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randomwriteronline · 2 years ago

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"Do you have rice at home?"

What a weird question. Emmet turned to Briosa and nodded, an eyebrow crooked up to make a confused expression.

Why?, he signed.

She shrugged over the back of her seat: "You know," she replied vaguely, not answering, and added: "Do you have butter, shredded cheese?"

Emmet nodded again, more puzzled.

"Mushrooms?"

He shook his head. She clicked her tongue.

"Zucchini?"

That he did have, yes.

Briosa hummed loudly.

"Do you have broth cubes?" she asked. Her hand rose from beneath her chin and made a gesture as if holding something small between her index and thumb: "Like the uh, the ones that you put in boiling water and it makes stock broth?"

Did he have those?

He shook his head, struggling to find the right signs: Broth... Powder.

"Oh, that's still fine."

You... Need? Thing?, he asked. The vagueness was tiring him out more than the already long day had.

Briosa hummed for a long while.

"Are you hungry?" she didn't answer.

Emmet raised a hand to give an exhausted half-half gesture.

"Same," she replied - which was strange, because according to Briosa she was never hungry. She turned off the last computer still on: "Let's go."

Home sounded awful. Home sounded empty and soulless. Home sounded like Crustle yelling because he had missed feeding time by 1 minute and already trying to rip open the food cabinet to forcefully get his supper like a big cement baby, and that did make him chuckle a little and give him the strength to be on his way.

His head pulsed a bit. Mawile must have been as tired as him, because Briosa held her in her arms like a little kid as they walked down the street at a pace that was clearly not up to the shorter man's standards.

Emmet yawned. Goodness. So tired.

Briosa skipped a little at his side.

"There's some foods you absolutely cannot eat at dinner," she began unprompted, but her squeaky voice was a welcome distraction from the noisy quiet, "Not because there's some actual rule - technically there is but I call bullshit on that, it's all food - but because they're so heavy on the stomach that if you do eat them you'll be dreaming of green Raticate and pink Donphants like you got five shots of ketamine before bed."

His head snapped to face her with eyes wide from vague concern.

"I don't actually know if that's what ketamine does, I've never had it," she added, oblivious to his look.

"That's not how you pronounce that," Emmet managed to deadpan.

Mawile translated him sleepily.

Briosa turned to face him, the corners of her otherwise perfectly straight mouth pointed downwards and her forehead creased in puzzlement: "Pronounce what?"

"Ketamine," he replied - the last syllable making a 'meen' sound.

"Ketamine?" she repeated - the last sillable making a 'mine' sound, like the possessive pronoun or the place where miners work.

"Keh-tah-meen," he sounded out carefully so that she could easily read his lips.

Her brows furrowed over her crooked nose: "Ketameen?" she said correctly with a tinge of disgust. Being treated with a nod, she scoffed: "That sounds stupid. It's not a 'meen'-ending word, it sounds too stupid. It could be if it ended in 'a' but otherwise it sounds way too silly for me. I'm gonna keep calling it ketamine."

"That's wrong."

"Well, it sounds better."

Whatever makes her happy.

Emmet blinked heavily.

"Why are we talking about ketamine?" he muttered. The streetlights were too bright.

"We aren't," Briosa replied as soon as Mawile had translated him in sign. "I'm just trying to keep you awake and you derailed the conversation with what is the right way to pronounce ketamine."

"I am awake," he mumbled back.

"Are you?"

He showed her his tongue - immediately covering it with his hand. An awfully unprofessional thing to do: Briosa wasn't Elesa, even though her name ended with the same syllable, and as far as he knew they weren't quite considerable friends.

How had he even thought of confusing them enough for a mistake in etiquette like that? They were nothing alike, in looks and sound.

The substitute didn’t seem that bothered, proceding without a care: “Is it ok if I ask you for some food for my lads while I’m at yours? I’ll pay you back. It’s just because otherwise they’re gonna eat at 2 AM.”

Emmet nodded without really paying attention; only when the words swam from his ears into his brain and began being digested did he narrow his eyes and stop right where he stood.

He turned and looked behind himself.

Briosa only noticed his sudden stillness after a dozen or so steps, when Mawile pointed her back to the flabbergasted man in the middle of the street.

“You good?” she asked.

He pointed to the direction from which they had come silently, in deep thought. He blinked, then finally turned back to her.

“This isn’t the way to your house,” he noted.

“It’s not.”

The matter-of-fact tone didn't help.

"Why aren't you? On the way home?"

"I'm following you."

"Why are you following me?"

"I'm going to your house."

"You're coming to my house?"

"I'm coming to your house."

"Why are you coming to your- my house?"

"To cook you rice with zucchini."

"Why?"

"For dinner."

Emmet took a moment to pause and ruminate on all that.

"Did we agree on, on that? That you were... Coming to my house to cook?" he asked, because he genuinely didn't remember if they had.

"No."

Ah. Made sense.

A slow roundhouse kick that was probably meant as gentle (and while it did not send him hurtling across the street, it was still imbued with a discreet amount of strength that made him wobble on his unsteady knees) hit him with the back of the foot square in the ass and propelled him forward a little bit.

"Come on, let's go," the man (when had she gotten back at his side?) egged him on, much like a father dragging his noisy tired child out of the supermarket by an arm with as much vague kindness as possible: "You're sleeping on your feet like a Rapidash and you need to get some food in you."

He was too tired to complain or make a comment about that first part, and could not argue with the second.

He was really hungry.

Excadrill seemed perplexed when Briosa snuck under his arm as soon as the door was opened and made a beeline towards the kitchen, but Emmet just waved a hand, letting her know all was fine.

“She’s helping,” he told her with a yawn: “Said she’ll make dinner.”

The Steel mole looked back at the room the small vaguely antropomorphized Electrode had disappeared inside of, not very certain whether or not leaving someone like that in the vicinity of gas outlets, fire, sharpened blades and various more or less dangerous tools at her whims’ disposal; but she did consider, turning once more to the man trying to slip his shoes off while Archeops was nibbling at his wrist to shake him out of his tardiness, that was a risk she was willing to take if it meant her ward would eat before collapsing into uneasy sleep.

