Dakarai N'Sehla had a different roof over his head for the moment, a break from the norm. Where normally he would have asked for Cecile's hospitality, it was Elena that had offered hers, following the help of his pokémon. He'd assured her he had mighty little to do with that, but she wouldn't have any of it, and offered him a meal. Perhaps under different circumstances, he might have objected, but since he'd had neither breakfast nor lunch and had been travelling, his body was quick to insist he accept the proffered gesture.
It feels like an undue luxury, even though it's no more lavish than anything the gym leaders have ever done for him. The key difference, of course, is that he's infinitely indebted to them already, and each act of kindness on their part only worsens his debt. Elena, on the other hand, could hardly be said to have anything on him, making the invitation so blissfully without the tang of obligation that it felt like a treasure. “Thank you again for inviting me,” he's saying as they're entering her home, glancing around with an almost childish curiosity rather than looking at her as he speaks, not thinking it rude, taking in the unfamiliar place.
The apartment was like many others in Njoty: outwardly boxy and stacked with many others of identical structure. Inside was a comfortable level of clutter and character. A painting of sunset over an ocean hung on one wall of the living room while another held photos of several people and a variety of pokémon. By the bookcase in one corner several mismatched armchairs clustered around a ladden coffee table and there was a brief motion as something cream-coloured vanished out of sight.
“Do you have any objections to meat?” Elena asked as she dropped her gear beside the door and toed off her boots. “I think we've got some leftover Krabby in the fridge.”
“I'm not sure how I feel about crustaceans,” Dakarai admits. “I've never had any.” There's a tinge of shyness to his voice, an almost cute deviation from the otherwise so self-assured seeming man who'd accompanied her the past hours. The touch of his left hand against the back of his neck only adds to that impression. “Although I'll also admit that in the state I'm in, I imagine I'd eat old furniture if you offered me some.”
Elena giggled and led the way through to the small kitchen. “I can make many things tasty, but never tried furniture. Too chewy,” she joked as she dropped the berry basket on the wooden table and set about filling the kettle. A chopping board and knife were fished out of a drawer and a pot put on the stove before Elena looked around for the matches.
A full minute of rummaging later and they were still missing. She'd even checked the shopping list to see if her parents had used them all up. With the kettle beginning to hiss she pulled out a wooden taper instead. “I think Kurama has stolen the matches again, I'm sorry, I'm normally less chaotic about this,” she flusteredly apologised to Rhaptor.
One the pokéballs was plucked from her belt and in the free space beyond the table an Arcanine materialised. “Roman, help?” Elena pleaded, holding up the stick for the pokémon to ignite.
Dakarai gives a sound of amusement that's not quite a chuckle at her apology. “Hey, you're talking to a guy who spends his time begging for scraps, I think you're a whole lot more organised than I am,” he comments, raising both hands to gesture that it's more than okay, smiling warmly. As she calls for Roman, Dakarai's interest seems briefly kindled, peering toward the creature for a moment, before he's back to an unassuming posture. Iris and Paragon are currently snugly contained in their pokéballs - not that it means anything near the same thing to them that it would to 'Roman', but that has hardly come up yet. “If I can do anything to help…?” he adds, again with that slightly awkward tinge of shyness.
A soft exhalation and a puff of fire later and Elena scurried back to the stove with her smouldering taper. The Arcanine padded around the table to look apprasingly at Dakarai. “Roman, be nice, he helped me,” Elena said absently as she tossed several spices into her pot before snagging one of the berries from the basket and shredding it in.
Roman gave a growl of acknowledgement and flopped onto the ground like a throw rug as the chopping board and knife was deposited in front of their guest. “Could you roughly dice those?” Elena asked, adding some roasted vegetables from the fridge to the wood in front of him.
“Yes, ma'am,” Dakarai acknowledges, half seriously, half in humour (at himself), dipping his head and shoulders in a gesture of obedience, albeit clearly meant neither seriously nor mocking. A moment later, his attention's shifted accordingly and he's working on the chore, happy to be contributing something other than an abstract favour to his meal, slow and cautious at first, then with a little more speed once he's reasonably sure he won't do something stupid like chop his own fingers off. Given he's someone who lives mostly out of cans, bread and other people's cooking, he doesn't really have a huge amount of cooking preparation experience. 'None' would certainly be an exaggeration, but that misconception would hardly make a difference.
The kettle whistled its boiling and the hot water added to the sizzling pan. A handful for dried pasta followed by another pinch of spice and Elena stirred it for a few minutes as pleasant smells began to fill the room. Once Dakarai finished slicing vegetables they joined the pot along with some of the shredded crab meat from the fridge and she took the time to rinse the tools and fetch two bowls while it simmered.
“It's a little lumpy, but 'diced vegetables and meat in tasty broth' only takes a few minutes and 'smooth vegetable and meat soup' is more like an hour slow cooking. I'm too hungry to wait that long for something that tastes similar,” Elena said depreciatingly as she poured the soup into the bowls and passed one over as she sat down.
