ataraxion | ( text )

It isn't locked. Maybe two hundred years, barring no one drops a house on us. I think the average currently, war time taken into consideration, is about one hundred and forty. Every so often someone will keel over and it turns out they're six hundred or something, but it isn't exceptionally common.

Still not technically my business. That's amazing. Have you ever - I mean, has anyone ever sat down and figured out why or what it is that makes that possible? I understand, it's magic, but that's like saying well, the ocean is blue because it reflects the sky and the sky is blue because it reflects the ocean. Your blood is red, too. What makes it so different from the next guy's? And don't think I didn't catch that Wizard of Oz reference.

In shorthand, 'it's genetic', though my understanding of it is slightly more complex than that, going down past genes to... particles and quarks, maybe. It is not my field. Magic is a dominant trait, anyway, while 'non-magic' is recessive; we are as vastly outnumbered as we are due to many instances of mankind deciding that we're evil, or Satanic, or simply not to be trusted. It's a lovely film.

For what it's worth, I wouldn't drop a house on you. I don't think I could lift it, for starters. I'm not sure I'd want to live that long, but I guess if it's the expectancy then... At least you have a lot of time to get stuff done.

Certainly not. It's what I was raised with an awareness of, so I've never thought about it being strange. Though I admit it is less than glamorous; a six hundred year old lifespan for someone who is not immortal means a good two hundred years worth of senile old age.

That's a scary thought. There are definitely people I know I'd never want to see live to that age.

[ Thank you for being slightly less than incriminating in some way, text function. ]

Quite.

[ Ha ha ha like Voldemort ha ha ha. ]

[ Ha ha ha indeed. ]

My brother, for one. No one deserves that punishment.

You have quite the family.

[ Seeing as she mentioned some of them are here. ]

They're never boring, that's for sure.

I'm going to go sit with Princess Nuala for a while. Something came up. Would you like to try baking later?

Yeah sure, that'd be great. I don't think I know her. Is everything alright?

Yes, fine. But I think she may have tried to establish psychic contact with the ship and I'd like to make sure she hasn't wandered off in her own mind.

Does that mean it actually is alive? No, wait. Don't answer that. Go ahead and go.

[ Later, product of a few more texts back and forth, and Severus is in one of the kitchens on their floor; 28 is annoyingly trafficked overall, but he's rarely been bothered here. He doesn't know why, maybe people are against preparing food themselves. He doesn't know why he's here now, at that-- the more Claire talks to him, the more he finds himself expecting this to all be some kind of make-believe meant to embarrass him later. It's a paranoid thought and he knows it, but he can't leave it alone. Maybe he'll be able to tell...

Severus waits at one of the kitchen tables, staring at his comms device. Wishing he had cigarettes. Sigh. ]

[ Claire would agree, about not being bothered in here, having spent the majority of her downtime here in the kitchens. Most of the equipment and machinery on the Tranquility is beyond her scope of understanding. Holodecks, while knowing what they are from movies and watching Lyle play video games and everything else pop culture has introduced her to, still leaves her feeling adrift. She's been coping in her own way, trying to process the idea of having been here several times before, apparently, and remembering none of it, having people know her name and recognize her in hallways and wondering, always, what they know about her. Kitchens are a comfortable familiarity.

No one thinks to look for an eighteen-year-old blonde in a kitchen, but it's a nice place to come and sit when the crushing pressure of space gets to be too overwhelming. This is the first time she's had an audience, though, and Claire doesn't mind that. She's used to being on her own. Hardly down here for reflection this time, however, she lets herself in after he's already taken a seat. Whether he turns to face her as she comes across the room behind him or not, Claire says: ]

Boo.

[ He leans his head back slightly, raising his eyebrows in an expression that's almost a smile. ] Hello.

[ This is weird. Isn't it? Why is she still talking to him? Is it really possible that, removed from the influence of Hogwarts houses, people are capable of seeing Sirius for what he is, even without him having to be sent to prison?

Severus forces himself to set the thought aside. (Not away completely.) ]

I don't know what half of these appliances are, as a forewarning.

[ Claire makes a little noise in the back of her throat that might be a laugh but definitely manifests as a slow, warm exhale. She's betrayed only by the small smile yanking to turn into something full-fledged, and thankfully she manages to get it fully under control by the time she's crossed the room entirely and stopped at the table next to him. The curve of her hand settles over his shoulder - which she briefly questions whether or not is okay, not yet really knowing if they constitute as friends or just friendly acquaintances - as if to reassure him that she's got it all under control. ]

That's okay. You're basically just here to watch. [ Claire lets that grin warm the majority of her face and then heads over to the counter space, checking for bowls and whisks and half of the ingredients she saw yesterday. ] You actually probably wouldn't be half bad at this. I mean, you basically mix things together and heat them and turn them into other things as a part of your job, right? [ She knows that is a highly paraphrased version of what he does and she doesn't look at him on purpose, finding the amusement in it all herself. ] It's really not that different.

