“See, I respect all the work you put into this, but it tastes like shit,” Winter says.
Cinder sighs, taking the plate off her. “I know.”
“It might be a textural thing?” She gestures to the aubergine. “You could try something else with the potatoes, maybe. Otherwise it’s too much.”
“This is why I give it to you first,” Cinder says, picking through the plate with her own fork. “Weiss would just throw the plate in my face.”
“Well, you did push her off a cliff that one time.”
She sighs again. “I know.”
-
The second attempt goes a lot better. Winter dutifully eats most of it, then proclaims, “That was significantly less shit,” and is rewarded with a glowing smile.
“Ready to make everyone else eat?”
“Probably not yet, but it’s a start.”
Cinder doesn’t even deflate. She takes the plate back from Winter and tries what’s left for herself, and her smile only grows wider. Winter is extraordinarily proud of her. She’s really grown since she decided she wanted to learn how to cook — she’s happier, brighter, gentler. Winter grew up with a household chef and everything, and she has autism, so she’s practically the perfect candidate to experiment on.
“I see what you mean,” Cinder says through a mouthful of potatoes, “it’s like — I don’t know. I see what you mean.”
“Try a different sauce?” Winter suggests.
“Yeah, ketchup probably does bring the quality down somewhat.”
“No, it’s more — it’s too sharp. You want something softer.”
“Right,” she says, still studying the plate. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.”
FILL: Team RWBY
fandom: RWBY
ship: winter/cinder
-
“See, I respect all the work you put into this, but it tastes like shit,” Winter says.
Cinder sighs, taking the plate off her. “I know.”
“It might be a textural thing?” She gestures to the aubergine. “You could try something else with the potatoes, maybe. Otherwise it’s too much.”
“This is why I give it to you first,” Cinder says, picking through the plate with her own fork. “Weiss would just throw the plate in my face.”
“Well, you did push her off a cliff that one time.”
She sighs again. “I know.”
-
The second attempt goes a lot better. Winter dutifully eats most of it, then proclaims, “That was significantly less shit,” and is rewarded with a glowing smile.
“Ready to make everyone else eat?”
“Probably not yet, but it’s a start.”
Cinder doesn’t even deflate. She takes the plate back from Winter and tries what’s left for herself, and her smile only grows wider. Winter is extraordinarily proud of her. She’s really grown since she decided she wanted to learn how to cook — she’s happier, brighter, gentler. Winter grew up with a household chef and everything, and she has autism, so she’s practically the perfect candidate to experiment on.
“I see what you mean,” Cinder says through a mouthful of potatoes, “it’s like — I don’t know. I see what you mean.”
“Try a different sauce?” Winter suggests.
“Yeah, ketchup probably does bring the quality down somewhat.”
“No, it’s more — it’s too sharp. You want something softer.”
“Right,” she says, still studying the plate. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.”