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[scone]

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[thenovice]

[He's going to try very hard not to be self-conscious or anxious, but:]

... A meal, if you shall accept it.

[It's probably nothing compared to what the man could apparently cook. Even so, it is something made of his own hands, with his own fire. His reward for surviving the game had been a fireplace in his room, and he has put it to use.]

During the werewolf situation, I had lost my temper in the heat of emotion. I've extended an apology to Portia, but — I would also like to apologize to you for having to involve yourself in such an impious display.

[scone]

[ he remembers. he remembers this punk ass kid who made portia cry, but he also remembers being a punk ass kid who was a shit to everyone who crossed his path. what he doesn't remember is the last time in recent history that anyone offered him a meal. not that he wants anyone to do that. ]

All that matters is that Portia's feelings have been taken care of.

Did you already cook?

[thenovice]

I — did.

[A pause. Hesitation, as if he's a little embarrassed.

But he is also not one to lie.]

It's an Irish pottage. Where I'm from, we don't have much in the way of complicated recipes, so it may lack any luster for a chef... but it's something from home that gave me some quiet and peace to create here.

[scone]

[ the moment sears him with painful clarity, a tiny version of himself from a lifetime ago. ]

An Irish pottage, you say? Well, I have to try it now.

There isn't any food that lacks luster for me. That's an idiotic thing to say to a chef.

[thenovice]

You'll have to forgive my ignorance, then; there aren't an abundance of chefs roaming the isolated Irish countryside.

[Ah, there's some youthfully dry wit to bleed through the lack of confidence.

The dryness bubbles up into a chuckle, though.]

I shall meet you there. But make haste, for a pottage that is cold is a tragedy.