milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

a blu medic,
cata

(no subject)

Cata came in with the intent to get more work done on her lesson plans; she thinks she's got things nearly sorted out, but a little extra time to make sure certainly won't hurt.
Before settling in at her usual well-placed-for-a-full-view table, she asked Bar for a stout, which she got - along with... some sort of cookie. She only has Bar's word for that one (and that it's perfectly safe to eat), so she's left it sit for a while.
Eventually, during one of her breaks, she picks up the cookie and bites into it; the fact that there's a slip of paper inside it trips her up for a moment. She stops, pulls the paper out of the cookie, and frowns at it.
One who admires you greatly is hidden before your eyes.
"...What in the Fates?"

[tiny plot tag: Misfortune Cookies]

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It has been unspeakably busy back home. Not that it isn't always, but there've been so many battles and struggles of late that the Medic only just recently realized he had no clue where they were on the calendar any more. Not a good sign. Thus, his Bar visit today.

"Ah, Frau Cata. So good to see you again..."

She smiles, when she sees him. It's been far too long, she can say that much.
"And you as well. How have you been?"

"Busy. Ze company's operations escalate in all quarters of ze vorld und I haf to be at all ze most hectic scenes of disaster," the Medic says. "Vun loses track of time most easily. Mein apologies. Und yourself?"

"Well, if they're moving you about that much, I would imagine they're quite pleased with your work." But even with that, one needs a little time to recover.
"I haven't been as busy as you, but I've made it through a year of teaching with minimal casualties. There were even a few students interested in learning more when we begin classes again."

"Ah! Congratulations," says the Medic, brightening. "I presume ze would-be repeat students are as skilled as they are interested?"

She'd look a lot more irritated if they were morons who'd somehow managed to survive their first year.

That she would. Fortunately, the idiots either removed themselves from the pool entirely, thanks to their stupidity, or have expressed no interest in her advanced class.
"They are. Of course, I have to sort out a lesson plan to occupy their time, but it ought to be more interesting for everyone involved."
(She still hasn't shaken the feeling, when covering the basics, that her students should know these things already, even though she knows they don't.)

"Vun day, assuming of course zat such sings are allowed, I should like to observe some of your course material," says the Medic. "I doubt I'll have much use for it professionally but I should sink it vould be fascinating, ja?"

"I don't see why you wouldn't be allowed. I've already thought of bringing Sam in for a guest lecture, assuming I can talk him into it." There's no one better for poison-tipped projectiles, as she sees it, and he's far more likely to do one thing for her than stick around long-term for the rest of the Guild.
"Or, if you'd prefer--" She shuffles through her papers for a few moments, knocking the paper from the cookie off the stack as she does so. "I'll warn you this is still rather disorganised, but you can have a look, if you'd like."

Medic reaches for the falling scrap of paper first and the documentation second. "I believe you dropped zis," he says, handing the smaller bit over. "Keeping it for some reason?"

"...I have no idea, to be quite honest," she says. "It was in this... cookie thing the Bar gave me with my drink. I'm still trying to work out why anyone would put a piece of paper inside a cookie."
With anyone else, her taking the paper back might be cause for one of those 'wait, our hands brushed' moments. But with these two, the narration suspects it'll go undiscussed.

"Ah. I've seen such sings before, in certain restaurants in ze United States," says Medic. "Herr Soldier und Herr Scout call zem 'fortune cookies' und zey come at ze end of a meal. Predictions und proverbs, from vot I understand."

Yeah, it's not really the kind of thing he, or she, is especially likely to bring up. If Medic has a romantic bone in his body it is there because another BLU medical practitioner accidentally sealed it up in there during a hasty battlefield patch job.

"Odd sort of thing to do."
She eyes the fortune again, for a moment. "Odd sort of proverb, at that. Are they usually this strange?"

"Ja, usually," says the Medic. "Or sometimes chust very bad jokes. Und somevun gets paid to write zem, if you can imagine zat."

Cata makes a face. "You live in a very strange world, that people can make a living off this sort of thing."
...She says to the man who works in well-camouflaged war zones. But then, to her, that's not the weird part.

Medic shrugs. "I don't pretend to understand it myself," he says. "Perhaps zis is some kind of program to prevent mobs of ozzervise unemployable students und vould-be writers from roaming ze streets und causing trouble. Vun never knows."

And that gets her to laugh.
"That would make it no less strange, I must say. But then there would at least be a reason for the things."

The Medic nods, and eyes the paper again. "In ze meantime I suppose it is not all zat inaccurate," he concedes. "It takes considerable will und effort to come back from such a situation as vot befell you unter Mizzamir's spell, und I can admire zat."

"And I certainly have no shortage of appreciation for your work."
And if that's damn near a sunny smile on her face... well, that's also likely to go undiscussed. But it's there nonetheless.

"Zere, you see?" He nods at the paper before leaning forward to pat Cata's nearer hand. "Vun point for ze unemployable student after all; he got it right zis time."

"That he did. I won't say the idea makes any more sense than it did at first, but that he did."
For further proof, Medic's one of... well, one of two people who can get away with being that familiar with her. (And Sam rarely makes the attempt.)

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