Quite the first impression when Richard returned from his semester abroad. Knocking on Eleanor's door at half past six, when she was likely already up and sipping her morning coffee; unbathed and bearded and rumpled from forty-some-odd hours of travel, smelling of pot besides. Sheepishly grinning, apologizing, he got sidetracked.
By a Cultist. Of course.
He doesn't linger long, if she lets him in. He knows he smells, he knows he's unkempt; he excuses himself straightaway to go shower, go bathe. He's downstairs half an hour later, catching her as she's heading doorward to begin her day as Eleanor Yates, JD, Professor of Law. He hands her something, a tiny pinkish plastic bag, plain, flimsy, not a gift bag at all. The contents are a gift, though
(or perhaps a bribe to not be too angry with him, acarya, pls-and-thankyou):
a stack of golden bangles, the sort you might buy at those crowded street markets in Kolkata, or perhaps off a sidewalk merchant's rug somewhere along the steps up to some ancient temple. A handful of thicker ones ribbed in silver and carved; perhaps as many as a half-dozen thinner ones bearing tiny gold studs. Pretty, and not quite so colorful and brilliant that they would look garish with your average western outfit -- but still unmistakably reminiscent of their land of origin.
As she steps out the door, he hugs her. Her happy, funny, bright-souled apprentice.
--
The next time she sees him, he is back to himself: that horrid beard gone, his hair trimmed back. Not quite short, no -- still that free-falling length, flax-on-gold -- but at least not so out of control. Spring is hitting full stride, and he pads around campus in shorts and sandals, books in his bag, laptop under his arm. Sometimes in the evenings he comes over and they leave the windows open, the ceiling fan gently turning; he studies his advanced mathematics and upper-division astrophysics, she her law.
--
Then it's mid-May. There's that absurd Mother's Day snowstorm. She wakes to find a row of tiny, already-melting snowmen on the outer sill of her kitchen window. One of them is holding a sign, which is to say: there is a little paper note pinned on the end of a little twig that serves as an arm. It just reads:
OMG.
He's in the dining room, or the dining nook -- whichever it is she might have. He has his ankle folded over his knee, a textbook laid over his lap, that long supple spine of his bent into an utterly unergonomic shape as he leans over the pages. There's a bowl of cereal in his hand. He's crunching it down.
"Morning," he says, mouth full. Glances up. "You working today?"
[for posterity: https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3CwnsBClTM4IvsLcCNeLMJRuDZcoduNZqbtFYsdQsAoYIcP8-vaW6E4F58jL4T-GGOFscQgT-6rSKoL-8CLUk8wcXyUNHVgRhBHq63kRtTeXFi8yzo4tjXRBUU57gf0CgU-WIS3W3og/s1600/gold-stacked-bangles.JPG]
Eleanor YatesHe has a key, or had one, before he went to another country. She held it for him. Half past six, when he came over to her house wearing a beard and smelling of weed, Eleanor just handed it back to him, told him there was some extra coffee in the press. She was ready for him; he'd told her when he got back in the state, told her he was going to a party. And Richard has never seen her angry, has never seen a whisper of the sort of rage that blacked out her soul, melted a human body into shattered bones and liquefied pulp, and he does not see a whisper of anger now.
Just welcome, the same as it's ever been since he started hanging around here, since he started calling her acarya. Since before. The guest room and guest bath are clean and Eleanor lives close enough to the university that she decides to wait for him to come back down, which he does, but with a gift.
She is a little amused, tumbling the bangles onto her hand, looking up at him with a little smile. Thanks him with moderation, as with so many things, and puts them back in their little pink bag, folding the top down, setting it on the counter for safekeeping when she heads out.
He has a key. Perhaps he stays there to shave, or goes ahead and lets the barber who cuts his hair do that, too. Perhaps he leaves, and they see each other later on.
--
Spring comes late but sudden and warm, even hot, and Eleanor wears looser clothing, puts her hair up more but it is always a bit messy when she does, sheds the coats and heavier shoes, there is more white wine than red when they stand around playing Wii Bowling on rare occasion. Rare, because they are not buddies, precisely. He has friends to hang out with, many of them; sometimes they just take breaks from studying, that's all. With beer and wine and Wii.
--
Winter comes back for a surprise guest appearance. It's absurd.
