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The three of them had made a habit out of congregating in the kitchen whenever Alison got a cooking idea off the internet. Pat usually ended up facing away, having weirded Alison out too much with his longing to taste again. Julian was more intent on comparing it to the feasts he used to have back in his day, to which Humphrey would pipe up from under the table that he should’ve seen what Henry VIII used to serve. That’s how he accidentally got booted across the room amidst Julian’s surprise at hearing someone speak from below.
Captain’s fascination was more a matter of method, that being, he loved reading the steps out to Alison. It was a level of controlled he hadn’t been allowed in a long time, but he never abused how he got to command the room, so to speak. Alison jokingly called him Gordon Ramsay, which had confused him to no end, but knowing her it was probably a compliment. He still wasn’t quite sure if it was when she showed him a video of the man afterwards. Captain always visibly brightened when Pat or Julian informed him that Alison was having a go at a new recipe.
Despite his fantastic directing, the food in question had a 50/50 success rate. It was much harder to improve when you had Julian commented that they just needed to pay for a proper chef, while Captain tipped his head back and stared down uncertainly.
The difference between Julian and Pat was that the former either talked about eating in a rather sordid way if you asked Captain, or in a way to bolster his own image. The latter associated food with good memories, not indulgence or frankly, wastes of time. Pat usually had a story about trying something for the first time with Carol, on the rare occasion she got him to breach the line of his routine. Julian talked about eating with Margaret Thatcher, and then proceed to use it to imply a much different gesture with a coworker. Captain would zone out when Julian spoke sometimes, and judging by the way Pat glanced at the roof throughout the whole conversation, he was trying to avoid uncomfortableness too.
Captain never took food for granted, he never had the chance to. Even if he did, the way he thought made him categorise eating as something you didn’t necessarily have to enjoy. It was nutrition and energy, not something to be exploited. When he was sixteen, still a boy trying to survive in the trenches of the Great War, he’d never been too certain of the next time he’d get to eat. He’d started hoarding the few things his mother sent him, tucking bits of rations into his coat and hoping nobody went scavenging through his belongings. Captain lingered nearby whenever Alison had hot chocolate, it reminded him of what he longed for when stuck in the trenches.
Julian never got to experience that kind of deprivation, or any kind for that matter. He had everything handed to him, that was one of the reasons Captain despised him to begin with. Everything he fought for, have himself to, was for selfish people like Julian to thrive. However, Pat reminded him that there were good, honest people that benefited from freedom. Captain knew the war was over, but this feeling of loss wasn’t restrained by logic. It wasn’t what existed in the moment, it was what he continued to feel. Nothing aggravated him more than realising that his emotions had overridden facts and reason.
People had it worse, Captain knew they did. He was caught between being aware of the hell he was put through, and the fact that people had suffered worse. He had no right, he was no better than Julian complaining and comparing. He suffered deeply, he had every right to be scarred. These two conflicting thoughts swirled around his mind, leaving him confused and nauseated. He’d zoned out by then, barely noticing Julian’s hand wave in front of his face. Captain clenched his eyes shut, tightening his grip on his swagger stick. It was too much, all too much, for a simple thing like food. It felt like every muscle in his body was tensing up. The clang of dishes into the sink echoed like the bang of a drum.
He was in the trenches, stomach churning with hunger. It was like he’d ingested glass, shattering and mutilating his insides. Starvation caused the depressions in his face, the loss of strength and building paranoia. He was alive, he had to remind himself. In those trenches, all suffocating together, his fellow comrades. He always helped bury them, always in a hurry, always rushing to cover. Captain honoured them knowing that some families would never see their children again. He buried the soldier and mourned the man. The morning shells reverberated through his very being. He gripped his gun like a life line. He’s alive. Alive, alive, alive.
When he finally returns to the Button House kitchen, it’s by the command of a sweet aroma. Captain loved chocolate, he’d have some as frequently as he could when he was- well, when he could. Clearing his throat, he realised that Pat was still looking at him. Julian was leaning over the laptop, yet still glanced behind him ever so slightly. Who would’ve thought he’d catch Julian Fawcett caring about him?
“You alright, mate?” Pat whispered, Alison was on the other side of the room and still unaware of Captain’s disassociation. He cleared his throat, straightening up instinctively.
“Yes, thank you, Patrick.” He expected Pat to push, to ask what he was thinking about, but somehow the man already seemed to know when prying would do no good.
Pat reached a hand out, fingers cautiously tracing Captain’s cuff like he was a flighty animal. He didn’t pull back, so Pat gently wrapped his hand around the Captain’s wrist, pulling lightly to get him to walk over. Julian was conveniently distracted at the moment. They both walked over to the laptop, not letting go. Pat pointed to the screen with his other hand
“We’re looking at egg recipes” He said giddily. Julian rolled his eyes jokingly
“Pat’s request, of course” He tilted his head upward as if to physically speak over Pat to Captain. Alison, carrying a mug of hot chocolate walked around the table.
“I thought you liked eggs, Julian” She piped up, taking a sip.
Julian nodded in agreement
“I do, but there are far better recipes we could be looking at. Cream pies, for example” He winked suggestively. Alison choked on her drink, coughing and leaning over the table. Pat looked utterly horrified, his grip tightening on Captain’s wrist. Captain decided to change the subject for once.
“We used to only get one egg a week, during the war” He mentioned, tugging on his tie nervously. Pat’s body swerved to the side, looking equally as shocked as earlier.
“You what?” Captain could tell he was really spooked by the way his voice became higher in pitch. He huffed a laugh.
Weeks went by since that conversation. Despite this, Captain could always count on walking into the kitchen in the morning with his fellow ghosts, feel Pat’s hand wrap around his wrist once more, and hear him utter exasperatedly some iteration of “one egg a week.” Captain found some semblance of comfort in being able to depend on Pat for light conversation that left him feeling almost nauseatingly happy.