(It's not on purpose that she sends him the burn she just got from trying to get that pan out of the stove, but her dumbass also burned the handle. It's just — a thoughtless habit, but if he was wondering why the smell has turned from fried egg to melting plastic.)
[He doesn't bother expanding on the "how it feels for him" thing. Not that he doesn't enjoy flexing his Omega status on "lower" tier telepaths. He does. He's just very tired, and flexing on Sophie Cuckoo while her own powers are glitchy seems like it would definitely come back to bite him in the ass somehow. Besides, he's already got, uh. Questions. About the frying of eggs. Or lack thereof.]
/You're a telepath. You've never raided the brain of a chef or two?/
[There's a very long pause here, as Quentin initially decides that "being weirded out alone" is precisely what he's going to do. He's going to sit here and rot in bed and listen to the very weird absence of voices in his head and not think about Sophie Cuckoo and—
...
Damn it.]
/Do you want me to make you an egg./
[Has he ever mentioned how much he hates himself? Because he really, really does.]
[Him and his big mental mouth. Whatever. Quentin sends an infodump to her brain with a list of ingredients and supplies. Yeah, that thing about raiding chefs' brains? Look, sometimes Quentin gets really bored and goes spelunking in the heads of Three Star Michelin Chefs. As one does.]
(Ah, the wonders of telepathy. To be fair, this list is a bit... Too much? She didn't even remember to salt the egg, so she's just frowning a little at everything she's pulling from the fridge and the cabinets to set on the counter for his use.
As a reflex when he arrives, she's still finishing gathering the items, but the first thing is to at least illusion-remove her dark circles, wear a nice three-piece outfit— oh, wait, right. He can see through it, so she dismisses it immediately once she remembers that horrible fact. She's in shorts and an oversized shirt, and of course, she looks a bit sleepless, because she is. Her sleep is all over the place, afternoons, mornings, you name it. Sophie's not having a great time.)
[He does furrow his eyebrows in confusion when she tries briefly to convince his brain that she's wearing some insanely fashionable outfit at 4 in the morning in the kitchen burning eggs. Even if he wasn't a telepath, who would believe that??
... Not that Quentin can judge too much, considering he's very clearly combed his hair before coming downstairs, and he's dressed in a soft pink housecoat and slippers over his pajamas. But at least he's not using telepathy!]
/You can thank me by never telling a damn soul about this./
[He yawns and telekinetically moves a (non-melted) pan and all of his ingredients to the stove or counter as appropriate. Gordon Ramsay's Famous Scrambled Eggs coming up!]
(People who know how vain anyone with the Emma Frost DNA can be, thank you, and she wasn't expecting to stumble into anyone to actually give a shit, okay. If she had known, she'd at least have some concealer and mascara on, but he gets make-up deprived, non-fashionable Sophie.
Her pinky raises as if to say she promises, because, of course, why would she want to tell anyone? She's here if he needs help, but she assumes the last thing he wants is for her to be anywhere near the food as he makes it.)
/Deal./
(Now, to the pan she fucked over, well. That needs to disposed of far, far away, so she's gonna look for a bag.)
/... But I might ask you for these again, because they smell great. You didn't say you could cook when we talked about it./
["I don't cook" says the guy actively dicing chives with all the meticulous confidence and precision of a professional chef. Also? Not addressing the "I might ask you for these again" comment.]
/I get bored a lot. When I get bored, I download shit. Can you keep an eye on that pan?/
[So he can see it through her eyes, of course. He assumes she will understand what he means and furthermore not mind.]
/Fine, you definitely don't, don't know what we're even discussing, nothing is happening./
(Have at her eyes, but mind him, that's the reason why her own burned. She'll make an effort, keep her phone far away from her with TK on the opposite corner of the kitchen so she isn't tempted.)
[He keeps a chunk of his brain looking through her eyes as he finishes his chives and telekinetically stirs the eggs. With the chives done, Quentin turns to the stove and gives her a weak little wave gesture to indicate she's released from pan duty.]
(He's so serious, it makes her smile a little bit as she is released, her feet instinctively going towards her phone before she stops in her tracks. Instead, she moves towards the table, shielding their conversation through several levels of sensory bullshit in case someone is listening.)
[Quentin looks away from his eggs briefly, raising his eyebrows at her when he feels her putting up some kind of shielding. He's not so sure anything she could do could actually stop Nate if he really wanted to bust into their conversation—the best way to not draw the suspicion of an Omega level telepath is to not do anything suspicious—but go off queen? For his part, Quentin doesn't bother beefing up whatever shields she's got going on.]
Quentin grabs a couple of plates with TK—look, the recipe he has downloaded can feed two, so you bet your sweet ass he's feeding two—and proceeds to plate, garnish, and serve his fancy scrambled eggs. He also gives Sophie a snide look.]
/Half? You wound me./
[He sounds perhaps remarkably unconcerned by that statement.]
/Eh. Either he vaporizes all our brains, or he doesn't. Whispering about him behind his back ain't gonna change anything./
(... Those are lovely, actually, and while she does want to roll her eyes first, make a snide comment back, her stomach growls louder than any noise they're making. Fuck, fine.)
/I didn't bring this up to gossip, Quentin. I'm genuinely worried about him./
(Is that what he thinks she's doing? Gossiping behind Nate's back? Cripes, his view of her is worse than she thought.
... Though, probably she earned it.
She unquestionably earned it. Her attention, however, goes from the topic to the egg, and the moment she takes a bite, she's so absurdly pleased.)
[He makes an acknowledging "hm" noise at her compliment. He knows it's good. That's why he downloaded the recipe. He sits at the table and starts eating.]