They are both early risers, for the most part. Richard was an Olympian; Eleanor just prefers to exercise at dawn instead of later in the day. So by the time she comes downstairs to see the snowmen, made of the fluffy, high-piled snow that came on during the night, she has already gotten in a short run and almost an hour of yoga. And a shower. And she's dressed. He asks, upon seeing her, if she'll be working today, and she gives a faint smirk-smile, the way her lips often move.
"Of course," she says, which she would, having spent her entire life in this state, with far worse weather than this. She drives an SUV and lives a hop and a skip away from her office; she really has no excuse. Nor, one should mention, do any of her students, as far as she's concerned. "Exams this week," she reminds him, knowing he doesn't know; the College of Law has a different calendar than the rest of DU. She glances at the window, then back to him.
"Did you miss the snow, when you were in India?"
Richard"How do you know I didn't climb Everest?" Richard replies, mock-mysterious. He drops the charade a moment later; smiles that broad smile. "But no. I didn't miss it. I did actually pass through Tibet, though. It was hell getting a visa for that."
He sets his bowl of cereal aside; closes her book carefully with two fingers, the other two perhaps a little bit sticky from a drop of spilled milk. Swinging about to set the book on a convenient shelf or windowsill, Richard unfolds to his feet, taking down a mug to pour her a cup of still-hot water.
"Which tea?" -- this, with the tea cabinet open, his fingers hovering over the choices.
Eleanor Yates"You would have told me," Eleanor says breezily to that, walking toward the fridge to get a cup of yogurt. Richard has risen, talking of Tibet, and she smiles. "That's what you get for doing it legally," she tells him, which does not sound like a joke at all.
He asks about tea. She thinks a moment. "Let's go with the chai," which means he should take down the honey pot, and which means that she gets out the cream from the fridge when she gets her cup of goat's milk yogurt.
RichardWith nimble fingers he plucks down the box of chai, and with it, the honey-pot. As she gets the cream, he pours himself a mug as well, then drops in teabags -- or perhaps loose-leaf in a tea ball.
"Well," he says, smiling, "I thought my Acarya wouldn't be too pleased to receive a call at 2am informing her that her wayward apprentice had been jailed for violating the borders of the People's Republic. Here," he passes her one of the mugs.
Eleanor Yates"Better me than your parents, for something like that," she says pragmatically. He passes her the mug, bag of tea lowered into it already, and she sets it on the counter to steep while she takes the top off of her yogurt, getting out a spoon and looking over at him. Up at him.
"I'm serious. If something like that happens, I should be one of the first people you notify. Particularly if it's a legal matter, or a magical one."
RichardRichard's smile turns wry. "You know, I'd actually somehow forgotten that international criminal law would be right up your alley."
Bright, dynamic creature that he is, he doesn't let his chai steep for very long. He actually doesn't even let it steep: he swirls the ball around a few times and then pulls it out, setting it on an empty saucer in case he wants a second mug.
"Don't worry," he adds, serious now -- serious, but still smiling, and somehow so very fond, "of course I'd call you first. Or maybe reach across time-space and rearrange particles of sand into an S.O.S. for you to read." He lifts mug to mouth; sips.
Eleanor YatesAt that, Eleanor gives a thin yet comical smile, eyebrows arched, spreading her hands with the palms up. See? You get it now.
"Call first," she says, laughing. "It's a lot easier. But in all seriousness, next time you want to go to Tibet, or need to get into Tibet, just let me know. I may be able to get in touch with someone over there who could help. Not that I'm encouraging you to be heedless or foolhardy, just --"
Eleanor pauses, then shrugs. "I wouldn't tell you to ask for help in this way if I thought you would ask without necessity."
RichardRichard looks -- well, touched. And warmed. He smile breaks forth again, wide and warm in turn. "Sometimes," he says, "I'm reminded of just how much you honor me with your trust, Acarya."
Returning to the table, he resettles in his seat, picking up his cereal to gulp down the rest of it -- soggy flakes and all. "And you're right," he adds. "I would have told you if I'd climbed Everest. The thought did actually cross my mind, but with all the training and conditioning involved, I wouldn't have come back to Denver for at least another six months. Maybe next time.
"I was thinking," the conversation shifts, "of going up to the Chantry sometime soon. Do you want to come with?"
