Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Surely, a woman like you has to have some exquisite tastes?"

"Stow it."

The reply, at once biting and cheerful, from between grit teeth, belonged to a particularly peculiar specimen.

From across an abandoned club that had just enough character to feel like a respite from the utter barbarity outside...
Henryk ransacked through long-depleted drawers –
Only occasionally sparing a glance at the woman sitting cross-legged at the counter.

Although they'd hit things off rather poorly when she wandered in, what with the threats and the gun...
He had, perhaps, spoken a little boorishly –

“I'd rather not.
If I stow my tongue, I won't be able to test anything I make.
A death sentence for a cook.”

“Death, huh... Terrible thing, that.
Poor bastards out there dying in packs, and here we are acting like you've just opened up your own little shop.
I'm afraid your first customer is a harsh critic!”

Karin smirked, her thick, dark eyebrows knitting down against her face.

“Let me tell you...
Henryk?”

“Henryk is fine.”

“Out on the field, you eat anything you get.
And what that boils down to is a lot military rations, maybe some orange juice if you're lucky. Terrible.
Treated like absolute crap!
That's the lot of a reporter.”

“Mmn-hmn.”

“Listen, hey, listen when someone is talking to you!”

But he'd retrieved quite enough to set things up.
If that fellow with the wounded eye was as good with his hands as Henryk had been led to believe...
Well, they might just enjoy some decent comfort.

“I'm listening. However, we're talking food, not war.
Haute-cuisine. You feel me?”

Karin shook her head, shut her eyes – and kept the smirk.

“Yeah, I feel you.
Okay, what can you do me for?
I'll try anything once, but if you try anything funny...”

“But of course. How about...”

Henryk had already taken stock of everything within the kitchen, of course.
And no matter how much he doubted other things, he was confident in this, and this alone.

“Turkey tetrazzini.
A dish that's complicated and flavourful, but workmanlike and not pretentious.
Something too complex to capture in a single bite, or, perhaps, that's more than a mouthful.”

Karin snorted.

“Now you're saying - “

“Implying!”

“Implying I'm a spitfire, sheesh.
Sure, that actually sounds a pretty good fit for me.
But, hey, wait, I'm not taking that dry.
I'll make us both coffee! