Participants:
| Scene Title | Deviating |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Father and son have an unfortunate habit of doing this, whether it's deviating from the recipe, or deviating from the established path to the future. |
| Date | May 3, 2011 |
Dorchester Towers: Penthouse
Right from the doorway the sheer size of this penthouse seems designed to impress. The walls and ceiling are painted in a soft eggshell white that seems to only enlarge the perception of the living space, with lightly-stained hardwood floors reflecting the daylight spilling through the partly closed blinds. Immediately across from the entrance is a raised living room with three shallow steps leading up to the carpeted landing it sits on. A plush white sofa covers one wall, with a long glass-topped table between it and a matching chaise lounge. The entire opposite wall to the side of the sofa is a gigantic window that affords a view of the nighttime skyline of New York. Sliding vertical blinds are drawn drawn closed, but twisted so they remain partly open, giving a slatted view of the New York skyline. Up against the window is a jet black leather sofa with a tall lamp with a ball-shaped shade.
Further into the penthouse, there is a large open kitchen that is in plain view of the sitting room, a black marble-topped island divides the kitchen from the main floor, and beyond the island more counterspace and brushed-metal faced kitchen appliances fill the walls. From here, a hallway can be seen that is lined with four doors; one leading to an office, two more to bedrooms, and another to a bathroom.
Not all good smells belong together. Foodies are more than aware of this fact.
Yet the conglomeration of smells wafting from the Dorchester Towers Penthouse could be described as nauseating. Onion. Garlic. Tarragon. Cinnamon. Sugar. Soy Sauce. Italian. Mexican. Chinese. There's no denying Bradley Russo has been busy.
A blanket of dishes lines the every surface (not the ground— that'd just be silly, good food doesn't go on the ground!) of the living room, presumably because he ran out of room in the kitchen. But the kitchen itself doesn't have foot along the counters. One counter has been left conveniently empty— like for preparation; a man can't live without his counter space if he's to cook anything— while the rest are line with bottles. Lots of bottles. Don't worry though, the majority haven't even been opened and not a single one is empty.
The door to the Penthouse has been left conveniently open. Because the souffle, as usual, burned. Russo never mastered the art of the souffle. The windows are all open airing out the place. The master chef himself lingers in the kitchen watching the chocolate cake rise through the window in his oven. His clothes aren't befitting for a man in the kitchen— Armani suits hardly need stains— and his expression doesn't reflect the sheer delight he normally feels in this particular space. There's a lot to think on. And more than enough liquor to let it saturate while his insides pickle.
A glance is given to one of the bottles as he clucks his tongue. He's resisted thus far. Squeaky clean image— an alcoholic coma could destroy any sense of squeaky clean he has left. As could the incident at Coyote Sands.
His blue eyes narrow before flitting back to the oven. "Rise," he instructs authoritatively.
"Just cause you tell it to, doesn't mean it will," a voice suddenly says from the entrance to the kitchen. Exactly how Kincaid Russo managed to get inside is anyone's guess. A kid from the future must have ways of doing things, one could assume.
Or maybe he just knows where the spare key in the office is.
Either way, he stands there with his hands in his pockets, leaning with one shoulder against the door frame. "Though in this case I do think it's inevitable. Unless you forgot an ingrediant."
Dark eyes dart toward the bottles, as if trying to figure out if they've been dipped into yet, then he looks back at his father. He's managed to avoid the man for a few days— off on errands at the right times, but it seems he's chosen here and now. Time travels always seem to choose their own time to do things whenever they can.
Even if time travel isn't his ability.
The voice cuts into what has become Russo's inner urging. His head snaps to the door while his eyebrows arch upwards, only to have him force them down in a pseudo glower. His moods are what they are, and he's somewhat undecided on this one. Even if he wants it to be easy. "I never forget ingredients." The sentence gives him pause as he makes an amendment. "Except with souffle. I always miss something in souffle." He straightens as he leans against one of the counters wrought with bottles, "Tell me, do I perfect it in the future?" The spark of mischief in his gaze is unceasing, even with the unusual ambivalence in his mood.
