[Still, it's lucky that the vague awkwardness of directionless small talk is coming into play at this point when it is, because that brings with it a slowly-escalating need to alleviate it somehow, which is also neatly conducive to a smooth change of subject.]
Let's go in the kitchen, I'll find us something to drink.
[Alcoholic or otherwise, depending on how much they both appear to need one when they get there.]
But yes, it's just us. He comes with me to work most of the time, too — I hate to leave him alone for very long. It's a good thing he's a sociable fellow, when he's not getting bewildered by the existence of his own back feet.
[Reserved. An interesting word to use for it, but it's really not Cloud's place to push the matter any further than a mere suggestion. As much as he likes her, he won't pretend to be close enough to do anything like that.
And so he nods, and then just follows her into the kitchen, occasionally glancing about to take in the decor and layout of the surroundings.]
You must love him a lot. [And Cloud thinks he's cute, even if that's not the first word he'll rely upon to describe very much. Idly, he runs a hand through his hair.] So you're a cat person, huh?
Mmhmm. Well — animals of all kinds, really. Cats, dogs, birds. ...Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.
[It's a short trip to the kitchen, through hallways with hardwood floors and the same high ceilings as everywhere else; unsurprisingly, the kitchen proves to be just as elaborate as the rest of the house, with marbled countertops and an island with barstools tucked neatly beneath its overhang and more cupboards than any person could possibly need, ever, in their entire life. Possibly relieving for its utter normalcy is the yellow plastic cat bowl tucked into one out-of-the-way corner, with a white one for water beside it; at least that much is sensible, as opposed to being forged of solid gold and diamonds or something ridiculous like that.
(Indeed, once they reach the door of the kitchen, Bustopher Jones abruptly loses interest in participating in the little train they've got going and bounds over to inspect his food dishes instead, which he miraculously manages to do without falling over or scaring himself at the sight of his own tail.)
But here, there are more signs of human life, as opposed to pristine opulence: a few paper cartons from takeout Chinese that are sitting on the counter because they've yet to be thrown away, a box of coffee filters taken down from some high shelf that never made it back up where they belong. Affixed to the refrigerator door are a series of pictures held in place by red magnets — one of what's clearly a teenaged Carmen halfway through a spin on a pair of ice skates; another of her standing next to a gray-haired man in a black coat, holding a diploma; one of a woman with long brown hair and a man with a widow's peak and gray at the temples, standing arm in arm.
Meanwhile, Carmen heads promptly for the cupboard, digging around until she finds a pair of glasses.]
What's your poison? Coffee, tea, soda, wine, liquor? Sarsaparilla?
[He chuckles a little at that. An animal person, huh? That's one thing they had in common, even if Cloud might outwardly seem fixated on wolves just because of where conversations have led him on the network. But lions, tigers, bears... he's not picky, he like animals because heaven knows they're easier to read than people sometimes.
The kitchen is, once again, a lot fancier than what he's used to. But that sign of life, those open takeout cartons and coffee filters add a bit of personality to it -- traces of her, and Cloud finds the sight very endearing in a strange way, though he keeps that part of himself.
He pauses, though, when asked what to drink. He's not sure how long he'll be invited to stay before he wears out his welcome, so maybe asking for wine or liquor wouldn't be such a good idea? Plus, if he drank too much and ended up acting like a fool around her, that would easily be the Worst Thing Ever, and so... ]
[Two glasses get set on the countertop near him, and then she ventures into the fridge and reemerges with a Coke for him and an Arizona iced tea for herself, the former of which she sets on the edge of the counter and then slides down to him, Wild-West-saloon-bartender-style.]
...You're nervous, huh?
[It's a soft remark, one that comes accompanied by a faint smile — an idle observation she makes as she pops the tab on her tea.]
[He catches the Coke in his palm with relative ease, not even really thinking about it because he's too busy focused on her question.]
I...
[No, is the stupid knee-jerk reaction he wants to spout almost immediately. But that would be dumb, because her asking this question reveals that she can tell.]
