Migs's grin made Elliot's crooked smile soften, making her feel more shy than awkward. It did make her feel better knowing that she'd be helpful, especially to a fellow American. His explanation as to how his hours would be during the week, it seemed that they might have to arrange evening tours or maybe save a day during the weekend for her to show Migs around London.

Her mind then began to wander, revisiting places she frequented and others she had not been to in months, or even years. Her focus on the young man was drawn away, her eyes looking off to the side at nothing in particular as she mentally traveled through the city. But, when he showed her the contents of his cupboards, she snorted and restrained a chuckle trying to cover her smile with one hand. The way Migs presented his limited selection made it all the more amusing.

"Oh Merlin," she muttered. "I'll be right back," she said and strode off towards her flat. About a minute later she walked through the doorway once again, carrying a half-gallon of milk that was already missing a small portion of its contents since she had drunk out of it the day before, and three flavored coffee cream bottles. Elliot set them all on the kitchen counter near the coffee maker.

She was going to make a comment once again about their drinks, but his question about electricity made her pull a face as if she had been hit with something.  "I'm not sure about yours, but the witch who has my contract with my particular flat has a lack of electric stuff in it. The most I have is my washer, dryer, shower, and my fridge. Everything else I have to supply with candles or fire. I've gotten used to cooking on my stove though." She gave a nod of her head towards his own beside her. "Looks like a similar situation for you and your stove too."

Elliot finished with the preparation of the beans and got the machine going. She figured she'd make her own cup first, since she knew how she liked her coffee, then go about helping Migs make his. "What's the extent of your cooking skills? Other than with a microwave."

“You don’t have-“ Migs started to insist, but Elliot was already dashing back to her flat for provisions.  She returned a few moments later with an assortment of coffee fixings.  Migs pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room, leaning against the wall of the kitchen nook. 

“So, no microwave.” Migs concluded, with an air of mild resignation.  “And, no television.”  Of course, he was no stranger to the unplugged wizarding life; Salem had been just as electricity-challenged as Hogwarts.  During his school days, though, he had spent every school break and holiday back in the comforts of home.  Now he’d joined the full-time working stiff force.  The irony of leaving the reservation and coming to England to settle into a less modern lifestyle was not lost on him.  “Suppose that means we have to go back to the old-fashioned socializing-with-people pastimes.” 

Or, find a decent local pub with food and television. 

"What's the extent of your cooking skills? Other than with a microwave.”

“I can grill,” Migs said with a broad grin.  “I can pour cereal into a bowl and maybe even slice bananas on top, if I’m feeling extra creative.  And, I’ve already cased out three or four take out places in the neighborhood, which I’m super stoked about.”  Cue small-town, country boy moment.  “With all the different foods around, I think I’ll be explore-eating for at least a year.  Our town had one local diner and it served your typical burger and meatloaf fare.  I can’t wait to have good Italian or Greek food.  Whatever good Greek food is.” 

Migs shrugged.  “My hometown has a population of about 358 people.  357, now that I’m here.  No - 358, again.  Angie had her baby."  A new boy!  "The closest town with more than a thousand people is Winnipeg, Manitoba and it’s about 200 miles away.  We don’t have much in the way of other ethnic foods.”  It was twenty minutes to the nearest pizza.  Without snow. 

Which was all a distraction from his inability to cook.  With another grin, he shrugged.  “I was the youngest.  And, a bit of a momma’s boy."

Elliot watched as the dark liquid of the coffee began to fill up her cup, the aroma filling the area nearby. As she breathed she could smell the dark, rich scent and already knew what she'd do to have her cup just the way she liked it. She turned around to reach for one of the coffee creams but Mig's describing his cooking abilities made her stop and snort, then chuckle. Really? That was it? Well, she had been at that level before too. She had learned to help herself... Help... An idea struck at her and she looked at him with a bright smile.

"I could help you learn how to cook," she said. She then shrugged, now feeling suddenly awkward to have made the suggestion. "I'm not the best cook out there, but I do well enough. The offer is open to you, if you want."

"As for food options, there are a lot of choices here in London. Whether you want to eat in muggle or magical community is up to you; but unless you have a good amount of money on you you'll burn through it all quickly eating like that." She paused for a moment, glancing off to the side. "I used to do that myself before I got more responsible. Then, when my income really dropped I had to learn how to properly cook for myself. That's how I got decent at it." She brought her eyes back to young wizard, but her focus didn't stay there long. "I just wouldn't want you to end up making the same mistakes I did." Yes, she'd certainly made a number of little to large mistakes. Some still affected her...

Turning her attention back at the coffee  she removed the cup once it was full and went about making it her way. First, the coffee creamer to add an additional flavor. Then just a little bit of milk. Giving a swirling motion of her wand she gently mixed it all together, then cooled it slightly and took a sip. The flavor was a welcome taste on her tongue and the warmth spread through her chest. She gave a gentle smile at the sensation.

“I was the youngest.  And, a bit of a momma’s boy."

"How old are you, anyway? You asked for my age, but I don't think I ever got yours," she said before taking another sip of her coffee. Oh! The other cup for him! Setting her cup back down she went about making ready another batch of coffee, her gestures suddenly quick and flustered. "How do you like your coffee, by the way? Do you want anything with it? Or black?"