Eleanor YatesHe was sheepish when he showed up. He hoped she wasn't angry with him. He's touched that she doesn't think he would call her just to get him out of trouble, if he deserved the damn trouble. The more he gets to know her, the more he will realize that it wasn't a fluke that she took him on as her apprentice. It wasn't a kneejerk thing, a guess, a moment of wishfulness. She thought well of him more than a year ago; it was already there.
So she scoffs quietly and takes her teabag out of the water, setting it on the same saucer as his, stirring in honey til it melts, then cream, til her mug has a milky dark brown liquid inside of it, smelling sweet and spicy. She sips, glancing at the clock, but she's in no rush just yet; her first final to proxy today isn't til later. She has meetings, though.
"One of these summers," she says, "we should climb Everest. We already live in the Rockies; we can do some of the altitude training here. We're both in good shape." And, she doesn't say, we are both more aware than most of the immediacy, inevitability, and mercilessness of death. He asks about the chantry as she sips. She gives a little shrug. "I wouldn't be opposed. Why?"
Richard"You know," Richard replies, brightening, "I was this close to asking if you wanted to come with when I climb Everest." Oh, now it's a when. "I just thought I ought to wait until I had a date in mind.
"And," Chantry-wise, "I suppose I thought I should. To establish formal contact, to continue my studies, all that. I've met a few more mages in the city," he adds, "but they were all casual meetings with little to no mention of the craft.
"Do you think it's a bad idea?"
Eleanor Yates"Well, next summer," she says, not two years from now, not midwinter, no: they have about a year to train up, finish the 2014-2015 school year, and then go climb Everest.
If they both live that long.
"The library there is under lockdown," Eleanor says, "but it is extensive, and cross-traditional. It's useful. And no," she adds, starting in on her yogurt, "I don't think it's a bad idea. I've never spent much time at the Chantry. It's very different from the marabouts and other chantries I've been it. It's residential, but distant. It used to be held by a sole cabal, so there was always some tip-toeing to make sure you stayed on good terms with them."
She shrugs. "I don't find a sense of community there, and so other than the library and the node, it has little to offer. I know this may seem strange coming from me, but it's... cold."
RichardSomething about that,
I know it may seem strange coming from me,
makes Richard's eyebrows tug together. There's always been a subtle dichotomy to his face, perhaps most evident when he frowns like that. Under the golden hair, the golden tan, the cerulean-blue eyes, there is sometimes a hint of something else. The darkness of his eyebrows. The rather angular, harsh lines of his bones. The cheeks that could, if he didn't smile so often to crease and dimple them, seem hollow, lean, almost gaunt. The eyes that could be penetrating and stark.
It's not hardness or ferocity that makes him frown now. It never is, though sometimes it is an intense focus that could nearly be mistaken for such. Right now, it's not that either. It's -- something a little more like ache.
"Why would that be strange coming from you?" he says quietly. "Acarya, your heart is not cold. I know that."
Eleanor Yates[I can't believe I forgot this.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 4, 8, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )
Eleanor YatesThere's that smile again, a little dry. "I meant my resonance, Richard," she says wryly. She thinks of teasing him for his frown, his ache, his worry over her, thinks of telling him that it's good to know that's the first place his mind went, but:
she doesn't. He looks so serious in his worry. But the truth is, like his concern that she might be mad at him or might have an averse reaction to him showing up at dawn smelling of pot or calling him from half a world away because he's been arrested, his sudden clenching of the heart that Eleanor might refer to herself as cold-hearted seems so earnest. And she cherishes his earnestness, even when it is this misdirected, misplaced. She doesn't mock him for caring. She wouldn't.
Eleanor just eats her yogurt. "I think you should go. But be prepared for what it may be, and what it's less likely to be, and consider what you might want to make it become. As with most things."
Richard Levasseur"Oh," says Richard -- corrected, chastened, a touch embarrassed. Not terribly, though, and not in any lasting sense. His grin is wry for a moment. "Obviously I misunderstood."
And then it passes. He considers what she says and said; he sips his chai, which he takes with plenty of cream but only a little honey.
"I think I will go," he agrees, "but I'll try not to expect too much. For what it's worth, I'll be happy if I can obtain access to the library. The community aspect -- well, it'd be nice, but hardly necessary. I'm not hurting for friends.
