2007-04-23: Fondunnit


Ramon_icon.gif Desiree_icon.gif

Summary: A late night snack at the Gomez apartment occurs.

Date It Happened: April 23rd, 2007


Gomez Apartment, Queens, New York

It's about 12:30 at night and Ramon has come in for another long job. He pauses at the door just to do his routine mental check in the area, just to see if he hears puppet like thoughts or the murderous thoughts of an athiest quoating madman. When he hears neither, he closes the door, locks the door, resets the security system, and goes in search of something to eat.

Which is how at 12:43 at night, after doing some rattling around, he comes to end up over the sink, eating…


He's just straight up eating fondant over the sink.

"U-um."The reason the household has something like fondant in it at all comes to stand at the edge of the kitchen, giving Ramon a peculiar look. I mean, the man's eating straight-up fondant. That's a pretty good reason to give him a peculiar look. Desiree, unexpected houseguest extraordinaire, had already went to bed before now; without any sort of semi-permanent job (she's been looking into paramedic positions around the city), with Ramon's chatty daughter away at the conference, and without seeing any particularly interesting visions in the posters of ponies in Juanita's room, there's not much else to do. (Except for clean. A lot. But the apartment is spotless, by now.)

As such, Desiree is wearing on a long robe, a royal blue satiny thing, her dark hair left down and messy and a general disaster when she appears. "You… you should be eatin' some real food. That ain't real food."

Ramon freezes in mid-bite. He swallows his bite of fondant and says, "I didn't want to have to wake anyone up to cook for me." And apparently the mental leap to 'sandwhich' was too much for him. He stares at her for a long, long moment, then clears his throat. "Apartment looks good." He /always/ appreciates help with the cleaning, no matter from what source. Nor does he seem particularly fussed about her getting a job, though two nights ago he was on the phone pleading for the electric company to just wait till payday, something he finally did get to happen. And lo, payday came and he did in fact pay the bill.

Desiree promptly pads across the kitchen in her bare feet and takes the fondant awaaay from Ramon. "Well, I'm awake, and I'm up 'cause I'm hungry, so I'll make up somethin' fast," she says, and that's that. She beams a little over the apartment looking good, but her smile is modest around the edges; fleeting, too. "S'nothin'. Figured I'd make myself useful!" As she has been, doing everything around the apartment with Elena. The fondant is put away from desperate hands and she props the fridge door open with a hip, rifling through to find ingredients.

Ramon wanders back over to the kitchen table to sit down. "Everything alright? It's late to be up." He rubs a hand over his stubble, then finally takes off his lanyard, winds it up, and sets it down on the kitchen table. The man is genuinely concerned though, as if, past the expedient of having someone female cook for him, he has in fact recognized that 12:30 is not a normal time for people on normal schedules to be hungry.

As various objects are removed from the fridge and placed on the counter, Desiree answers with a shrug. "I was jus' hungry," she says casually. There's either another reason for her late night, or she really does want a midnight snack - which is entirely possible. The ingredients that are starting to line up are either to be shoved into sandwiches or some bizarre goulash. "How was work? They got you workin' pretty late. I never used to like those shifts. Back when… I… had a actual job," she says, closing the fridge with a swing of her calf.

"Not always, but this time yeah. A lot of the companies that contract with RTS want people to come in at night so that our work won't disrupt the employee work during the day. So they schedule the system maintenance downtime for areas of time when they aren't trying to use them. It can make the work a lot easier and less frustrating, as during the day there is inevitably one guy that sends the same repeat command to the system over…and over…and over…as if he's going to get a different response." Ramon stifles a yawn. "And they page me and tell me where I need to go so I never know what actual hours I'm working."

"Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense," Desiree replies as she goes about getting such things as plates and a knife from various cupboards and drawers; since she hones in on the right spots right away, it seems she's made herself at home. "Still kinda crappy, though. Do you like avocados? I respect your job, y'know? Dealin' with people /and/ machines like that."

"I'm Mexican. We're required to sign a document saying we like avocados." Ramon is just teasing, his eyes are twinkling as he says these things. Even he knows that avocados are some key component of the guac process. "I'll eat whatever you put in front of me, bonita. I can't cook so I try not to be picky." He goes into the front room to hang up his jacket, then rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt. He also goes into the other room long enough to wash his face and hands.

