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This is Rosita. I'll hit you back when I can.

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[Godric hears that cutoff and hums softly. He leaves a message he hopes she'll hear.]

The offer doesn't expire. You're always welcome.

She ignores the message.

Forty-five minutes is about how long it takes her to talk herself into holding up her end of her promise to Jesus to try, though. To think about how the list of people he trusts the way they were talking about at the time is one name long, and he's paired with her for the month. He's trying to talk to her.

Fuck. She does not want to do this, she does not want any of this, but she promised so she knocks on the door, and stands back a bit and to the side of the doorway to wait for it to open. If she looked like a feral creature sneaking back inside before, now she looks like one backed into the corner of a trap and fully prepared to fight her way out, even if she's not actually showing teeth.

"You should know right off that I'm kind of a bitch," she says without preamble when the door opens. "And I hate this social system, and I have supervised myself just fine for years now, and I don't want any trouble but I'm not going to shy away from finishing it if some finds me, and I don't want anything from anyone."

And Godric opens the door, listens to those words, and nodded. "Alright." That seems reasonable enough. He takes a step back to let her inside, should she want it.

"Did you still want to try the coffee?" he wonders. "Does that count as a want?" He asks the last question a bit gingerly, wincing as he realizes that he might have already broken something she told him.

But indeed there's the unmistakable smell of coffee in the kitchen, along with a hint of vanilla.

"I do," she says, but it's in the exact same tone as everything else she just listed off of things she doesn't want.

She really wants some fucking coffee; what she doesn't want is the obligation that seems to come with it, here especially.

"But not if it's only because some random asshole without any boundaries called our names together this morning. No one can tell me why I'm an inmate, he's not saying why he made me one, so as far as I'm concerned it's irrelevant."

He nods. "Of course. This - isn't something I'm doing for the Admiral or because of the announcement, I hope you know. I happened to be making coffee at the moment I heard. I would have invited you over anyway, if I knew you were interested. I was - hoping to impress Jesus, actually, and I need someone to test it since I can't actually taste it."

"God, you had to go and say that, didn't you?" she sighs, and her shoulders are still tense enough to tear, but she reaches up to rub the bridge of her nose.

"I promised him I'd try. Give things a chance. Asshole, with those eyes."

He smiles, mostly sheepish. "I don't want to lie to you, and I appreciate that you'll give me a chance." He walks into the kitchen and takes down a cup, pouring the coffee into it, mixing a little of the vanilla into it. "Do you like cream? I have - milk? Does that count as a cream?"

Her dark eyes are alert, blatantly suspicious, but she's seen this cabin before. She knows exactly what corners to check - visually, she doesn't wander off deeper in than it takes to follow him - and what's different from before, what's the same.

She folds her arms, shakes her head.

"I mean, I do. But not if you want me to actually taste it."

"Does it change it that much?" he wonders, leaving the cup on the edge of the counter like an offering. "I don't think, in any of the breaches I've been in, that I've enjoyed coffee. But I like the smell of it. The humans I housed here, back home, I mean, made it every morning before I went to sleep."

"I don't know how he drinks his, so I'd want to try it both ways."

Jesus does seem like the cream and sugar type, to her, but then again the fall pretty much ruined everyone who survived it for something as fickle as preference.

"I - it's complicated."

"I have plenty. Try that one first and I'll make another if you want it." He leans back against the counter, far enough away from her to hopefully give her space, but not far enough that it seems odd.

"Feel free to spit it out if you don't like it."

It takes her a moment to talk herself into actually doing what she said she would, to unfolding her arms and picking up the mug.

Get your shit together, Espinosa, she orders herself sternly, and smells the coffee before taking a small, cautious sip. There is absolutely no way she's going to spit it out, but that can go unsaid, so she doesn't bother.

After a moment - "It's good. I don't - it's good."

There's something reminiscent of the child he was before it all happened at her words. He brightens considerably, pushing away from the counter. "Truly? Good. Good! I had hoped the vanilla wouldn't be overwhelming."

