Water Master Siebold

“Yes,” he said, “yes, I’ll try to remember. And besides, you’re right!” He offered as best of a smile as he could at the moment. “They have me researching my field here. They’re not as pushy as the League was, either. I’m able to work my own pace. It’s not so bad, here. Have… have you been settling in?” Now Siebold is mashing potatoes, and Sycamore doesn’t understand why butter has to go in them. He keeps his question to himself, but quite frankly it seemed that potatoes could be wet enough on their own. Isn’t that why people juiced them? It’s probably for the best that Siebold didn’t let Sycamore help with this part.

“And I am here for you,” he replied, “it will be hard, but we will have our friendship. And who knows?” It’s easier to smile now, almost easy enough to give a vague attempt at a laugh. “Maybe if you manage to navigate the bureaucratic mess of this place, you can get funding to redo the kitchens. It will be up to your standards in no time, cher.”

“I have already put in a request to have these kitchens redone. Food is of most importance. It will keep the grunts satisfied and functioning so I doubt I will be refused.” He would fight it if so as he wasn’t one to give up. “And you have me to help you once again with your research. It has been quite some time since I’ve used mega evolution in battle.” He finds a small smile touching his own lips at the mere memory of using it with his partner but it soon fades as Sycamore makes a request to help him further. 

“I need to get started on the peas. Add them into the water and watch them.” He commands, once again tending to the chicken after he sets the potatoes down. 

He slowly lowers the wing as Siebold denies the unspoken accusation, asserts that he was on Sycamore’s side the entire time, and by the end Sycamore felt more ashamed than he had just being caught here. Awkwardly, he rolls the wing again in flour and sets it with the last of his batch, unsure of what to do with it next.

“I….” He swallowed again. “I’m sorry, I—I know, I just—there was no warning, and no word from anyone, and I have no credentials and…. I’m sorry. I should have trusted you. I’m sorry.” He watches still as Siebold returns his attention to the chicken, cooks with such precision that Sycamore is always mildly envious of. He doesn’t have a choice at all, Siebold continues, and Sycamore can only wonder what that can mean. Something about safety and resenting him? It’s… odd. Was he up to something? Or not?

It’s unexpected for someone to listen when they’re so sure of something and even still he hardly expects an apology to fall from Sycamore’s lips. But they fall and that eases the tension in his shoulders, takes the sharpness from his tongue and now he’s left to mull over it. Sycamore apologizes and it leaves him to reveal some of his own reasons for being there, but just enough to keep Sycamore safe from it all. 

“Your credentials aren’t bound to a piece of paper. You would do well to remember that.” He says softly as the chicken cooks and sizzles. Now he moves to the remainder of his ingredients, gathers some peeled potatoes in a bowl to be mashed and butter, salt and pepper to go with them. He wonders if he can assign such a task to Sycamore and decides against it as he uses a masher to mash them. “You still have them here, oui?” He questions hoping to hear some confidence from the other man. 

Sycamore refuses to look at him now, refuses to acknowledge what Siebold could possibly be feeling about the situation and focuses on not screwing his chicken pieces up. “When they tear up your contract and take your pokemon, it’s not exactly easy to fight back,” he snapped, “but I suppose you would know all about what happened, wouldn’t you, Monsieur?”

Now he is also getting forceful with the chicken. The chicken never asked for this. It was just being chicken, and now two upset Kalosian men were throwing it around like it insulted their mothers. At some point something is going to fall to the floor and the tension is going to get worse. Sycamore just wants to leave before this last friendship snaps like the others.

But of course, Siebold is also in Rocket now, and he says as much—and if he, someone with qualifications, someone with prospects and power in the League, fought and still ended up here, then what chance could Sycamore have ever had of keeping his job or even finding a new one that wasn’t mopping bathrooms at Starbucks? As much as he wants to say it, he keeps his mouth shut.

