he’s spent a long time tricking himself into thinking he’s suited for domesticity. he still can’t cook anything more complex than a two-egg omelette, still refuses to do most of his own chores, still leaves his things all over the place and huffs at miriam when she asks him to put his socks away–but his home back in the locus was a beautiful example of divine suburbia, and if he can’t do the important things by himself then he at least knows how to take care of the minutia.
in this case, the minutia of the day is interior decorating, and fantasy ikea is his helpless victim. miriam too, he supposes, but if she didn’t want to come along she should have put up more of a fuss.
there’s a basket on his arm, a furrow in his brow, a tank-top with armholes that are entirely too big draped over his Naturally Sculpted Chest. the calid saint, glory-born, god-maker, is crouched in the cutlery aisle, staring at dessert spoons.
“your opinion,” he asks miriam, though there’s no note of an actual question in the flatness of his tone. “i can’t pick between oppressive utilitarianism–” this with a gesture at some offensively plain spoons, the kind that would make you feel grim just by using them; “or antique whimsy.” the whimsical spoons are brass-tinted and engraved with scenes of Woodland Frolicking.
these are the spoons one chooses if they want to invite guests over and make them feel as uncomfortable as possible.
which, given that this is cal we’re talking about… miriam shouldn’t be surprised.
Miriam has an odd way of going about things. It’s subtle at first, hidden behind these sweetness laden smiles that she seems so good at giving. In this case, she’s paying Cal near no mind, driving the cart here and there as she looks at everything from kitchen gadgets to mugs to small appliances. There’s nothing she’s dead set on, though, save for a fun looking set of salt and pepper shakers, alongside an electric kettle.
When Cal calls for her, she skids to a stop, pulling her weight backwards to stop the forward momentum put up by the cart. Hopping down from her spot, Miriam saunters over, half crouching so she can drape herself overtop Cal’s back.
“I think they’re both weird as hell, and I’d rather get spoons that look like they belong to a vampire if we’re going for off putting but not frightening sorts of vibes, you know? If we get fancy plates for special occasions or whatever, we can go full woodland creature there, for contrast. Actually wait-” Miriam wrinkles her nose. “Never mind. I hate that now. I think we should get brass colored silverware, but get nothing else that matches it.”
Reaching up, she pats the messy wrap of hair atop the other’s head, squishing it down and chuckling to herself. The lazy bump of her kissing the back of his head comes a moment later, before Miriam goes to pull herself back to standing.
