The little shadow that runs through the grass

magicandsteel:

Tim shrugs, glancing over at the timer on the oven: he’s got a few minutes before he has to deal with the food, yet. “If you’d like you could borrow my memory of how it tastes- I’m very much accustomed to people rifling around in my head.”

He eyes the cabinet she’s playing with: he’s got an actual grenade stashed in there- his place was being used to store the weaponry they were accumulating to deal with the threat- and he’s not entirely sure how well she’d take seeing that. “You literally exploded? Damn, Messy.” he laughs. “My favourite food? That’s actually a really tough question.

“Much obliged to you,” says Messy warmly, flushing up a tiny bit, and slips inside; it’s a careful process, very careful, circumnavigating all the thoughts you leave alone for privacy’s sake and all the background chatter. After a moment Tim should feel warmth from the tips of his fingers to the bottom of his feet—itching, tingling, a pleasant humming—as Messy opens her eyes: “Oh, eugh, no, I don’t like it. That’s gross. Deleting it!” She waits patiently for his answer, flexing her foot and resting back against the countertop.