“I know all about it, but I would suspect out of all the people to know me you would have more faith in me than that. It wasn’t I who voted for you to be striped of your title and they’ve no right to take your Pokemon away.” He holds his gaze with his own, daring him to speak out of turn, out of line and most of all against him or his proclamations.  But all he had were words and what were those in comparison to losing a job? He prepares for the worst as he faces down Sycamore, his hopes of having a friend her quickly dwindling as he knows how people are, what they do to avoid truths. Had their friendship meant nothing in the great scheme of things? 

He keeps a straight face as thoughts course through his mind, as he turns to tend to the chicken again, grabbing tongs to turn them over in the pan. 

A simple oui, and Sycamore finds his feet moving of their own accord towards the sink, where he rolls up his sleeves and turns the tap to hot, washing his hands quickly before returning. Siebold has a bowl of flour to one side, and so Sycamore takes the spot next to it and watches, brow furrowed, as Siebold rolls chicken in it. Won’t that make bread happen? Why would anyone want to have a surprise chicken in their bread? Still, he doesn’t ask, and instead begins to clumsily copy Siebold as best he can. It sticks and clumps and it’s messy, but Sycamore manages to kind of get the hang of it.

“They fired me,” he said softly in reply, shame settling into his heart, “and I needed work. I didn’t…. I didn’t really have options.” He wasn’t sure how to talk about it. Not to Siebold. Not now. It had been painful, a painful experience, and for all he knew Siebold—Siebold may have…. He swallowed hard, doing his best not to pass judgement. Siebold was here, too, after all.

“You could have come to me while you searched for a new position or fought for the very one they took.” He starts, his words simple and to the point as he’s never been really good at pampering with his words. He doesn’t feel sorry for Sycamore, or himself for that matter-- he just feels... hallow, empty and wants to fill that emptiness with something as quickly as possible before it consumes him entirely. You fought and look where that got you. His mind chides him for the very suggestion, makes him cast a glance over to the former professor as his lips smooth into a thin line. 

“I fought them and now I’m here.” At least I can say I fought... What good had it done? They had put him in such a compromising position and all for what? Because he wouldn’t do what they wanted him to do. Their corrupt dirty work and now.... he can’t even tell his friend why he’s really there. What would the League do to him if he knew they were corrupt? He shakes his head and starts to drop the chicken down onto the pan. 

But all of that aside, Sycamore is still hungry; it’s easier to focus on than the monotony and loneliness, and so with his mind set on something to munch on, he slipped down the hallways and sneaked into the kitchen; at this time of day, it was always more or less empty, with none of the cooks rarely arriving in time to beat the lunch rush (and subsequently, Sycamore imagined, being responsible for the periodic outbreak of salmonella throughout the base) but it at least made it easy to raid Rocket’s pantry without worry.

Except someone is in there, today. Sycamore is already shuffling through the pantry and comes across a knock-off brand of Lucky Charms, and satisfied that he could, at the very least, pick out all the marbits to eat, prepares to take the whole box and return to his tiny office when the order comes to bring the man a chicken. And he recognizes that voice. Oh, does he recognize that voice. Freezing in place, he can only bring himself to stare on with wide, confused eyes as Siebold worked to begin cooking preparations in Team Rocket’s kitchen. Siebold. Cooking. In Team Rocket’s kitchen. Only one of those pieces of information did not belong, and it was not Siebold nor the cooking.

“Oui, go wash your hands.” He takes the chicken, and pulls a bowl of flour closer to him so that he can start preparing it. He dips some of the chicken into it, rolls it around before setting it off to the side, expects Sycamore to be back by the time he finishes the third piece and by then he shifts the bowl closer to be between them so he can follow example and do the same thing. 

“You went missing for weeks.” He begins, voice finally giving way to the strain of worry, of discontent at finding he had run away to here of all places. “And this is where I find you.” No note, no message... nothing to convey he even cared to tell his friend where he was going. He wants to feel angry for this all over again but instead feels the insult of the blow anew. He wants to be important, of course, but feels abandonment instead. And all for what? For this?