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Cooking is a meditative activity for Lydia. A way to show her love. Being able to cook for Ragh and the muddle of inhabitants at Mordred Manor was a way of recovering her control over her own life after it had all been taken away from her. And Gods, but Ragh can eat. He is a growing boy, with a Bloodrush level of activity, that meant she can practically be constantly cooking for him. If she could, she might just be content for the rest of her life.
But that’s not her lot in life.
Cooking is not a meditative activity for Sklonda. All of her life she's survived off of convenience food, meals that can be tossed in the microwave, and (probably primarily) coffee. She knows that she's passed the bad habits down to Riz, and the guilt gnaws at her stomach nearly as bad as the sub-standard diet does. She wishes she was that mother that was the picture of perfection, making him a full lunch each morning and a home cooked meal on the table when he returns from school.
But that’s not her lot in life.
The first time that Lydia cooks for Sklonda, it makes Sklonda feel like she might never measure up. They’re not even together-together, but she still feels inadequate.
Not in every way. She knows she’s smart, and determined, and all of that. But Lydia has this sense of ease about her while she’s moving smoothly around the kitchen, seamlessly tending to this and that.
Sklonda doesn’t think she’s ever used this many bowls and containers. Maybe across a week she would. A good week.
“I’m runnin’ behind, sorry,” Lydia apologises. “If you wanna take a seat, I can bring you over a drink while I finish things up.”
Sklonda feels like she’s just angles and sharpness in the face of Lydia’s gentle movements. She knows, objectively, that Lydia is a barbarian, a real warrior, capable of the sharpest of sharp.
She also knows that Lydia is capable of much more than Sklonda is. Many more versions of Lydia exist than versions of Sklonda, of which there is only one.
Her mind is drifting, she realises, when she focuses back on Lydia's face and Lydia looks back at her expectantly.
“Sorry. Can I help?”
The words feel weirdly shaped coming out of her mouth, and it’s not as genuine as she wishes that it was. She knows she’s not good at this. She was better before, better before Pok was taken from her, better before the force had ground out so much of her, better before she could see how much she was turning Riz into a mirror of herself.
She has never been a good cook, but she was better at the other stuff.
“Nah. I like doing this, Sklonda,” Lydia reassures her. “I’m just all turned about because Ayda and Adaine were in here and they took a bit longer than I was thinking it would take.”
Somehow, she doesn’t scare her off.
And the food is better than she’s had in years.
The next time, it’s a family affair. Strongtower Luxury Apartments aren’t exactly accessible, and their drywall-cordoned off apartment is even less so. So the other inhabitants of Mordred Manor are audible as the four of them are round the dining table, sharing the huge portions of beef ragu that Lydia serves up. Ragh is happily wolfing it down and Riz tries to hold back and be polite, but that doesn’t last long.
He eats like he hasn’t eaten in a week. And maybe that’s how long it’s been since he ate something from a saucepan rather than a diner or a microwave.
Sklonda feels the guilt creep in as she pushes the pasta around her plate. Lydia catches her eye and tilts her head to the side.
“Not likin’ this as much as the stroganoff?” she asks, and there is something inside Sklonda screaming to run, now, not disappoint her even worse.
“It’s delicious,” Sklonda says truthfully.
“Yeah, it’s great,” Riz says. Or that’s probably what he says, but it’s around a full mouthful and it’s not properly comprehensible.
“Well, you’re welcome any time, Riz. You’re family here, you know that.”
That gives Riz pause, and he looks back at Sklonda, puts down his fork and swallows.
“Thanks, Lydia, but um. Mom’s my family,” he says, carefully.
Sklonda wishes that the floor would open up under her.
“Riz, sweetie, everyone here is family too,” she mumbles, and scratches the back of her neck self-consciously. It doesn’t take away from how much I love you for other people to see how amazing you are, she doesn’t say out loud, because she feels like it would embarrass Riz. But she resolves to say it in the private of the car, on the way home.
“Yeah, man. You know you’re like a little brother to me, even though you only came and joined the Owlbears after I graduated. What, were you just waiting for me to be out of there?” Ragh jokes, taking a breath between forkfuls of food.
Lydia catches Sklonda’s eye, and smiles warmly. When Riz fires something back at Ragh and goes back to his own huge mouthfuls, some of the stress falls from Sklonda’s shoulders, and she hesitantly puts a hand on Lydia’s knee.
“Thank you. For the food, and everything,” she says quietly, below the level that Ragh might be able to hear. Riz probably can, but Riz could hear anything.
Lydia covers Sklonda’s hand and squeezes, and it sends a wave of warmth through her.
Lydia lets her help wash up the third time she cooks for Sklonda. She gets up on the stool and scrubs at the plates and all the pans and tools with a quiet ferocity, but when she hands them onto Lydia, she pulls it back and keeps it more gentle.
She looks out of the window, onto the street, while Lydia slots the last of the cutlery into its place. She turns back to Lydia after a few beats, and she blurts it out before she can stop herself.
“I know I'm not very good at this, but I do want to make it work,” she says, all in a rush, pulling at the cloth to push out some of the nervous energy. “I haven't tried it, not for years. Not since Pok. But you're kind of amazing, and —”
She swallows hard and stops wringing her hands. Lydia is smiling back at her, and she rolls forward to put a hand on Sklonda’s shoulder.
“You're good at a lot more things than you give yourself credit for,” she says, rubbing her thumb over the joint. “I feel like you're apologising when there's no cause to.”
Sklonda sighs. “I didn't say sorry,” she points out, but she doesn't shy away from the contact. It's progress, of a sort.
“Sorry’s not the only way to apologise. I tell Ragh all the time that actions are more than words, and I'm sure you tell Riz the same thing,” Lydia says easily.
Sklonda's shoulders drop, and so do her ears. “Mostly, I tell him there's nothing to apologise for. And that he's working too damn hard.”
Lydia just looks at her for a long moment, and it pierces Sklonda through the chest.
“Don't you tell me I need to say the same thing to myself,” Sklonda says accusingly.
Lydia laughs, and takes her hand.
“I didn't say that.”
When Sklonda laughs, it might have been the first time she's felt like anything other than a spring wound over-tight in years.