Watching Machia stumbling around her own space in this quiet stupid makes it very difficult not to worry she's been possessed after all. A lot of the halting and the clumsy way she cleaves to apparent routine just smacks of some type of petty evil ghost. Or it would, if she didn't know this woman so well. And if she had less than unshakeable confidence in Blanche. But she did and she does, so that made this more of a puzzle of logistics than anything.

Madeleine stares in silence. She has no idea how long this routine takes to complete, how much time she needs to wait. She is simply a passenger here, this is just another dream to walk in and watch because she is not allowed in, she is once again the sky and all the sky can do is--

She frowns and tucks her chin against her fist. Tap tap, tap tap, her finger against her cheek. She sighs and pulls out her phone, her free thumb dancing across the pad with the kind of speed only long familiarity can grant. For one single moment she hesitates and looks up again to watch Machia stand there with a toothbrush jammed stupidly in her mouth. Then she looks down again and rapid taps a single spot five times before finishing up and carrying the little screen into the kitchen.

...Eggs are very easy. Because they are like coffee. It is nothing but the manipulation of heat and water, simply turned toward emulsion instead of extraction. In fact this is how she learned to cook in the first place: heating water and pouring it into a pan in her room until turned her food into something like a thing she could eat (without risking the communal kitchen and its terrifying friendly faces) in the limited space she had. Once she understood the connection, mastering the forms was easy. 

Beating mixes everything evenly. Salt breaks down the proteins early. Then it's about moisture. From vegetables, from fats, directly from a little cup she found in the sink... it doesn't matter. She just needs enough. Make the evaporation do the work, slow the cook so that it can't fry. Higher and higher. Fluffier and fluffier. Like a sunny little cloud. Running through with roughly chopped spinach, onion, peppers of every color and style she could find, mushrooms, olives. Carrot. All added at different intervals, all chopped with the kind of dexterity that implied she had hooves. This should be crunchy, this needs to be soft, this will force the omelette to cook longer before it...

She glances at her phone. Wheels around sharply to put her eye on Machia again. Heaves a relieved sigh. Watches her phone a minute longer and frowns. 

Her flip is a thing of beauty. No one is around to see it. The dish she plates is huge and bouncy, soft like a sheep and laden with delicious vegetables and textures. She glances at her phone again and snap looks around for Machia a second time before refreshing her pan and pouring the remaining egg mixture in for a second cook. 

With one arm, she guides Titanomachia to a seat. The other sets a plate down in front of her, then places a fork in her hand, wraps her fingers tight around it, and guides it into the omelette. It is... different than feeding her. Different than what Machia does for Madeleine. This is gentler. More halting. It is simply guiding the one in control to the proper course of action.

"I will not let... them see you. Until you are Titanomachia. This you, this... sleeping beauty. That is mine. My secret. Now, please. It is good, I promise."

She watches Machia eat for a moment before suddenly making a strange face and scrambling to grab salt she can sprinkle over the top to finish with. Suddenly her phone buzzes. Madeleine almost drops her own plate as she runs full burst toward the door. Her hands tremble as she opens the door. Just a crack. Her gleaming amber eye peeks out into the world.

The door opens wider. She bows, waves, bows again, and bends down to pick something up. With the nervous precision of a bomb disposal technician, she turns the Coffee Horse logo on the biodegradable neoplastic box away from the table. And she pulls out cup. After cup. After cup. After cup. Seven in all. She scrutinizes the labels but the scrawl is hasty and hard to read, so in the end she just sniffs them until she finds the one that makes her nose wrinkle.

And that's the cup she sets in front of Machia. 

"I had them add honey. And vanilla. And cinnamon. And," she looks down at her phone, "Four extra servings of cream. This place uses a very light roast, producing the mildest base of any chain. But still, I needed to make it... beginner friendly. Do not turn your nose up. You need it."

She sits down, opposite. Grabs one of the other cups and takes a long, ear fluttering sip before she finally settles into her own breakfast. Wait. Wait. She is simply the sky. Hers is nothing more than to wait.