Owner Pose
Michael Erickson     The smell of something rich and savory curls out of the lounge kitchenette. Not usuall equipped with stoves, nonetheless something is cooking - the smell of spices and roasted meat, creaminess and cinnamon. Notes of something else, sharp in the nostrils. Reminiscent of Indian cuisine, perhaps, but with a richness that smacks of colder climes.

    And then, too, there is singing.

    A man's voice, rich and sweet like the smells coming out of the kitchen. The /tune/ is 'Band on the Run', but the words are entirely alien. Trilling and harsh all the same, like a musical bird of prey. Michael's in there, singing like Shi'ar do not, cooking something weird. Or probably just foreign.
Natasha Romanova Natasha Romanoff is currently settled over in the room over with a small pistol that she has dissassembled. It's less a pistol and more of a flintlock, with a percussion cap on the end. She's taken a screwdriver to it and is slowly pulling it apart piece by piece. Moving to take out a small knife to carefully start peeling away wood and metal from one another and start the tricky process of cleaning the old thing, which had rust all over it.
Jessica Drew Jessica laughs to herself imagining the tendrils of aroma that reach around the corner into the hall as hands with beckoning fingers calling her. Umami, the bite of cinnamon sliding on the surface of cooking meat tickle her nose.

She knows the deep richness of his voice, recognizing an other worldly resonance to the notes. The chambers of his sinus still retain the echoes of his origin and round the notes in alien ways.

Standing in the doorway for a moment, Jessica glances around the room, her eyes stopping on Natasha in the midst of some delicate work on what looks to be an old pistol.

Knowing it is likely not necessary, she clears her throat to announce herself out of politeness. Likely, the Red Room graduate knew she was in the corridor despite Michael singing at the top of his voice. Brushing back her dark hair, she strides across the room, "Are you going to have something to eat with us, too?"
Michael Erickson     "Strej'aan mordu ei," he sings over the bubbling of the pot he's got going on a portable induction plate that he's brought with him, in which a rich, white stew is cooking. "Strej'aan, mordu ei! Tu vaas jureta, tu Sailor Sam...bre'kaa eest atra gam...." The words trail off as he hears voices in the greater lounge complex, and pokes his head out of the kitchenette to see who's arrived. Smiles, broadly, when he sees Jessica. Nat, too, though not /quite/ the same sun for her. "Strusya b'elaa," he announces. "That is, 'hello'! How are you two this evening?"
Natasha Romanova Natasha Romanoff would glance over at Michael, "Greetings. I hope that the day finds the two of you well." She would move over to take up the small pieces of the mostly dissassembled pistol and start to wrap them each separately in different clothes for easier sorting, then going to put away the tools that she had been using as well.

"I have nothing on the immedaite agenda unless I'm called for an operational scramble." Which was always a risk no matter one's position in SHIELD after all! Natasha would muse.

"Shi'Ar has a very different vocal system than most languages of Earth." That made sense; other species had different sets of vocal chords, lungs, different evolutions. So all that sort of thing made sense. Because it could be hard to make one match things their mouth wasn't designed for!
Jessica Drew Humming a harmony under her breath, Jessica sits next to Natasha without waiting for an invitation. "Halan, strusya b'elas," she returns to Michael, balancing the strange vowels in her mouth with a warm smile, just so.

With a nod to the other agent, the smile sobering somewhat, she affirms, "Good to hear. Are we waiting on anything?" Lowering her voice, "How are our guests doing?"
Michael Erickson     "We're descended from birds," he informs Natasha, as if this explains everything. It probably does, from a scientific point of view. If you're, like, Jane. "Before I went through the surgeries to pass as human, I had feathers instead of hair." Or...okay! Birds!

    Jessica using his language only makes him smile more, perfect white teeth gleaming. Did those get reworked, too? "I'm making jre'yam," he tells the dark-haired woman, waggling brows. "Extra spicy." Then he's disappeared back into the kitchenette, and there is a clattering of bowls and spoons which follows.
Natasha Romanova Natasha Romanoff would dip her head, "Fortunately, basic greetings in many languages are standardized to some degree. Though I usppose given the extent of the star empire they presume most others approach htem in their own dialect." Evne with starcharts and data-files, just visualizing how /massive/ the Shi'Ar Empire was dwarfed most things that anyone purely from Earth could comprehend.
    "Do elaborate. I don't think I'm familiar with the dish. It one from this planet or an approximation of one from your home?" If so, her followup question would be as to how he got the ingredients for it.
Jessica Drew "He is a good cook," Jessica says, reassuringly, "if a little heavy on the heat. But if you like Indian food you will like this.