I've never done this before. [He cracks the Coke open with a crisp hiss.] Be alone in someone else's house like this.
["Like this" meaning alone in the house at night with a woman that he is... dating? So very obviously interested in? Sometimes flustered by? He doesn't even know what label to apply to it in his own mind.]
[She finds herself a seat on one of the barstools, hooking her heels on one of the bottom rungs and pouring her tea into her glass. When she sets the can aside, however, she wiggles her fingers at him in a playful wave before reaching to take her drink instead.]
You're more comfortable when you have something to do with your hands. When you don't, you look for something to do with them.
[She shrugs a little. It's hardly a secret that she's observant, even deductive. She's spent practically half her life drawing conclusions from the things that she sees, from watching people to note how they act.]
...Mine is that I don't like not knowing what to do, in any given situation. Being at a loss for words, or...for anything else, really. So here we are in my kitchen, having something to drink, because I know how to do that. And it's less awkward than just staring at you, which I'd be fine with doing, except for the part about it being awkward.
[All of a sudden he's more self-conscious of his hands, and what does he do as a result? Immediately flexes them, as if proving her point. He then grasps his soda, making sure that one at least stays poignantly still around it.]
Remind me to never play poker against you.
[He has a feeling he'd go broke within the first hour.
Still, it appears he's not the only one who's nervous in this situation if her words are anything to go by. Cloud decides to pull out a barstool and take a seat directly next to her.]
A little. It's like I'm afraid of spooking you, a little.
[She tilts her head, watching him sideways with a faint smile at the corners of her mouth.]
I hope that doesn't sound patronizing. I'm just glad you came over, and I don't want you to leave. Or...feel like it would be better if you left. I meant it when I said I asked you to come because I wanted to see you. I don't care how late it is.
[That's not what he wants her to believe. Her presence wasn't something that he was apprehensive about, it was how he acted in front of her. He didn't want to make himself look like a fool, and he hopes against hope that he knew really what to say in these sort of situations. What kind of words were expected of these kind of meetings, instead of just... indulging himself in her company, even if it is in appreciative silence, as is his default.]
It's like I told you before, though, I'm just no good at this. But that's a me thing, not a you thing. Don't be nervous; everything you're doing is perfect.
[Making him feel welcome, just wanting to spend time with him. What else could he ask for?]
[She runs her finger down the outside of the tea can, collecting some of the condensation on it, then traces the rim of the glass in a smooth motion, until the glass starts to resonate with a soft pitch.
Now that's clearly a fun bar trick she'd picked up somewhere.]
Tell me about something you and Prompto did together, recently. Is he in school?
[Maybe he's right, and he's no good at making small talk in a moment like this. So maybe if the conversation shifts to something easier, it'll set him at ease, too.
And it's not like she's going to complain about getting to listen to the sound of his voice, no matter the topic.]
[He watches with idle interest as he takes her finger and runs it around the rim of the glass. A trick he's seen before, but always a fair distraction, even while he answers her question.]
Yeah. He's studying photography... and he's really good at it, too. Always snapping photos when he sees the opportunity. [The true eye of a photographer, seeing photo ops where most would only view the mundane.]
We went to a petting zoo together a while ago. I got to see a baby chocobo.
[And he doesn't seem to mind her leaning forward; it's strange, how he doesn't even seem to cognizantly notice it, really, because now he really is reflecting back on his visit to the petting zoo.]
They're about this big. [He gestures with his hands, about as wide as his lap.] Some are getting their feathers in, but they still have fluff. They're really soft, and I can see why Prompto's crazy about them.
He could try to pass it off as long-term borrowing, maybe.
[Yeah, Carmen, that'd be stealing, wouldn't it. Normal people don't steal things, do they.
Luckily, the fact that she's gotten Cloud to laugh goes a long way toward keeping her from dwelling on thoughts like that. He's a good distraction that way, it turns out.]