"I'm curious about the chantry's past, though. How did a single cabal manage to take control of an entire chantry and its node?"
Eleanor Yates"A community of people who understand can be valuable, even if they aren't your friends," Eleanor mentions, because that is a difference: a community of magi, a horde of friends who can't ever grasp why you talk the way you talk or believe what you believe or why you have to go, right now, with that professor wearing all-black.
"Such a community is why we were able to have your ritual the way we did, or went to that party overseas." She gives a little shrug; she is not overly worried, but talks to him as though he can take what she has to say and think about it. It's all she really expects of him. "I never want you to be detached from sleepers. For many, that's the danger -- they can't even exist like other people anymore. But for you, I think it's more likely that you'll always be a little separate from other magi. Look at your life, Awakened, before you and I met."
He mentions the chantry's past, and maybe she is avoiding the topic, or maybe she is just focusing elsewhere for the moment, but she doesn't answer.
Richard Levasseur"You're probably right," Richard replies -- still wry, though perhaps a little wistful now as well. "Though, I like to think maybe I'll have a community within the Awakened one day. That maybe I'm already -- partly through your contacts -- developing one.
"I think I'll always just be a little more selective with my Awakened friends than I am with my Sleeper friends. That seems prudent, though. Bad influences amongst Sleeper friends are dangerous enough."
Eleanor Yates"You absolutely should be," Eleanor says, in firm agreement. "It's hard enough to establish trusting relationships with anyone; it can be harder still when you're dealing with literal mind-readers and the occasional narcissistic megalomaniac with an enchanted gun."
Richard LevasseurRichard grins. It is sudden and bright. "Now," he says, "why do I feel like you're speaking from personal experience? Especially about the megalomaniacs with enchanted guns."
Eleanor YatesShe pshes to that, waving a hand. "You met plenty of both kinds at that party," she says, then thinks: "And perhaps a few at your Agama Te, too."
Sips her chai. Takes a spoonful of yogurt. "You just have to be careful with people who can affect real, immediate, and individual change on the universe. For the most part, we are self-governing anarchists no matter what ties we have to our traditions. And there's no entrance exam to being able to do magic. There is even, some might say, a predeliction towards mental illness that goes hand-in-hand with quite literally seeing a reality opposed to the reality shared by the majority of the world."
Eleanor gives him a small, thin smile.
"In our own tradition, you have to contend with learning how to deal with people who, at times, have the supernatural reek of death. It doesn't always mean they're a bad person; I've carried the taint of Jhor before." Eleanor's smile fades. "Sometimes it can mean they're a sociopath."
Richard Levasseur"That party," Richard says, "was one of the most interesting experiences I've had."
Which is neither here nor there. But he says it, because it's true, and because she brought him, and because -- well; because he wants her to know, he supposes. He wants her to know he appreciated it.
"Well," he returns that small, thin smile of hers: his own large, warmer, not quite so thin, "at least I know that's not what it means for you."
When he first met her those smiles made him a little uncomfortable, perhaps. He, like so many before him, wondered if she was sick. Wondered if she simply didn't like wasting her time on pupils. Wondered if she was unfriendly or distant or cold. He knows better now. On some level, he likes those smiles now: small as they are, thin as they are, they are genuine.
"I don't think I've ever asked," he says a moment later, his longfingered hands wrapped around that mug of still-warm chai, "did you have an Acarya of your own? Or did you learn from -- from Henrik?"
Eleanor YatesPrecisely.
He needs a community of Awakened: he needs to be careful about what trust he gives to people in that community. And they will not always be the same as friends, but sometimes they will be. Sometimes they will be interesting and fleeting and sometimes they will give him a key to their house and moments after acknowledging that their souls have been twisted and dark at one point
and moments after smiling, with acceptance, the acknowledgement that their souls aren't anymore, and won't be,
they will say something like this:
"I learned a lot from Henrik, but I had my own mentor. We had a different sort of relationship, though. More formal, in some ways. And more distant."
Wait, no, that's not the Something Like This. It's what comes after, after she takes a sip of chai, looks at him, says:
"Richard, if you don't already, I think you should have at least one firearm. Fully legal, registered, the works. You should get a hunting license as well, if you plan on getting and keeping a rifle. But I want you to know, in case you ever need one, I can make sure you have something unregistered, too."
