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Emma isn't sure why she'd complied with his request. It had come across as a rather cryptic message, and out of the blue at that. She hadn't reached out to him or looked for him for months, not since Rocket had disbanded and her unfortunate run-in with Kingsley and Priam.[break][break]

And yet, here she was, waiting at the door of an old, old friends house. Curiosity had gotten the best of her and she knew that it was a weakness of hers. And yet, she had no control when it came to her softer emotions. [break][break]

"We haven't spoken in months and you reach out to me for this?"[break][break]

Exasperation colours her tone with disgust as she gazes over the man's countertops that presently held baking supplies. This was so mundane and.. normal, and it made her visibly uncomfortable.[break][break]

"This is so mundane, Marcel. Don't tell me you've grown soft under new management."

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[break]


Marcel's lips pull back in a familiar grin - he's not committed but it's friendly.[break][break]

She does not, however, return the gesture. Her expression remains placid and indifferent, but a part of her is mildly, but only mildly, amused by his comment. Of course she hadn't reached out. Most of the time when people walked out of her life she didn't chase after them.[break][break]

Apparently, that wasn't always the case.[break][break]

For a moment she remains still, not moving after him despite the invitation to, however subtle. He speaks freely and fluidly and it's almost jarring despite how familiar he is. Perhaps the familiarity is too much.[break][break]

"I see."[break][break]

Emma does eventually make her way into his kitchen, taking a brief look over the ingredients spread throughout.[break][break]

She disregards his question about whether or not she's baked before - she hasn't. [break][break]

"How many cakes do you think it will take to prove you're a good person?"

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Emma finds herself visibly less on edge or anxious. Her desire to run and hide, to avoid contact, to keep the rest of the world at arms length seems to momentarily come to a halt at how mundane and natural this is. To bake, as if they're baking away their worries and concerns.[break][break]

"Two? Hmm.."[break][break]

Her gaze follows Marcel's hand as his fingertips brush the cover of a recipe book, only for him to open it and search for the specific page. [break][break]

The woman recognizes her friend's handwriting immediately and her lips part ever so slightly in her surprise.[break][break]

But instead of speaking, she resumes her quiet disposition that now feels awkward. But her fingers brush fondly over the familiarity of his scrawling handwriting. The memories she's dredged up are uncomfortable and dark, but they still provide her some sort of comfort.[break][break]

And then she sets to work, busying herself with gathering and borrowing ingredients. For the most part she seems to only mimic his patterns and habits, following his example to a 'T', ensuring perfection.[break][break]

The silence between them extends and closes like a vice, and Emma finally breathes a sigh.[break][break]

"I've.. missed this. You."

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As quickly as her softness brushes her features, it's gone and replaced with the same familiar hardness. Her stony expression returns, firmer than before, mildly astonished by her moment of openness. The woman sighs softly, pulling her hand away from the finished mixture as soon as it's poured.[break][break]

The moment Marcel moves to intercept and gather them to put them in the oven she's retracted, tugged herself away. Familiarity and comfort is soon replaced once again with stiffness. His return of fondness is unexpected and it had caught her off guard despite her own expression of mild affection. To get close to someone was dangerous.[break][break]

At least, it had never brought her anything but pain.[break][break]

"Why did you call me, after all this time?"[break][break]

Oh, Emma.

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[break]


Emma remains silent and observing as she watches Marcel carefully tuck the cakes into the oven. His gloves brush the hot metal but the fabric protects his fingers.[break][break]

Her eyes, ever thoughtful, ever watchful, are brought back to the man's face as he speaks, as he turns back to watch her in turn.[break][break]

He closes the oven door and stands up straight and she finds herself pulling her shoulders back in response, maintaining her impossibly perfect posture, her poise.[break][break]

She isn't expecting his response but she isn't sure why. A part of her wishes it were true, even if his words don't portray deceit she still searches for it. [break][break]

"Is that what we are? Friends?"[break][break]

The woman's voice feels empty, nearly defeated. There's a weight that bears down heavily on her shoulders and makes it hard for her to keep her head up. He's a reminder of her torment, of the horror and the hell she's endured while she served Rocket alongside him.[break][break]

And yet, he seems to stand just a little bit more confidently and easily than she.[break][break]

He asks her a question in return and she isn't sure how to respond so she doesn't. Perhaps, she's afraid of saying too much. Of admitting that he brought her a great and dangerous comfort.