Swallowing hard, his hands retreat into his pockets, it's easier to leave them there. "So…" The word is loaded in all of its simplicity, but he can't bring himself to finish that particular thought, prompting him to change tracks altogether, "Drink?"
"Maybe you will this time around," is the answer that Kincaid gives, pushing off of the doorframe and stepping closer, now that he knows there's no bottles or hand cannon blasts firing at him the second he speaks up.
"Just coffee," is his answer to the drink question. And he hopes his dad doesn't try to make the Irish kind.
"You might need someone to cook it with you, to make sure you don't forget anything." Something an eleven year old him had never really been good at—
Russo can't help but arch his eyebrows and smirk at the notion of coffee. He releases a slow quiet breath as she trudges over to the coffeemaker. He preps the machine and presses the button, bringing a loud hum as it grinds the beans; making the freshest coffee possible.
There's a twitch of a smile, not quite happy as he clears his throat.
Like before, his eyes narrow some, "You volunteering?" The question, however, heralds a change in his demeanour. Those narrowed eyes become virtual slits while he backs away from the coffee maker, "I think you owe me a coffee by the way." His throat clears again, this time quite unceremoniously, "That was… not cool… well…" his hand waves nonchalantly.
The first question isn't answered, not outloud, but Kincaid moves closer, toward the stove. Some answers don't need to be said outloud at all. He's here. And that's answer enough.
And there's a more important topic being brought up. What he'd been avoiding more than the smell of badly mixing foods.
"Would you have gone if I told you? Would either of you?" he asks simply, eyes steady. "You deserved to know, dad." Even if he had to find out that way… "How bad was it?"
Russo's jaw visibly tightens as he reaches for the souffle recipe in his recipe box. And yes, he has a box of recipes, even though the best food doesn't come from a recipe. His breath hitches in his throat for a moment as his gaze moves to the window with another quiet sigh.
He begins taking the ingredients from the fridge, lining each up in order along the counter. Process. It's all about process. Cracking an egg into a bowl, he begins to beat it with a fork, breaking the egg and giving it a good whipping. Somewhat nonchalantly, he finally answers the question, "I ended up in the hospital for tests." This is followed by a strained smile as if to indicate it was no big deal. Because. Clearly. It isn't.
The best foods may not come from a recipe, but a recipe is usually the best starting point. A road map to a final destination, even if the journey itself requires extra twists and turns.
"I know," Kincaid says after a moment, moving to stand beside him to watch each of the moves that he makes. There's a moment where guilt flashes across his face. And not for what he says immediately after. "I try to keep an eye on you." That he doesn't feel guilty about.
"I'm sorry that happened, but you still deserved to know," he repeats, even if that's exactly what he feels guilty for. "She's nice. I don't know exactly why she did what she did— but I could see what you saw in her."
"Yeah…" Brad lets out quietly. He deserved to know. Four years ago. With a quiet sigh he glances over at the recipe card only to put the bowl down on the prep space. "She lied." Kind of. "Not then, but…" His eyes flit over to the window again. "I'm not— what am I supposed to think of it all? What am I supposed to feel?" His blue eyes narrow some. "I just… how do I cope with this? She's…" his hand runs through his hair.
"She's perfect. More than nice." His fingers curl around the counter for some sense of grounding, "Everything about her. She's not… fake." And then with a pause his head shakes, "SHe didn't used to be." Now? He doesn't know. "And I don't know what I should feel about it." Nor has he really let himself, an obvious fact when examining the Penthouse. As an excuse, even as the truth, he adds, "And works been insane…"
Considering who his father is, perfect would have been an inapprioriate description. But Kincaid can nod in agreement without seeming inappropriate. Even if there's more to the situation than that. "I probably should have approached it differently, but she must have been hiding for a reason, and…"
And he was the one who she had been hiding from.
