Ah. No, what I meant is — rather than me picking the recipes and just presenting them to you, you should have an equal hand in it by choosing the things you actually like to eat.
I'll still assist with the skillbuilding, naturally.
[She'd thought he was half-American, perhaps, or . . . well. She hadn't really given it much more thought than that. And it's not as if it changes anything, but there's something a little delightful about realizing they have this in common.]
What part of England was he from? Did you ever visit?
I'm actually not sure, strange as that sounds. He passed away when I was very young, and talking about him...I think it stood to upset my mother more than anything else. For a number of reasons.
[He shrugs slightly.]
My best guess is somewhere in Cambridgeshire, but it's only a guess, based on a few photo albums and things. But it's not —
[A pause, while he seems to hesitate over whether or not he wants to voice his next thought.]
It's not easy for half-children in Japan. I suspect some of the reason we didn't talk about it much was cultural, as well.
[She nods. She can't understand, not truly; she can only make comparisons to her own life, and the sexism she faced is a far different beast than what Fawkes had to deal with in Japan. But she can at least acknowledge the reality of the situation, and sympathize.
She wonders, suddenly, if some of his current social problems are the result of that teasing. It isn't easy to make friends when you've learnt the hard way that reaching out usually ends with your hand burned. She knows that.]
. . . that's not too far from where I grew up. Within the same arc, actually. It's, ah, hardly the same, it's not about him, but if you'd ever like to know more about the area . . .
...I'd like that, actually. I never lingered much on my father's circumstances specifically, but understanding that side of my heritage generally...
[...]
Ridiculous though it may sound, I used to think of it as some...far-off, wondrous place that belonged to me and no one else. I think my youthful inclination was to make it into something special, not something that made me different.
[She hesitates, then gestures to him: stay here. She retreats to her bedroom once more, and this time it's a fairly significant length of time before she returns. She has a few photos in her hand, and she sets them on the table, pushing them towards him.
They're all of England, of course. The first two are of an estate: a grand old mansion set a large ways back amid emerald fields. The first picture is of the estate itself; the second is of Rosalind standing in front of it, dressed up formally, looking a little stiff.]
My first day heading to university. My mother wanted to remember the moment. Most of these are from my university days, actually . . .
[But soon she's shifting to the next photo: Cambridge itself, scenic photos and more touristy ones both. Rosalind is present in none of these, save the last: she sits on the lawn of the university next to a girl a little older than her, smiling faintly up at the camera.]
Not precisely a comprehensive study of the area, but it's something.
[Good god, look at that estate. It really does look like something out of a storybook, and he visibly spends a great deal of time poring over it; even when he moves to the others, he still always seems to gravitate back to the manor in the end, with or without Ros standing in front of it.
Eventually, though, he comes back to the last one.]
You look happy here. This is a school friend of yours?
Yes. Victoria Pendergrass, my roommate for most of my time in university. One of my only friends, in fact. Her-- well, he's her husband now, but her boyfriend at the time was the one taking the picture.
[She glances over at him, then nods toward the photos of home.]
We've lived there for hundreds of years, or so I've been told. There's an entire family tree hanging up somewhere.
[They're old money, Fawkes.]
I suspect that's why we have so much money. No one has to spend any money on houses or furniture, which means we've an excess to spend on cars and the like. Really: you like my car so much, you ought to swing by my uncle's office one of these days and see what he's driving.
[He'll know. She knows oaks from pines and that's about it, but Fawkes will be able to tell her the classification and . . . what, bark detail? Who the hell knows about trees. Rosalind watches him for a long few seconds, her eyes darting up and down his profile.]
But the rest of them . . . you can look up pictures of Cambridge, of course, but there's a difference between official photos and ones that a person who lives there takes.
[She shrugs a little awkwardly.]
You hardly have to accept, of course, it was just an offer.