"It's his infamous winter stew. He is wooing you, Agent Romanoff. It's a Shi'ar thing to feed the elite troops. So you are obviously in that group." She shrugs and smiles, "I don't disagree."
Michael Erickson     "Well, just my own tradition." Michael emerges from the kitchenette, carrying a pair of plastic bowls filled with the thick, creamy stew - being descended from preybirds, there's more meat than potatoes. Basically what he's made is a very sweet, very hot potato stew with large cubes of very tender beef. Wagyu, usually, if he can get it. Which he can tonight. These bowls he thrusts into the hands of the two women, spoons already in. "Eat," he half-urges, half-commands, and goes back toward the kitchen. "I'll get you some water."
Natasha Romanova Natasha Romanoff would laugh, "I see. Food for the troops? In Russia there's something called borscht. It's not quite as palapatable. Thick potato soup, gruel. Heavy, starched, lead. You eat it, it stays in your belly and keeps you warm on the tundra. If you're lucky, i thas actual potatoes in it." She would go to sniff at it.
    "And it smells wonderful. You should definitely start a culinary class on it." She would smile to both. "A pleasure to be recognized."
Jessica Drew It's not just the light of love in Jessica's eyes that light up on seeing and smelling the stew. "Oh, Michael, this smells so good."

"I wonder if it is just him or something in the Shi'ar culture that makes me think that he would fit right in with a batch of Jewish mothers, urging us on to 'essen, essen'!"

Spoon in hand, she pulls the bowl to herself and digs in, eyes closing as she chews the first tender cube of spicy, creamy beef. Borchst is good stuff when it's made with duck stock. There is a Russian restaurant in town that does it right. We have to take you there sometime, Agent."
Michael Erickson     He returns, now, glasses in hand. "I've been to the Soviet Union several times," Michael explains, handing a glass of water to each. "Once in '82, once in '84, and then again in '93, though I suppose it wasn't the Soviet Union that last time." A smirk, and he moves to sit down next to Jessica, squinting at the two women thoughtfully. "So? How is it?"
Natasha Romanova Natasha Romanoff would shrug, "Russia is Russia no matter when and where." She would qiup, "Tundra, despots, a wasteland egged on by suffering, nationalism, corruption, and often tyrants of various flavors and origins." She would note. "So to tradition. And it's rather good." She would cluck at JEssica and go to dab at her in flawless Brooklyn yiddish, "You never call, you never ask how I'm doing. I'm fine, thank you, worried about you. You're thin, you need to fatten up. Eat! Eat!"
Jessica Drew "I've only been dropped into the place on missions. Never spent any more time there than it took to grab someone and exfil. Though I can speak Russian," she adds with an off-handed shrug. "You would think it would make me like the culture. NO offense intended."

She fixes Michael with a smile, "Now, I will learn as much Shi'ar as this one will teach me.

After another bite of stew, which chews thoughtfully, "It's great, Michael. Sweet, deep flavored, a little kick and tender in the mouth at the same time. Great cooking."

"You do a much better Jewish momma than I do, Romanoff. I still get a bit of my British accent coming through when I try to talk like a New Yorker."
Michael Erickson     "I just sound like I'm from Manhattan," Michael adds, chuckling at Jessica's words - and then grinning at her detailed explanation of the flavor. "It doesn't quite taste like the real thing," he replies to her, "But I'm glad it's close. And that you like it." He eyes Natasha now. "Speaking of eating. What do you think?"
Natasha Romanova Natasha Romanoff would smile, "Not bad. I do like the spices. I'm not sure how flaming you like things, but I do know some people who have some wonderfully lethal things. There's some lovely things used for crowd control as an alternative to tear gas if you might like a few kilograms sometime." She would take a large bite of it.
    "And very good. Nice and crisp. Not quite devilish as far as heat goes."
    Shew ould laugh at Jessica, "It's not about the accent. It's about the pressure. The vast majority of people on the planet do not have an idea how secific accents are. If you tailor something for the region, prepare it ahead of time. If you're just doing a blanket attempt, replicate what's done in popular culture."