((ooc: Takes place a day or two after
"Where does it hurt?" And on a fun note, my Mom made this salad last night. It's really good... but it's
not turkey salad.))
Rupert had gotten his hands on a little carton of fresh blueberries. No mean—or cheap—feat at this time of the year. It had been inspirational. Now he was standing at his kitchen counter, tossing a salad in a large ceramic bowl with two wooden spatulas, a dash of lemon juice, and gusto.
“Rup, since when do you have a ferret?”
“Since Hell froze over,” he replied simply. A contemplative stare, a few more sliced apples, and he was back to tossing. Captain Cynthia Myers of the Mutant and Mutant-Related Crimes Task Force—cutely known around the station as MMRC, Mercy—leaned an arm onto the counter, one eyebrow lifted high in vast amusement.
“Uh-huh. You know, Rup, most people go out to McDonald’s after church. They don’t go home and make... whatever that is.” She looked skeptically into his bowl. Oh Captain of little faith.
Rupert twirled a spatula with a distinct flourish, ending with it pointing up under the older woman’s chin. “Do you have a problem with my turkey salad?”
“Nope,” Cynthia replied simply. “Neither does PETA, unfortunately. I hate to break it to you, Rup, but it doesn’t look like any turkeys were harmed in the making of your turkey salad.” Rupert scowled heartily, and dumped half a box of raisins into the bowl with a vindictive air.
Fifteen minutes and a homely
ding! from his kitchen timer later, Rupert and Cynthia were seated in comfortably munching silence at his little kitchen table with the large bowl of turkey salad resting between them. It was closer to Rupert than it was to his Captain. A pan of chicken parmesan over ziti noodles was closer to her than it was to him.
She swallowed a mouthful of finely breaded bird, and pointed an accusing fork across the table. “This is elaborate. A little
too elaborate. We don’t see each other for weeks, then you invite me to your church, and cook. What’s wrong, Rup?”
He savored a bite of salad. The lemon juice complemented the tart green apple slices, giving an extra tang to their crunch. As a pleasant side-effect, the juice also kept the apples from browning.
“...Rup.”
Rupert held up a finger.
“...Do you have cancer?”
He choked. “What?”
Cynthia looked across the table at him, her brows knit in concern. “Okay, not cancer, then. Seriously, Rup. We’ve known each other how long? The way you do comfort food puts bloated pregnant women who just got dumped by their deadbeat sperm donors to shame. Right now, you’re outdoing even yourself. I haven’t seen you this bad since you cooked for your partner’s wake. What gives?”
He pounded on his chest, and managed to dislodge a cashew from his airway. “I’m going insane.”
“You made a turkey salad without turkey or salad,” Cynthia pointed out, twitching her fork. “And you bought a puppy and a ferret to keep your poodle company. I’d noticed, Rup. What’s going on?”
He stabbed an artistically sliced apple piece. “The camps.” Stab: an innocent piece of crisp celery joined the apple, impaled on the tines of his fork. “How are things at the station?”
“Good,” Myers answered, not about to be side-tracked so easily, “Everyone’s been asking after you. What about the camps?”
“They’re staffed by homicidal rapists with grudges against sanity,” Rupert replied briefly, not about to be un-side-tracked so easily, “Even Cassandra?”
“Maybe not Cassandra,” Cynthia shrugged, her eyes locked on his in critical captain capacity, “So that place is really as bad as the bleeding heart groups are making it out to be?”
“The bleeding hearts have no idea.” A crunching scream later, a tattered cashew fragment joined the celery and the apple on his fork. “Have you saddled anyone else on her, yet?”
“Some rookie raised up through the ranks by his political daddy,” she shrugged. “Do you want to come back? I can pull some strings, get someone else working over there. The mayor wants
someone from the police keeping an eye on that place; he doesn’t care that it’s you in specific.”
“He doesn’t care at all.” Rupert swallowed dryly. “He wants to cover his ass for when this all blows up. I’ve been turning in reports. Weekly. Have you read them?”
Cynthia set down her fork. “They don’t let me.” She picked up her napkin, and dabbed at her mouth. Her gaze stayed with his. “They get sent up the ranks, to get officially misplaced, I think. No one wants their legal rears attached to knowledge of what’s going on there. I can have you back at your old job in a week, Rup. If you really think this thing is going to blow up... don’t let yourself be a fall man.”
He deserved to be a fall man. He didn’t think he could explain why, though, not even to himself. Besides, he had to stay. For the Resistance. For the breakout. So he answered quite simply: “No. Thank you, but no.”
Cynthia stared at him across the pan of chicken parmesan and the bowl of salad. Then she shifted her gaze to her plate. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Rup. Good chicken, by the way.”
“So do I,” he replied honestly. “...Thanks, Cynthia.”
