basil, two teaspoons.
"Tears cannot put out a fire." - Chinese proverb
Basil and Iemitsu gen. Coda to the introduction of CEDEF and conclusion of the Varia arc, way back when. Liberties taken all over the place.
Somewhere in the house, you know your master is sorting out priorities. Not just his own, or his family's, but his Family's, and you are sure, if you were less respectful, that a venture into his study would reveal a Vongola timeline, a secret shared with the Ninth, a plan like a tree. This is okay by you because you are still sorting out your feelings, and it's good to be away from each other for awhile.
You attend to your duties, of course. Master doesn't cook for the most part, can boil water and roast fish over a fire - adept at most survival skills - and he manages serviceable ramen, but being parted from his wife has made him a bachelor all over again, and he's resumed the boorish practices with little difficulty. Moretti has trouble digesting the idea of you and Master living together (that day it looked like it might rain, and you mentioned doing his laundry) but you aren't embarrassed, because your master isn't.
He can't operate an electric stove, is usually working, and never thinks about where dust goes. It only makes sense that between training and running important errands for the Ninth, you make the meals and see to the housework. The point is, you're not the type to complain about the tasks given to you or to question orders.
That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, when you find out you were the decoy.
And there's also this: after congratulations are dispensed and Tsunayoshi farewells Basil with gratitude in his eyes, and clasps his fingers with hands that produced such a beautiful flame, they return to a dark house, and there's no running water.
Iemitsu slants him a forgiving smile and climbs the stairs, unhurriedly. Basil watches until the door closes behind him, flounders awhile in unmet expectation, then follows. Even due for a sheet change, his bed looks inviting. When he tries to lie down though, his body reprimands him sharply, aches surfacing in the way they do only when you're horizontal. He shifts (very, very slowly), builds a grocery list in his head while he waits for sleep to claim him. His eyes seem ready to doze, but his limbs feel stiff and uncomfortable. Tomorrow, he resolves, he will stretch properly, pay the bills, and bake.
They are not exactly in the mafia, but they are not not in the mafia. He wonders if they should all be above apologies, or whether subordinates don't require them, or if it's like omertà, a different code of silence where such things are understood, and left unsaid.
He awakens to the warning whistle of what he thinks is the 7.03, but is really the 7.22, and remains off-kilter for the rest of the morning. Some steely phone calls later, the lights come on. Four trains screech/rumble past, and there's water too. The house they got for cheap, the kind built on an incline in a semi-disreputable neighbourhood and commuters see right into their empty backyard. He draws the curtains, tilts his face into the sun.
Maybe as a side effect of being named after a plant, he's reluctant to do things harm. In the middle of an omelette, he might pause, take a breath, try to imagine what this egg was like when something warm was growing inside it, doing its best to live. He cracks it neatly anyway, admires a perfect yolk with no shell bits to pick out, no residue on the rim of the bowl. This is what he prefers his missions to look like. Never mind that death is a messy business; he cooks with the same care and dexterity he shows in battle. It's important to him to be on target, pasta fanning into the pot, fettucine that's creamy all over.
Superbi Squalo, Sword Emperor, Varia, also of the Rain. When he thinks of this, the kitchen knife in his hand becomes heavy, blade thunking down with ill-concealed violence. Half a ring snatched so easily - he was crushed - and more than landing heavily on elbows, ribs, what cuts deepest is failure. Gnawing at the seam of his self-confidence is a one-handed butcher.
He inhales, runs wet fingers through his fringe. At a quarter past one, he rinses out the sink, gives in to the urge to fillet a fish.
Set down the plastic bags; bend to restock the fridge that opens with a flicker, hum, and the hall could do with a vacuum, and master's workboots almost trip him up. The snapper wrapped in newspaper he delivers to the counter, and Iemitsu takes a step in, and suddenly the kitchen becomes a kitchenette, becomes too small. His hands stay busy, swatting back his hair, stowing away the flour. There's time, to displace the greeting lodged somewhere in his throat.
“Basil,” comes his master's voice, and he looks up from smoothing down the wrinkled label of the orange juice, the microwave digging into his back. Studies the frayed collar, confused brow, the half-guilty expression of a man who wants to be fed.