Footsteps stampeded heavily all the way back out of the kitchen, and Briosa appeared from the doorframe.

"I don't know where anything is," she said very flatly.

The light that came from the room hit the side of her frame, almost painting a yellow line where it landed, making her look something akin to incomprehensible in the dim sorroundings.

Emmet managed to blink slowly.

"I did find the refrigerated foods and knife and the tap water," she continued as if to reassure him she wasn't a complete cretin, "But I don't know where anything else is and I thought maybe I shouldn't slam open all the cabinets of some house that's not mine to find the rice jar."

Her boss raised a finger in the air to ask her to wait a moment; he stood slowly, heavily, and wobbled on his socked feet over to her.

He didn't have a rice jar, but he did have a box of rice, as well as a rice cooker. He provided Briosa with a pot, some oil and a plate at her request: she struggled to pour the grains into her small palm six, eight times, each fistiful dropped in the plate, cursing softly in what seemed like gibberish, and he watched her absolutely transfixed by the motion and sound similar to rain.

Something vaguely pinchy pulling at his leg snapped him out of it.

"Durant," he assumed as he croaked without looking, leaning down a big to pet lightly something vaguely metallic but not at all like his Bug's carapace, "I'll get dinner. Hold on."

A tongue clicked loudly while he reached for the pantry under the silverware that held the Pokémon food, and a large blackish mass delicately helped him get the bags out. Mawile's large mouth was a little clumsy, since the stem connecting it to the back of her head was quite thin, so Emmet ended up reciprocating her help to save her some of the strain.

Above himself he could hear the gas sparking into fire on the stove.

He nudged Briosa with an elbow to get her attention while remaining crouched - it was a little surreal to be looking up at her as he signed: Zucchini?

"Water," she replied. "I need to boil it. Also I think we forgot the broth powder."

Why boil?

"For the rice."

Sitting on his knees so he could peek over the counter, he pointed at the rice cooker; she looked at it, then turned back to him with a completely blank expression.

Rice cooker, he explained.

"Ah," she replied, and made no motion towards it.

For cooking rice, he continued.

"Yeah, I figured." Briosa checked around the station for a moment more: "Hm, yep, we missed the broth powder."

His brows furrowed: Why powder?

"For the rice. You gotta boil the rice in broth to cook it."

Emmet blinked: Rice cooker, he repeated.

Briosa blinked: "Hm," she noted.

Her boss pointed back to the utensil.

Use rice cooker.

"I don't know how to use that."

I teach you.

"That's gonna take longer than just letting me boil the rice," she waved her hand, her stoat fingers grazing his nose with a certain resolution to the movement that told him not to worry: "I know what I'm doing. You do what you gotta and try not to fall asleep. If you need me to do something or you gotta tell me something just punt your elbow on my shoulder."

Might hurt.

Briosa smiled, toothy grin not nearly as terrifying as usual: "You're a wet noodle when fully awake," she laughed, sounding like a repeatedly squeezed rubber Ducklett: "You won't hurt me."

Then she turned to wash the zucchini a bit in the sink, humming something. Mawile slowly dragged a bag out of the kitchen, struggling a bit; Emmet carefully placed the powdered broth next to the stove where it could be easily seen and raised the other end of the heavy sack to help the little Fairy bring it all the way over to the livingroom, others following behind them in mid air, held floating in the air by Chandelure's helpful Psychic - to keep it away from Crustle’s impatient grabby claws as well.

It took him a hot moment to realize he would have needed seven more bowls (the other twelve already fetched by their respective owners, thankfully); he then also realized that other than Mawile, the six guests were not actually there.

Briosa was chopping a zucchini very slowly and heavily when he came in to ask her for her team, which sat in their Pokéballs on their counter a little closer to the kitchen door. Emmet saw it fit to collect them without bothering her, noting distractedly that she seemed to be singing and deciding, against his will, to listen in.

“... Amministra-zio-ne, e liquida-zio-ne, rateizza-zio-ni anti-previden-zial - misura came-ra-le, calcolo dell’IR-PES, scarico dell’I-VA, misura cata-stal...”

The tempo of her chopping increased to a horrendous degree immediately after as she vocalized quietly; Emmet watched her cut through the vegetable with admirable technique and fury for a moment more before deciding he did not want to have her turn around a little too fast and get that blade flying right in his eye socket, and went right back to the livingroom where his brother’s Bug was starting to scream his little bulbous eyes off in hunger.

Knowing full well how big, bulky, destructive and aggressive ‘the lads’ could be in battle, he was somewhat surprised to see their politeness outside of their Pokéball when he first released them. Their sizes did cause bit of a stirrup, especially among those who hadn't seen them before, and Emolga's heavily deformed scarred grin certainly did not put anybody at ease - but Seismitoad croaked very gently, as a kind greeting, and Bisharp bowed in an incredibly courteous manner; Klinklang did seem a little more than uneasy at the sight of Heatmor, trying to scoot behind Excadrill and to drag the much more relaxed Durant with it, but the Fire type seemed just as scared of the hunk of metal as he hid behind the only lady of the team.

Speaking of Conkeldurr - the poor girl was trying her hardest to shrink in her shoulders as soon as she noticed where she was, eyeing co-workers and new curious faces with a sheepish kind of apprehension, large rough hands playing with one another.

"Hello," Emmet welcomed them too tired to stop Boldore from running into the newcomers repeatedly. "I live here. You eat here tonight."

Cryogonal made a horrifying sound not too far from Candelure' worst cough.

He gave her a thumbs up: "Yes."

It struck him very suddenly that roughly three out of six out of Briosa’s team effectively could have been considered full ass human people by size, and that while one of them was indeed an enormous bulbous frog he should have probably just let Conkeldurr and Bisharp sit on the couch.

It also struck him that Cryogonal (from whom Haxorus was inching away) was a pure Ice type.

“We don’t...” he muttered, turning around to check on the bags. He stared at them for a second or so before remembering the rest of his thought: “Have Ice type food. Food for Ice types. Uh...”

Mawile’s little hands moved quickly to tell him something.

He blinked a couple times, trying to understand before giving in, pointing at his hand: “I cannot - three finger sign, I’m not. Fluent.”

