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The reasoning was this: She had made him late for one raid, and she sure as hell wasn't going to make him late for a second. Sure, Veer wanted Lydia to make him dinner, to pay up on her debt, but he didn't want to get stuck over at her place, scrambling through a mirror late at night to get home in time to gather, to chat, to joke, before it was time to go through those gates.

So it was his place. Veer's apartment, even with the stern-faced Pascal flitting about and trying to bring some kind of order to the place, was enough of a mess to be intimidating. His bedroom was the worst, naturally, and a peek through the barely-cracked door would show laundry [dirty AND clean] on the bed and the floor and piled up onto his big comfy chair, lit by the glow of a computer screen. The living room had been brought at least somewhat into order, except for the signs of someone living on the couch, piles of books that simply had nowhere to go, most of them with titles like "An Expert's Guide to Basic" and "Databases and SQL queries" -- practically another language to most people.

Lydia would mostly have to deal with the kitchen, though. Dishes in the sink had probably been 'soaking' for a week, or more; cups sat gathered around the edges of the sink, slivers of yellow Mountain Dew or gooey brown Coke lining their bottoms. Three pizza boxes [empty] managed to cover the counter, obscuring somewhat-greasy countertops from view.

The worst of it, though, was that Veer hardly seemed ashamed. He didn't know when the oven had even last been used. He preferred the microwave. He let Lydia in cheerfully, unconcerned as he at least stacked the pizza boxes out of her way. Why he didn't just throw them out was anyone's guess.

Bemused, Veer shot a look over the kitchen. To her, it was a disaster zone. To him, it was 'not that bad'; after all, there was no old food out and rotting on the counters, the trash had been taken out at some point in the last month, and the fridge [while bare] was more or less clean. Maybe some of his condiments were past their expiration dates, but -- well, ketchup didn't really go bad. Did it? Did mustard? He never even thought about it.

"Uhhh. I like pizza." The reply came out slow, faintly puzzled, arms folded over his chest as he leaned in the doorway. There were some clean dishes around. His small frying pan was dirty, but the big one was alright; he'd at least rinsed out the main pot after making pasta at some point. In one of the drawers were a mismatched handful of forks and knives, and two spoons. Eh. Spoons. Who needed spoons.

"What, do you not like pizza? What kinda bullshit would that be?" He should have been embarrassed. Instead, he seemed to be his usual self.

"I dunno what he's doing, If you leave leftovers, though, they'll sure as s**t be gone by the end of the week." Veer stepped forward as he said it, stretching past her to poke through cupboards and deposited at her elbow all he had: four mismatched plates, all of them white, and a package of heavy duty picnic paper plates -- open. This was, apparently, what he'd primarily been using. Up on the top shelf were also plastic forks. They'd live.

"...I uh. I assume you are leaving the leftovers?" He was in the way, now, settled against the counter next to him, hands curled around the lip and shoulders hiked up. The sweatshirt, too-big, hung crookedly around him, black over some wildly emblazoned t-shirt. He was much brighter, in general, out of his muted brown-on-brown uniform.

"I should have written that into the deal."

He gave the meat on the tray a narrowed look, uncertain perhaps, as he stepped away to flick the oven on. Veer missed simple steps that most people took care to remember, that experts would recognize as very important -- steps like opening the oven to make sure it was empty, like double checking the temperature. Instead he moved on to poke through his cabinets, through piles of mismatched tupperware and lids, trying to find two that went together.

"What is that even?" Considering she'd been kind enough to cook the food, he could probably have been a little bit more gracious. The problem was that -- well, no, technically he didn't eat pork. Not when his mom asked, anyway. He'd probably never had an actual pork chop...

"I thought you'd do, like, mac'n'cheese or something." This was oddly sophisticated. He leaned in carefully to sniff at the meat. Curious, more than anything.

Wuh oh. She said porkchops and he eyed the meat like it might jump up and eat him, instead of the other way around, straightening away from his sniff, head tilted to one side. Veer hesitated, quiet, just staring down at them. It had, at least, smelled good; like meat, warm, maybe a little bit of something nutty in there? More filling and hearty than the meals he usually prepared for himself, and free, unlike the takeout he tended to prefer.

On the other hand, it would mean lying to his mother. Well. More lying to his mother; he did it enough already that maybe that shouldn't have been a concern. His eyes flitted back up to her at the question.

"...uh." He pointed toward the silverware drawer. There were metal spoons in there, but they were only teaspoons and tablespoons, none of the big stirrers she might have expected.

Veer probably should have been helping. Or doing something. He should have been watching her, at least, instead of propping himself up on the edge of a counter and digging out his phone to check his email, to check his downloads, to fuss with who-knew-what on the little touch screen. He was there, but in reality, Lydia might as well have been alone in the kitchen.

At least he didn't b***h about the porkchops. Her instincts had served her well, there.

The thanks made him blink, no grin now just a blank expression like he didn't have a damned clue what she was talking about -- or, perhaps, like he wasn't used to getting thanked for anything. He was used to being given a hard time, harassed, teased in a good natured way. This was new territory.

Instead of replying gracefully to accept her thanks, he laughed, tipping his head back down to the phone. Faintly uncomfortable, he changed the subject. "I took her cat food. She wasn't am...oh hey, you should do me a favor."

He was on the move before he finished the sentence, reached up to grab two cans of cat food out of a cabinet, holding them out toward Lydia. "Put these in her bed. It'll be so ******** funny."

"I don't mean open." As far as Veer was concerned, this was the only reason Lydia could possibly object to a little bit of harmless fun -- and he could understand the objection, in this case. A bed full of open cat food would be disgusting, and far more on par with the sort of thing he'd do to Raph's chair at work than to a girl he kinda maybe sorta had a thing for. Maybe. She was hot anyway.

Rolling his eyes, he shifted the cans in his hand, spreading them out faintly. One was Ocean Medley, the other Creamy Chicken. Disgusting.

"I mean, you know, still wrapped up. Under her pillow, so when she rolls over and her hand creeps up, she'll hit the metal..." Really, though, as far as these things went, this was a relatively harmless prank. Veer made eyes at her, hopeful.

"Because it's funny." He rolled his eyes, leaning back against the counter and absently tossing one of the cans into the air. He caught it crookedly, inexpertly, not quite dropping it, and shrugged at Lyda. Veer himself hadn't thought about it much more than merely that: he'd done it because he'd done it, and would continue to for the same reason.

"I think she's got a little more sense of humor than you." His tone had a little bit of a sulk to it, annoyed that she'd made it out to be anything but funny. Instead of tossing it again, he carefully set it on the edge of the counter, and stacked the second one on top. "She gets that it's just joking around."