Richard LevasseurRichard wasn't expecting that. He blinks. He stirs his chai. He looks at her again.
"I've only fired a gun once in my life," he says, frank and open, "and that was only because I made friends with one of the marksmen on the team. My parents were bohemian free-spirits who raised me amongst the latter-day hippies of Berkeley. Shooting was definitely not one of the things they wanted to teach me.
"Which isn't to say I have something against it. I don't. It's just -- not something I've thought much about. I'll learn, if you think it's wise, or necessary.
"Is it? Necessary, I mean. Even if I have little intention, right now, of being a Wheel-Turner who turns the wheel by killing? Is it so dangerous out there?"
Eleanor YatesEleanor just looks at him for a few moments, and then she nods. "I think it's necessary. And while personally I feel a measure of annoyance --" her tone suggests it may even border on disgust, "for the 'enthusiasts' you will meet at ranges and shops and the occasional show, I think that a lack of preparation on your part, or on the part of many mages, often does create an emergency on everyone's part."
She takes her yogurt cup to the sink to rinse it off, to place her spoon in the dishwasher.
"Last fall, I went to see a movie at the Mayan. As it turned out, the film drove several people insane as they watched it. A snakelike, chitinous creature emerged from the screen. There were a few other Awakened there, by fate, but none who could do much about it. One who ran at the thing trying to kick and punch it, which it ignored. I told them all to get down. I enchanted the bullets in my weapon. And then I killed it."
She speaks matter-of-factly, and without pride. She does not feel good about herself that Grace, Sid, Shoshannah and Mara would likely have been badly injured if not killed that night if she hadn't been present. She would not have felt bad about herself if she had not been there, or had not had a firearm handy, and if they had all been badly injured or killed. But she knows that in the long run, all of them surviving is probably better than the alternative, and more people were not severely injured or killed.
That story is longer, but she doesn't share the end of it, which was months after the fact, and more complicated, and which she does sometimes feel bad about. Maybe another time.
"I think you should always think through what your intention is when you pick up a weapon of any kind, even if it's not a gun. I think that your intention should have a path to fruition. I think that most mages I have met in this city don't know much what to do when faced with something dangerous other than to run, try and affect its intentions with mind magic, or make friends with it. I think that sometimes, many Awakened don't give much thought to how they'll protect themselves, whether because of hubris or denial or some other instinct... or because they know that the Euthanatoi are out there, and will kill the things that go bump in the night before they ever have to face them.
"I think," Eleanor finishes, "it would be good for you to know, and to be prepared. I think the safest place for a gun to be is in the hands of someone who is not really inclined to make use of it, but knows how, if they must."
Richard LevasseurTwo years ago, the sort of thing Eleanor talks about would be entirely beyond Richard's scope of comprehension. Movies that drive the audience insane. Things that emerge, chitinous and crawling. Even now, the thought of it bends his mind a bit.
Not as much as before. It's been an interesting two years. He's crossed into the land of the dead. He's seen horrors there. He's gone around the world, studied -- if only briefly -- at the feet of masters. He's learned to work magic of his own, to create his own luck, to sense the very fabric of space and time and matter and energy. He's found his acarya quite literally across the curtain of life and death. He can believe -- even if he can't quite imagine -- the things she speaks of.
There's a flicker of a smile, too, when she says: by fate. Because of course she does. Not luck, not chance, but fate.
--
"I suppose I just thought if I were ever attacked, I'd try to make a piano fall on my attacker's head." There's humor in it, but a thread of honesty too: that is what he would do. He would tug the strands of fate; he would nudge the spin of the electron. "But a gun does seem a little more practical.
"I could use your recommendations," he says. "I think I'll start with a handgun. Maybe we can go gun shopping together." Pause. "How do you enchant a bullet?"
Eleanor YatesThat makes her laugh. Oh, it must be a good day. She got up on time, she had her run, she practiced yoga, she came down fresh-faced and willing to eat, to share tea, to talk about all manner of things. It must be a good day for her, if she does all these things, and then she laughs at the image of Richard making a piano fall on an opponent's head.
"It's good to have," she says, which is her last word on the subject of Should You, at least. The how, she can help with more practically. The when and why, Richard will have to seek on his own... though of course, as with anything he seeks on his own, she's there if he wants to reach out. She'll always talk.