The little Steel Fairy nodded apologetically and chittered as she repeated, slower so that he could try the signs out himself to properly translate them: No problem. C eat nothing or anything. C eat wood if want. No worry.

The chittering was probably so that Cryogonal could listen in herself and assure Emmet of the veracity of the statement with another ghastly shriek.

Which she did.

That got her another thumbs up.

It took a while, to properly get everybody their bowl of dinner, and he had to be helped a couple of times - mostly by Mawile, who seemed the most well-versed in reading written symbols.

He was so, so tired.

In the end they had managed to split the food around more or less evenly: both Durant and Excadrill had graciously declined the portion of Steel-specific food that should have been mixed with their other ones so that Bisharp and Mawile could have it, since they had nothing for Dark or Fairy types, and Emolga was more than fine getting only Flying-specific (Archeops wasn’t necessarily keen on that, but very wisely had not argued with the rat that looked like he had been through a shredder and survived) since Eelektross’ size demanded quite a bowl for him; Seismitoad had at one point striked up a conversation with his fellow Ground type regarding, Emmet imagined, which types of dirt tasted better, whereas Heatmor was still snout-deep in his can of beans, apparently eating them one at a time to better savor them, as normal Fire-specific food didn’t account for his digestive troubles.

Even Cryogonal had managed to snack around without causing an excess in panic. Gurdurr seemed to be the only one a little embarassed, glancing every now and then to the much bigger Fighting type in the same manner an elementary-schooler glances at a substitute teacher he may or may not have a puppy crush on.

It was relatively quiet, in the end. A lot of crunching and munching, and unintelligible words, but it was quiet.

Emmet shook himself a little when small teeth gently bit down on his arm: Mawile looked up at him with a slight concern, her little hands pulling at his pants to make him sit down properly instead of squatting on his toes.

“Hm?” he asked her - or, well, tried to - as he felt his head strangely light.

The Fairy insisted he take a seat first before explaining: No sleep yet! Rice not ready. Ready soon. Stay awake.

“I am Emmet. I am awake.”

Before no.

“Yes I was.”

Mawile pointed at Boldore: Called you, she explained. Food stolen. You asleep! No answer. Crab say shut up.

At that, he looked up to the three Bugs.

Durant and Galvantula both followed his gaze: Crustle turned his bulbous eyes in two completely different directions to try and feign ignorance.

That clearly did not work, as a perfectly straight finger pointed right at him.

“Bad boy.” his trainer’s brother decreted. Crustle (who by law knew any word he could have said could have been used against him) chirped out an indignated whine in protest. “No. Give Boldore some of yours.”

Bugs cannot quite huff, though the crustacean definitely did try; with no other option, he haughtily shoved what still remained in his bowl to the block of rock he had stolen the lunch from in the first place, who made a crumbling sound similar to a piqued ‘thank you’ and very slowly helped himself to the rest of his supper while the other retreated in his cement house as though he were the offended party here.

Well, that was solved.

Emmet rubbed one eye with his hand to shake the sleep dust off of it.

A three-fingered paw pulled at his shirt again: “I am awake,” he reassured Mawile, “I am not falling asleep.”

She did not particularly care about his blatant lies at the moment - not as much as she cared about getting him off the floor, at least, as evidenced by how she tried to pull him onto the couch despite her obvious size disadvantage. Bisharp, noting her struggle, quickly put aside his own bowl and rose to his feet, metal arms outstretched to catch the man in them.

“No thanks,” Emmet stopped him. “Can do it myself.”

Alright, he thought, time to stand up.

After a whole minute he had not moved an inch.

Bisharp, with as extreme a tenderness as a creature composed partially by sawblades could muster, gently slipped his hands under Emmet’s arms, lifted him into the air as one might lift a cat, and sat him on the couch.

“Thanks.” the human peeped.

Seeing the Dark type bow a little in response while Archeops blatantly laughed at him gave him some weird new kind of mortification to feel.

Maybe if he focused on the incomprehensible sounds somewhat reminscent of words coming from the kitchen, he would manage to trick himself into not thinking about having had to be picked up like a bag of cement because his joints didn’t respond.

From the door connecting the two rooms he could see Briosa perfectly still before the stove: a vacant look seemed to dwell in her eyes as her lips moved quickly, and perhaps most concerningly she was holding a kitchen knife in her right hand, bits and pieces of zucchini still stuck to the blade, with a grip that could have concievably crushed a piece of wood into shavings or caused a small enough pumpkin to explode under the pressure.

Not a very reassuring sight.

But it did immediately cancel his embarassment.

“... E il carica-to-re svuo-te-rà, sul-le aliquote della-li-bertà...”

Very suddenly, she began banging her fists against her hips in asynchrony, large knife very much still grasped tight in her palm, as if her body was a drumset and she were playing it after getting a dose of pure sugar injected in her veins.

“Ed il so-cio scompa-ri-rà, sul-le aliquote della-li-bertà...” she continued unperturbed by neither her own choreography nor the possibility of accidentally stabbing herself for that matter.

The rest of the chorus turned a little garbled from her furious headbanging, the movement so violent and so spread out through her entire frame (her torso and pelvis were oscillating in tandem back and forth to lend more strength to the motion, making her look a little like one of those bird-shaped toys that are constantly quickly dipping their beaks in the water, rising out of it, then diving back in for another sip) that it made him fear for a moment she would slam her head on the counter and either knock herself out or destroy it completely, with a higher chance of the latter.

Emmet turned back to Mawile, who had climbed the couch to sit next to him.

“She is always like this?”

She followed his finger with her gaze as he pointed to the kitchen.

Then she nodded.

“Man.”

No like silence, the Fairy explained.

"Aaah. So she talks."

The little beast waited a moment, then waved a hand in the air in a sort-of-yes-sort-of-no kind of gesture: Talk, no really. No hear voice. Feel mouth move, remember how voice sound. But no hear.

Emmet tilted his head: "She can't hear her own voice?"

Mawile nodded.

He clicked his tongue in thoughtful aknowledgement and blinked.

That was such a weird concept, not being able to hear yourself. It was the sort of obvious thing one never ponders on at all: so he had always assumed she could, without really thinking about it enough to question whether or not that was possible. And even if he had found himself reflecting on it in a sudden burst of curiosity, he would have probably still rationalized that she could, maybe by feeling the vibrations in her neck as she spoke.

