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Girls need food. Speedsters need food. Enter Shawarma Kingdom.
This place is decidedly strange by modern standards, serving on food on spinning spits that could be normal — or not. Who wants to take a chance on it? The bread at least looks familiar and the vegetables might be optional to anyone except Wanda, who steadfastly doesn't eat meat and certainly has a stack of flatbread in front o fher. She keeps nodding as they add rice and the aforementioned grilled veg, gesturing. "More please." That's six pieces and growing.
Speedsters need an inordinate amount of food. It was absolutely true. Pietro was enjoying being as picky as he wanted and thought hey have been on their own for a time a lifetime of fighting for one's next meal left the sheer decadency of being selective and indulging in as much as he wanted something of a marvel and anathema to him all at once. When he spoke though, unless to speak at the waiter, it was in their first tongue. "You know I never thought food would be quite like this. All of it on demand. We have accomplished many things buuuut this, for me, might be the high point of success."
Speedsters have the highest of calorie counts. Witches are not far behind them. Deep in thought, Wanda considers the fluffy, unleavened bread dumped on her plastic basket. She dreamily awaits the delivery of more into her dinner and an extra heap of ground up chickpeas in a creamy hummus gives the greatest form of satisfaction. Enough she might even roll over and sigh into a blanket, since her low energy derives entirely from not nearly enough food. When the hummus is delivered, she dumps a shread of pita into the heap, chewing thoughtfully as the moment arises. There may be a pile of delicious seasoned beef and chicken yonder, but she's not interested in those, eyeing Pietro from the corner of her eye. "Food. Much more than we ever had," she says softly.
Pietro actually smiled and it wasn't bitchy. "You know, I am not mad we came here. Well because of this. Keeps us busy." There was that spark of mischief in his eye and he didn't do anything… yet. His amusement hit a hiccup when he admitted to her, "There was a problem with my apartment. I think I found oe I do not mind so much though."
"When are you mad at me?" asks the witch. Those eyes, dark plum and stained by a tint of gold at their rims, might be odd for anyone else to behold. But surely by now Pietro knows so much of her fiance's spirit dwells within her, at some degree, that his influence augments her spell-shot sight. Insinuating herself into a seat pressed up to a table, where the seating is limited and space at a premium, Wanda curls her knees close to her. Dark leathers creak and murmur when she moves, settling into detail. "What is this in your apartment?"
Further away was aman that was being a bit of a braggart and more than a bit boorish. That's when that spark came back and Wanda would know the feel of that telltale woosh. Whatever he just did he was, still at teh table (She knew better of course) and he was tucking something away into his pocket. He sighed and said with no small amount of reluctant embarassment, "Someoe felt breaking into my apartment, not knowing is mine, was a good idea while I was in Nova Scotia." Hurt his pride more than anything. "But one of the things they took was my watch and I'm going to figure out where it went."
A boor, a braggart, and a brother. Don't they all go hand in hand? Wanda blinks her calm, bright eyes, following something of the trails of a gossamer line left behind by Pietro. Of course he moves at speeds beyond her ken, but they still cause a rustle of papers and napkins, the basket full of hummus and bread. She tears a pita into segments, triangular for the most part, close to a normal and regular size. "You go to Canada, why? You need a crab?" Transian comes so much easier than English, their mutual birth tongue allowing her much more fleixbility than she ever attains under other circumstances. Perhaps she can speak beautifully when she wants to, but those hours are fleeting and rare.
Pietro relaxed into their language inside their languagea only twins seems to do. He shook his head and dipped his break into the sauce "No. Taking care of something for father I was contacted about. But," He offered pragmaticly to her, his infinite pride rebuffed, "While it is humiliating? They took the one thing I did not want to part with and so now I have to either accept this," Those pale blue eyes looked up lifting fork in emphasis, "Which you know I won't. Out of the question, Or? Or I have to figure out what to do about it. Also my furniture is gone." He sighed shaking his head, "Most inconvenient. Canada was very nice though. Halifax was actually quite lovely and the crab there 'was' amazing. We should go back."
Speaking in tongues and twinned paths comes as naturally to the white-haired man as going reticent and quiet does for Wanda. She is his solar opposite, he the moon in its indiscreet mutability, though her steadiness in that respect is wholly an illusion. Long fingers make short work of a pair of pickled vegetables, their ilk not entirely clear, but satisfactory for chewing with crisp certainty behind firmly closed lips. Pleasure in the texture barely shows through the cool oval of her dusky face, and she dips her fingers in again to snatch up another addition to the meal; this, some variant on tabbouleh worth the effort of heaping the mass onto a bit of pita bread to tuck into her mouth again. "Where is our father?"
Pietro looked up and mused not really kowing teh answer direct, "Island, near Greece. He said he would have more information on it for us bbut some political figures were meeting to discuss some island nad he needed to know more about one of the people he was meeting with." Pietro shrugged and while he didn't smile precicely he was PREENING on teh iside, "So I broke into his home. FOund some dirt. Got it over. Lost my watch now."