thinks, and it reminds him of someone. He shrugs it off, turning back to pluck it off the chair and slide it on. The smell is even more familiar, but he can't place a name to it whatsoever. Fucking weird. He turns back to watch Kenzi as she slips on her own coat. The color is nice. Suits her. Makes her eyes pop.

"Nah, that's fine. Ask away," Rumlow replies. He's got questions too, after all, and he doubts she's gonna take that personally, given she's in the same damn boat. He'll just have to be careful about how he answers -- Rumlow doesn't remember if he's told her he works for SHIELD yet or not. Or if he's even allowed to. He's gonna stay on the safe side and wager 'no.'

He peers down at the glint Kenzi pulls from her pocket. Hunh. Rings. So they are married. Or at least, she's got something he distantly remembers purchasing. He recalls feeling like the black diamonds would be right up Kenzi's alley, that the design would match her attire. Even with the raincoat, it seems like it really does. He smiles, setting a hand atop her shoulder.

"Still proud I managed to find those," he says, though he's uncertain where the feeling really comes from.

"On such short notice?" She attempts to finish the thought for him without letting the sudden feeling in the pit of her stomach show through on her face. She wants to be okay with the impermanence of the situation, how temporary it is, but thinking about the circumstances of their marriage and the inevitable end of it makes her... sad. She's not sure why. Maybe the longer she spends married to this ~~much~~ older guy makes her want to stay married.

She shakes her head, slipping the bands on the appropriate finger of her left hand. They were just in an accident, now is not the time to start formulating all kinds of complicated thoughts that might not even be valid or make any sense in the context of all the other things she's forgotten. There's more important shit to worry about! Like eating food sometime today and how well he fills out that jacket.

"They're beautiful." That much is true. Not even as a memory, just as a statement.

"Okay, well I'm starving so I'm just gonna apologize in advance if my hunger makes me say things I don't mean on the way there." Like a pregnant lady in labor. YOU DID THIS TO ME! I HATE YOU! "Shall we?" She nods towards the door, smiling, already thinking about what her first question's gonna be.

That one didn't count. The 'shall we'-- that doesn't count as a question, it was just implied-- listen.

Nodding his agreement, Rumlow looks away from her hand and up to Kenzi's face. She's got a certain air of hesitance about her, a nervous energy that Rumlow definitely doesn't feel is out of place. Just remembering you're married, and that being one of the few memories that's floating around in your head is pretty disconcerting. At least Rumlow feels like he's got some sort of experience to deal with it.

Easy to just look at Kenzi like she's a member of his team. He protects her, works with her and together they achieve -- whatever. And right now, it seems like the goal is a meal. Kenzi's remark brings another smile to his face and he chuckles. Hunger's a good sign, though. Whatever accident they've been through, she's got her appetite.

"'S fine. Yeah, let's go."

He reaches down to zip up the coat and after, starts towards the front door, opening it and holding it while Kenzi walks through. He locks up after and looks down the road. Rumlow turns back to Kenzi.

"Now. You got any idea where the grocer even is?"

He held ... the door open... for her. What a freakin' GENTLEMAN! Kenzi can't stop the actual grin of real happiness that lights up her face as she walks by him, placing her hand on his chest for a moment before moving on.

Rumlow locks up and Kenzi wraps her arms around herself, debating pulling her hood up against the cold. For some reason, she waits for him to take the lead, only for him to admit he doesn't know where the fuck he's going. It catches her off guard and sends her into a fit of laughter. Oh, precious angelfish.

"Yeah, actually. I do." She passed one earlier when she was wandering around, debating whether or not she should try to go 'home'. "C'mon." She reaches for his hand, seeking out that familiar connection again, and holds tight.

The way back to Main street is easier to find. It's less of a daunting trip with someone to walk with, too. She starts with the easier questions as she leads him to the general store, right next to the butcher's. What's your favourite colour? How old are you? (wow, that's pretty old.) Leading up to, "What's the first thing you remembered when you woke up?"

Some answers still aren't there for her. She thinks she likes the colour purple. She thinks she's 22. Pretty sure about that, actually. What she wants to know is what Rumlow remembers. The only significant thing that she thinks is safe to tell him is--

"I'm allergic to peanuts. So just. Keep that in mind, okay?"

They hold hands. She asks questions. Together they walk through the snow back towards the main drag. The town's layout is pretty simple, Rumlow figures he must have missed the grocer on his way to the house -- just wanting to get out of the cold. Easy enough path to memorize anyway, so he won't need the escort next time. Even if the company is nice.