/Fine, you "worrying about him" isn't going to change anything. Guy's scared enough of his own powers without everyone else being scared of them too. That shit does stuff to you, you know?/
/We gotta work on those people skills, Quentin. Huge difference between "scared of" and "worried about". He's sweet, I just don't want him to go through shit like that./
(Now she's the one who just has to roll her eyes. There they go.
She's very much aware of the consequences of Quentin Quire has a bad moral alignment phase.)
/... You know what? I'm not engaging with that last part./
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(It's not on purpose that she sends him the burn she just got from trying to get that pan out of the stove, but her dumbass also burned the handle. It's just — a thoughtless habit, but if he was wondering why the smell has turned from fried egg to melting plastic.)
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[In the most deadpan tone imaginable.
And then, in a more normal tone:]
/... What are you even doing?/
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(Which she assumes he can forgive her for.)
/Right now, trying to get rid of evidence I can't fry a damn egg. And the pan I melted. You couldn't sleep, too?/
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[He's assuming she knows what he means by that.]
/You can't fry an egg?/
[He's trying not to sound too judgmental. And failing. Look, it's not his fault, his voice just sounds Like That.]
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(She knows his range is probably ridiculous, or some Omega-level absurd shit.)
/Why on Earth would I need to know?/
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/You're a telepath. You've never raided the brain of a chef or two?/
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/I have better, more fun shit to do. If you're just gonna be a nuisance, you can go back to being weirded out alone, how's that?/
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...
Damn it.]
/Do you want me to make you an egg./
[Has he ever mentioned how much he hates himself? Because he really, really does.]
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... Still. Ouch, her pride.)
/... Yes, please./
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[Him and his big mental mouth. Whatever. Quentin sends an infodump to her brain with a list of ingredients and supplies. Yeah, that thing about raiding chefs' brains? Look, sometimes Quentin gets really bored and goes spelunking in the heads of Three Star Michelin Chefs. As one does.]
/Find that. I'll be down in a minute./
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(Ah, the wonders of telepathy. To be fair, this list is a bit... Too much? She didn't even remember to salt the egg, so she's just frowning a little at everything she's pulling from the fridge and the cabinets to set on the counter for his use.
As a reflex when he arrives, she's still finishing gathering the items, but the first thing is to at least illusion-remove her dark circles, wear a nice three-piece outfit— oh, wait, right. He can see through it, so she dismisses it immediately once she remembers that horrible fact. She's in shorts and an oversized shirt, and of course, she looks a bit sleepless, because she is. Her sleep is all over the place, afternoons, mornings, you name it. Sophie's not having a great time.)
/... Thanks./
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... Not that Quentin can judge too much, considering he's very clearly combed his hair before coming downstairs, and he's dressed in a soft pink housecoat and slippers over his pajamas. But at least he's not using telepathy!]
/You can thank me by never telling a damn soul about this./
[He yawns and telekinetically moves a (non-melted) pan and all of his ingredients to the stove or counter as appropriate. Gordon Ramsay's Famous Scrambled Eggs coming up!]
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Her pinky raises as if to say she promises, because, of course, why would she want to tell anyone? She's here if he needs help, but she assumes the last thing he wants is for her to be anywhere near the food as he makes it.)
/Deal./
(Now, to the pan she fucked over, well. That needs to disposed of far, far away, so she's gonna look for a bag.)
/... But I might ask you for these again, because they smell great. You didn't say you could cook when we talked about it./
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["I don't cook" says the guy actively dicing chives with all the meticulous confidence and precision of a professional chef. Also? Not addressing the "I might ask you for these again" comment.]
/I get bored a lot. When I get bored, I download shit. Can you keep an eye on that pan?/
[So he can see it through her eyes, of course. He assumes she will understand what he means and furthermore not mind.]
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(Have at her eyes, but mind him, that's the reason why her own burned. She'll make an effort, keep her phone far away from her with TK on the opposite corner of the kitchen so she isn't tempted.)
/So, hey. Can I ask you a thing?/
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/Nobody's stopping ya./
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/What do you make of Nate?/
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/What about him?/
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/Seems like he doesn't have half the control you do./
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Quentin grabs a couple of plates with TK—look, the recipe he has downloaded can feed two, so you bet your sweet ass he's feeding two—and proceeds to plate, garnish, and serve his fancy scrambled eggs. He also gives Sophie a snide look.]
/Half? You wound me./
[He sounds perhaps remarkably unconcerned by that statement.]
/Eh. Either he vaporizes all our brains, or he doesn't. Whispering about him behind his back ain't gonna change anything./
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/I didn't bring this up to gossip, Quentin. I'm genuinely worried about him./
(Is that what he thinks she's doing? Gossiping behind Nate's back? Cripes, his view of her is worse than she thought.
... Though, probably she earned it.
She unquestionably earned it. Her attention, however, goes from the topic to the egg, and the moment she takes a bite, she's so absurdly pleased.)
/... Nice job./
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/Fine, you "worrying about him" isn't going to change anything. Guy's scared enough of his own powers without everyone else being scared of them too. That shit does stuff to you, you know?/
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(They deserve each other.)
/That's why I brought it up with you. What helped you?/
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/Me? I've never really had trouble controlling my powers. Not like him, at least./
[He shrugs.]
/I also never had to deal with everybody and their mom being scared shitless of me.
Look, think of it this way: he can't fuck you guys up accidentally any worse than I could on purpose. He'd just be, you know. Louder about it./
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(Now she's the one who just has to roll her eyes. There they go.
She's very much aware of the consequences of Quentin Quire has a bad moral alignment phase.)
/... You know what? I'm not engaging with that last part./
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