ax_main | Nolan and Tessa | Backdated to 09/30

Nolan and the cyberpath prepare a meal and get better acquainted.

How do you feel about lemon and garlic shrimp and grits? I'm headed to the kitchen.

It was only the third rephrasing of the offer, and Nolan settled on this more open-ended version. Tessa would be free to ignore it. She might not even see the PM in time to join Nolan. Was it an appropriate invitation? Would Tessa care if she didn't? Nolan was hopeless at gauging normal high school interaction, but she hadn't seemed like a normal teenager either.

Well prepared for rejection, Nolan pressed send at last, then headed out of his office in the direction of the kitchen. He was dressed simply enough, in a printed polo shirt and white jacket, blue trousers echoing the blue of the shirt. He draped the jacket on the back of a chair when he reached the fortunately empty kitchen, then set to work getting the appropriate ingredients out.

After setting his phone down on the counter, so he would immediately notice a reply, of course.

It was not long before his phone buzzed restlessly with the notice of an incoming message. Tessa had written: I have no specific experience of the dish, and therefore cannot formulate any particular feeling with regard to it.

A moment later: I interpret your message as an invitation. If I am mistaken, please alert me of that fact. Otherwise, I will join you shortly.

Predictably enough, her assessment proved not to be in error; in under a minute, Tessa had appeared in the kitchen door, arms folded behind her back as she studied the ingredients Nolan had assembled so far with interest. She was dressed comfortably but functionally in a form-fitting black tank top, dark gray leggings, and soft slippers, suggesting she had been in her room or (more likely) the library when he had texted her. "Good evening," she said. "What is the status of your preparations?"

"You're just in time, if you want to help," Nolan replied, genuinely happy that she had showed up. He would have been horrible at hiding it even if he had wanted to. "Not that you have to," he added in an awkward rush, not wanting his words to be misinterpreted. "It seemed like you were interested in cooking, last time." Hopefully he hadn't been completely off the mark.

Why couldn't he be a genius when it came to social interaction? For now, he had put water on to boil for the grits, and some butter into a skillet to melt. On the counter were laid out instant grits, some parmesan cheese, butter, shrimp, garlic, pepper and cayenne pepper, a lemon, and parsley.

"I have an interest in all useful areas of personal endeavor," she affirmed, stepping into the kitchen and moving toward the sink, where she proceeded to wash her hands. "And yes, I would welcome the opportunity to be of assistance. Thank you."

After she had carefully dried her hands, Tessa turned back toward Nolan, her posture expectant. "If you will instruct me which tasks are to be delegated to my care, I will begin."

"Well, the cheese needs to be grated, half a lemon juiced, and the garlic minced," Nolan replied, surveying the ingredients to make sure he'd covered what needed to be done first. "What strikes your fancy?"

"I will grate," she said decisively. "When that is concluded, I will mince. These are tasks with which I am most familiar, and are best suited to my abilities. Though I admit the nuances are extremely fine, regarding the specific activities available."

Nolan could not hold back his smile, try as he might - nor the giggle that escaped him once she was done. Yes, giggle was the most appropriate term to describe the brief laugh that poured from him, in this instance. "I'm sorry. You're just - wonderful," he stated, utterly honest. There wasn't an ounce of dissembling or hidden motives in his statement. "It was definitely an invitation, by the way," he added, apparently offhandedly, as he reached for a knife to cut the lemon in two.

She appeared puzzled by his first comment, but her brow smoothed again as he explained the intent of his prior communication. Collecting the cheese grater, the block of Parmesan, and a plate, Tessa commenced rendering the solid mass into more manageable slivers with brisk, exact movements. "I appreciate this confirmation," she said. "And that was my interpretation, based on the data available. However, there was some considerable room for interpretation, and my understanding of the subtleties of peer-exchange are not always perfect." Though they were certainly improving.

"We've got that in common, then," Nolan stated offhandedly, grabbing the juicer. He was silent as he juiced the half of the lemon, not wanting to speak over the whir of the machine. He set all of it but the bowl full of juice aside when he was done, and checked on the progress of the water by lifting the cover above the pan. "So, Tessa. What drove you to be the pragmatist you are today?"

The question was entirely out of the blue, but it was far from random. He'd been curious about her since their first meeting. She was utterly unlike anyone he had met before, after all. And he liked her enough that he found himself willing to voluntarily spend time with a telepath other than Professor Xavier. He only had her word that her skills in that area were limited, but he found that he wanted to trust her and what she had told him. That sort of desire had not served him well so far, but he did like her that much. Idiotic, but no less true. It would all work out just fine if he did not think about it too hard, and she did not end up betraying his trust.