But that would have meant keeping her hands on her throat all the time, he reasoned, and it would have been really bothersome for someone as prone to action as she was.

He wondered, suddenly, if she knew how squeaky she sounded.

Probably not.

"Could she hear herself?" he asked. "Somehow?"

Yes!, Mawile nodded enthusiastically.

Emmet blinked again. From what she had told him, he hadn't expected that could have been a possibility.

Headphone! Microphone!, the Fairy continued without needing any prompting. Ear implant! But no wear for long. Hurt ear. Or yell!

"Yell?"

If loud enough! Like before!

Did that mean she had been yelling?

This whole time?

Oh, Emmet suddenly thought: yes, actually, she must have been. The kitchen was a room that in some strange way never let any noise escape it; no matter how much the oil could have sizzled or how agonizingly the blender could have screamed, their agony remained hushed into silence between those walls. It was very nice, by all means - he still remembered having to retreat in his closet to escape the noise of his uncle in the kitchen so it couldn’t make him feel like there were Stunfisks flapping around in his veins - but it brought along the slight side-effect that if they had to set a timer that wasn't the oven's (which turned the machine off as soon as it was done) they would have to put it in the livingroom, or they'd never hear it.

For him to be able to listen to her, Briosa must have been belting the hell out of her incomprehensible song like tomorrow wasn't planning on being a thing.

“Verrry loud,” he commented, slowly.

Mawile nodded, whirring her tongue to imitate him as she signed: Verrry loud.

Some minor inconvenience must have happened, because Briosa shouted something irritated, possibly profanity of some kind.

Emmet leaned his head on the back pillows.

Now she was singing again.

“Al-me-no-fi-no-a-do-mat-ti-na-ti-pro-me - tto-che, sarò la fa-ccia, di-cui-hai-più bisogno...”

This one was much calmer. More melodic. The way she pronounced the words had a strange cadence, quick yet slow - it was hard to explain. He blinked, feeling drowsy all the way into his marrow.

“Me-glio-non-di-re-nien-te-aspet-tando-il-mat-ti-no, sor-rido, se-pen-so-al-no-me-che-tu mi-darai do-ma-ni...”

Huh. This verse had a completely different rhythm. Weird.

Maybe the author was part of some avantgarde musical genre he didn’t know.

He felt something lukewarm pulling his forehead back and realized his eyes were closed. When had that happened? Chandelure chimed at him something that sounded like ‘don’t fall asleep yet, you still have to eat’.

Ah.

So it wasn’t the song’s fault for having different-sounding verses.

He mouthed that he wasn’t asleep, voice barely leaving his mouth. He hadn’t even noticed he’d dozed off.

“... che, orati-mangida-den, tro, piccolo-pianeta-spen, to, come-una bri-ciolaal-ven-toe-un-bu-co-ne-roe-un-oc-chio-blu,” Briosa was continuing.

He wondered how much of it he’d missed.

“E, so-no-po-co-più-di-un-jamais-vu, tra tutte queste persone, nella-mia-testa-io-gioco-a-tabù, perdo-se-dico-il tuo no - me...”

A pinch at his leg.

Ow, he murmured, furrowing his brow; Durant chittered worriedly at him, nudging him to spur him into action. His eyelids felt horribly sandy against his sclera as he rubbed them with as much vigor as possible to shake any tiredness away.

He was not tired. He was not sleeping.

His knees popped when he straightened them to tense his legs.

He was not about to fall into a nap again.

“Io ti terrò la mano, tu tienimi l’anima...”

He bent down to grasp his feet.

“E pure se non sai chi sono non lasciarla mai...”

Maybe, if he went to check on Briosa, he would avoid knocking himself out on the couch for the next five hours.

He stood as though he were made of lead.

Following her saccharine voice, he slowly began wobbling towards the kitchen.

“Ve - di, ci sono, dei-ri, cordi, che-mi de - vi, sei grande, ma-ti, chiamo-an, cora ba - by,” (oh, a word he recognized) “Ho gl’occhi rossi ma non te ne accorgi, ti guardo mentre dormi, ma solo ieri-”

Her nose stuck out so much when you looked at her from the side. It jutted out from her forehead out of nowhere, somewhere a little above her eyes and almost right below her eyebrows, and then it came right down like a straight wall. It wasn’t perfectly straight, because there was a dent where it had likely been broken and incorrectly healed; so more than a wall it was like a waterfall interrupted in the middle by a rock. Despite the contrast with the rest of her more graceful features, it fit everything about her like a glove. Emmet’s nose showed no signs of harm and pointed outwards instead, like half the head of an arrow. What weird things to notice in the split second between two verses of a hook.

“-C’e-ri, nei giorni ne-ri, quelli che piove troppo fo-rte per stare in pie-di,” she sang: “E fottevamo anche la morte volando legge-ri, m’hai chiesto dimmi cosa te-mi, in che cosa cre-di, la mia risposta sei tu.”

She hummed loudly, thin lips pursed tight, tilting her head with the melody.

“La mia risposta sei tu...” she repeated while stirring the mass of rice in what little broth was left.

Emmet stared.

She had a nice voice.

When she turned to the door - maybe to call for him - she had a startle and flattened herself closer to the floor, little eyes blown wide and hand grasping the counter. She looked like she had a heart attack.

They simply stared at each other for a moment, before Emmet remembered she couldn’t have heard him come in and likely had shat her pants.

Whoops.

Briosa was quicker: “Hello!” she grinned apologetically. “I was really really loud, wasn’t I.”

Her boss shook his head, smiling back: No problem. You sing nice.

Expression losing any mortification, she flipped her wooden spoon to tap her chin with it a few times as though she were thanking a deeply captivated audience - giving a ‘youch’ and a ‘porca puttana bastarda’ when the heat carried by the utensil scalded her a little.

He wasn’t sure what that second thing meant, but it made him chuckle.

Briosa turned back to the pot and twisted her mouth: “Ok, since it’s almost ready, do you want me to put...” she rocked in place for a moment, hand waving a little, “A sensible person’s idea of a good amount of cheese and butter, or my idea of a good amount of cheese and butter?”