[Abruptly roused by something, he digs into his pocket and finds his cell phone, punching through a few of the settings before pulling up an image onto the fullscreen. Smiling a little wryly, he pushes the photograph with herself and Victoria in it over toward her, then sets his phone down next to it.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, it's the photograph of her that she'd had him take at the arcade, and his intent becomes clear — two very different snapshots, but both of "university" memories.]
That's charming. If I didn't know which was which, I honestly don't think I could tell you which one was really from your university experience, and which wasn't.
[She's not displeased, just surprised. But god, he's right, and Rosalind smiles as she compares the two.]
I don't know, I think I've learnt to dress better. The early naughts weren't a high point in fashion. And shoulder length hair really wasn't a good decision, but you can blame Victoria for that.
Not for either of us, really. I'm glad to be in like company, as far as that's concerned.
[He glances over at her.]
You were close, the two of you. Roommates, certainly, but if you were taking hairstyle advice from her, that speaks of a considerably deeper friendship.
She was my closest friend for a long while. And, that poor decision aside, she was very good at makeup and fashion and the like. Far better than I was. Her advice was usually worth following.
That being said, we were a product of our times. A pity we're not in England: I could dig out all the old photos of me in white eyeshadow and glossy lipstick.
Just you wait. Ten years from now you'll look back at your Facebook page and cringe for what you decided was fashionable.
[She glances back down at the photos.]
. . . I do miss her, though. From time to time. We were fairly different people, but she was one of the only reasons I learned how to socialize properly. I'd never had a chance to before. She rather took me under her wing.
You don't keep in touch? You mentioned she was married now...
[It's not weird, asking about something like that. She offered, for one thing, and it's polite conversation for another. Hardly an interrogation or anything like that.]
She's still in England, and we're not so intimate we exchange weekly texts. I email her now and then, we chat when I return home each Christmas, but that's the way it goes sometimes.
Besides, her husband and I . . .
[She wrinkles her nose.]
He reminds me a bit of Carter. A perfectly nice person, but very loud. Very rambunctious. He perfectly suits her, they get on quite well, but they're overwhelming when I'm faced with both of them by myself. Add to the fact that he's the sort of man who likes to provoke a person. Given how long we've known each other, he's quite good at it.
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I'll still assist with the skillbuilding, naturally.
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[Oh, well, that's entirely different.]
. . . it's going to be English fare for a while, then. Fair warning.
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[...Hmm.]
...My father was English. That's where "Christopher Fawkes" came from — and I suppose most of my genetics, for that matter.
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[She'd thought he was half-American, perhaps, or . . . well. She hadn't really given it much more thought than that. And it's not as if it changes anything, but there's something a little delightful about realizing they have this in common.]
What part of England was he from? Did you ever visit?
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[He shrugs slightly.]
My best guess is somewhere in Cambridgeshire, but it's only a guess, based on a few photo albums and things. But it's not —
[A pause, while he seems to hesitate over whether or not he wants to voice his next thought.]
It's not easy for half-children in Japan. I suspect some of the reason we didn't talk about it much was cultural, as well.
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She wonders, suddenly, if some of his current social problems are the result of that teasing. It isn't easy to make friends when you've learnt the hard way that reaching out usually ends with your hand burned. She knows that.]
. . . that's not too far from where I grew up. Within the same arc, actually. It's, ah, hardly the same, it's not about him, but if you'd ever like to know more about the area . . .
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[...]
Ridiculous though it may sound, I used to think of it as some...far-off, wondrous place that belonged to me and no one else. I think my youthful inclination was to make it into something special, not something that made me different.
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[She hesitates, then gestures to him: stay here. She retreats to her bedroom once more, and this time it's a fairly significant length of time before she returns. She has a few photos in her hand, and she sets them on the table, pushing them towards him.
They're all of England, of course. The first two are of an estate: a grand old mansion set a large ways back amid emerald fields. The first picture is of the estate itself; the second is of Rosalind standing in front of it, dressed up formally, looking a little stiff.]