Tessa glanced in his direction, though her movements never slowed, and half the cheese had now been grated down into a heap of finer shavings. "The simplest answer is that it is simply a natural extension of my expanded faculties. That, however, is not a completely honest answer." She paused. "The truth is not uncomplicated, and it is not pleasant. I would ask that you be certain you wish to know before I share the actual details. Some things cannot be withdrawn, once offered."

"I've always found that information was best had, rather than ignored, no matter how unsavory," Nolan replied, deadly serious despite the offhanded way he spoke. He reached for the frits, opening the pack. The water would be boiling any second now. "But you don't have to tell me anything you don't want," he added, finding himself meaning it. He had no idea whether she would, but he wanted her to know that much before she told him anything, all the same.

"The details of my life are immutable facts," Tessa said, continuing to grind the Parmesan down into neat, shredded heap. "And I agree with your assessment. I simply wished to offer you an opportunity to withdraw the question. It is not an option I always afford those who inquire." She was quiet a moment, then, "Long before the manifestation of my abilities, my family was slaughtered around me, and I was taken into captivity. I lived as a virtual slave in a tribal community in eastern Afghanistan before puberty brought about my mutant enhancements, and I used the advantages they provided to orchestrate the self-destruction of that community, in turn. Following those events, I entered a prolonged, survival-based existence in the contested mountains of the Hindu Kush. Pragmatism," ruthless pragmatism, "was a matter of necessity, under those circumstances."

Nolan was not sure how to take the fact that he was one of a special few afforded the opportunity to withdraw a question, so he decided not to - take it any which way, that way. It was for the better, as it left him entirely focused on her tale, and his complete inability to deal with it. Wrap his mind around it, or know how to reply to it. He remained standing there, the pack of grits open, the water now audibly boiling under the pan cover, unable to say anything. Him, Nolan Ross, short for words.

At least his mouth was closed.

"I believe your water has reached the appropriate temperature," she pointed out mildly, nodding toward the pot, and the steam billowing from beneath the lid. "Though I will defer to your greater familiarity with the preparation of this particular dish."

Nolan looked over at the pan, only then noticed the noise of the boiling water, and hastily pulled the cover off before it might boil over. "Of course." He grabbed a whisk and started pouring the grits in, mixing as he went. It gave him something to do while he sorted through what she had told him. "I'm not sure how to react," he admitted as he added some salt and pepper, then turned down the heat under the pan to medium. He looked over at her, uncharacteristically straightforward. "It feels like 'I'm sorry' is entirely inappropriate, and I can't think of anything better."

The look she gave him was puzzled as she set the Parmesan aside and moved on to the fine, sharp knife and the bulbs of garlic which required mincing. "What reason is there for you to be sorry? It was none of your doing. And I survived. Under the circumstances, that was the best possible outcome." Tessa inclined her head. "You seem to have greater confidence in my truthfulness than previously demonstrated. It is appreciated."

Nolan shrugged at her first words. As he had said, it felt entirely inappropriate, even if it would have been intended as more of an expression of sympathy than an apology. But what she said next halted his thoughts on the subject, and after a beat, he nodded. "I choose to believe you have no reason to lie to me. Hopefully it won't be another example of why I shouldn't trust people." He turned to stir the grits.

She shrugged, continuing to slice the garlic into finer and finer pieces with an ease that suggested considerable familiarity. "You should not trust people, in the general sense. That is simple prudence. But you are correct in asserting I have no reason to lie to you. Your company is enjoyable, Nolan Ross, but not so much so that I feel the need to devise fictional stories to hold your interest."

"I don't know whether to feel insulted or not," he stated after a beat. He temporarily abandoned the grits to lay the shrimp out in a plate and season them with salt and pepper. "But I enjoy your company, too, and if you enjoy mine, well..." Few enough people seem to. "I'll take it." He paused, then had to ask, "Would you really do that to someone whose company you enjoyed more?"

Tessa appeared to give the question grave consideration before at last shaking her head. "I cannot rule out the possibility altogether," she admitted. "But I also have difficulty imagining circumstances under which that would seem a desirable strategy. My experience suggests that, where amicable relations are desired, honesty, to the extent it is possible, is both the simpler and the more effective option."

Nolan's lips twisted into a small smile at her answer, and he nodded when she finished talking. He wasn't at all surprised by her reply, for all that he was not sure how much he agreed with it. A pragmatist down to her friendships. Given what she had just told him of her life story, he had to wonder how many of those she had known. But even he knew better than to ask someone how many friends they had had, when the answer was likely very few.

He should know.

"Would you mind taking over stirring the grits?" he requested, as she was done with the garlic. "Just for a couple more minutes. Then you can stir in the parmesan and a tablespoon of butter." In the meantime, he was putting the peeled, deveined, seasoned shrimp in the skillet, along with some cayenne pepper. The garlic she'd minced would be next.