Second, he signed.

“Gotcha.” and she got her big knife back in hand and grabbed the brick of definitely softer butter like she was going to squeeze it between her fingers and annihilate it completely: “Drown it in dairy it is.”

Emmet wheezed weakly.

He fetched a couple plates and forks to set on the table, slowly, so slowly. By the time he found the glasses and started checking for a bottle that still had some water before pikcing one and putting in the sink to fill it, the rice had completely dried up, and Briosa was stirring it with butter and shredded cheese with such a focused gaze and furiously quick hand that an inattentive onlooker might have thought she was busy making merengues instead.

(They had tried exactly once, and in the end they’d both ended up with aching wrists and a bunch of half whipped egg clears despite their best efforts. In the end they had made sweet white omelettes that weren’t as bad as they could have turned out to be.)

“You wanna lick the spoon?”

Before he could even register the question he had already clamped the wooden utensil in his mouth.

Clearly the correct course of action: that tasted great.

Must have been all the cheese.

Now he was salivating.

“This’ll kill you,” Briosa assured him with a calm tone. “If you’re not gonna be sleeping after this I might have to punch a hole in your head.”

He gave her thumbs up. A good last meal either way.

They ate in silence, fairly quickly. Had he really not noticed how hungry he was up until now? Dragons. He shouldn’t skip meals. But maybe it was just because this rice specifically tasted so good. Why, he couldn’t really tell. It was just rice and zucchini. Drowned in dairy, but still rice and zucchini. It wasn’t even that hard to make. He probably could have made it on his own.

Maybe it was because he’d fasted the whole day.

He stood and fetched a second portion. Briosa was eyeing the pot like a Braviary waiting for the right moment to strike a Basculin.

When he motioned for her to hand him her plate she shook her head: “I’m not hungry,” she claimed, though he never quite believed her when she said that, even when she sounded so honest - maybe she was trying to convince herself, but as to why he couldn’t tell, “It’s just gluttony. Keep that in a tupper or something, I made a lot for that especially. And!”

Her index waved a little in the air, possibly to distract her boss from how she was standing to wash her dish and everything before he might object: “And, when you warm it, do it in a pan. With some oil. Gets all crunchy like popcorn. Good shit, let me tell you.”

Emmet nodded. You know a lot, he signed back once both his hands were free.

“My dad always fries his rice instead of putting it in the microwave.”

I see. It was very good.

She smiled at him weirdly.

“You gotta do it like this,” and she signed ‘very’ back at him - though her index and middle fingers paused for a moment after parting, dipping just a second towards the floor before she finished the sign.

He tilted his head: he’d been fairly sure he’d learned how to sign that correctly. Nevertheless, he imitated her.

“There you go!” she grinned. “It’s too weird when you say it with no gemination.”

Twin?, he asked, even more confused.

She spelled the word quickly: “Gemination - doubling letters in a word to make a longer or stronger sound. Like rubble or throttle or bottle. In this case it’s over-gemination because no letter in ‘very’ is doubled but that doesn’t matter. You geminate it. It doesn’t feel right if you don’t.”

How do you know?

“Know what?”

Gemination.

“Ah. Your mouth.”

He pointed at it, surprised. It likely looked a little comical, since he had taken a rather big bite at that moment.

Briosa smiled a little wider: he watched her clearly mouth the word twice, slowly.

“The eh sound opens it a little wider than the ee sound,” she explained, and mouthed it again. “The R by itself has a shwah sound, a sort of ‘uh’ - that’s really weak, so it gets replaced easily by a different one. If you stall it after an eh sound, the lips remain in a similar position, and you can see how they flatten more once the ee sound comes along.”

He looked more carefully as she repeated the motion once more before gulping down his last forkful and imitating her, trying to feel the sounds on his lips. Huh! That was true. He could tell the different shapes made by the vowels. Curious.

Verrry interesting, he signed. The stalling made her grin. Where did you learn?

“Phonetics class in college I had to take to meet the right amount of credits. I actually chose it mostly because the professor was deaf too, so.”

Emmet clicked his tongue, understanding; Briosa clicked it back in affirmation.

Who knows where they’d picked that up from.

He leaned his strangely heavy head on his crossed arms, splaying himself on the table with a sigh. He felt comfortably warm, at ease; he grumbled a protest when a smaller hand slipped his empty plate and dirty silverware away to wash it in the sink, but didn’t quite manage to coax himself to stand up fast enough to stop her from doing his dishes. He did manage to seize the still half full pot before her, emptying its contents into a glass container and managing to hold onto it long enough to squirt some dishsoap in it - not to clean it, because Briosa twisted his arm behind his back without breaking a sweat (without hurting him either) forcing him to hand it over to her.

You should not clean, he pouted once he had both his hands free again: My house. I’m host. You’re guest. I clean.

“I invited myself over though.”

And cooked.

“And ate also.” and she kicked his hip gently to get him out of the kitchen: “Get your pijamas on while I’m busy, you’re going straight to bed once I’m done.”

You’re not my dad.

She stared directly into his eyes with a face so blank it almost made him laugh.

“Do you want me to adopt you,” she said like it was a threat.

Emmet’s entire body began shaking to contain a giggle. He shook his head.

“Then wash your teeth and put on your jammies.”

He wheezed in her face.

She snorted back.

“But seriously,” she chuckled, “Go get changed. The rice is gonna hit soon and you’re not gonna be able to move a muscle for the next three hours otherwise.”

Alright, fair.

He didn’t notice it, but the Pokémon chatting about in the livingroom were all greatly relieved to see him stumble into his room giggling to himself like a kid.

Flannel felt good on his arms. It was soft, warm, loose... It seemed like forever since he had last worn those pijamas. They were awfully comfortable. He had to make an effort to change into them more often when he came back home. They were much better than a dirty button up and dress pants.

(He hadn’t called before eating. He should have called now.)

(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.)

“If you’re naked stick out your leg!”

The sound of Briosa’s voice shouting from the corridor made him almost throw the Xtransceiver into high heaven, fumbling to catch it so that it didn’t shatter on the floor and hastily closing the call before she could hear the ringing and ask about it.

