Work Text:
He wasn’t your Food Soul, but somehow that didn’t stop him from being ever so kind to you.
-
“Hey, Master Attendant!” Tempura called to you one evening, his giant, built arms swinging casually by his sides as he moved to lean against the doorframe. “Pudding’s saying that the Magic Soul is back again! Do you want me to go out and see what he wants?”
You glanced up sharply from your work at this, still arms-deep in a sink full of dirty dishes that had been occupying you for the last fifteen minutes. You and your other Food Souls were closing up the restaurant a little earlier than usual, it had been a slow and dreary day, and from your experience, a slow day would only drag on and on into a slow evening. Really, it was as if everyone in Gloriville had suddenly decided to pack up and leave, or maybe they were all just getting sick of your limited and frankly bland dishes.
“Oh! No, no it’s fine, Tempura,” you replied, hastily yanking your hands free and drying them off with the hand towel, “I’ll go out and see him. He probably has some supplies for us again! I dearly wish he’d let me give him something in return, though. I really don’t know why he keeps on doing this, it’s awfully nice of him.”
“Well – ask him!” Tempura said cheerfully, as if you hadn’t already done so several times. “Maybe he likes our food and he doesn’t want to see us go out of business.”
“Well, that would be a fine explanation,” you said, after you’d rolled down your sleeves and retrieved your coat from the office, “if he’d ever actually been in to try our food. I won’t be long, Tempura, do you mind finishing off those dishes for me? You look far too relaxed over there.”
Grinning to yourself, and ignoring Tempura’s indignant spluttering, you made your way out through the deserted restaurant, weaving your way through the tables and nodding kindly to Pudding and Hawthorne, who were both busy wiping down the tables.
Pudding, evidently with a bee in his bonnet, moved towards you, cloth in hand and a grimace on his face.
“Master Attendant…”
“I know what you’re going to say, Pudding, but I don’t want you to bother.” You interrupted him firmly, doing up the front of your coat with slight difficulty in the half-light of the dining area. “He isn’t dangerous and he isn’t here to rob us in the night. All he’s doing is giving us a bit of a leg-up where it’s needed. I must say I’m a little surprised at you, I would’ve thought that you’d be glad for any help we could get with the restaurant.”
“I am – of course I am,” the blond Magic Soul said curtly, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, “but I don’t trust him and neither should you. Surely even you can see that there’s something very, very odd about him.”
You glanced out of the window at this, you could see him very faintly through the gloom of the evening, he appeared to be crouched down, no doubt tending to the flock of ducklings he took everywhere with him. A sigh rippled through you, maybe he was a little strange in his way, but then again, so was every other Food Soul you’d come across during your time in Tierra.
“It’s fine. I’ll just take what he’s brought for us and leave it at that.” You reassured him, clapping a hand on his shoulder, ignoring how he stumbled a little in response. “You just finish up those tables, please. I think we’ve got some shortbread somewhere in one of the cupboards, help yourself to those when you’re done, okay?”
“Shortbread?” Came a joyful squeal from somewhere behind the both of you, and you looked up just in time to see Hawthorne dancing about with glee, her cleaning cloth held high above her head. “Shortbread! Master Attendant, you’re the best!”
Smiling weakly at the pair of them, you finally turned your eyes away from Pudding’s accusing gaze, and made your way out onto the cobbled street. It was a little cold out, not quite as bad as it had been recently, but it was still chilly enough to leave the normally bustling street deserted apart from you and him.
At the sound of the shop’s doorbell tinkling, your guest immediately straightened himself up into a standing position, adjusting his long plait so that it draped over his shoulder, but even then its end still brushed the ground.
He offered you a warm smile as you moved towards him; his golden eyes glittering rather oddly, up against the rather shabby and rain-weathered street, he looked very out of place. As you drew closer to him, you found yourself breathing a tad deeper than normal, he always carried a very distinct scent with him, probably cologne, but it was a smell that you had grown rather fond of ever since he’d started visiting your restaurant.
Not that you’d ever admit it, you didn’t think you’d ever live it down if anyone knew.
“Hello again, Miss Attendant,” he greeted politely, the glass in his monocle flashing in the dim light cast by a nearby street lamp, “are you closing early again? Such a shame, I’m sorry that I couldn’t come sooner, I dare say what I have here would’ve coaxed your patrons to stay a little longer.”