He smiles, rolls up his frustration with the batter, and lets it melt.
Basil and Iemitsu gen. Coda to the introduction of CEDEF and conclusion of the Varia arc, way back when. Liberties taken all over the place.
Somewhere in the house, you know your master is sorting out priorities. Not just his own, or his family's, but his Family's, and you are sure, if you were less respectful, that a venture into his study would reveal a Vongola timeline, a secret shared with the Ninth, a plan like a tree. This is okay by you because you are still sorting out your feelings, and it's good to be away from each other for awhile.
You attend to your duties, of course. Master doesn't cook for the most part, can boil water and roast fish over a fire - adept at most survival skills - and he manages serviceable ramen, but being parted from his wife has made him a bachelor all over again, and he's resumed the boorish practices with little difficulty. Moretti has trouble digesting the idea of you and Master living together (that day it looked like it might rain, and you mentioned doing his laundry) but you aren't embarrassed, because your master isn't.
He can't operate an electric stove, is usually working, and never thinks about where dust goes. It only makes sense that between training and running important errands for the Ninth, you make the meals and see to the housework. The point is, you're not the type to complain about the tasks given to you or to question orders.
That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, when you find out you were the decoy.
And there's also this: after congratulations are dispensed and Tsunayoshi farewells Basil with gratitude in his eyes, and clasps his fingers with hands that produced such a beautiful flame, they return to a dark house, and there's no running water.
Iemitsu slants him a forgiving smile and climbs the stairs, unhurriedly. Basil watches until the door closes behind him, flounders awhile in unmet expectation, then follows. Even due for a sheet change, his bed looks inviting. When he tries to lie down though, his body reprimands him sharply, aches surfacing in the way they do only when you're horizontal. He shifts (very, very slowly), builds a grocery list in his head while he waits for sleep to claim him. His eyes seem ready to doze, but his limbs feel stiff and uncomfortable. Tomorrow, he resolves, he will stretch properly, pay the bills, and bake.
They are not exactly in the mafia, but they are not not in the mafia. He wonders if they should all be above apologies, or whether subordinates don't require them, or if it's like omertà, a different code of silence where such things are understood, and left unsaid.
He awakens to the warning whistle of what he thinks is the 7.03, but is really the 7.22, and remains off-kilter for the rest of the morning. Some steely phone calls later, the lights come on. Four trains screech/rumble past, and there's water too. The house they got for cheap, the kind built on an incline in a semi-disreputable neighbourhood and commuters see right into their empty backyard. He draws the curtains, tilts his face into the sun.
Maybe as a side effect of being named after a plant, he's reluctant to do things harm. In the middle of an omelette, he might pause, take a breath, try to imagine what this egg was like when something warm was growing inside it, doing its best to live. He cracks it neatly anyway, admires a perfect yolk with no shell bits to pick out, no residue on the rim of the bowl. This is what he prefers his missions to look like. Never mind that death is a messy business; he cooks with the same care and dexterity he shows in battle. It's important to him to be on target, pasta fanning into the pot, fettucine that's creamy all over.
Superbi Squalo, Sword Emperor, Varia, also of the Rain. When he thinks of this, the kitchen knife in his hand becomes heavy, blade thunking down with ill-concealed violence. Half a ring snatched so easily - he was crushed - and more than landing heavily on elbows, ribs, what cuts deepest is failure. Gnawing at the seam of his self-confidence is a one-handed butcher.
He inhales, runs wet fingers through his fringe. At a quarter past one, he rinses out the sink, gives in to the urge to fillet a fish.
Set down the plastic bags; bend to restock the fridge that opens with a flicker, hum, and the hall could do with a vacuum, and master's workboots almost trip him up. The snapper wrapped in newspaper he delivers to the counter, and Iemitsu takes a step in, and suddenly the kitchen becomes a kitchenette, becomes too small. His hands stay busy, swatting back his hair, stowing away the flour. There's time, to displace the greeting lodged somewhere in his throat.
“Basil,” comes his master's voice, and he looks up from smoothing down the wrinkled label of the orange juice, the microwave digging into his back. Studies the frayed collar, confused brow, the half-guilty expression of a man who wants to be fed.
He smiles, rolls up his frustration with the batter, and lets it melt.