The fact that she was deaf dawned on him a second too late, but that was done.

(And he hadn’t replied, anyways.)

He settled the gadget on the nightstand, trying to pull himself out of the spiral he’d almost been sucked in; without even thinking he proceeded to stick his leg out through the doorway.

There was a beat of silence; then: “I said naked!”

Emmet cawed out a laugh.

His head peeked through as well. Briosa looked at him, face plain, coat in her arms and hat in hand.

“I thought you’d passed out,” she noted.

Nope, he signed back. Still awake.

“Not for long!”

Sounds evil.

Her brows furrowed: “What’s that mean?”

You sound like you’ll knock me out.

She thought it over a moment before squeaking a chuckle.

It would be verrry easy, he shrugged.

“It would!”

He accompanied her back to the livingroom. The various bags of food had been transported away, the bowls had disappeared back into their cupboard, Crustle still refused to grace the room with his handsome face, and Gurdurr hurriedly scuttled away from Conkeldurr despite having barely come close enough to graze her, deathly embarassed by his crush and round nose redder than usual; Cryogonal shrieked something in his general direction as greeting.

He gave her thumbs up.

“Alright my beautiful death machines,” Briosa called with a tone so affectionate it felt as though her mouth was dripping cotton candy: “We’re goin’ back home! Time for the circus trick.”

She patted her belt a few times, looking for her set of Pokéball. Emmet helpfully pointed them to her from where he’d laid them on the table; Mawile took that as an opportunity to gently bite her shirt as she collected the spheres to rapidly sign something at her and direct her attention over to Heatmor, who was fidgeting rather nervously with his yellow claws.

Once he had her undivided attention, he pulled the sweetest pair of Baby-Doll Eyes he could muster, wiggling demurely as though whining.

Briosa smiled: “Go on, give her a snuggle,” she allowed.

In a second the Fire type wrapped Durant in a tight hug, rubbing his snout on her with a concert of thrilled chirps; the Steel Bug for her part clacked her mandibles rather happily as though to remind him they were going to see each other tomorrow at work anyways.

The beasts who hadn’t visited the station in quite some time eyed the exchange with genuinely dumbfounded gazes.

It probably felt a little like beholding a glitch in nature itself.

A brief whistle tore Heatmor from his friend; he waved her bye one last time before a reddish ray sucked him right back into one of the six balls being juggled by his trainer, followed suit by each of his associates while Mawile latched herself onto her aidee’s elbow.

Emmet followed the trajectory of the flying spheres without trying to keep up with their increasing speed, head heavier than lead lolling back and forth until all six were caught with a fluid graceful motion between the fingers of the Substitute, the little Fairy swinging from her arm leaping onto her head and landing perfectly balanced - thanks to her main maw acting as counterweight - right on her buzzed mousy hair with a little flourish, like an olimpic gymnast.

He weakly waved his hands in a silent applause. Mawile bowed deeply, proud; Briosa curtsied and thanked him by grazing all ten fingertips to her chin.

Must teach me, he signed as he forgot to stifle a yawn.

“Maybe when you’re not falling asleep on your feet.”

Agreed.

Galvantula gently nuzzled her leg.

“Ye, ye, I’m leaving him to y’all now,” she assured the Bug. She saluted the rest of the beasts as she slipped her coat back on hurriedly and helped her aide back down into one of her pockets: “Thank you for not mauling me!”

A chorus of noises she couldn’t hear bid her farewell.

Socked feet accompanied her to the door. Emmet stalled for a moment before opening it; his fingers drummed on the knob under eyes of rotten green waiting patiently for him to send them on their way.

Instead he turned towards her, hands a little sluggish as he signed: Thank you. For rice. And company. Elesa does this, usually. When she can.

“That’s nice to know.” Briosa noted.

Not always. She comes, not always. I mean that. Always nice, when she comes. But doesn’t come always.

“Yeah, I imagined you meant that.”

Sorry. Verrry tired.

“I can see that.”

I am... Bothering?

“Not at all! You just kinda look like you’re melting. You should go sleep.”

Will do.

Briosa smiled. It was the most angular smile he’d seen on her yet, and it fit her like a glove. It made him think like the smile that made Elesa’s eyes too small and her face too round. It was sweet.

“Next time I’ll make you a soup,” she said. “And if I remember them I’ll sing you some songs from old cartoons to keep you awake.”

He liked the idea of a next time.

He gave her an ok; she tilted her hat at him.

“Goodnight.”

Goodnight.

Then he closed the door behind her; tucked his and his brother’s partners to bed; turned off the lights; crawled under the covers.

He slept well.

#pokémon #submas emmet #too many pokemon to tag... its both the twins teams + briosas as well #briosa pokemon #random writing #MAN this has been in my wips for a LONG while idk how or why i powered through tonight to finish it but im glad #feat. Sulle Aliquote Della Libertà (by nanowar of steel) and Ricordi (by pinguini tattici nucleari) aka the songs briosa sings #ricordi is such a submas song to me (stripped of any romantic undertone in there)#its written from the persective of someone whose loved one suffers from alzheimer #and the verses briosa sings are the ones that i feel are most connected to ingo and emmets situation #(tho first one is more abt elesa n briosa being there for emmet - 'at least until tomorrow morning i promise ill be the face you need most')#theyre written weirdly bc i was trying to recreate the songs rhythm btw you should look for the proper lyrics. its a great song trust me #sulle aliquote della libertà is there only because of the dramatic comedic timing #it has no special meaning its a song abt how to commit tax evasion gdhsgdhjsgaj #also! the spoon thing. my mom always asks if someone wants to lick the spoon/licks it herself after she makes rice. its tastey #i NEED to reiterate that briosa doesnt Know she and emmet are friends at this point #so in her mind shes doing this for her boss who shes come to know better and enjoy and who she knows is Going Through It #elesa asked her to look after him as in 'make sure he doesnt work himself to death'#and briosa went 'got it chief' and overachieved spectacularly #emmet: mmm. briosa never says im her friend. maybe she thinks its obvious #briosa (who made him dinner n kept him company n ensured he took care of himself): this is a normal boss-employee dynamic