Migs flashed a broad grin at the offer of becoming a culinary student.  In a less fancy way than his interpretation suggested.  “I might take you up on that.  My grandma tried to teach me but her approach is more ‘watch me and maybe you’ll learn’.”  Migs lifted his hands and waggled his hands in a pantomimed version of his grandmother darting around the kitchen in her usually cooking blur.  “She made no attempts to slow down for the sake of demonstration.  It was just chop chop, whip, sizzle and there’s food.”  Good food, mind you.  But, not much evidence of how she got from point A to point Z. 

But, he couldn’t wait to try sushi.  And hummus.  And all the other worldly foods he’d seen on TV. 

“Straight black is fine,” Migs confirmed with a nod as she set to making the next cup.  “I can’t do dairy.  Most of us can’t - two of my nieces can do a little but their mother is half French Canadian.”  Which was probably more than Elliot needed or wanted to know.  “And, I turned 20 in September."

“Are all of your family still back in the States?” he asked.  "Do they ever come over to visit?"

She felt better about the suggestion upon seeing Migs make that huge grin. He was certainly smiling about a lot of things in their conversation, so far. Then again, their conversation had gone in the direction of food, and typical males enjoyed food as well as the topic thereof. As Migs went on demonstrating how his grandmother showed him how to cook Elliot couldn't help but let out a laugh. He was energetic, in his own way, and that energy was easy to draw from.

"You only just turned twenty?" She shook her head as she waited for the cup to fill up with coffee, the scent still strong from where she stood in front of it. She grabbed at her own cup again and took a sip from it. "You make me feel old. Heh, and saying that just made me seem like it, I'm sure."

“Are all of your family still back in the States? Do they ever come over to visit?"

She was in the middle of another sip when he asked. Her expression dimmed and she lowered the cup somberly. Holding it gently in her hands she stared down into the creamy brown color of her coffee. "Yes, they are," she replied, "But I haven't seen them since I left." Elliot began to wonder if she wanted to continue a little more about why, but the other part of her wondered if that was a sufficient answer.

"I write them," she added, deciding on the former thought, "but not as often as I should." Maybe that last bit wasn't necessary, but it was said and she couldn't take the words back.

"You only just turned twenty?  You make me feel old. Heh, and saying that just made me seem like it, I'm sure.”

Migs shrugged, casually.  “Only if you count this life,” he pointed out.  Sure.  It was obvious she had a few years on him.  But, Migs had rarely found the number of one’s age to be defining.  Though he and his classmates at Salem had been only a few years apart, there were times the age differences had felt more significant.  “How often do our spiritual and emotional ages match our physical age, anyway? 

He cradled his cup of coffee and inhaled the earthy aromas.  Again, vagueness veiled information about her past and, again, Migs found himself considering the implications.  They were, of course, little more than an hour displaced from being complete strangers, so hesitation on the basis of lack of familiarity was entirely understandable.  But, was there more to it?  Was her hesitation out of distrust or shyness?  Fear of judgement or rejection?  Or shame, perhaps?  Migs sincerely hoped it wasn’t the last, especially given the breadth of the span of time Elliot seemed to be avoiding. 

Again, Migs found himself wondering if he should leave the topic be or press for more information.  Maybe she really didn’t want to talk about it and was just answering what she had to to be polite.  Maybe she really wanted to talk but wasn’t sure if it would be welcome, so was looking for permission.  His aunt would, undoubtedly, know which avenue to take. 

As he was considering his options, an unsettling thought occurred to him.  She hadn’t seen them since she left.  “Since you left the US?” he asked, looking across the kitchen at her.  “You don’t mean since you left for school?”  He hoped it wasn’t the later, though he had heard of such things happening.  “I imagine it still takes forever for post to get to Virginia - that doesn’t make writing regularly any easier.  And, it certainly isn’t email!” 

His mention of spiritual and emotional age in comparison to physical age left Elliot thinking for a little bit. She stared at nothing in particular in front of her, taking a sip of her coffee as she stewed over his words. There was some truth to that, in her opinion. Part of her wondered if her emotional age was a bit older than it should be normally for someone her age because of her past, while the other part of her wondered how it seemed she was still young spiritually. She noted to herself to think more on that later tonight when she had some quiet time.

"What? No, no, I haven't seen them since I left the U.S.," she replied, clarifying what she had said earlier. "It's been a few years."

I would have gone back, had things not ended the way they did.

"It does seem that way sometimes," she continued, adding to Migs' comment about mail delivery time. "But really the mail is rather quick. Mail usually gets to the regional or local mail office within a week. Then they sort through all the mail and make sure its sent to the right address. That's what usually takes so long."

Elliot took another sip of her coffee but then had to pull her glasses off her face, since the steamy liquid kept fogging the lenses. She cleaned the lenses calmly, almost absentmindedly. "I tend to get mail only for major holidays. I should be expecting a Christmas card within a couple of weeks," she said as she glanced through her glasses to see if they were sufficiently cleaned off, then placed them on her face again.

She was suddenly reminded how, in the years since she left, all she had gotten were letters or cards from her immediate family. Never any packages, howlers, or special gifts, save for the small ones given her during the Christmas holidays. Then again, Migs had just confirmed how difficult it was to send anything from one continent to the other. Of course she was grateful that she still got word from her family, but other than them she didn't really get correspondence from anyone else.

"Did your family send you mail often, while you were away?" she asked, turning the situation towards Migs. "Do they still?"