“It's not old furniture,” Dakarai reminds, tone light. “On a more serious note, I'm used to a diet of bread and canned food, so I assure you, anything properly cooked…” - with no strings attached, at least - “…will be cherished. I really appreciate you doing this for me.” For someone who's just getting a lunch, he's being rather… well, thankful. But if what he's said about his travelling habits is true, perhaps it's to be expected.
“I'd be doing it anyway, I just made a bigger pot. And I like cooking for people. Now tell me what you think.” Elena seemed oddly eager for feedback as she blew on a spoonful of broth and took a cautious sip herself. A grimace briefly flicked across her face. “Oops. I'd forgotten I'd seasoned those vegetables. Um. It's not supposed to be quite this spicy, I hope you don't mind hot food,” she stammered.
“Yes, ma'am,” he says, much in the same tone as before, dutifully dipping his spoon into the broth. And then she's apologising. He pauses… and then laughs, though if the tone of it is any indicator, it's in some abstract delight. A moment later, a spoonful of soup has found itself into his mouth and he's keeping a hold of the spoon with his lips. “MmmMmmmph,” he 'comments', looking at her with a fake glower as if in outraged, non-verbal complaint. A part of him does truthfully consider the taste for a moment, but it hardly seems terrible, especially given her warning. Then the spoon pops back out. “Seriously, it's fine,” he assures in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, smiling. Said, he begins to empty the bowl… struggling mostly with not accidentally doing so in record time. First and foremost, it's food. It's a bit hard to resist, spicy or not.
Him saying he likes it is a relief, even if he does give her a brief moment of panic at the fake glower. A smile lights her own face as she eats at a more sedate pace. Rhaptor wouldn't be tucking in so heartily if it was terrible.
With a pitiful attempt at sneakiness Roman sidles alongside her chair and makes puppy dog eyes at her bowl. Elena laughed. “Weren't you listening? It's spicy, Roman. You won't like it. Stop that. All right, but I told you so.” She dipped a finger into her bowl and scooped up some of the soup. The Arcanine's tail wagged as he licked the offered digit before stilling and making delightfully unhappy faces as his nose wrinkled and he panted. “See? When are you going to learn to listen when I say you won't like things, you only like spices if they're peppery,” Elena giggled as she buried her hand in his mane and scritched.
And then the bowl is regrettably empty. That didn't take long at all. Silently, he leers across at her antics with Roman. No 'bad dog, down boy', however fondly delivered? It has his attention - lightly at least, but with no other contenders, it anchors quite firmly. He sucks on his spoon, mopping the last of the flavour off of it with his tongue for a moment's contemplation. “Ginger,” he says, finally, completely out of the blue from her perspective. “Have you ever tried to see if he likes ginger? Just… a peeled ginger root as an edible chewtoy, perhaps.” He's not expressly saying so, but it sure sounds like a suggestion based on some prior experience. She's seen both of his pokémon, though, and neither is an Arcanine - or even just fire pokémon. That being said, if he really travels between gyms, as implied, he's probably seen a lot of different pokémon and the individual quirks of their care.
Elena grinned. “Yes, actually. He tends to like other things better though, don't you, boy?” Roman growled appreciatively at the hand rubbing behind his ears. “He actually likes citrus, which is weird, but Sarchus loves citrus, too, and I sometimes wonder if he picked it up from her because I swear they used to steal treats from each other as a game.”
“Citrus is unusual,” he observes, though sounding pleasantly surprised. “Very allergy-prone,” he explains. “Normally,” he appends in emphasis, smiling, hoping it's clear that he fully realises Roman isn't that unlucky, rather than her glossing over the symptoms. “Though now I'm curious - flesh, peel, or both?” Looks like someone is looking to expand his collection of anecdotal observations about pokémon behaviour.
“Flesh, and not really sour ones. Although he eats food with zest in it, so maybe it's just the pith?” Elena mused. “Raw lemons are too much though so they're what I give Sarchus when I want to be sure he's not going to sneak a bite. Although really these days Sarchus is too big to let him steal food without her being somewhat okay with it.”
Roman doesn't seem to mind his less than complimentary habits being discussed and instead wags his tail happily at the hand running through his fur. Ears pricked at the sound of claws lightly clicking against tiles. A creamy vulpine head peered around the corner and attentively examined Dakarai. “And that lovely lady is Kurama, my dad's Ninetales. She does like ginger, and spicy things, and is probably here to eye off the soup pot and act too dignified to beg for leftovers,” Elena commented amusedly.
Driven by an idle curiosity, Dakarai extends his right hand toward the Ninetales, cautious not to make any sudden movements. The last thing he wanted was ending up lightly flambéed, after all, and he was a complete stranger to these pokémon. Jagdish would have no problem with this, of course, the lucky bastard. “I'm afraid I don't have any snacks,” he apologises to the Ninetales, trying to get a gentle pet on its muzzle in.
The Ninetales evaluates the stranger for a while longer before pacing forward with her tails elegantly fanned and rubbing her muzzle against Dakarai's hand like a cat.
No light flambéeing was happening today, apparently. Fingertips gently ease themselves across the short, cream-coloured fur of the Ninetales' muzzle, until it encounters the longer strands, dipping past them to scratch lightly behind the creature's ears.