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mad-hunts · 14 days ago

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there is nothing so cruel as memory — and this not only applied to the jarring snapshot that barton was given of a much happier time in his life through the photograph he found. he couldn't help but start to reflect upon how both louis, as well as matilda, weren't even six months old whenever marceline died. which meant that they would only ever and still do only know of their mother through barton's word of mouth. with that, the level of sorrow that came from knowing that he had everything one day and the next, he only had but a fraction of that was something he was convinced would kill him back then.

but the fact of the matter was, barton knew deep down that that was something he couldn't let happen. because matilda and louis needed him. so making peace with marcy's death was, unfortunately, a harsh reality barton had to face. the doctor did contribute finding winslow, his surrogate father, mostly all up to luck after all. and so giving up on them was not an option. but the toxic point of view that barton's bio father likely would've enforced upon him (to simply 'pull himself up by the bootstraps' as if it were that easy) wasn't going to work. so, therapy seemed like the most viable option to help him cope with the massive amount of grief he felt.

thankfully, going to it was the right decision in the end. the funny thing about grief, though, is that it isn't linear. and like the waves of an ocean... the feeling that you're missing someone fundamental to your life comes back in to hit you when you least expect it. barton flexed one of his hands repeatedly as he tried to get his mind off of it. he supposed that, eventually, doing nothing in this space would end up making him and possibly jervis as well lose their marbles anyhow. barton's work. before he had gotten into their current mess, he was working on a new 'piece,' he thought.

well, the deadline that the doctor had to finish it by before was hopeless for him to reach now. they wanted it in just two weeks time and who knows how long they'd have to be camping out in the old car warehouse? but that could easily be explained away. just like artists couldn't be rushed, barton didn't produce his 'dolls' well under a lot of pressure. nerves and skin alike were delicate. it made him wonder whether jervis still remembered the woman who'd been on his autopsy table when they met.

for even though the horror of it all was something barton was used to by now, even relished in... he was a very empathetic person and so barton could see how it could haunt the other in a way. so the expression 'different as night and day' might as well have been created for them all things considered. barton scratched at the IV in his wrist, mentally figuring out if he could give jervis more pain meds than jack had administered to him. assuming his son had given him the proper dosage. barton hummed noncommittally before deciding to consult jack about it first.

❝ i suppose my son's bedside manner was lacking a bit when he gave you that tea, then. i mean he obviously meant well, but i think it would've been easier for you to drink it with a straw, ❞ an amused snort left barton and pretty much guaranteed that he wasn't mad at jack for it afterward. he was still young after all - and he was still trying to drill all of the 'in's and out's' of medicine that he could teach him into his head. but it didn't seem to be where jack's passion lied, the line the other uttered aloud being what ultimately broke barton out of his thoughts.

the room proceeded to become deafeningly silent at that moment. squinting at the other was the doctor's immediate response, trying to recall where exactly he might've heard that. maybe it was biblical? barton was surprised that jervis would recite it, though, in that case because he didn't peg him as the 'religious type.' it sounded like he was expressing to barton that he supposed he might've felt like he wished his suffering could be quantified, however. categorizing his misery in those years seemed like an impossible venture though... but perhaps that was the point of the whole quote?

barton didn't want to be considered a 'victim' of his father, and from the way this was sounding, jervis almost seemed to be implying that. he could acknowledge that wesley put him through pain but he didn't want to redefine who he was in the process. heat began to rush to barton's head, and it was like he felt like he wanted to jump out of his own skin. ❝ yeah. you don't know anything about me, because even if you witnessed everything my father did? you wouldn't understand how it made me feel because you'd still be separated from it all. ❞

barton admittedly sounded a bit bitter as he spoke, but didn't care to address that right now. jervis was comparing their situations and it made him inhale sharply whilst he covered his face with both palms. he had nothing to say about that, though, but when what he guessed were babies were brought up... he ran his hands down his face to finally reveal it once more. ❝ mm, well, i could discuss how senselessly out of control some of the events that have happened to me and to others around me have seemed all day with you. but i don't want to. its depressing, but yes, my son is adopted but he's still mine. and that's better than what would've happened if the two of them remained abandoned for longer. ❞

barton stated this in a very 'matter-of-fact' tone before he turned over all the cards that he pulled for jervis. then, seemingly right on time, jack came back into the picture with breakfast for dinner for him. that plate was gently set on the bedside cabinet. barton looked over to his son as if to check on him then. yes, he actually did appear to have taken on a pallor. barton tilted his head and promptly inquired to jack about it, ❝ are you feeling okay, punaise d'amour? (lovebug?) ❞ his son scratched the back of his neck and gnawed on his bottom lip.

❝ yeah. i probably just need to eat, like jervis said. i'll be right back, ❞ jack stifled a smile and subsequently left, not even giving barton a second to protest. he shook his head only partially jokingly afterward while saying, ❝ ugh, that boy... if he was feeling bad then i easily could have got it for him. but i guess we're starting with the 'wheel of fortune' card. ❞

Bright domes of blood welled up from the corner of Jervis' mouth; his earlier, absent worrying with his teeth had succeeded in breaking the thin skin yet again. The yuja tea took on a faint ruddy tint, a visual stimuli preceding the taste of iron on his tongue. He tried to lick it away as discreetly as he could behind his cup, still chewing meditatively on the rind, bowing his head and letting his hair cover his profile for the briefest of moments.

Better my lip than my cuticles or my hair. The last thing I need is to start wearing knit caps all the time, or to pick up a fungal infection from this wretched place. One more reason to scrub myself raw and bury every possible inch in a hundred layers of clothing, eh? Old habits died hard; kicking and screaming as they were buried. Some were easier to tame. Others proved more obstinate, harder to shake; their roots sunk deep.

Trauma and time changes us all.

Barton's agitation swirled around him like a dark cloud; foreboding. A marionette with scorching strings, desperately trying to maintain his center of gravity. Those talons he called fingernails were restless; always moving, always touching. Somehow, it reminded Jervis of a hawk keeping vigil. That thought wasn't exactly comforting, if he were being completely honest. He flinched as the memory of their first encounter, so many weeks ago in the other man's workshop, came bubbling to the surface; ripples in a cistern, deep and dark and unfathomably placid. The kind of quiet that said, "Don't look away."

