Pyromancy
Time Signature
one.
He'd never seen her eyes.
She was like a witch, with her smile that he could never read and her Delphox that she barely ever showed to anyone.
He had long learned to understand fire – how else would he be a world-class chef? He could tell the quirks of the playful flames and coax them into creating sugar just the right shade of caramel. He could place a pot full of boiling oil on top without fear.
But he could never read her.
Perhaps it was those shades that hid her expression from the world. Perhaps it was the way her words created a slight barrier no matter what she said.
When he was little, he'd read about rose-tinted glasses. How they were things for happy fools that couldn't see the evils of the world. He had looked at hers, though, and known that she'd seen so much. People that didn't know evil couldn't smile like that.
two.
It was basic culinary sense that dictated that fire could not necessarily be put out by water. One had to tell what was burning, and then determine the best way to extinguish it. Adding water to oil-based flames would only increase the damage.
Likewise, it wasn't always that he won against her. Battling wasn't as simple as type advantage – it was an art, an art exactly like him creating a twenty-tier wedding cake or her hiding secrets. What disturbed him most was that her smile, that smile, never faltered. Even when her last partner had fallen, she continued to smile.
It surely wasn't that she didn't understand what that meant for her. Of course she did. He could tell that she hated losing, because her words would have more barbs than normal. She would spew words laced with a hint of venom, just like the hints of fruit from wine used in a flambé, from poisonously bright red lips. And yet, she would smile.
He felt like she never gave her battles her full effort, though. She hated losing, but she didn't want to do that. He thought he understood why – she was afraid of showing emotions. She was afraid that enjoying the battle would break her fire-fragile façade. It was the same reason she never stopped smiling or took off her glasses.
three.
He barely ever used his Holocaster, because having something on his wrist while cooking was simply unacceptable, but he did in fact listen to the emergency broadcasts. Between his rhythmical tapping of his knife on the cutting board, there was a faint announcement of the Poke Ball Factory being taken over. He glanced over, (even though he should never have done that – knife injuries were painful, and he'd had his share for a lifetime while he was still an apprentice), and saw a pixelated version of her unreadable smile.
She had her hands together on a table of some sort, saying in her "outside" voice, a calming alto, whatever she had been told to say. He had believed that newscasters always showed their face, but no, she still had her shades.
It was quite an impressive feat, he thought, to talk and smile at the same time.
He resumed his mincing. Her "outside" voice only irritated him. At least he knew one of her secrets – her voice was more of a higher pitch in reality.
four.
He'd been mildly surprised when he'd heard a different voice from the device. It was a man's, declaring something like him being the leader of an evil organization and using an "ultimate weapon" to destroy all life.
He stayed in his kitchen. He didn't have the means to fly such a distance in a short time. Contrary to popular belief, although the League was in charge of protecting the region, not everyone always went to every single emergency.
He briefly wondered why she hadn't been the announcer this time. Then he realized that if the man had been talking of destroying the world, he had probably taken over the Holocaster system. And then he recognized the man with the red mane of hair, not unlike hers – he was the president of the company producing the things.
He wondered, even more briefly, if she was safe. Of course she was. She hadn't reached her position by being weak.
He flipped the crepe in his pan, before realizing that it was slightly browner than he had hoped. It had been many years since he'd made a mistake like that.
five.
A few days later, the news turned on again. He'd been expecting it –the "evil organization" had been quickly defeated. He hadn't been expecting the heroes to be so young, however. He'd like to meet them in battle someday.
That day, her smile was a little deeper, her words a little sharper. He assumed it was the stress of going out to the front line. He treated her to one of his specialty cocktails afterwards.
six.
It was about a month from then that the new champion was crowned. The previous one had just gone out, saying that she would focus on acting for a while.
He questioned what was going on in the room next over. He heard her voice, even more high-pitched than usual, shouting something he couldn't decipher. It was the first show of actual emotion from her.
He stopped all of his cooking. It was just because his curiosity was a tiny bit piqued, and he'd return before anything could go wrong.
He stepped out.
He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
She was in handcuffs, being led out the gates by that International Police officer. She was screaming things that were no longer words. A short distance away, the new champion was stating simply, "We can't have criminals in the justice system."
She whipped her head around in her rage. Her bright pink hair was, for the first time, not in the perfect hairdo. Her shades flew, and he caught sight of her eyes, for the first time, for one split, forever-long second.
They bewitched him.
[pyromancy (noun): the art of divination by means of fire]
fin.
A/N: Written for Secret Santa 2014. Merry Christmas Zoey! That is, if you'll accept this entire fail of Siebold x Malva! In my defense, it was my first time writing this pairing… I have no idea if this is bittersweet or just plain epic fail, but…er…merry Christmas?
Time Signature