19500/Bodyslamming the Question

Bodyslamming the Question
Date of Scene:	13 November 2024
Location:	Raven's Room - Titan's Tower
Synopsis:	Raven wanders in on her roommate making brunch in just the most egregiously messy way. America addresses the unspoken elephant in the room between them in that oh-so America way of hers.
Cast of Characters:	America Chavez, Rachel Roth

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America Chavez has posed:
The snap-crackle-pop! of oil.

The scent of sizzling ground beef and onions.

The slightest -kick- of spice.

And the occasional "Fucking flour! Fuck you!"

All add up to a single, incontrovertible conclusion:

America Chavez is fighting a one-woman war against brunch.

Or, at least, she's -making- it. Inconstant as her presence is at Titan's Tower, Raven's stoic roommate is sometimes prone to just... showing up like she's been there all along and getting right back into the swing of things as if she were never missing. Case in point: the Utopian vagabond, having been MIA for at least a week or so, is now nonchalantly making food at the Titans kitchen, dressed in a simple, star-spangled sports bra and a pair of sporty red short-shorts, striped white along the sides. That long mass of curly hair is bound into a tight bun at the back of her head, a simple, shield-emblazoned red baseball cap providing coverage to keep the rest of her -rest- of her hair from getting in her way as she works. -All- of it has suffered smears of flour and sauce, here and there and everywhere.

So, what's on the menu? Today, it seems like empanadas, the first batch of which is currently sizzling to cooked perfection in the fryer and filling the kitchen with all its myriad of savory, spicy scents. America, at the kitchen island, is stuffing the remaining batches full of filling with methodical, narrow-eyed concentration. And when a batch is done?

Eyes, wrist tattoos, the dangling star earrings and the stars on her sports bra all suddenly alight in a cerulean glow as one of her portals form for her to casually backhand and reach through. A second later, the exit portal appears over the frier as her hand pops out, tossing empanada after empanada in.

And so it goes. Like she hasn't even missed a day.

Rachel Roth has posed:
There is not much that can draw Rachel Roth from her bouts of introspection, from her marathon TV watching sessions, from reading dusty, ancient tomes of eldritch lore, poring over the mad ramblings of sages past for some glimmering glimpse at trouble to come, or a solution for troubles already here.

(None of her tomes have mentioned anything about planet-devouring space beings.)

But her frequently absent roomie's return? That would do it. The smell of cooking meat and creative, fluent cursing in that oh-so-arresting voice? That would also do it. The fact that it's an appropriate time for brunch?

She's there.

No, really. While America cooks and curses and struggles against the implacable foe that is flour, Rachel's in the kitchen in a dark silken bathrobe, midnight black with purple trim of course, because she's nothing if not consistent in her attire's colour theming. Though she also has one with deep blue trim. She's flexible.

"You could walk over to the fryer, Ms. Chavez." Last name? Stern tone? Oh yes. Rachel is being snarky again.

"You have legs." A long pause, "They're those things that aren't covered by your shorts." Not that Rachel's in much position to talk. The ends of her lazily knotted belt are the attire closest to brushing her knees.

Still, Rachel is a Titan. She is brave. Fearless. Always rushing towards danger and never away! Yes, the danger is only that some of the seeming hurricane of cooking ingredients might touch her. But still. That's a form of danger.

America Chavez has posed:
You could walk over to the fryer, Ms. Chavez.

Raven appears, in all her enigmatic glory. She comes in the loosely-knotted bathrobe of her lazy station, bearing the deadpan sarcasm of her people.

America doesn't even so much as hop at the sudden, detached voice gracing her ears. But she -does- smile, that small, understated smile of hers. The portal vanishes (for now).

And America slowly - very slowly - uses one long, tan leg to turn on her heel until she is facing her goth roomie, leaning back against the counter, one leg crossing over the other in a very deliberate motion.

"Yeah," she answers, "I already know you like looking at my legs, Roth."

Last name. Disaffected tone. -Deliberately- missing Rachel's snarky point to focus on something else entirely. Oh yes. America's giving as good as she gets.

Which is why she arches a brow and, in a show of utter, bullheaded defiance, takes on freshly-stuffed empanada -- and just sort of tosses it into the fryer, without even bothering with the portal. It lands perfectly, of course. Splatters oil just everywhere, of course.

America regrets nothing, of course.

"Nice robe. Was hoping you'd be here. Hungry, magic girl?"

Rachel Roth has posed:
If Rachel's upset her deadpan snarky comment didn't make the Utopian badass jump, she hides it well behind her careful facade of too-cool-for-school goth disdain for the world. Even if her lips do quirk ever so slightly in a smile. The smallest little smile that screams 'I am happy to see you, my good friend' as loudly as Kori flying in and literally shrieking that before bestowing hugs.