The joke from the normally stern-faced man garners a bemused smirk from Dezi, who points at him around the dark green avocado in her hand. She spins back to the counter, making short work of sandwich-making. "Jus' be glad I'm makin' sammiches. Y'all are gonna hafta survive on sammiches, dessert, canned soup and guacamole 'til 'Lena gets back from her trip." Her voice is raised just enough to carry while Ramon leaves the kitchen. Slapping together such ingredients as tomato, (low-fat) cheese, (possibly fake) mayo, lettuce, and of course avocado between bread, she puts the sandwiches in the toaster oven to get all melty.

Ramon says, "It's a step up from surviving on that white stuff over the sink." He has no idea what it's called, other than it went onto the cupcakes in fetching little shapes and therefore must have been, in some form or fashion, something like edible. "How's the job hunt going?" He knows from experience how bloody frustrating those things can be.

"Fondant," Desiree replies off-handedly. "Also known as… um… lotsa sugar." The woman turns around to wait for the less-than-mundane sandwiches to be ready, leaning against the counter with her hands clutching the edge, making her shoulders lift up. "It's goin' okay. If I get re-licensed or whatever I can work as a paramedic again, only, well, I don't know if I'm gonna be here in the city for a long time, or if I'll go back home after…" After what? "After … stuff."

"You should stay here," Ramon says. "What do you have waiting for you back home? Anything in particular?" He comes back and regains his place, smelling the cooking. Whatever she's making does indeed smell far superior to fondant over the sink, but he already knew that would be the case.

"Right now? An ex-husband which pretty much amounts to nothin'," Desiree answers flippantly with a roll of her hazel eyes, but she smiles gently after the fact. "But come summer, I got my two kids. They're away havin' adventures too big for their age right now but they's s'posed to live with me once they get back." DING! The toaster oven announces that it's time to eat. Desiree promptly takes out the sandwiches - which fill the air with the deceptive scent of something being freshly baked, now that they're toasty and melty - and puts them on plates, one of which she slides in front of Ramon. "There, now hopefully that's better than sugar paste. What d'you wanna drink?"

"Beer," Ramon says. And then he says, "How old are your kids? What are their names?" He likes kids, probably as evidenced by the fact that he had four of them. So he isn't just providing rote lip service when he asks about them. There is beer a-plenty in the fridge, of several different varieties, but it looks like there is no strategy to said varieties. He just grabbed them on his way through.

"Thirteen." Desiree rummages in the fridge, hesitating over which variety of beer to choose before she just kind of… gropes at random to pull one out. She gets one for herself, too. Why not. "Parker and Portia," she adds before getting her own sandwich from the counter and flopping down across the table from Ramon, handing him the beer. "I guess I could bring 'em here to New York, which'd make their daddy real mad…"

"Would it be outside of the boundaries of your divorce agreement?" Ramon asks, curious. Divorce is something he's not /too/ terribly familiar with, having refused to contemplate it in his life, but he's aware that there are things like agreements and judges and the like that get involved with it.

Even Desiree, who has been thoroughly involved in things like divorce agreements, is still not too familiar with some… or most aspects of it, herself. "Maybe. Probably," she says blandly with a gesture of half of her sandwich. "Hell, I dunno. I got family up there anyway… and…" she takes a bite of her sandwich. It's… a big bite. Nevertheless, she keeps talking, which forces her words to be slightly more incoherent than usual. "I reckon I can worry 'bout that stuff /after/."

"Yeah, you don't have to make any decisions today," Ramon grunts. "That said, I'm getting used to having you around, so don't go running off too soon." He polishes off his sammich in about four bites, because the man? Was hungry. Then he starts in on his beer. "Course you're probably looking forward to something roomier than a kid's bed."
GAME: Save complete.

Desiree is taking considerably longer to finish her sandwich, but that said, her bites are not exactly ladylike. "Oh, I'm not goin' anywhere soon 'less y'all kick me out or everyone dies in a tornado," she says with a big optimistic grin. That would be a very random statement if it weren't for the fact that it might actually happen - the latter, that is. As for sleeping in a kid's bed? She just smiles, unbothered, even though she's almost comically too tall for it. "… I mean," she amends suddenly, "It's not like I meant to imply I plan on stayin' here always. Just. You know."

