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In Broun’s defense, they’ve got a lot going on. Also in Broun’s defense they figure it out eventually. They don’t get a lot of downtime these days, and that’s only going to get worse, they can tell. So they’re a little focused on working, so what? That kind of thing happens sometimes. It’s fine.
But eventually, some part in the back of their mind puts together that three days ago Valence called them to ask for clarification on the difference between appetizers and desserts. And then two days ago they called to ask about different spices, and then later that day they called to ask about what to do if food is too spicy. And then yesterday they visited Broun’s workshop to borrow a saucepan — Broun doesn’t have a good saucepan, obviously, but they had something good enough to cook in so they handed it over without a second thought.
So today, when Valence comes in and the pieces of the puzzle have finally slotted together, Broun says, “Are you trying to learn to cook?”
Valence cocks their head. “Ye-es?” they say, sort of questioningly, like maybe they think this is a test, or they think Broun should’ve picked up on it before. Which, okay, they should’ve, but that’s not the point.
Broun leans back in their chair, taking the opportunity to roll their shoulders. They’ve been working for most of the day, and their muscles are feeling it. “Why?”
“Because I feel like I should.”
“No, but why?”
“It seemed fun,” Valence admits freely. “Like, I don’t need to eat the same way you do, but I like eating food, and I like trying different things.”
Broun considers this. Valence has their whole robot-gas-cloud deal, but they’ve definitely eaten before. And cooking is kind of a normal hobby to have, and Valence seems the kind of person to try and have aggressively normal hobbies. “Can you taste things?”
“Sort of. I have chemical receptors that can process taste and replicate the sensations.”
“That doesn’t count,” Broun says. “Is it a texture thing, is that why you like eating?”
“There’s not a particular reason,” Valence says, unfazed. “I just… enjoy it.”
They nod. “What’s the question of the day?”
“Where do you find recipes?”
“Books, mostly. I’m not exactly a fountain of recipes, I eat instant things when I can.”
“I know,” Valence says politely, in a way that they absolutely don’t mean to be judgmental but kind of results in Broun feeling judged anyways. “I’ll find books. Thanks.”
“No problem,” Broun says. “Are you done with the pan?”
“You know it’s not a real saucepan, right?”
“It works as one.”
Valence sets the pan precariously on a counter. Broun’s workspace isn’t what you would call immaculate, so the pan (which is actually more of a bowl that they can use to hold dangerous materials) is barely balanced on top of some other stuff. They’re not even sure what stuff it is. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”
“No problem.” Brown eyes the bowl-pan and then looks at Valence. “Have fun cooking.”
Valence seems to take that as the dismissal it is. “Have fun working,” they say, and head out on their way.
Broun slumps back in their chair. They really do prefer instant food, but— well, it’s not like Valence is going to care much about instant food, if they’re learning to cook. And Broun can technically, sort of, if they try, cook acceptable things.
“Goddammit,” they mutter. They can already tell where this is going to go.
#
It takes until the next day to gather supplies and get everything set up. Which is probably for the best, because that means they and Valence will have the whole day to themselves. They’ll have time. This is good, and is definitely not stalling.
Pushing the psychic bond… thing… is always a little uncomfortable for Broun. They’re not overly concerned with etiquette, but this is Valence’s brain, and that’s the kind of thing they feel like they should be careful with. There’s probably some kind of Nobel etiquette about using the psychic bond, but it’s faster than calling, so Broun uses it sometimes. Also, it’s cool to have a psychic bond, sue them.
To start, they send a cautious pulse through the brainwaves. Valence can do this thing where they send thoughts without words, really sending more impressions than anything, and Broun has been trying to learn how to do that. This opening salvo could best be verbalized as hey, what’s up, is now a good time to poke at your brain, so Broun tries to concentrate that energy without words.
They’re probably never going to get used to it, but Valence always answers with a split second of unmitigated delight. Broun has never asked about that, because of etiquette or whatever, and definitely not because they don’t want to know if that’s how Valence answers everyone or just them.
“You’re getting better at that,” says Valence’s not-voice in Broun’s not-ear. This is a solid thought, like a conversation, like they’re talking.
“I’m practicing,” Broun says, and clamps down tight on the part of their brain that wants to preen at the praise. “You’re still doing that cooking thing, right?”
“Yes,” Valence says, like they’re trying not to laugh at Broun. “I’m still doing the cooking thing.”
“Have you ever done a food tour?”
“What’s a food tour?”
“It’s kind of… exactly what it sounds like. You try food from different places. Part of knowing how to cook is knowing what tastes good, right?”
“Right,” Valence says. Broun can almost feel them warming up to the idea. “Is that what we’re doing today?”