But maybe it's for the best. I'm not sure how well a baby bird would get along with all the cats and dogs he's told me about.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[Still, it's lucky that the vague awkwardness of directionless small talk is coming into play at this point when it is, because that brings with it a slowly-escalating need to alleviate it somehow, which is also neatly conducive to a smooth change of subject.]
Let's go in the kitchen, I'll find us something to drink.
[Alcoholic or otherwise, depending on how much they both appear to need one when they get there.]
But yes, it's just us. He comes with me to work most of the time, too — I hate to leave him alone for very long. It's a good thing he's a sociable fellow, when he's not getting bewildered by the existence of his own back feet.
no subject
And so he nods, and then just follows her into the kitchen, occasionally glancing about to take in the decor and layout of the surroundings.]
You must love him a lot. [And Cloud thinks he's cute, even if that's not the first word he'll rely upon to describe very much. Idly, he runs a hand through his hair.] So you're a cat person, huh?
no subject
[It's a short trip to the kitchen, through hallways with hardwood floors and the same high ceilings as everywhere else; unsurprisingly, the kitchen proves to be just as elaborate as the rest of the house, with marbled countertops and an island with barstools tucked neatly beneath its overhang and more cupboards than any person could possibly need, ever, in their entire life. Possibly relieving for its utter normalcy is the yellow plastic cat bowl tucked into one out-of-the-way corner, with a white one for water beside it; at least that much is sensible, as opposed to being forged of solid gold and diamonds or something ridiculous like that.
(Indeed, once they reach the door of the kitchen, Bustopher Jones abruptly loses interest in participating in the little train they've got going and bounds over to inspect his food dishes instead, which he miraculously manages to do without falling over or scaring himself at the sight of his own tail.)
But here, there are more signs of human life, as opposed to pristine opulence: a few paper cartons from takeout Chinese that are sitting on the counter because they've yet to be thrown away, a box of coffee filters taken down from some high shelf that never made it back up where they belong. Affixed to the refrigerator door are a series of pictures held in place by red magnets — one of what's clearly a teenaged Carmen halfway through a spin on a pair of ice skates; another of her standing next to a gray-haired man in a black coat, holding a diploma; one of a woman with long brown hair and a man with a widow's peak and gray at the temples, standing arm in arm.
Meanwhile, Carmen heads promptly for the cupboard, digging around until she finds a pair of glasses.]
What's your poison? Coffee, tea, soda, wine, liquor? Sarsaparilla?
no subject
The kitchen is, once again, a lot fancier than what he's used to. But that sign of life, those open takeout cartons and coffee filters add a bit of personality to it -- traces of her, and Cloud finds the sight very endearing in a strange way, though he keeps that part of himself.
He pauses, though, when asked what to drink. He's not sure how long he'll be invited to stay before he wears out his welcome, so maybe asking for wine or liquor wouldn't be such a good idea? Plus, if he drank too much and ended up acting like a fool around her, that would easily be the Worst Thing Ever, and so... ]
I... guess a soda would be fine, thanks.
no subject
[Two glasses get set on the countertop near him, and then she ventures into the fridge and reemerges with a Coke for him and an Arizona iced tea for herself, the former of which she sets on the edge of the counter and then slides down to him, Wild-West-saloon-bartender-style.]
...You're nervous, huh?
[It's a soft remark, one that comes accompanied by a faint smile — an idle observation she makes as she pops the tab on her tea.]
no subject
I...
[No, is the stupid knee-jerk reaction he wants to spout almost immediately. But that would be dumb, because her asking this question reveals that she can tell.]
I've never done this before. [He cracks the Coke open with a crisp hiss.] Be alone in someone else's house like this.
["Like this" meaning alone in the house at night with a woman that he is... dating? So very obviously interested in? Sometimes flustered by? He doesn't even know what label to apply to it in his own mind.]
no subject
[She finds herself a seat on one of the barstools, hooking her heels on one of the bottom rungs and pouring her tea into her glass. When she sets the can aside, however, she wiggles her fingers at him in a playful wave before reaching to take her drink instead.]