“Oh, it’s quite alright, Peking, it isn’t the first time we’ve had to do this, and I doubt it will be the last.” You laughed awkwardly, your breath condensing in the cold, still air before you. Perhaps it was down to the strain of the day that you hadn’t noticed a distinct lack of it coming from your visitor…
“Really, you should come in sometime,” you offered yet again, jerking your head back towards the restaurant, “what with all you give me, you’re practically a supplier of mine, for heaven’s sake. I feel horrible for always sending you off empty handed like this. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can give you?”
“No, there’s no need, I’m honestly glad that there’s someone who’s so willing to accept my generosity.” He assured you, reaching out to rest a hand on your shoulder, forcing you to ignore the shiver that spiralled its way up your spine. “I often find myself with far too much food, far more than I can manage, you’re doing me a favour by taking it all off of my hands.”
“Oh…” Was all you managed to say, reaching out to take the canvas bag he offered you, a peek inside told you that it was filled to the brim with apples, fresh and shining, dappled red and green. “Oh, Peking, they’re beautiful! Of course – like you said – this means that I can probably entice people to stay a little longer with a nice pie, or a crumble!”
Peking regarded you still with that calm smile; he seemed almost intrigued with the way you rifled through the bag, exclaiming with delight at every apple you could see. But you had good reason to be happy, the only things your restaurant had been able to serve were plate after plate of lightly salted baked potatoes, and the occasional grilled piece of pork for weeks on end. It was safe to say that your situation was a somewhat desperate one.
Somewhere from behind you, Pudding’s voice came, you couldn’t quite make out the words, but the tone he used was so familiar to you now that you knew exactly what he was saying.
“Oh, there’s Pudding calling for me to come in. He shouldn’t worry so much, really, I told him I wouldn’t be long, and there’s plenty for him to do while I talk to you, but I suppose he’s just worried about me getting cold out here.”
“Ah, yes,” Peking murmured, eyes flitting up above your head to the restaurant’s sign, “it is dreadfully cold out. I thought tonight was a tad warmer, but, alas, this wretched time of year must come, as much as I wish it wouldn’t.”
He bowed his head slightly, reaching behind his back to retrieve the pipe that he always carried with him. Thinking that perhaps this was a cue for you to leave, you began to turn, prepared to bid him goodnight before a gentle chirping by your feet distracted you. Glancing down, you saw to your utter delight that a duckling had waddled its way over to you, its curious, beady little black eyes staring up at you, practically begging for attention.
Knowing fully well by now that Peking didn’t mind you making a fuss of them, you crouched down, reaching out to stroke a finger along the duckling’s fuzzy head. You cooed to it softly and grinned broadly as the others soon crept forwards too; apparently envious of the attention their sibling was receiving.
“The children are really very fond of you,” came a pleased sigh from above your head, “I’m glad, usually they hang back whenever I talk to cooking Attendants, but you? They adore you…”
“Well – I’m honoured.” You replied, petting each of them in turn. “They are such darling little things, I’d hate for them to be scared of me.”
Eventually your eyes met again, and you were pleased to see that he appeared to have brightened up a little thanks to his pipe, which was now lit, its smoke hanging in the air between you and Peking.
At least he was smiling now, genuinely this time, one that brought out the dimples in his cheeks and the oddly weathered look around his eyes.
Say… What was that?
Where had those wrinkles around his eyes and mouth come from? The patches of rough skin that had suddenly developed, under his jaw, marring his neck, making him appear far, far older than he had ever looked before.
Even his hands appeared to be suffering from it…
“Peking?” You asked, slowly rising to your feet, ignoring the startled chirping of the ducklings as they were suddenly robbed of the fuss you’d been giving them. “What’s that… O-Oh Gods.”
“Is everything quite alright, Miss Attendant?” He asked, turning towards you, and by the now stronger light of the streetlamps, you could see his face as clear as day. But by the Gods you wished you couldn’t. There wasn’t a trace of the Peking you knew in that face, not a shred of him remained in the scarred skin, the sunken eyes, and the horrible way his equally tarnished hands gripped at the still smoking pipe held at his mouth, as if it was a lifeline.
“Y-You… Your face, I.. W-What’s wrong with your face?”
“Miss Attendant – “
“Y-Your hands! Peking, what happened? W-What’s happened to you?”
“Miss Attendant, please!”
