75 Godiva Street, Saturday

[vdistinctive]

Eliot's phone had stopped ringing. That was awesome. On the other hand he felt like he'd gotten thrown around by a carnival ride -- again -- and there seemed to be a weight sitting right on his chest.

Val lapped at his chin. The weight on his chest was his small-for-her-breed-but-now-full-grown puppy.

Alrighty then.

[ooc: expecting one, but also open]

Comments

[sharp_as_knives]

"Japanese would be lovely; thank you." Hannibal grimaced at the mention of Anakin. "Trust that man to have no decent sense of taste."

He got down a bowl and dished out the soup. "Chicken, green leafy vegetables, sweet potato, and garlic. All good for a cold."

[vdistinctive]

"No one ever seems to notice: you can make anythin' taste good if you know how to do it right." That was basically the entire history of cooking, after all. Figuring out how to make things taste good enough to eat.

Eliot put the kettle on and measured out tea leaves into his cast iron tea pot. (Because of course he had a traditional tea pot to go with each of his tea varieties.) "That sounds amazin', man. Thank you."

Hardison meant well, but -- he'd put orange slices into soda because he couldn't figure out a hand juicer. Eliot would be lucky if he got canned soup out of the man.

[sharp_as_knives]

"You're welcome," Hannibal said. He repacked the rest of the soup and found a place for it in Eliot's refrigerator. "And it's been my experience that Mr. Skywalker is singularly unimaginative in a number of ways."

[vdistinctive]

"One of these days, you two're gonna come to blows," Eliot predicted.

Or they'd end up on a wacky bonding adventure ala a sitcom. One of the two.

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal would prefer the blows, actually. Anakin might be a Jedi, but Hannibal had a better track record of keeping his limbs.

"Unlikely." He shrugged. "I prefer words to blows, and he prefers throwing his weight around. But that's not to say I'll trust him any time soon. Or approve of his taste in anything."

Unless it came to a recipe.

"You have seen his hair and wardrobe."

[vdistinctive]

"Ain't nothin' wrong with a shaggy hair cut." Said the man who spent almost as much on hair product as he did on kitchen wares. "The robes thing is weird, though."

[sharp_as_knives]

"I could make an argument," Hannibal said, "but that seems rude, seeing as I'm in your kitchen and you're ill." He grinned. "We can agree on the robes, however." He brought the bowl of soup to Eliot.

[vdistinctive]

"Honestly, doc," Eliot said, smiling faintly as he took a whiff of the soup. "Can't say I give a crap if you like my hair or not."

[sharp_as_knives]

"Fair enough," Hannibal answered. "You have no reason to, and it seems to suit you. And you've very good taste other things, tea among them," he added as he smelled it.

[vdistinctive]

"More'n a couple ladies who'd give me hell if I tried to go cheap," Eliot said. "I know the whole tea ceremony, but can't say I got the energy for it, today."

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal gave Eliot a slight bow. "The thought is nevertheless appreciated. Perhaps one day I can return the favor as well; it's been some time since I've created an entire cha-kaiseki meal." Since he'd made it for Jack, in fact.

[vdistinctive]

"Well, if you're lookin' for an excuse," Eliot said. "S'pose that sorta thing ain't really Jono's style."

[sharp_as_knives]

"More than you might think," Hannibal said, "but I never mind sharing my art."

[vdistinctive]

Eliot nodded. "'Swhat art's for."

[sharp_as_knives]

"Precisely." Hannibal smiled. "Art needs an audience."