"We'll go to a shop sometime. There's a place in Lakewood I like, BluCore, operated by a couple of former SEALs. It's less... bonkers-fringe than most ranges. You'll be able to get a feel for different pieces there, do some training with them. I'll teach you what I can,"
and while he has never seen her use a handgun, that first time at a range will be eye-opening,
"including how to enchant the bullets. It takes a little more knowledge of Prime than I think you have currently. Enchanting a weapon -- whether a sword or knife or bullet -- allows it to cut through an entity's very Pattern, making its effect much more severe. That's particularly helpful when dealing with things that aren't human, which have natural armor or regenerative capabilities. Do not ever shoot a werewolf without enchanting the bullets first," she adds, very firmly.
Richard LevasseurRichard almost laughs at the werewolf line. Well -- he does laugh: but then he realizes she's serious. Werewolves. Of course. He should have expected it; they meet ghosts all the time.
"Acarya, I think I'll try to avoid shooting werewolves altogether," Richard says, smiling. "Actually, I think I'm going to try to avoid shooting anything, period. But as you said: it'll be good to know and be prepared. To shoot if I must, and to shoot,"
he does take a breath here, and it is a breath that surely Eleanor and others of her ilk, so experienced, so steady, would not take,
"to kill."
He finishes the last of his chai, then. He discovers he does want a refill: a second, milder cup steeped from the same leaves. Maybe a little more honey this time. He gets up to prepare it, holding his hand out for her cup as he passes in case she wants a refill.
"I'm going to go study on campus today," he says. "I'll probably be back here tonight though. And maybe over the weekend we can go to BluCore, if you have time."
Eleanor YatesShe laughs a little at that, too -- the line about avoiding shooting werewolves, full stop. It's a light sound, youthful, because when you think of it she is still quite young. It doesn't last long, because he's being serious. And she doesn't feel the need to repeat what she said before, but here is where she would tell him that she believes that the safest place, the right place, for a gun to be is in the hand of someone who doesn't want to shoot it, who hesitates before they say kill,
but knows how to shoot it. Who knows how to kill.
If he must.
--
Eleanor does not want a refill; she is rinsing out her mug quickly, setting it in the dishwasher. "Let's plan on that," she says, closing the dishwasher again, which -- by now -- she almost assumes Richard will start after he's had his tea. When he stays here, overnight or for a weekend or just a few hours, he's never been a poor guest. It doesn't feel like he's a guest at all, just someone who occasionally lives here, even for just a short while at a time.
"I just have a couple of tests to proxy today, but the rest of my schedule is meetings," she says. "I shouldn't be much later than four or five, though. I was going to make coconut curry," which means cauliflower and broccoli and carrots and onions and potatoes and other vegetables cut chunky into a spicy, creamy sauce, "if you want to share."
Richard LevasseurRichard does, and will, start that dishwasher before he leaves. There have been occasions when he didn't, but never out of negligence. Usually because it was too empty to justify the power and water expenditure; occasionally because they were out of detergent or out of rinse agent or something of the sort.
He's conscientious about how long he occupies the washer and dryer, too. And whether or not he leaves lights on when he departs. And whether the doors are locked, whether the windows are closed. All the things that one would do if one were trying to be a good guest, Richard does -- only he does it not because he is a good guest but because it feels like he lives here. Occasionally. A short while at a time.
He has a few changes of clothes in the dresser in the guest room, too. A toothbrush in the bathroom; that sort of thing. A pair of swim goggles hanging on the doorknob some days.
--
"Maybe I'll go to my discussion section then," he says, and the truth is: Richard is a fairly self-motivated learner. Since the more regimented schedule of his first year, he's gradually found his own learning style. These days -- a sophomore, soon to be a junior -- he only goes to lectures if the class is especially interactive. Otherwise, he watches lectures online; he reads on his own time. He does practice questions, lots and lots of them. Discussion sections are rare-attendance events, but he's a common sight at office hours.
He learns better this way, which is the way he learns with Eleanor: reading in quietude and solitude, meeting one-on-one with the professor to discuss particularly compelling theories, arguments or points.
"I'll probably still be back before you," he adds, settling back into his chair for a bit more reading while she readies herself to depart. "I'll make some naan and maybe start cutting the vegetables."
Which is his way of saying: yes, he would like to share.
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