My first day heading to university. My mother wanted to remember the moment. Most of these are from my university days, actually . . .
[But soon she's shifting to the next photo: Cambridge itself, scenic photos and more touristy ones both. Rosalind is present in none of these, save the last: she sits on the lawn of the university next to a girl a little older than her, smiling faintly up at the camera.]
Not precisely a comprehensive study of the area, but it's something.
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[Good god, look at that estate. It really does look like something out of a storybook, and he visibly spends a great deal of time poring over it; even when he moves to the others, he still always seems to gravitate back to the manor in the end, with or without Ros standing in front of it.
Eventually, though, he comes back to the last one.]
You look happy here. This is a school friend of yours?
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[She glances over at him, then nods toward the photos of home.]
Something catch your eye?
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[Talk about things being straight out of Jane Austen and the like.]
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[They're old money, Fawkes.]
I suspect that's why we have so much money. No one has to spend any money on houses or furniture, which means we've an excess to spend on cars and the like. Really: you like my car so much, you ought to swing by my uncle's office one of these days and see what he's driving.
[Old as balls.]
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[But he's still not looking away from the pictures.]
We have a family tree, ourselves, back home — but it's growing in our front yard, I'm afraid.
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[He'll know. She knows oaks from pines and that's about it, but Fawkes will be able to tell her the classification and . . . what, bark detail? Who the hell knows about trees. Rosalind watches him for a long few seconds, her eyes darting up and down his profile.]
. . . I can copy them, if you'd like.
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[He frowns a little, though, glancing up at her with raised eyebrows in his surprise.]
These are personal photographs. Why...why would you offer me copies of these?
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[She taps the one of her with Victoria.]
But the rest of them . . . you can look up pictures of Cambridge, of course, but there's a difference between official photos and ones that a person who lives there takes.
[She shrugs a little awkwardly.]
You hardly have to accept, of course, it was just an offer.
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[Abruptly roused by something, he digs into his pocket and finds his cell phone, punching through a few of the settings before pulling up an image onto the fullscreen. Smiling a little wryly, he pushes the photograph with herself and Victoria in it over toward her, then sets his phone down next to it.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, it's the photograph of her that she'd had him take at the arcade, and his intent becomes clear — two very different snapshots, but both of "university" memories.]
That's charming. If I didn't know which was which, I honestly don't think I could tell you which one was really from your university experience, and which wasn't.
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[She's not displeased, just surprised. But god, he's right, and Rosalind smiles as she compares the two.]
I don't know, I think I've learnt to dress better. The early naughts weren't a high point in fashion. And shoulder length hair really wasn't a good decision, but you can blame Victoria for that.
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[He glances over at her.]
You were close, the two of you. Roommates, certainly, but if you were taking hairstyle advice from her, that speaks of a considerably deeper friendship.
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That being said, we were a product of our times. A pity we're not in England: I could dig out all the old photos of me in white eyeshadow and glossy lipstick.
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[He says, grinning at her.]
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[She glances back down at the photos.]
. . . I do miss her, though. From time to time. We were fairly different people, but she was one of the only reasons I learned how to socialize properly. I'd never had a chance to before. She rather took me under her wing.
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[It's not weird, asking about something like that. She offered, for one thing, and it's polite conversation for another. Hardly an interrogation or anything like that.]
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Besides, her husband and I . . .
[She wrinkles her nose.]
He reminds me a bit of Carter. A perfectly nice person, but very loud. Very rambunctious. He perfectly suits her, they get on quite well, but they're overwhelming when I'm faced with both of them by myself. Add to the fact that he's the sort of man who likes to provoke a person. Given how long we've known each other, he's quite good at it.
So I tend not to want to visit.
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[Wait, no, he needs to clarify that, briskly.]
I mean, I completely understand how someone would. But I would've thought you considered yourself suited to it, given Carter and whatnot.
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