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“Bread, butter, cinnamon…the fork does he want all this for?”
Boothill mutters under his breath with a sigh, reading through Reca’s grocery list scrawled on a napkin in half-cursive. The Assistant Director chirps at him from where she sits on his shoulder, as if trying to explain. Unfortunately, despite their recent proximity, he still isn’t any better at interpreting.
“The day I can understand you, I should probably be worried.”
She just chirps at him again.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Boothill can’t remember the last time he’s spent an entire week in one place, doing absolutely nothing. But here he is, still on Penacony. A small hotel room has been his home for longer than he’d usually prefer while he cares for a sick Memokeeper who’d been a complete stranger until mere days ago. It’s been an odd time, but not exactly unpleasant. Despite Boothill’s first impression of Reca as irritating and self-absorbed, they’ve gotten along surprisingly well. Thankfully, the worst of the memetic virus’s effects are in the past. Though Reca still doesn’t feel well, at least Boothill isn’t fearing for his life every time he closes his eyes. Likely, within another week they’ll be going back their separate ways.
For now though, Boothill decides to let himself enjoy relaxing in the peaceful mundanity.
The rest of the groceries are selected and paid for, and Boothill makes the short walk back to the hotel. It’s hard to tell the exact time here on Penacony, but his best guess is still early morning. He’s only been gone for half an hour or so, hoping to get back before Reca wakes up. He’s doing better, but he’s still too weak for Boothill to feel comfortable leaving him alone for long. Combined with his adamant insistence that he’s fine, the director is all too liable to overdo it and end up making himself worse.
Thankfully, by the time Boothill gets back to the room, Reca is still asleep, curled up beneath several blankets to keep warm. The Assistant Director hops down from Boothill’s shoulder, jumping up on the bed to huddle next to Reca. She looks pleased with herself, shutting her little mechanical eyes like she plans on sleeping too.
Boothill can’t help the amused smile that crosses his face as he sits on the edge of the bed. He places a gentle hand on Reca’s forehead, checking his fever to make sure it hasn’t gone up in the time he’s been out.
“Still warm, but not too bad.” He murmurs quietly. “That’s good. Now, you just stay asleep for a while, Memokeeper. How ‘bout that?”
Since Reca doesn’t even stir, Boothill decides to grab a quick shower. The groceries have yet to be put away, but that can wait for later. Reca tends to be a little hissy if he gets woken up this early, and Boothill would prefer not to risk being glared at by a sleepy Memokeeper.
–
It doesn’t take too long before Boothill steps out of the bathroom, comfortable clothes on and hair still damp. He’s fully intent on being quiet to not disturb Reca, but quickly realizes there’s no need. Not only is Reca awake, but out of bed and rummaging through the grocery sacks Boothill just brought in.
“Reca?”
“Hm?”
“What in the forkin’ hell are you doin’ out of bed?”
Reca glances back at Boothill from what he’s doing, giving a tired but excited smile.
“I’m fine, all I wanted was a snack.”
“Well then ask for one. I know your fever ain’t vanished in the time it took me to shower.”
Reca shrugs him off, turning right back to what he was doing. One-track minded, as usual. Boothill shakes his head with a sigh, making his way over to the miniscule kitchen counter anyway.
“Whatcha makin’?”
Reca smiles gently as he responds.
“Something from a memory.”
Sometimes it’s hard to imagine Reca as the same person he’d met a week ago. He’s so different when there’s no audience. Fever and exhaustion had quickly stripped Reca of his outlandish facade, leaving behind his true personality: still eccentric, but surprisingly warm.
Boothill wants to ask so many questions. He’s been to countless worlds, but he knows almost nothing about Memokeepers. What little he does know is that everything, even the smallest and most insignificant memory, is considered precious.
Will Reca remember him, too? Remember these days as anything other than an inconvenience?
There’s been no one to remember him for a long time now.
They stand in comfortable silence, Boothill watching as Reca tears a piece of foil and lays it over the tray, scrunching the edges so they stay in place.
Two pieces of bread, from the middle of the loaf. The best ones.
Butter, but not too much.
Sugar. A little. Just enough to cover the butter.
Cinnamon. A dusting. Not enough to overpower.
Reca sets the oven to high and places the tray on the upper rack, then turns the light on and shuts the door.
“Now we wait.” He says, sitting crosslegged on the floor in his pajamas and staring intently into the oven.
Boothill must give him a confused look.
“I don’t want it to burn.”
He doesn’t question it, just sits down next to Reca. Warm light illuminates their faces, reflects in their eyes. Boothill wonders if this is also part of the memory. Maybe one too many pieces did burn.
It only takes a moment before the butter starts to melt, and the sugar gets shiny, and the room is filled with the aroma of cinnamon. Boothill doesn’t ask, doesn’t want to impose. But he’d guess the memory is a sweet one. One born from a happy family and a time before life had any bite to it.