[ Different, but still difficult. At least as far as having talent for it goes. ]

[ Internally, Severus freezes when she touches him. He's good enough at pretending to be almost-normal that it's not terribly obvious externally; Dumbledore does this, sometimes, despite knowing how much it bothers him. Occasionally one of the female professors will take his arm or touch his shoulder, too, though their casual affections are done without ulterior motive (never Minerva, or anyone else who fears being bitten). Which category does Claire fall under? ]

I cook for myself, which I've come to understand is a rarity for men living alone. [ Dry. ] But I can't remember the last time I tried baking anything.

[ That's more of a homemaker Hufflepuff activity. Not that he begrudges Hufflepuffs, who tend to be well-behaved and whose attempted bribes always include food. ]

[ She'd make a comment about her father trying to cook for himself if that wouldn't invite awkward discussion concerning her two dads. The whole adoption thing is such a non-issue at this point in her life, but their family dynamic is such an odd one that Claire would just rather avoid it at all costs. She still isn't sure how she feels about anything: about Nathan being alive, about being lied to, about any of it. Her life has been a hilarious non-stop roller coaster, but she thinks one day she might be able to tell him about it. Which is a terrifying thought in itself, maybe born of the notion that he's somehow the person she's managed to feel most comfortable around since arriving. The person who isn't Peter, of course. ]

Not like this, you don't. [ She's assuming, and being silly on purpose. ] They don't really have all the ingredients I'd like to have to make anything really great. I have to make my own frosting, which is fine. It just means sticking to simple things until I'm able to find other stuff. [ Maybe she should ask Spike about fondant. In the meantime, she sets about gathering together what she can in one trip. ]

Maybe I can actually teach you something. Kind of a nice change of pace for once.

[ Said as kind of an afterthought as she stacks a few things in a large bowl. ]

[ Severus pockets his device (muted, because he's nearing migraine levels with some of the idiots who've responded to him) and stands, ending up leaning back against a counter to be close enough to lend a hand if needed. He is deliberate in how he watches her, careful not to seem like he's genuinely scrutinizing anything - though he is. She can't be that difficult to read; she's only a muggle. (Or closer to that than a witch, whatever it is she might be.) ]

I don't think I was aware people ever didn't make their own. [ 'From scratch' isn't a distinction made in the wizarding world. They have no factories. ] What are you missing that you'd like?

[ He's honestly a little puzzled by that, and sounds it. ]

My mom always made it from scratch, unless she was too busy. [ Claire rolls a hair tie down from her wrist and over her knuckles, pulling her hair back into a knot. For the first time, she's not wearing the crew issued suit but, instead, has on the jeans, shirt, and boots that she found in her locker. After washing them free of straw and dirt, it almost felt like being a normal skin again. ] She breeds and shows championship Pomeranians, if you can actually believe that, which doesn't sound like it would be a busy career path, but.

[ And talking about her mother makes her miss her so much more than she ever really expected, so Claire stops, flattening her hands on the counter and looking around briefly to get a game plan. She's aware that he's watching her - what else would he be doing? - and it makes her a little nervous and aware of herself to know that she's in the spotlight. It's probably something she'll have to get used to, so she tries not to let it bother her and gets down to work. ]

Hmm? Oh. Just... better ingredients, I guess. [ She gives him a wistful smile, teasing. ] If only I had bacon.

Pomeranians. [ An echo. That does seem unlikely, but he supposes they have to come from somewhere. The picture Claire is painting of her home life is a colorful one. ] I never had pets.

[ Not even a familiar; he had no taste for it, and still doesn't. Severus will help, meanwhile, holding this or that. He's not useless in a kitchen and indeed knows his way around, even if he has no idea what the fuck a microwave is. ]

Char anything meat-ish well enough and it becomes somewhat tolerable, in my experience.

[ Claire wrinkles her nose, imagining the smell of burnt anything. Burnt skin. That had been the worst. ]

There are people who would exile you for saying that about a steak, you know.

[ Not that it matters, really, and Claire gives him a spoon to hold for her in the interest of having easy access to it. She starts mixing things without flourish, not bothering to find an apron, which she's sure will result with streaks of white flour across the pale pink of her shirt, but oh well. It's seen worse. The batter is white and thick, and she pushes a separate bowl to the side for the frosting. Measuring cups and one whisk in hand, Claire does things almost automatically, working off of a recipe card in her head. She manages to glance at him now and then. ]

So you never had any pets growing up. Not even a fish?

[ Severus is immune to the smell of burning humans. ... He's not going to mention that. He takes the spoon and mixes.. something. Dry ingredients maybe. After a moment he lets the spoon continue its work while he looks at something else. ]

I had darkmoon fish for a while to use for my seventh year students.

[ ... That's not funny!! ]

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