A hand reaches over, to tap a small part of the recipe. A reminder. The man may have been intending to get that in a moment, but he's not about to let him forget.
"You should talk to her. Now that it's out— you've gotten past that part." The hard part? Probably not, in this case.
The hard part is the why. Whatever it happens to be.
Brad sucks on the inside of his cheek, it's a thinking face. "We'll talk again," he confirms. "I think." He turns to face Kincaid as the unspoken question tugs at his face. There's little to be said for his thoughts aside from exactly what they are, "How did you know? I Mean… actually. How did you know? She disappeared. I spent months looking for her— " his teeth toy at his lip while his eyes stare blankly at the recipe card— seeing but not reading.
"There was a funeral," he murmurs quietly. "I was there. I… my grandmother still had her wits about her and planned it with my grandfather— " who is now dead. "What's worse is it's this moment, this thing I've been dreaming up for years; that one day I'd just wake up and it would have all been a terrible dream or bad memory. That sometime I'd come to realize that I'd lost nothing, that everyone was happy and alive…" he emits a sigh. "But now? I don't.. I'm angry. I guess. KInd of." Except he doesn't seem it. "I should be angry," he corrects.
"I'm from the future," Kincaid says in the same quiet murmurs that his father speaks in, sometimes. Children learn how to speak from their parents, and he learned how to talk from his— "Does it really matter how I knew? It took me six months to find her, even with 'inside' knowledge. So I can imagine it was impossible for you to do it without."
He'd almost thought it was impossible until the day he finally found her.
"You have every right to be angry. There's no good reason to let someone who loves you believe you're dead…" He speaks as if he has experience with that. "But I think you would regret not knowing… more."
Teeth toy at his lip as he adds flour to the egg. Which may or may not be following the recipe. Bradley Russo hmmms quietly. "She said it was for me. That she didn't want me to have to— " he sighs. The problem is he can almost understand. "I'd committed to committing everything to her. And she couldn't tell me; she didn't even want to be alive."
His tongue rolls over his lips in quiet consideration. "It's odd timing and everything. I don't feel like I'll ever really understand." But then does he need to? A strained very lopsided smile is sent to Kincaid as Russo's stirring becomes more agitated. Quicker. Less fluid. "She likes to cook too," for the first time in years he can talk about her without feeling like he's betraying her memory; she's not dead.
He tongue clucks again. "I never really asked you… that Humanis First thing. Did you learn anything about the organization's structure?" the question is nonchalant, and Brad's gaze remains levelly on the batter. Of course, he does look up for a moment, the cunning reflects in his eyes.
"I think the moment people start completely understanding those they fall in love with, it stops being as passionate," Kincaid says quietly, taking mental note of what isn't in the recipe. It helps for figuring out where he went wrong later, but also where he went right.
The question makes him blink, drawing his eyes away from the cooking, and his mind off of the topic of passionate love and understanding.
"Uh— not too much, honestly," he states, a small shrug. "Not nearly as much as I would have liked, but I think they suspected me right from the beginning. Everyone used code names, and there was talk of cells. Different groups. I don't think most of them knew who their leaders were— Even in the Dome things were kept quiet."
Talking about work-related things is so much easier than discussing his dead fiancee who isn't dead— for Brad, anyways. Brad sniffs as he nods in silence, allowing his thoughts to saturate some and the silence to break. "Elisabeth Harrison interviewed with me not long ago— " he can't really remember when. Thanks to all of the events of the last few weeks, the days have melded together.
"It was secure thanks to a technopath who…" he frowns slightly. "Did you expect to find anything particular about Humanis First?" The frown deepens, time travel still troubles him greatly, but there's little he can do about that. "I mean.. you're from the future, right? So did you expect to learn anything particular about them aside from a great story that K would go gaga over?"
His throat clears— one of his few tells that he is asking something he isn't asking, a tell his son would likely have picked up on by now. His chin drops to his chest as he stares at the batter some more like somehow it's the most interesting thing in the room.
