(no subject)
Geoffrey's of an age when he doesn't necessarily do much to celebrate his birthday anymore. (Well, he'll probably demand birthday sex later, but he also demands non-birthday sex so that won't be much of a change. And actually, he doesn't generally have to demand sex at all. Sex just happens.)
So he's not making big celebratory plans or anything, but somehow he always gets a sweet tooth on his birthday. It's some kind of Pavlovian thing after 47 of them. Birthday equals cake, or ice cream, or pie, or cookies, or crumble, or...pie. Or more pie. Or more cake. Really, the possibilities in the realm of baked goods are endless. And if there's one place he can usually track some down, it's in the compound kitchen.
He probably looks a little mad as he checks every surface, every cupboard, every drawer for something to appease him. (Seriously, you never know when you might find something in a strange place. It's the island.) Surely on this of all days someone will have left a plate of freshly baked cookies somewhere within easy reach. They definitely don't have to be birthday-specific. They just have to be tasty.
It's not that there's nothing to be found, in the end. It's that Geoffrey comes to the realisation that he's kind of in the way.
"Sorry," he says, with what he hopes is a conciliatory and/or ingratiating smile. "Just foraging."
[ set some time mid- to late afternoon; st/lt welcome! ]
So he's not making big celebratory plans or anything, but somehow he always gets a sweet tooth on his birthday. It's some kind of Pavlovian thing after 47 of them. Birthday equals cake, or ice cream, or pie, or cookies, or crumble, or...pie. Or more pie. Or more cake. Really, the possibilities in the realm of baked goods are endless. And if there's one place he can usually track some down, it's in the compound kitchen.
He probably looks a little mad as he checks every surface, every cupboard, every drawer for something to appease him. (Seriously, you never know when you might find something in a strange place. It's the island.) Surely on this of all days someone will have left a plate of freshly baked cookies somewhere within easy reach. They definitely don't have to be birthday-specific. They just have to be tasty.
It's not that there's nothing to be found, in the end. It's that Geoffrey comes to the realisation that he's kind of in the way.
"Sorry," he says, with what he hopes is a conciliatory and/or ingratiating smile. "Just foraging."
[ set some time mid- to late afternoon; st/lt welcome! ]