It’s hard to sink your teeth into something so sweet once they’ve been sharpened.
Just when the edges of the bread start to turn a deep brown, Reca grabs a towel and plucks the snacks from the oven. There’s the tiniest whisper of smoke, but nothing burned. Boothill has never had cinnamon sugar toast, but it certainly looks promising.
Reca is apparently too enamored to remember they’re hot.
“Ow!”
“Don’t burn your fudgin’ fingers. Darn Memokeeper. Here.” Boothill doesn’t have to worry about getting burned, so he just picks up the pieces like it’s nothing. He deposits them on a plate and hands it to Reca.
“Don’t you want one?”
“Ain’t that your snack?”
“Well one of them is! You can’t have them both!” Reca makes a dramatic show of recoiling with the plate, pretending to be affronted as if he thought Boothill would try to snatch both pieces of toast from him.
They both find themselves laughing. It leaves Reca coughing into his sleeve, but not the way he would have a week ago.
A moment later a second plate is retrieved, one of the slices of toast hastily deposited on it. It’s still a little too hot; Boothill can tell by how fast Reca moves the piece to the other plate, how he rubs his fingers together afterward to ease that slight singed feeling. Still, he brushes it off quickly.
Reca moves back to the bed, sitting on top of the covers the same way he sat in front of the oven. He pats the space in front of him with a smile, inviting Boothill to do the same. There’s something so…safe…about this. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time. Something a little too close to home.
‘Maybe it really does taste like a memory.’
He lets Reca take the first bite, curious to watch his reaction.
The bread crunches exactly the way Boothill had expected. Reca seems pleased, even a little surprised, shutting his eyes to savor the moment. And then–
“Hm.”
Reca looks a little disappointed.
“What’s wrong?”
“...It isn’t as good as I remember.”
Boothill tears his piece in half, lowering his expectations and taking a tentative bite from the middle. Reca was right. It isn’t very sweet at all, nothing like he’d been anticipating.
“It ain’t bad.”
“It isn’t enough. I was afraid I’d ruin it.”
It’s true, but Boothill doesn’t say so.
Sugar. Sickening on its own, easily too much.
Cinnamon. Harsh and spicy, and bitter in the wrong amount.
Boothill finds himself craving more of the flavor.
“Sorry.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for.” Boothill shrugs. “I reckon it’d be hard to recreate somethin’ from a memory on the first try. Next time. I’ll even help ya.”
“Promise?” The look on Reca’s face says he knows it's a silly question, like he’s trying not to let his disappointment show.
“Promise.”
Reca smiles hesitantly, looking slightly less dejected. He takes a few more bites, but doesn’t say much else. Most of the crusts go uneaten. Boothill finishes his piece, mostly to be kind, then puts the plates in the sink. The Assistant Director follows him over to the counter and chirps at him again.
“Yeah, I know.”
Boothill picks her up and walks back to the bed, sitting down beside Reca. He seems more tired again; he’s probably spiked his fever for the nth time this week. His head settles heavily on Boothill’s shoulder.
“Come on, Reca. You need to get some more rest.”
He nods, shifting from his spot on the end of the bed to curl up under the covers again. The Assistant Director quickly reclaims her place beside him, and Reca pulls her close to his chest. He’s still too quiet. Messing up something from a relicted memory must hit harder when you’re made of them.
“Next time.” Boothill reassures again. “Ain’t no way we can’t figure it out.”
–
“You sure you’re feelin’ better, Memokeeper?”
It’s another week later; time to part ways. Reca needs to get to work on his next film, and Boothill needs to get back to dismantling the IPC. Still, it’s hard to return to everyday life after taking such a well-needed break.
“I’m sure. Thanks to you, of course.”
Boothill isn’t entirely convinced. There’s still a bit of tiredness in Reca’s eyes despite the life that’s returned to his expression. But it’s a significant improvement, and they’ve already been here far longer than either of them had expected. Boothill isn’t used to having company hardly at all, let alone for this long.
“Don’t forget me, okay?”
“Never.” Reca laughs. “I am a Memokeeper, after all.”
Something in the back of his mind nags that he might miss this.
“Ya promise?”
“Promise.”
Reca smiles, holding out his pinky finger to make the most binding of oaths. Boothill shakes his head with a huff of laughter, unable to keep the amused expression off his face. It’s silly, but he takes it anyway. It’ll be nice to have somebody in the vastness of the universe who actually thinks about him from time to time. It’s unlikely that they’ll run into each other again, but at least someone will remember him as more than a face behind a loaded gun.
“You have my sincerest gratitude. As strange as it sounds, this was actually nice.” Reca says quietly.
“How do you mean?”
He knows.
“Life was easy here somehow.”
“Yeah.” Boothill gives a small nod. “Kinda wish it could stay this easy.”