She's not a soft woman; she's not as hard as she's had to become, either, though. She watches him, holding the coffee, smelling it, this thing that's become such a luxury that she can't even really tell if it's good or not anymore except it's better than what's been served in the cafeteria when she's bothered getting it there.

She doesn't smile, but she does sigh, does notch her chin at the refrigerator.

"Let's try it with the milk, then. Then sugar, see if it does anything weird."

"Alright." He opens the fridge. It's bare, for the most part, save a few bottles in the back, dark colored like beer. He brings out a small carton of milk and the sugar from the cabinet, placing them on the counter for her.

"Was this something you did before - drink coffee like this?"

Rosita is... friendly with Astarion. She's learned not to investigate too deeply into what a vampire might have in their refrigerator.

She steps over to set the mug back down on the counter anyway, and picks up the milk, turning it over in her hands for a moment.

"Yeah. I liked cinnamon and cream in mine though. Then black, then -" She shrugs.

"Those of us that are left aren't really picky, mostly. You should know he'll be happy with whatever you put in front of him."

Cinnamon. He's certain Archer has some in his kitchen. He needs to remind himself to ask.

"I know. There's coffee in the dining hall. I want to try something new here. He - well, this is true of so many people - deserves to have something more than the bare minimum. Our time here is short. Whatever comes next may mean that he goes back to black coffee, or no coffee, or nothing. While he's here, while this place is - as it is - he should experience at least some good."

"Yeah. I just mean -"

She feels how she wants to get angry again, or rather since she hasn't really stopped, to just... be a dick. That's not what she wants though. He's right: Jesus does deserve something nice, so she focuses instead on how the milk cloud roils into the dark of the coffee.

"I just mean the fact you think that at all will mean a lot. The effort is worth so much more than the end product. So don't stress."

He ducks his head a little as a nod. "Thank you, Rosita. That - helps, actually. I appreciate it. I haven't been with a human in a long time and I - do want him to feel loved."

He leans on the counter again.

I do want him to feel loved.

Rosita doesn't trust anyone here, and has no interest in trying. Not really. But Jesus is from home, Jesus is someone she already knows, someone she does trust has already chosen to trust. And he's talked about similar themes with her about this man.

She tries another cautious sip with the milk, flashes a thumbs up, and considers.

"Do you? Love him?"

"Yes, of course," he says with no hesitation. Love comes easily to Godric now. It's something he's had to work for, something he's had to want. There is vulnerability in it, of course. There is always the chance that he could be hurt, but he doesn't think too much about that any longer.

The pain is only proof that love had been genuine, and that's the feeling he's chasing.

"I know that he holds himself back, and that's fine. I know that he's been hurt. I know little about your world, but I know that relationships are hard fought and difficult to maintain for a thousand reasons. I am grateful for what he can give, and I will do the same in return."

Love used to come easily to Rosita - and she was willing to suffer for it to have it, willing to work for it. Anything good, anything worth having, is painful and hard.

Now it just hurts. Now she wants nothing that even looks like it, is not willing to risk it, but she watches him anyway.

"You have a partner though," she points out. "And someday, you'll leave here, I'm assuming."

"I do. Archer. We're - companions. We've been together a while." He leans back. "We have a home by the ocean. I've told Jesus that he's welcome to come, but he won't accept. We both know it. My life is - quiet. Peaceful. Each day is much like the one before."

He lets out an unnecessary breath.

"That isn't the life he wants."

That's not, she thinks, why he won't come. She's not going to say that though. Not to Godric.

"Seems like a difficult thing to be up against, partners with a life together. He says you have tattoos older than the Roman empire. You say you've not been with a human in quite some time."

Seems pretty novel. Pretty short lived.

He nods. "My ink is from my village. When my people were called Gauls. I have - a brand from the Romans, when I was their slave."

Godric links his fingers together in front of him, thinking. "I don't know what you mean by - 'up against,'" he adds.