Ramon sort of chops the air with his hand to show how little he's worried about how long she stays. "Y'earn your keep," he grunts. Then he grimaces, the lines around his eyes furrowing. "And we like you." That one is sort of grunted out a little lower, as if approaching talking about emotions is approaching some level of meltdown that he's not willing to risk.

Desiree lifts her dark brows and eyes Ramon with a silly smirk, half-hidden behind the mostly devoured last half of her sandwich. "S'that so," she says before gesturing with said sandwich. "How come 'Lena's so talkative with a quiet daddy like you? You're always so concise. Ain't a bad thing. You're jus' conCISE."

"She takes after her mother," Ramon says gruffly. "Someone had to be the listener. Her mother and then later her, and then Nita and Luis. Chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter. Little birds." He makes little hand motions. Like the little birds. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. That's the length of the beat. "Do you wanna go on a date?"

After finishing her sandwich, wiping her hands together to free them of crumbs, and taking a quick drink of beer, Desiree gets to her feet and whisks way her plate and Ramon's. She's at the sink listening to Ramon talk about the 'chatter chatter chatter' of his family when he eventually asks the question, and disastrously, she almost drops a plate. As it is, it clatters with some silverware, but she catches it before making too much of a ruckus. "U-uh…" Putting it down gently, the woman just stands there with her back turned for a similar beat of one, two, three, four, five, before she turns around. Her brow is furrowed, her eyes are wide, and she just blinks owlishly at Ramon until, "I don't think I remember what a date is." Pause. "Unless you're talkin' about the fruit that's like a big raisin."

"No. I'm talking about me taking you somewhere nice, and you having a good time there," Ramon rumbles. "If I recall women generally like for there to be flowers involved, but I run moves out of an older playbook than most." He sagenods and finishes his beer. "No pressure though, if you don't want to. I just…" He clears his throat. Yeah. Date.

First, Desiree blinks a few more times. Second, she slowly walks back over to her chair and sits down. Third, she takes a long drink of beer. Fourth, she actually answers, and when she does, it's far more casual and agreeable than her many delays should have warranted. "Okay!" And then as if nothing had happened, she jumps back up out of her chair. "D'you wanna sneak a cupcake before bed?"
"Yep," Ramon says, just as if nothing had happened. And if he noticed how long she hemmed and hawed, he politely avoids mentioning it, too. And then, just as straight faced and straight laced as you like, "A pink one. I observe they taste better." Real men can eat pink cupcakes.

"They do. S'cause I added strawberry juice to the frosting," Desiree says wisely. "Comin' right up!" And because apparently she can't be near food without having some herself, she takes one for herself too. She plants a perfect pink cupcake in front of Ramon. Beer and cupcakes at one o'clock in the morning. They're classy.

"I'm a man of discerning palette," Ramon replies, and the faintest of smirks flitting across his lips as he starts in on the cupcake. "Knew somethin' was up with those pink ones." Course. He's eaten more than his share of white ones too. The only reason he had fondant and not cupcakes for dinner is that he found the fondant first.

"You just said a few minutes ago that you'll eat anythin', now, how that's discerning I dunno," Desiree teases. Back at her seat again after her ups and downs, she picks at her cupcake, breaking off pieces with red nails. "I'm just kiddin'. You're a great private investigator of dessert. I mean, that's what you were doin' earlier, right, interrogatin' the fondant?"

"Yep." Ramon says. "It told me that it was edible, and I believed it." A pause. "It tasted like sheets of marshmallow. Or a bunch of powdered sugar. I couldn't really tell which. It wasn't bad. I'd always wondered what they were putting on those cakes. Nita likes to watch those Food Network things where they make cakes into all sorts of crazy stuff, and I always thought it was modeling clay."
"It is modeling clay," Desiree says matter-of-factly, licking some of that very substance off of a finger. "'Cept it's edible and made of sugar. Nita watches that stuff? Well, I'll have to show her how to make all the fun shapes. You ain't seen nothin' yet." The cupcake-fu is strong in this one.

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