Once the more mundane questions are past at least, Kenzi asks something that actually gets Rumlow thinking. What was the first thing he remembered? He scrubs at his stubble in thought, letting the ambient sounds of their boots crunching in the snow echo around them.

"The first thing I remember is... that I'd been searching for someone." Rumlow doesn't know who. Or even why. Just that he hadn't found them yet. He looks down at Kenzi. "Maybe it was you."

Makes sense, if she's his wife. They'd been in an accident, so there's a chance they had been separated because of it. Whatever had happened to him, to her, the hospital doesn't want to say. It's about the only thing he can put together. Rumlow squeezes her hand a little, opening the door to the grocery.

"No peanuts. Got it. Ruins my plans for Thai food." It's a joke. He doesn't know how to make Thai. And as they step in out of the cold, kicking the snow off their boots on the door mat, Rumlow realizes, with a startling discomfort: he doesn't know how to make anything.

"Uh."

The thought of someone looking for her makes her chest all warm or her heart swell up or some cliche, romance novel bullshit that she's pretty sure doesn't exist in real life. But it's nice. She feels more at ease with him than-- ... well, she obviously can't remember, so this is probably the epitome of at-easeness in her life.

She's riding that warm, floaty high as they enter the store, releasing his hand unzip her jacket and--

"Uh?" What uh. What's wrong. He is not making an EVERYTHING'S OKAY expression, she is now concerned. "What is it? ... Did you really want Thai that bad? I can just have plain jasmine rice, it's fine!"

She thought he was joking! Why does he look like someone just sprung him with a pop quiz he hadn't studied for?

"Did you forget your wallet? Because that's probs not an issue..." Please don't make her elaborate.

The moment is supremely embarrassing. Maybe not pants around your ankles in grade school embarrassing, but awkward enough. Rumlow strains to remember, and it makes him feel fucking senile. It's like there's this big void of space where a list ought to be and he hesitantly glances down at Kenzi. How is this happening to him? Why now?

"Think I might've hit my head harder'n I thought," he remarks, sliding his gaze back towards the aisles. "Christ, this is embarrassing. I don't even remember the ingredients I oughta be looking for."

He mutters, though it's plenty loud enough for Kenzi to hear. It's not even like he can just look something up on his phone because once again, he's reminded those don't exist around here. He huffs. The shame starts to wear off and shift into frustration instead, taking steps towards the produce department in hopes something might jog his memory.

Oh. He forgot something else entirely. An entire recipe, which, is totally fine-- it's not fine, she's starving! She wasn't kidding about things said in a state of hunger. How is she supposed to be patient and supportive when all she can think about is a home-cooked meal that she might not even GET now!?

"Hey, it's okay." No it's not. "I couldn't even remember my last name earlier!" Or that she was married. See? It's not anything to be embarrassed about, it's just something they seriously have to remedy because Kenzi knows she won't be able to cook anything remotely edible unless it's pre-packaged and going in the microwave.

She follows behind, concerned more about her stomach than Rumlow's memory. The produce department is a good start. Maybe seeing things will make it click and they'll be back on track and home and eating in under five minutes. Okay, that's a big of wishful thinking, but her stomach's taken over for her brain right now.

Kenzi picks up a potato. It's Idaho, they have a lot of potatoes, maybe he was gonna make potato... something. She holds it up to him hesitantly, with a quizzical look on her face. Really, the visual form of her cautiously asking 'potaaaaatooo?!?!?!?'

Edited 2017-03-17 19:29 (UTC)

Squinting at the potato, Rumlow shifts his stare from it to her. He shakes his head. No, there are no potatoes in what he wants. Something that rhymes with potato, however -- Rumlow makes his way to the tomatoes. Cherry tomatoes. They're not in season, but it's either this or canned, and he gets the impression that canned won't work. He picks up a container, realizing they don't have a cart or basket.

"Here, hold these for a sec," he tells Kenzi, offering her the tomatoes to hold. He heads back to the entrance and grabs a cart, wheeling it back to her. He gestures towards it with a nod, letting her know she can deposit it in there. He steps forward, and then stops. Another blank. He's picturing something green.

"Not lettuce..." he murmurs to himself. He looks over the expanse of greenery the store offers. So many leaves. Spinach? No, it's not that either. An herb, maybe?

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.

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