salvage a smile [AV:LNC]

[WT]

The food in the District Four lounge looks familiar enough that every time Wander bites down ve expects a comforting sliver of home, only to end up with a mouthful of disquiet. Not that it's bad, exactly, which is the confusing thing that keeps ver coming back to try again. If anything, it's too good, the cream sauces too rich and the meat so universally tender that ve half wonders whether rich people don't know that you can eat the meat from a lobster's body, too. Some of it is raw, because they can do that, here—leave a dish on a table and know they'll always have enough to replace it if it sits out too long. All of it tastes the way seeing ver face in the mirror after Jizav finishes with the morning's makeup feels.

All of it tastes like the Capitol.

Washing everything down with black coffee helps a bit, if only because it's revolting enough to meet vis expectations perfectly. Wander and the kids aren't—weren't—aren't allowed coffee at home, so ve's only had it at work, swilled en masse to stay awake on early mornings cleaning catches and through the last few long nights at sea when no one had time or energy to bother sprucing up their drinks. That's more or less how Wander's drinking it now, knocking back enough to get ver moving in the morning and enough to drown out the taste of everything else any time ve ends up eating in the lounge instead of the dining hall.

Hopefully the others are having better luck. Wander never really thought about being from District Four before this; it was backdrop, as certain and unremarkable as the constant smell of brine. Now, surrounded by the unknown and by Capitolites who look at ver like something halfway between a bag of money and an unfamiliar bug, ve finds verself keenly, almost furiously proud of everything ve used to take for granted. If this, gussied up and filtered as it is, is the only piece of home that ve can share with the near-strangers joining ver today, then ve hopes it's a good impression.

None of them are friends, yet, but Wander thinks they can get there. Wants to get there. Temple seems tough and kind in equal measure, the sort of person who might not have been out of place on Linares' crew; Bette is harder to read, enough so that Wander thought the invitation might be a long shot, but ve was glad when she took it. And Eve—Ripred, Wander wishes ve'd never met Eve, because she might belong in the Games the least of anyone in this building. Still, if she had to be here, ve's glad they ran into each other. She doesn't remind ver of the kids, exactly—none of them are that timid, and even Cadenza might take up more space—but there's a glimmer of something bright in her that Wander wants to see shining.

"So," Wander says as ve joins them, setting vis latest mug on the coffee table and settling on the couch with a bowl of lobster bisque on vis crossed legs. Without thinking about it ve drums the fingers of one hand against the side of the bowl for a second, then catches verself and sets both hands to tearing apart a piece of bread instead. On reflection, all that coffee might not be doing ver any favors. "Everyone's holding up?"



Title, if not necessarily theme, song is "Salvage a Smile" by Laura Veirs.

[shrimp]

Aunt Pavarti would always tell her, as the smell of fried garlic wafted through the kitchen, that one must bring a piece of themselves when invited over to someone’s else.

She’d tried to inquire about cooking herself, but Tallu and Sardonyx wouldn’t hear of it - she shouldn’t need to worry about it; what if she broke a nail, then what would Sardonyx have to work with? “But you can certainly accompany our chef de cuisine,” Tallu exclaimed. “I’m sure they would be delighted to be blessed with this new recipe from your district.”

Sitting at that dining table, Bette picked at the remnants of the eggs benedict Sardonyx had suggested she try, the most orange yolks she had ever seen running down a biscuit with the leisure of Aunt Pavarti’s Thursday night strolls, of Uncle Silas’ long draws of a cigar on the rooftop and his guilty laugh to “keep this between us, your Aunt Tharshana would have a fit.”

Aunt Pavarti doesn’t cook as much now, not since the earthquake ripped off her arm. Uncle Silas is dead. She picked her words carefully.

“No.”

Family recipes, she had backtracked much later, aren’t hers to divulge. So when Wander Sibley’s invitation arrived nearly a week into their stay, she scoured for the closest things to home and ordered tray-fulls: nearly translucent dosas with unbalanced fixings; a biryani sprinkled with more chicken than cashew; a curry disguised a chutney; not awful naan.

The couch that ve offers them is plush, with an elegant backing crafted out of twisting coral skeletons. She runs her finger absentmindedly over the rough edges as they eat, food foreign to her placed delicately on the plate. Her thoughts drift to craftmanship, wonders what she would have learned how to make had her family grown up along docks and driftwood and barnacles. She supposes she'd be like Wander, with vis calloused hands, weathered from storms. Or what if she was from Two, mining ore from the mountains or sculpting from the earth - unlike Eve, who seems to have been plucked out of the ground without ever having dirtied her hands. Or Ten, nurturing animals or drying leather goods, with a resoluteness like Temple's.

She doesn't believe in fate, but part of her is sure that her family would still be in the wreckage of a disaster.

When Wander speaks she looks, studying vis fidgeting fingers. They all know why they're here, but broaching the actual subject is... It's one way to break the ice. Shatter it, rather. She'd rather not be the first to do it, but time seeps from their breath as they sit here, simmering.

"Alright, given the situation." She scratches at her wrist.

"Thank you for inviting us Wander, the food's delicious. Is it..." She pauses. "Does it hold up to Four?"