Work Text:
Klara yawned, leaning back in her chair as she stretched, joints popping from disuse. She'd been working on improvements to her turret, once again staying up far too late. Ah, well. Anything for her bots. The young engineer stood, glancing across the shared workshop at the other benches and desks.
Specifically Cypher's, as she recalled that he had been working on fixing some of his busted tripwires. However, the Moroccan was nowhere to be seen, and Klara sighed, frowning. She's have to find him, then, not having to wonder if he was awake, as they both knew that Cypher's sleep schedule was the worst in the entire Protocol (which, coming from Killjoy, is saying something). Thus, she ventured out into the compound.
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The door to Cypher's workshop slid open. Cypher glanced up from his tinkering and spotted Klara, smile evident despite his mask. "Why hello, my little engineer!" he greeted warmly, his gloved hands still tangled in delicate wires and machinery. "What brings you here at this time of night?"
"I came to check on you, Cypher." Klara explained, entering the room and letting the door slide shut behind her. "I wasn't able to find you in any of your usual spots, so I knew I'd find you in here." Glancing around the room, she took in the organized mess of it all. It's similar to her own workshop, just different. More cameras, less bots. Same amount of wires, though.
"Hard at work, I see. Say, Cypher... when's the last time you ate?" She inquired, a pointed look being sent Cypher's way. She already knew the answer. "I swear, you've been holed up in here for days."
The spy laughed, a tad sheepish. "Ah, well, you caught me. I suppose it has been a while since my last meal," he replied smoothly, rising out of his chair and stretching. His joints popped and crackled, as if protesting the movement. "Say, Killjoy, how about I cook for us? Surely, you must be hungry as well."
Klara hummed in thought, then nodded. It'd be an effective way to make sure he didn't worm his way out of eating, and plus, she was hungry now that she thought about it. "Hm... alright. Lead the way, then!"
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"Now, this is a very special recipe," Cypher remarked, gliding around the compound's kitchen like he belonged there. "My mother's, to be specific, although I can never get it quite right."
Klara was silent, not wanting to interrupt the man and possibly cause him to withdraw. Cypher's moments of vulnerability were few and far between, and the young engineer cherished every tidbit he gave out.
She helped where she could, taking out ingredients and measuring portions, but Cypher did the bulk of the cooking (of course, it's his recipe, after all). Soon enough, they're finished, with two appetizing bowls of stew in front of them. "Eat up, my dear engineer. Tell me what you think of it." Cypher urged, gloved hands wrapped around his own bowl with no intention to eat it (at least, not in any public areas).
Klara tried a spoonful, eyes going wide as flavor blossomed atop her tongue. She hadn't known what to expect, but this was amazing. Who knew the Protocol had a brilliant chef right under their noses this whole time? She swallowed, then remembered the man's request. "It's... great, Cypher! Thank you for this." The engineer replied earnestly, a smile on her face. "I didn't know you were so good at cooking!"
Cypher laughed in response, "Ah, you flatter me. It's a simple recipe, anyone could make it." He said, idly swirling a spoon through his own bowl. "Thank you, though. I'm glad." And he meant it.
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They'd migrated to the couch in the attached living room as Klara hounded Cypher for information on how he'd learned to cook, what recipes he knew, etc etc. The spy had been glad to answer, the quiet stories of his youth filling the night air.
Cypher wasn't sure when Klara had gone quiet, but he'd known she was asleep when her head lolled to the side, resting on his shoulder. Sweet as it was, he couldn't sit there all night. So, as carefully as he could, he moved himself off of the couch and laid her down on it, sliding a couple throw pillows under her head.
"Goodnight, Klara. Sweet dreams." The Moroccan murmured, gentle hands tucking a blanket around the sleeping girl's form. He rose to his feet, clearing away any evidence of their late-night cooking, then left for his room. Perhaps he can turn in early, tonight.