"Not exactly, no," Kincaid says with a quiet shrug, glancing toward the cooking again, and the recipe, trying to recall where the cook was, and what he'd left out or added in. It's hard to hold onto, now. For various reasons.
"There were a lot of reasons I got involved with what I did— it was a story that someone needed to tell, yes— but it didn't have to be told like that." With those risks, that he'd made.
Or the man who'd given him the information to point him in the right direction. "I guess I had a bit of a martyr complex. It was right after Christmas. It's kind of hard to be concerned about dying when you know you're not going to be born."
Russo's lips part thoughtfully as he considers those words, the pang of guilt heavy on his chest. "I guess that's the trouble with time travel," his lips press together tightly. "You know, I went back in time once. To Vietnam. And.. somewhere else." The other place is foggier than he'd like thanks to the drugs he'd acquired at that random bar along the highway. The image of the speedster on speed still makes him smile.
"Who's your mom anyways?" his eyebrows knit together some. It's still a fact he doesn't know. "It's been…" he considers, "an eventful year."
A question that Kincaid had likely been hoping to avoid forever— but asked directly like that, it's hard to dart around it too much. "Melissa Pierce," he states simply, before downcasting his eyes from the cooking to shrug his shoulders. It isn't out of embarassment so much as…
"The two of you weren't happy together. When I first proposed the idea, the Humanis First show— I thought if you worked together things might have… that didn't happen." Nor did the show in the end. But he'd been trying to scheme. Like scheming sons do.
"So in a way the plan in the Dome was an attempt to cover my ass with K, by doing the same show, but different." And without her.
"Huh," is the one syllable Russo manages. Ironically time travel ate those notions. "That feels like a long time ago." Melissa Pierce. There's no actual bitterness in his voice as he nods slightly. "Well.. it's good to know that I.." his eyes squint as his face contorts some, that's awkward. In a way, he almost wishes he hadn't asked it; life is simply easier without knowing about the woman he made a baby with in a future that won't ever happen.
"And you got stuck. Inside the Dome," he almost finishes the story. With a quiet sigh, his head shakes, "They're dangerous, aren't they? Hellbent on curing the world of people like…" he pauses as he lowers the bowl to the counter, giving him time to examine his blasty hands that aren't so blasty at this moment. "like us."
"Getting stuck in the Dome wasn't part of the plan," Kincaid admits with a laugh, scratching at his scalp as he doesn't exactly laugh. "I mean I knew the Dome was going to happen, but I was on the other side originally. I didn't know they would drive right into it." But they did, and he had gone with them.
"They are dangerous— they will be for a long time. And I don't think anything's really going to keep them from being dangerous…" He looks at the man's not-blasty-right-now hands as he adds, "There will always be people who are afraid of us. No matter what our ability is. If it's not Humanis First, it would be something else entirely."
"I guess that's true," Brad agrees quietly as he balls his fingers into a fist only to extend his fingers again. "But…" his blue eyes tick up to Kincaid, "there's more to it than that. It's who controls the hate. Who decides what's dangerous and what isn't." His cheeks puff out as he releases a breath of air.
"What if…" his eyes narrow as he leaves the question alone. His teeth toy at his lip as his head shakes, he can't finish the thought. "So what exactly are you doing here? I mean… I know I asked before. And the future evidently isn't great, but… when we time travelled it was to keep things the same so someone didn't change it. BUt you seem to be around for a different reason…"
"I told you what I was doing here," Kincaid says after a moment, looking back to the cooking and biting down on his lip as he knows he's lost track of things. They'll have to try this again, with less distracting conversations. He knows that.
"Keeping things the same isn't exactly the priority— but there's some things that just… can't be changed. When I said I was interested in the little things, the personal things, I meant it. But as for the bigger plans— those I can't talk about."
Can't? There's a hesitation before he adds on a correction, "Won't talk about."