Good god. It's like the Bastard can laser-target his weaknesses and just hone in on them. Wisp chokes hard enough that he nearly drops the bowl he was cleaning; only quick instincts make him manage to set it down hard rather than let it meet an untimely shattered end on the floor.
The truth, of course, is that he doesn't know why he feels so possessive of Fawn. Why he'd waited on the worms so they'd make their mark so indelibly. He ... is certain there was some plan, because he'd felt so fulfilled in seeing the early piece come to fruition, and yet. Any of those options the Bastard lays out are plausible, aren't they? Revenge. Power. They don't feel right, no, but they don't feel wrong either.
"Maybe I'm just reclaiming him from you," he says sharply. "Maybe - maybe you're the reason why we're all here to begin with."
God. Wisp just goes terribly scarlet and more than a little miserable, furiously washing the dish in his hands. How did this man manage to leave the decision up to Wisp and yet also use that secret to get leverage over him? How? Shouldn't Wisp get a break somewhere?
(No, of course not. He'll teeter between Bastard's insinuations and his own horror of Fawn's potential reaction for a while. Forever, maybe.)
"You did," he says, his tone acid. "Are you breaking it already?"
"Well - well good. That wouldn't be a very good note to start this on, would it."
He can be just as much of a bastard back even without the capitalisation, okay. Don't try him. He's got a memory backing him up now.
Although ... he can't help his curiosity watching Bastard take up one of the scones. He certainly put his best effort into following Bastard's instructions, so if it's bad it won't be due to his sabotage or something.
It is... passable, approaching not-half-bad. It certainly had a denser, harder texture than one might like, but the flavor is reasonable, just sweet enough without being overpowering, and well, it could certainly do with some tea to soak in, likely one of the stronger blacks over the florals, but.
"Well. Certainly will need tweaking, but wont leave too much wanting." He breaks the scone in half and tosses the other to Wisp to give his own verdict.
Wisp fumbles his half but manages not to drop the darn thing. And then bites into it. Overall, his opinion is much the same, except ... well, he gets a little more out of it, doesn't he? The rough density of it is very filling, and he's abruptly aware of how empty his own stomach is as a result. Since, unlike his teammates, he didn't get a meal out of the game today.
It's gone quickly enough with enough obvious pleasure that he can't pretend he hadn't enjoyed it. Dammit. "It's - decent, yeah," he says. "Are there any more?"
No, the last few minutes of the game was filled with a certain fear and misery that keyed so exquisitely to the Eye. Or at least, the type of manifestation this Bastard holds in him. It was a meal and a half, full of the voyeuristic appetizer tray of the bravery through adversity, the sick twisted enjoyment that Blanks hoped were noticed, or the mortal fear and outrage. It had been incredible.
... actually, he was surprised that Wisp WAS hungry. Enough that instead of denying him, his eyebrows simply raise.
He waves to a few of them setting on the counter. They weren't quite as nicely shaped as the others. They would do for Wisp.
Wisp will not feel grateful to the Bastard. He will not, he refuses, he won't do it. But. He is hungry, and he devours at least one of the lumpy ones sitting out before he remembers that Bastard and Fawn haven't had anything yet.
"Aren't - aren't you hungry?" he asks uncertainly.
Well that's rude. Martin colours a bit, mentally comparing the two of them - and looking down at his ghost-pale hands with some dismay. Sure, he and the Bastard are both lighter-toned than Fawn, but Wisp's pallor seems unhealthy, doesn't it? "M - maybe," he says, reluctant to concede the point but unable to argue it. "I'll save this one for Fawn. Just in case."
Changing only takes so long. Fawn is reluctant to once again put himself under the scrutiny of his team mates - something about the way they looked at him, bent over their baking practically cheek to cheek... What had been in their memories? Why had their eyes searched him so thoroughly? It certainly wasn't his prepossessing features. Fawn could just barely hear them speaking, but even pressed against his door he couldn't make out any words. Damn.
Hiding in his room would be absurd and uninformative. After plucking at his ill-fitting clothes with restless frustration, he exits, chin tipped defiantly high.
Wisp flushes instantly, trying (and failing) to keep a squeak out of his voice. He won't even argue with the emphasis because that would be conceding defeat.
"We - we made scones," he says rather helplessly. "Bastard remembered how to do it."
Your Fawn. Fawn gives Bastard a narrow-eyed scowl that promptly transfers to Wisp when he speaks.
There's a hesitation, as Fawn glances between the two men and the scones. Remembers walking in to the two of them chatting so nicely. Who knows what could really be in those scones?
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The truth, of course, is that he doesn't know why he feels so possessive of Fawn. Why he'd waited on the worms so they'd make their mark so indelibly. He ... is certain there was some plan, because he'd felt so fulfilled in seeing the early piece come to fruition, and yet. Any of those options the Bastard lays out are plausible, aren't they? Revenge. Power. They don't feel right, no, but they don't feel wrong either.
"Maybe I'm just reclaiming him from you," he says sharply. "Maybe - maybe you're the reason why we're all here to begin with."
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"Now, now. You have no more indication of that than I do."
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1/2
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A pause. "My apologies."
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(No, of course not. He'll teeter between Bastard's insinuations and his own horror of Fawn's potential reaction for a while. Forever, maybe.)
"You did," he says, his tone acid. "Are you breaking it already?"
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He gives a light, casual sigh. "Not at all."
And scoops up one of the cave scones to try. Moment of truth.
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He can be just as much of a bastard back even without the capitalisation, okay. Don't try him. He's got a memory backing him up now.
Although ... he can't help his curiosity watching Bastard take up one of the scones. He certainly put his best effort into following Bastard's instructions, so if it's bad it won't be due to his sabotage or something.
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"Well. Certainly will need tweaking, but wont leave too much wanting." He breaks the scone in half and tosses the other to Wisp to give his own verdict.
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It's gone quickly enough with enough obvious pleasure that he can't pretend he hadn't enjoyed it. Dammit. "It's - decent, yeah," he says. "Are there any more?"
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... actually, he was surprised that Wisp WAS hungry. Enough that instead of denying him, his eyebrows simply raise.
He waves to a few of them setting on the counter. They weren't quite as nicely shaped as the others. They would do for Wisp.
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"Aren't - aren't you hungry?" he asks uncertainly.
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Hiding in his room would be absurd and uninformative. After plucking at his ill-fitting clothes with restless frustration, he exits, chin tipped defiantly high.
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"Hungry?" That, at least, was directed right at the poor man.
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"We - we made scones," he says rather helplessly. "Bastard remembered how to do it."
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There's a hesitation, as Fawn glances between the two men and the scones. Remembers walking in to the two of them chatting so nicely. Who knows what could really be in those scones?
"I'm not hungry," he says shortly.