"Understood," she said, stepping to the side to assume his former place beside the simmering grits. Tessa's movements as she stirred were controlled and precise, and she studied the pot in anticipation of the ideal moment to begin combining the other ingredients. It was, perhaps, a much greater level of intensity than the activity actually warranted, but it was rare for the cyberpath to do anything halfway.

"Do you often cook for yourself?" she inquired suddenly. "Your resources would allow you the luxury of delegating the task, I think."

"Chalk it up as one of my many idiosyncrasies," Nolan suggested. "I don't cook every meal I eat, but I like it. It's relaxing." And he'd had to learn, after his mother had passed, if he didn't want to eat the same frozen dishes over and over again.

"My experience has been similar, at least since arriving at the school." Prior to that, eating had been nothing more than a matter of necessity, from her perspective; whether she enjoyed the act of dining or the preparation of the food itself had not been factors she had taken into account. "I occasionally cook for Jean-Paul. He occasionally cooks for me. I find both extremely satisfying."

"That would be our future Winter Olympic medalist?" Nolan checked. Well, he certainly hoped that he would be, regardless of his status as a mutant.

"Based on my study of his performance prior to enrolling at the school," Tessa said, "that seems a probable outcome. He seems enthusiastic regarding his return to competitive winter sports, and I have every confidence in both his determination and skill. Fortune, I suppose, will decide the rest."

So he did plan to go back to his career. Nolan was glad to hear it, if for no other reason than skilled people who loved what they did ought to be able to keep doing it. "I didn't think you were the type to trust fortune." He had a look at her pot even as he tossed the shrimp. "That looks right for the cheese and butter."

"Affirmative," came Tessa's acknowledgement, and she began carefully adding first the cheese, then the butter. "And I would not consider it a question of trust. I simply acknowledge that random chance plays an inseparable role in most realms of human endeavor. We can account for as many external factors as is practically possible, but we can never define them all, not with certainty. A margin for error is to be anticipated."

"Of course," Nolan acknowledged. That did make sense, in a Tessa sort of way. "Here's to hoping that luck is on his side, then." He was quiet as he stirred the shrimp some more, until they looked pink enough to pull the skillet from the heat. "I hope this turns out nicely," he added, reaching to add the lemon juice, a little water, and some parsley to the shrimp, stirring them again to coat them in the sauce. "It's my first time with this recipe."

And the truth was, Nolan was rather desperate to make friends, and it felt as if the success of this recipe would somehow reflect upon his chances of doing so with Tessa.

"The recipe seems straightforward, based on my observations. And, between us, we should possess the necessary skill and experience to achieve successful results. Experimentation brings the risk of undesirable outcomes, but it is also the most efficient path to growth."

"I can't agree more," Nolan agreed, with a ghost of a smile. Never mind that this was more than an experimentation in cooking, for him; her words remained no less true. He nodded in the direction of the grits. "How is it coming?"

"I believe the ingredients have been effectively blended to achieve the desired consistency," she reported. "However, a second opinion would not be unwarranted; dishes such as this one are not very familiar to me."

Nolan abandoned the shrimp to take the whisk she held out to him, and he stirred it through the grits once. "Yes, I'd say we're ready to eat." He grabbed two shallow bowls and divided the grits between them, then lay the shrimp and sauce on top, adding a wedge of lemon to each dish. "Voilà. Usually I'd have paired this with a nice white, but this didn't seem like the appropriate environment for it."

Her gaze shifted from the well-plated food back to Nolan, dark brows rising in genuine curiosity. "Why not?"

"We're in the very public kitchen of a high school full of non-emancipated minors?" Nolan offered idly, moving to grab some cutlery. "My underage drinking is my own choice, but I doubt Professor Xavier would look kindly on such brazen, run of the mill encouragement."

"Nolan," she said, amused, "over the past nine years, I have had my life legitimately threatened with premature, violent termination on no fewer than seven-hundred-twenty-six separate occasions. Taking into account those events which were only threats as statistical outliers, that number swells into the thousands. If I wish to take a cup of wine with my supper, I doubt there are many who would argue my prerogative to do so."

"And I wouldn't dream of it," Nolan assured her. He would try to wrap his mind around that number... later. "But some might argue that us having wine in the kitchen would be encouragement for the rest of the student population."

Tessa inclined her head, relenting. "As you wish." She dragged her fork through the grits-and-cheese mixture, catching a shrimp on top before bringing it to her mouth. The cyberpath chewed consideringly for a few moments, before, "I would judge your experiment a success, Nolan Ross. It is new to my experience, but pleasurable."

Nolan had been lost in his thoughts - and they had not been about the meal, or Tessa, but about what might happen if Professor Xavier decided to rescind his invitation. Tessa's words brought him out of it abruptly, and he took a seat to have a first bite of his own, glad for the distraction. His eyebrows raised in agreement, and he swallowed. "Not bad."

Not bad at all. He hoped that it was in fact a sign of more than just culinary success.