Jervis' stomach pitched as he recalled the corpse Barton had uncovered; what he had done to her face.

The scalpel had glided with precision, following the intricate pathways of the supraorbital and supratrochlear nerves—key branches of the trigeminal nerve, those delicate conduits that carried every flicker of sensation from the scalp and forehead to the brain. Though that was a moot point, considering none of these nerves or even the skin itself were alive any longer.

Just atoms and molecules; a patchwork of bone, blood, muscles and sinew; dregs of various neurochemicals and hormones long halting as the vitality they once sustained shuffled off the mortal coil, grown stagnant. But still undeniably a person. Human. Utterly devoid of dignity in death; an affliction all suffer, in some shape or form.

Each was duly severed, spawning an unseen fire in their wake. Dispassionate. Meticulous. Gloved fingers swept through the woman's hair, clearing the path; dyed a dishwater-blonde, slightly curly.

A miniature gardening knife plowing through equally Lilliputian stalks of wheat.

Jervis swallowed hard, the chill cutting deeper than skin; positively algid. Barton’s boots scraped faintly against the concrete, his IV pole swaying in tandem. Under the flickering lights, his tousled curls caught the gleam, fair strands shimmering like fragile, golden lacework. He paused beside Jervis' own IV, studied it.

"A bit of both, I think..." No sense in hiding it. It was plainly writ in the overwrought cast of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw; the dim light in his eyes. Jervis tightened his grip on the blanket, on the teacup. Cast his eyes about the room. Wary, half-hooded. Dark gray irises shone against the whites, through his lashes, landed on the cards Jack had cut and dealt.

Rabbit feeling the snare brushing against its hind leg, desperate to escape being baked into a pie.

His heart sunk, as Barton spoke of his son. Paternal instinct and empathy flared again; a gleam of recognition, in a sense, too. A soft, rueful, humorless sort of chuckle escaped him, quick as a hiccup.

"'Oh, that my vexations were but weighed, and all my calamities laid in the balance.'"

Barton's hand froze on the IV. The absence of those pearly white lenses or that hideous mask did nothing to temper the intensity of his gaze; a blonde lock fell across his forehead as he tilted his head; scrutinized him, features as blank as if they'd been scrubbed clean of any nuance by unseen hands. Not quite anger, or so it seemed; not quite amusement at his extemporaneous rehash, either... curiosity? Confusion? Consternation? He couldn't tell. But it rolled off him all the same.

Jervis' ears flushing were the only signs he had any blood still circulating in his system, his pallor was so pronounced. He bowed his head; shook it softly. Shrugged in apology. Forget it. It's nothing; I meant nothing by it. Tapping his nails anxiously against the porcelain saucer clutched loosely in his fingers. Bloody hell... did I really just say that out loud? "Sorry... it's the first thing that came to mind... I didn't mean for it to slip out, wasn’t trying to come off..." He sighed, cheeks expanding; breath whistling faintly; eyebrows bunching together.

"... like I told you when we first met, I'm not insulting you. I'm not pretending to know anything about you, and I'm certainly not pitying you." His free hand curled back into the blanket; followed the demarcations of each colored square. "But I do know something about living in fear; of uncertainty, displacement." His lips thinned, twitched; a subtle rictus stretching along Jervis' cheek and nostrils for the space of a couple heartbeats. "People like to say everything happens for a reason, but not all events can be considered blessings; not by any stretch... especially when bairns are involved."

He turned back to the tarot deck. "In any case... scotching the snake, breaking the cycle... that's brilliant."

Silence fell. Barton gave him another long stare.

Jervis stared back and did not move.

Barton turned away, headed to the cards and drew three painted images. A wheel, six swords stretching upwards. A sun. His eyes roamed along their features; sharp, incisive.

Jervis' ears pricked up at another set of approaching footsteps; smelling eggs and jam preserves. Ahh...

"I hope there's enough left over for yourself," he murmured faintly, not unkindly, as he turned his head to look at Jack. "You look a bit peaky."

#divingdownthehole #OOH okay okayyy - that song was a really good thing to listen to as i read your response! though i wouldn't expect anything less #from you as you do seem to have a good ear (:#tw: allusions to child abuse.#tw: illness.#tw: mentions of vivisection.#tw: disturbing content in general.#AHH see i'm not going to lie... i looked up that quote almost immediately after seeing it BC i wasn't sure where it was from at #first but it sounded vaguely familiar so it being from the bible checks out with that haha. but i remember that yeah!#and it didn't even cross my mind that jervis might be saying it in a negative way so no worries on that (': though barton has a sort-of #complicated reaction to it here as he's kind of feeling a mix of shame and anger but that's not jervis's fault OFC because this is just...#talking about his relationship with his bio father in general is one of those topics for barton that always gets him feeling at least #a little uncomfortable as one may be able to imagine BUT that doesn't mean that i approve of the way he went about expressing this-#of course you know? BUT ooh... yesss i remember you talking about catholicism kind of playing a role in his childhood 👀#though thank you so much for telling me about that slang because i may or may not have been lost for a second there LOL #and GAHHH well i have to say that it touching a nerve for jervis made me clutch my chest (in a good way BC it was kind of sweet-#to read what you put into your response about him feeling this paternal instinct and empathy towards him like 😭)#but yesss i believe he likely became familiar with it because one of his parents (his mother was canadian and his father was half canadian #+ half american so that's how french ended up being his native tongue BUT ooh okay!! well i love that you're incorporating them-#into our RP's might i say and you're so welcome!! :DD but AHHH now you're making me blush so i suppose that makes us twins-#now tehe as i have to say that it feels like such an honor that you'd say that to me as i feel the same way about you 🥺#but you know what? you're absolutely right about that NGL JSJSJ man's is both a chaos gremlin AND delving into the shades of gray #area of morality. that is if he isn't being DEVIOUS as all hell because he's def capable of that too lmaooo but yeah ;;#i'm sorry i had to find some way to make this heart-breaking because it seems as if i like making barton suffer for some reason / j #sksks i kiddd but it is honestly so sad that she died when their life together was really just beginning

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