You're more comfortable when you have something to do with your hands. When you don't, you look for something to do with them.
[She shrugs a little. It's hardly a secret that she's observant, even deductive. She's spent practically half her life drawing conclusions from the things that she sees, from watching people to note how they act.]
...Mine is that I don't like not knowing what to do, in any given situation. Being at a loss for words, or...for anything else, really. So here we are in my kitchen, having something to drink, because I know how to do that. And it's less awkward than just staring at you, which I'd be fine with doing, except for the part about it being awkward.
no subject
Remind me to never play poker against you.
[He has a feeling he'd go broke within the first hour.
Still, it appears he's not the only one who's nervous in this situation if her words are anything to go by. Cloud decides to pull out a barstool and take a seat directly next to her.]
Am I making you nervous?
no subject
[She tilts her head, watching him sideways with a faint smile at the corners of her mouth.]
I hope that doesn't sound patronizing. I'm just glad you came over, and I don't want you to leave. Or...feel like it would be better if you left. I meant it when I said I asked you to come because I wanted to see you. I don't care how late it is.
no subject
[That's not what he wants her to believe. Her presence wasn't something that he was apprehensive about, it was how he acted in front of her. He didn't want to make himself look like a fool, and he hopes against hope that he knew really what to say in these sort of situations. What kind of words were expected of these kind of meetings, instead of just... indulging himself in her company, even if it is in appreciative silence, as is his default.]
It's like I told you before, though, I'm just no good at this. But that's a me thing, not a you thing. Don't be nervous; everything you're doing is perfect.
[Making him feel welcome, just wanting to spend time with him. What else could he ask for?]
no subject
[She runs her finger down the outside of the tea can, collecting some of the condensation on it, then traces the rim of the glass in a smooth motion, until the glass starts to resonate with a soft pitch.
Now that's clearly a fun bar trick she'd picked up somewhere.]
Tell me about something you and Prompto did together, recently. Is he in school?
[Maybe he's right, and he's no good at making small talk in a moment like this. So maybe if the conversation shifts to something easier, it'll set him at ease, too.
And it's not like she's going to complain about getting to listen to the sound of his voice, no matter the topic.]
no subject
Yeah. He's studying photography... and he's really good at it, too. Always snapping photos when he sees the opportunity. [The true eye of a photographer, seeing photo ops where most would only view the mundane.]
We went to a petting zoo together a while ago. I got to see a baby chocobo.
no subject
[She leans toward him a little, a subconscious reflection of her eagerness.]
Did you get to pet it?
no subject
[And he doesn't seem to mind her leaning forward; it's strange, how he doesn't even seem to cognizantly notice it, really, because now he really is reflecting back on his visit to the petting zoo.]
They're about this big. [He gestures with his hands, about as wide as his lap.] Some are getting their feathers in, but they still have fluff. They're really soft, and I can see why Prompto's crazy about them.
no subject
[As is the mental image of Cloud and Prompto, both halfway to resembling a chocobo themselves, petting and playing with them.]
Did he want to keep one? I bet he wanted to keep one. I know I would've.
no subject
That'd be stealing. I think the petting zoo would probably frown on that, don't you think?
[Though the mental image of Prompto walking out with a baby chocobo tucked securely under his shirt is pretty... hilarious, to be honest.]
no subject
[Yeah, Carmen, that'd be stealing, wouldn't it. Normal people don't steal things, do they.
Luckily, the fact that she's gotten Cloud to laugh goes a long way toward keeping her from dwelling on thoughts like that. He's a good distraction that way, it turns out.]
But maybe it's for the best. I'm not sure how well a baby bird would get along with all the cats and dogs he's told me about.
no subject
[Prompto would honestly probably live with a chocobo in their apartment if no one talked him out of it.]
He'd make them get along. He'd find a way, believe me.