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“I’m so ready to get planetside,” Bash said as he skillfully flipped a pancake, “even Cursa has better ingredients than these horrible standard rations we’re down to.”
Morgan perked up in surprise. “Everything you make is already delicious, don’t tell me it can get better.”
“Come on, don’t flatter me, kid,” he responded with a sheepish grin. “I’m pretty good, but I’m not a miracle worker.”
“I’m not flattering you,” Morgan insisted, furrowing their brow in confusion.
“There’s no way you can convince me I’m better than your fancy royal chefs.”
Morgan blinked, then looked down at their hands. “Oh, I, uh, didn’t get anything fancy at the palace most of the time.”
“You’re joking.” Bash’s voice held no small amount of incredulity.
“I’m not. I always ate alone when food was delivered to me, and apparently my diet was strictly controlled.” You need to maintain a good image to get married off , they mentally added.
“I could get some food during special events, of course, as long as my mother wasn’t watching.”
Stop talking.
“And I snuck out a few times and had some wonderful sweets from this little cafe.”
Stop talking .
“But the guard that I would sneak out with would buy since I didn’t have any actual money, so I didn’t want to overdo it.”
Are you seriously complaining about food? Stop talking!
“Anyway, I wasn’t joking and I wasn’t trying to flatter you. Sorry.”
A plate of pancakes was placed in front of them. They glanced up, fearing a look of annoyance, or disbelief, or pity. But Bash was grinning good-naturedly, as he often did.
“In that case, you’re going to be blown away when we get proper food.” He winked. “Unfortunately, then you’ll have to suffer with the rest of us when we go back to rations again.”
Morgan smiled slightly.
“I’m sure I’ll live. Thank you for the pancakes.”
“Damon!”
“Fuck!” Damon yelped as he was startled out of his catnap. “What?!”
“You need to bake something!” Bash excitedly declared, ignoring the other man’s murderous glare.
Damon blinked, then took a deep breath to calm the urge to stab him immediately. “What?” he asked again, more slowly.
“Morgan needs to taste your baking! Even just cookies. Wait, a cake would be perfect. Do you know when their birthday is?”
“...Why?”
“So you can bake them a cake, obviously.”
“No,” Damon growled. “Why. Did you wake me up. To talk about baking? ”
“Because they haven’t lived, ” Bash ranted, “they said my rations cooking was delicious .”
Damon grimaced. Bash was easily the best chef on the ship, but even his best efforts with such limited supplies could at best be described as “fine.” Anyone else could at best produce “edible,” or “I don’t feel like stabbing myself” quality. Mercenaries couldn’t afford to be picky, but there was a reason only he and Bash were assigned cooking duty when supplies were low.
“Right?!” Bash exclaimed in reaction to Damon’s expression.
“But they’re--”
“I know! But I really don’t think they’re lying.”
Damon also didn’t doubt their truthfulness. At worst they would redirect a conversation or fall silent, he’d noticed. He contemplated the news with a frown. He already knew Morgan wasn’t fond of most of their family, but every once in a while more information would surface that made him wish he could stab ghosts.
“Fuck it,” Damon shrugged, “you don’t need an excuse to have cake. I’ll figure something out when we get supplies.”
“Excellent,” Bash exclaimed with a fist pump for emphasis. “I need to plan meals, too!”
“Whatever.” Damon stretched and closed his eyes in an effort to resume his nap. He sighed in relief when he heard Bash walk away, muttering ideas to himself.
“If you two don’t stop hovering, I’m going stab you with this fucking spatula,” Damon grumbled as he tried to finish icing his cake under the impatient attention of Bash and Ayame.
“You’re so focused, Damon,” Ayame teased.
“I’m always focused.”
“Please, you haven’t been this absorbed in cooking since that time you stress-baked a gross of cookies.”
He rolled his eyes in response.
“Come to think of it, maybe it’s not the cake you’re focused on. Maybe it’s something, or some
one
else. Don’t you think, Bash?”
“Nope,” Bash responded quickly, putting his hands up defensively. “I like my blood staying
inside
my body. Which is why I’m leaving now.” Damon scowled as he added, “also to get the subject of his focus.”
Ayame cackled and gave the cyborg a high-five as he hastily exited.
“I don’t know why you’re touchy about this, you obviously like them.”
“I’m not touchy, because I do obviously like them, considering I’m sleeping with them.”
“And you usually make cakes for people you’re just sleeping with, for no reason, when it’s not their birthday?”
Damon stepped back to check his work. “What are you implying?”
“That you’re head-over-heels and in denial.”
“I’m not,” he snapped.
“Which, head-over-heels or in denial?” She added, “and just so you know, I’m only accepting ‘in denial’ because the former is obvious to anyone who isn’t you.”
“For fuck’s sake--”
They both looked toward the sudden hiss of a door to see Morgan, who raised an eyebrow at Damon’s glare.
“...Bash said there was a surprise, but I think he just sent me to stop a murder.”
“You did!” Ayame chirped, “now I don’t have to fight him for a piece of cake.”
“Just for that, Morgan gets first dibs,” Damon said, sliding the tray away from Ayame.
“Sure,” she smirked, “ that’s why they get first dibs.”
“Cake?” Morgan asked. “Why are we having cake?”
“Yeah, why are we, Damon?”
“You don’t need a fucking reason to have cake,” he insisted, annoyed. “Let’s just say it’s to forget the taste of those godawful rations and be done with it.”
“Ok, I’m… sorry?” Morgan hesitantly apologized. He cut and passed them a piece, pointedly ignoring how Ayame’s smirk widened.
He continued cutting slices for the rest of the crew, but watched Morgan take a bite out of the corner of his eye. With no small amount of satisfaction he noticed their eyes widen in shock.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Ayame practically squealed.
“Amazing,” Morgan repeated softly. Their entire face lit up in delight. “Thank you, Damon.”
He couldn’t help but preen a little at their response. He simply smirked and winked back at them.
“My turn!” Ayame reached for the cake with grabby hands.
“Your turn is last just for being a jackass,” Damon said, using his superior height to keep his creation away from the now-cursing kitalphan.
Morgan watched in amusement as Damon and Ayame argued. The rest of the crew filed in and received cake until, as promised, Ayame received hers last.
Morgan ate another bite, savoring the sweetness. Even that little cafe didn’t compare. Maybe it was because a cafe had to make things in bulk, or maybe Damon was just that skilled. They glanced at his smug grin and felt a fluttering in their gut. Maybe anything he made would be amazing, just because he made it.
Morgan felt a hand on their shoulder and glanced up at Bash, who gave them a thumbs-up.
“I told you, proper supplies make a huge difference, don’t they?” he said with a grin.
They started as they recalled their conversation with him some time ago. This couldn’t be for them, could it?
“Y-yes,” they stammered, “it’s amazing.”
“Just wait until breakfast.” He winked and patted them on the shoulder.
They smiled back, bemused. They didn’t understand how people could be so kind to them, much less mercenaries to whom their presence was little more than a burden. They knew someone being kind didn’t mean they cared, but if the crew didn’t care, there was no reason for them to be so kind. But then, why would they care? It was all very strange to Morgan.
Still, I’m lucky , they thought.
They continued eating in tiny bites, as if trying to make it all last just a little longer.