“If you want.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“No, I’ll met you,” Broun says, as though this is not a suspicious thing to say. Valence doesn’t push it. “And it’ll probably be fifteen. But I’ll see you soon.”
“See you soon,” Valence echoes. “You wanna practice hanging up?”
“Always,” Broun says. This is another thing that they’ll never tell Valence, but they’re worried that ending a brain-conversation is going to lead to ending the brain-link altogether. So every chance they get to end it themself and prove that the link is still there, they’ll take it.
Sure enough, they can still feel Valence in their hindbrain, curled up like a cat by a furnace, there and present and sated. They take a breath, relishing the warmth and familiarity, and head on their way.
#
Broun likes big open-air markets. First of all, it’s very un-Kesh (and kind of an Apostolosian thing, so it sates the homesick parts of their brain that they don’t acknowledge) and therefore good. Second of all they like the noise and the bustle, the constant motion. Third of all they get their best ideas when they’re surrounded by people.
And fourth of all — this is a secret thing, going on a private list — Valence looks absolutely wonderstruck. They’ve definitely been to markets and stuff before, Broun has been there, and they definitely didn’t enjoy those the way they’re enjoying this. But sometimes having a mission you care about makes places like this a little more palatable.
Speaking of palatable. “I’ve got a list of things we’re looking for,” Broun says. “Not in a shopping way, but in an experience way. Because sometimes it’s good to eat good food.”
“You don’t seem like you eat a lot of good food.”
“Special occasions,” Broun lies. They can acknowledge when food is good, sure, but that’s not the same as knowing how to cook, or how to create flavor combinations or any of that. Or even being able to appreciate good restaurants. But for Valence’s sake they can be a foodie for a day.
They have a route through the market half in mind, a rough to-do list to make sure Valence gets a bit of everything. This particular market is almost entirely Kesh food, which… sure. It’s all a little boring, in Broun’s opinion, but it’s cheap. So they guide Valence through stalls of creamy potatoes and noodles in too-rich sauce, desserts and treats and other things that seem far too fancy to be this universal.
And they find more, too. A stall that sells Nideo food, so Broun gets them a bucket of fried vegetables the size of their head, and they split it as they wander through the market. A whole corner of Orion food, which is all nutritionally dense, meat and potatoes, not particularly tasty but at least interesting. It’s a nice opportunity for Broun to talk about nutrients and the science behind food, something they actually give a damn about.
And through it all Valence takes everything Broun offers, with no shortage of wonder on their face. They pay for a lot of the food, and after a while Broun stops offering, because of gift horses or whatever. They ask the vendors question after question about ingredients, techniques, seasoning, imports, advice. The vendors answer curtly. Broun’s not sure if them glaring at the vendors is actually helping Valence’s case or not. It could go either way.
Either way, it takes all day. They don’t talk much, because they’re both constantly stuffing their faces, and Broun kind of wants to let Valence experience this without someone else poking in their brain. But they can feel Valence in their own mind, gentle and open and amazed. A little too much to look at directly, but that’s always been the case.
Valence holds off on the excessive gratitude and thank-yous that Broun can practically feel bubbling away beneath their surface, all the way up until they make it back to Broun’s apartment. And then Valence says, “This was—”
“Not over,” Broun says, and opens the door.
It’s surprising, actually, that the smell makes them tear up. They knew this was going to happen. They don’t have a lot of proper Apostolosian food; it’s hard to find on Partizan, at least on their parts of Partizan, and besides, none of it ever tastes as good as food from Apostolos. Broun doesn’t go out of their way to cook often, and when they do it’s rarely something slow-cooked, rarely something that smells like home.
“What is that?” Valence says, that same note of awe in their voice.
Broun’s still a little lost for words, trapped in their own nostalgia. So they plunge into their memory with both hands until they find one that’s suitably non-embarrassing. They were younger, and it was a friend’s birthday, so they made this stew because it was a family recipe, and it was a hit at the party.
Memory sharing is new, an unfamiliar blade of grass in an unfamiliar field, so they imagine cupping their hands around the memory and holding it out to Valence. They can tell the exact moment that it connects because Valence takes a sharp breath.
Sometimes, Broun wonders if they should be embarrassed about this. The openness. The clumsiness. They’re considering being embarrassed now (or, more accurately, being embarrassed about what’s happening right now, later tonight) when Valence says, “You made this?”
The for me is unspoken, but Broun can hear it anyways. They clear their throat. “I had some spices,” they say, and don’t add that everything is actually a little less pungent than it should be because it’s old, that this is meant to be hovered over and tended to and not thrown into a slow cooker. Something tells them Valence wouldn’t care about any of that. “Do you want to try?”
“Yes,” Valence says, as though it’s obvious, as though they’re sure. “I would.”