Rachel keeps her cool as America slowly shifts and turns, and idly fidgets with one of her belt loops, giving it a brief little spin because... well, because drumming her fingertips on the kitchen counters would lead to flour on her fingers. Which would lead to flour on anything she touched.

Which would look unfairly suggestive if she was just scratching an itch and left a fingerprint on herself.

Eyes narrow, purple painted lips press into a little line. A serious, stern little expression of... well, most would think displeasure. But those who hang around the Demon Queen of Snark learn to know that expression is the most hard-earned begrudging 'Okay, you got me' for five dimensions in any direction but up.

She even gives a reflexive little flinch of 'Oh god, the kitchen' as oil splatters. But she's sure Cyborg has some industrial Roomba-Terminator that cleans the kitchen. Or maybe Gar does it. Either way? Not her or her roomie's problem.

And so she comes as close to floating towards America as she can without actually floating. "Oh, I could eat. I haven't really done anything strenuous today. But you seem to be making a lot. So I'm sure if I work up a bigger appetite I can come back for more."

America Chavez has posed:
America Chavez, kitchen terrorist. She doesn't even look guilty about what she just did. Look at her! She's smirking!

That must be one of the official signs of sociopathy, right? It -must-.

Brunch psycho or not, though, America's lazy confidence doesn't hitch a beat; no, her smirk just grows that fractionally more at the sight of that narrow-eyed, lips-pursed stare her roommate gives her, as if smugly notching a little win for Team Utopia over Team Azarath. She notes the way Rachel so carefully avoids touching any part of the kitchen counter that has been caked in flour or batter, which, really -- leaves very little in the way of wiggle room. She files this away for future use.

America is by necessity a pretty good cook. She's not a very clean one.

And as Raven approaches, the Extraspatial Princess of Jock-kind just watches with that intense, dark-eyed stare of hers, not so much as budging as her goth roomie all but flows across the feet of space that separates them. She only shifts when Rachel gets close enough, the slightest tip of her hip turning her a bit more towards the pale half-demon.

"Yeah?" she asks, oh so thoughtful. "We can work up an appetite for you, magic girl."

She delivers that promise, casual as can be -- and then reaches out, to take hold of the loose ends of Raven's lazily-knotted sash.

"I was thinking," continues America, playing with that sash, "about us. Like how we could go out some time. Not today. Soon, though. Just you and me."

She tugs those silky straps, to draw Raven a bit closer.

"Like a date." The Utopian's gaze tilts to meet the Azarathian's. "What d'you think?"

She asks it so casually. So confidently.

So completely ignoring the fact that her fingers are -coated- with flour and she's getting it, just, -all over- that fancy silk fabric with every lazy, nonchalant swipe of her thumbs.

Rachel Roth has posed:
Rachel's fine with sociopaths. Some sociopaths are cool.

They punch portals through reality and must also be time travellers because their legs go to next week.

And also they stare at her during strange, highly charged brunch terrorism. And she stares back. Dark eyes on dark eyes. Rachels hips cocking slightly as she comes to a stop well within arm's reach, either daring America to assault her with batter or flour, or confident her dear friend would not do that.

Or maybe she just didn't expect America to take an even more direct route of snagging that sash and locking her firmly in place.

And then she just... says it. So casual. So confident. The unspoken 'Hey, you're sharing my room, we've got this whole... vibe.' thing that Rachel's been studiously, carefully, desperately ignoring and refusing to address to herself and grapple with.

And of course the Utopian Jock goes from 'grapple with' to 'bodyslam the question' like it's nothing.

And Rachel's mouth falls open. Her eyes widen. Her head tilts back just a little as what feels like a minute but is surely only a handful of heartbeats... remarkably fast ones in fact.

"No country music."

Well, that's certainly an answer.

America Chavez has posed:
When America Chavez declares war, she wages it asymmetrically.

Studiously avoid her flour bombs? She'll blitz you in a way you won't even notice until it's too late.

Dare her to assault your nice robes with flour? She'll assault you with the elephant in the room instead.

Truly... Rachel Roth lost this fight before it even began.

Or maybe, just maybe, as much as America is nearly as bad as Raven when it comes to emotional honesty (which is saying something), she just refuses to ignore that little, nagging undercurrent in their every interaction. Maybe, just maybe, her response to a problem is to tackle it head on without thinking twice about the potential consequences and complications - which in this case are myriad.

Maybe America just wants what she wants, and to hell with the complications and consequences.

So she waits, with uncharacteristic patience, as those hummingbird heartbeats pass across an eternity of seconds until that answer comes.

No country music.

Lips turn up, just a bit.

And the Utopian Jock pulls the Azarathian Goth close with one final, firm tug of that sash, dipping her head down.

"Okay," she promises. "No country music."

And then her lips meat Rachel's open pair, flour tragically smearing aaaaaaaall the way around the witch's robe as America wraps her floury arms around her.

"... It's a date, magic girl..."