"Keh," Kotetsu snickers at once, hiding his laughter behind a closed fist as he turns to make his way to the kitchen. It's only recently that Kotetsu's been able to acknowledge the more endearing aspects of Barnaby's perfectionism — namely that outside the realm of work and obligations, such attention to detail is a sign that Barnaby cares. He doesn't pull out the stops for anyone.
Actually, he's really kind of choosy.
"The whole point of fried rice is to be able to make use of what you have in the kitchen! Old kimchi tastes delicious after being tossed around in a pan. Leftover teriyaki chicken can be diced and thrown in; you don't even have to worry about whether or not it's fully cooked," Kotetsu declares, his voice rising in volume as he makes his way towards the kitchen. The louder he is, the less he has time to focus on the strangeness of a situation. These spaces are supposed to be empty when moving in.
Yet, when he tugs open the first counter he happens across, he can see stacks of plates and bowls neatly arranged, white ceramic adorned with a pale blue pattern at the edges.
"We'll make it together," he says, sticking his head into the fridge next. They've got eggs. Sausages. They can make it work. "And if it doesn't taste good, you're free to blame the failure on me. Doesn't that make you feel better? Ah, but that means you can't take full credit if it's delicious, either."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2014-05-10 04:39 am (UTC)Actually, he's really kind of choosy.
"The whole point of fried rice is to be able to make use of what you have in the kitchen! Old kimchi tastes delicious after being tossed around in a pan. Leftover teriyaki chicken can be diced and thrown in; you don't even have to worry about whether or not it's fully cooked," Kotetsu declares, his voice rising in volume as he makes his way towards the kitchen. The louder he is, the less he has time to focus on the strangeness of a situation. These spaces are supposed to be empty when moving in.
Yet, when he tugs open the first counter he happens across, he can see stacks of plates and bowls neatly arranged, white ceramic adorned with a pale blue pattern at the edges.
"We'll make it together," he says, sticking his head into the fridge next. They've got eggs. Sausages. They can make it work. "And if it doesn't taste good, you're free to blame the failure on me. Doesn't that make you feel better? Ah, but that means you can't take full credit if it's delicious, either."