You almost screamed out in alarm, struggling to free yourself as those scarred hands suddenly gripped at your wrists, holding you fast and far, far too close to him. He was even worse when he was mere centimetres away from you, the mottled, blemished skin – so poorly hidden underneath a thick, caked layer of powder – illuminated by the lights above you.
Pudding called again, and he sounded more insistent this time, but you barely registered the sound, your voice had left you and your tongue felt almost frozen in your mouth, all you could manage was a rasping gurgle, a plea that was almost lost in amongst the laboured breathing spilling from both you and the Food Soul.
“Peking… Please…”
“Shhh,” he breathed, the smoke from his pipe pouring from his mouth and nostrils as he spoke, billowing around your face, pooling into your open mouth, causing you to splutter, “hush, please, Miss Attendant… Relax yourself. I am so sorry, I was far, far too careless.”
You whimpered with fear, the back of your throat now stinging with the fumes from his pipe, sweet yet irritating. It felt like your lungs were full of it, the stuff swirled and curled its way around your brain, fogging your thoughts, causing your anxiety to spike. Gods, what was this man and how could he have possibly hid this from you for so long?
Then, somehow, miraculously, you became aware of your heart beginning to slow and the prickling fear coursing through your veins eventually subsiding. In the midst of the smoke, you dimly registered a hand cupping your chin gently, and almost in an instant, you found yourself staring up into the warm, golden eyes of Peking Duck, handsome, unblemished, unscarred Peking Duck.
“Are you alright?” He asked you gently, as if nothing had ever happened, a thumb coming to softly play along your full bottom lip. “You look a terrible fright, it isn’t something I’ve done, is it?”
You could only stare at him, open mouthed, your eyes darting across his face, desperate to spot something, anything of what you just saw. Where were the scars? The burns? Where was the ruined skin? Had you imagined it? Was it all down to the orange light of the lamps above you? Had they always managed to twist and warp a man as beautiful as this into something so monstrous?
Somehow you didn’t think so, but that tender smile and the softness in his eyes soon caused all anxiety to die in your chest, like a flower wilting to a crisp in a fire.
“N-No, no it isn’t,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, a hint of that sweet smoke still hitting the back of your throat every time you breathed in, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Peking, I don’t know what’s come over me…”
“The stress of the working day, perhaps?” He suggested kindly, that comforting hand moving down to rest upon your shoulder. “You must be ever so tired, the clientele here in Gloriville is terribly harsh on you, but hopefully my apples will help. I shall keep my fingers crossed for you.”
“Y-Yes, um.. Do, do.” Slowly, you drew back from him, your eyes flitting down to the floor, and to the ducklings who had crowded themselves about his feet again, content and happy with their father.
It really was touching to see just how much he cared for them.
“I’d best be going.” He spoke softly, already turning to leave, the vapour from his pipe swirling around him elegantly, making him look even more mysterious than usual. “It was lovely seeing you again, Miss Attendant. I’ll be sure to come back should I ever find myself overloaded.”
“Thank you, Peking. Thank you so much.”
You watched him make his careful way back down the street, walking expertly upon the cobbles, not even stumbling once, something that you’d never managed to do. His ducklings trundled along solemnly in his wake, their flat feet tumbling along as best they could, it truly was an adorable sight.
It felt like you were slowly growing numb from the inside out, but you still wore an oddly content smile on your face as you made your way back inside the restaurant. The feeling of those careful fingers under your chin was taking quite a while to leave you.
“Where have you been?” Demanded Pudding as you stumbled in, the doorbell tinkling musically above your head. “Hmph, well, no matter, what did he bring us this time?”
“Ah, a-apples.” You mumbled, holding up the bag and allowing him to inspect the contents. Pudding moved closer, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, sniffing a little.
“They seem good enough to me, what were you thinking of making with them? A pie? Tarts? I’m sure you can whip up something, in any case.”
He glanced up at you then, yellow eyes narrowing as he got a proper look at your face for the first time since you’d arrived.
“Are you quite alright, Master Attendant? You look pale, did he say anything that seemed off to you?”
You didn’t know what to tell him.
So you merely stood, your hands gripping the straps of the bag as your knuckles turned whiter and whiter, until the horribly intense silence was suddenly and mercifully broken by a squeal from the kitchen.
“Pudding! There’s shortbread out here! There’s shortbread, Master Attendant! Come on, come on and try some before I eat it all up!”