i am many, and i am none

[orumad]

it should be no consolation to piper that paige immediately shuffles into the kitchen with a look of scandalized reproach, brows furrowed together, mouth screwed up. "i did too buy the stupid baking powder!" there is actually a completely different, possibly worse reason for paige's avoidancy, thanks! "it's not my fault this kitchen looks like it was organized by somebody with ocd from hell. here -- see, i put it right in here, with all the other boxy things." voice is muffled, then reemerges from the pantry, a box of baking soda in her hands.

there's hardly any time to call paige on her mistake, she continues, "and another thing? distribution of tasks." the box thunks onto the crowded counter so she can loft her hands to her hips, more brazen by the minute and thrilled to use some buzz word terms learnt after enough HR meetings. "there are three people in this house -- four, even! and who cooks the least?" a beat of wandering thought. "well, okay, maybe phoebe and i are tied, but --," she gestures both hands, fingers splaying up, "i've been so busy stocking up on potions, i practically live at the apothecary shop and, frankly, we're lucky i didn't mistake psyllium husk for baking powder." she finishes with a hard tap to the top of, again, the box of baking soda.

[firebad]

Piper didn't even pause her knife. She just shifted her weight to one hip, the blade coming down with a precise, rhythmic chop-chop-chop that felt distinctly threatening. Her eyes tracked Paige as she shuffled in, completely unmoved by the look of scandalized reproach on her youngest sister's face. Piper’s eyebrows shot up so high they practically merged with her hairline as Paige emerged from the pantry, triumphantly brandishing her prize.

"That is baking soda, Paige. Not baking powder," Piper said, her voice dropping into that dangerously calm, flat register she used right before she lost her temper. She didn't look down as the box thunked onto the counter, keeping her eyes locked on Paige instead. "Which means if I used that, my cake would taste like metallic soap and rise about as much as Leo’s enthusiasm for doing the dishes. And it's called organization, so things don't get lost in the vortex you call a purse."

She finally set the knife down, crossing her arms tightly over her flour-dusted apron as Paige launched into her corporate HR defense strategy. Piper’s head tilted, her jaw clenching slightly at the phrase 'distribution of tasks.' She let out a dry, humorless scoff, her eyes narrowing as Paige tapped the wrong box for emphasis.

"Oh, I am so sorry to interrupt your gruelling schedule of organizing tiny glass jars, Paige, really," Piper sarcastically shot back, stepping around the island to close the distance between them. "But seeing as Phoebe is out doing some big interview, and I am running a club, raising a magical toddler, and trying to bake comfort food so we don't all kill each other, yeah, you get the grocery run. Now, since you clearly didn't look at the label, what is the actual reason you were hiding? Because you only bring out the buzzwords when you’ve broken something, orbed something into a volcano, or accidentally bound our powers again. Spill."

[firebad]

@orumad

The manor kitchen is filled with the frantic, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of a wire whisk beating a bowl of heavy cream into submission. Piper Halliwell does not have time for an existential crisis, a magical crisis, or whatever crisis Paige is currently harbouring, which means she is going to bake about it instead.

Her shoulders are tight, her jaw locked in that familiar, stubborn line that usually precedes something exploding. Piles of flour dust the marble island, a half-dozen eggs sit waiting to be cracked, and the scent of vanilla is doing absolutely nothing to soothe her nerves. Piper checks her watch, then glances sharply toward the kitchen doorway, her eyes narrowing as if she could willing her youngest sister to appear.

"Paige!" Piper barks, her voice carrying that perfect blend of maternal authority and big-sister impatience. She slams the metal bowl down on the counter a little harder than necessary, a stray dollop of whipped cream flying off the whisk and landing squarely on her forearm. With a heavy, long-suffering sigh, she wipes it off with a dishtowel and tosses the cloth over her shoulder. "If you are avoiding me because you forgot to buy the baking powder, I swear to God, I will turn you into something small and easily squishable!"

[firebad]

@orumad

She doesn't look up when the door opens; she doesn't need to. She knows the exact cadence of Sebastian’s footsteps, the specific brand of arrogant friction he brings into a room. Instead, she keeps her focus, her manicured fingers idly turning the pages of a leather-bound, handwritten ledger she’d stolen from the Headmaster’s private study just a day prior. "The headmaster keeps a meticulous diary of every student's psychological breaking point, and honestly, the man has no imagination," She doesn't look at him, but her tone dictates the room's gravity, closing off any space for him to interrupt. "He thinks suspension is a punishment. He thinks a bad grade is a tragedy, and he's ignorantly blind to the fact that the real wreckage happens when people get exactly what they think they want."

She turns a page, her eyes scanning a name with dark relish before her gaze finally flicks up to lock onto his. Her smile is sharp, clever, and entirely unbothered by the white dust coating her designer shoes. "Everyone expects us to tear down the innocent, but that’s a spectator sport for amateurs. Look at Headmaster Reynolds. A man who has spent forty years policing our morality while secretly laundering the school’s endowment fund to cover his gambling debts in Atlantic City. He thinks he’s a god in this valley." She closes the ledger with a heavy, final thud, leaning forward until the shadows fell away from her face, leaving only her brilliant, dangerous eyes. "I don't want his money, and I don't want him fired. I want him compromised."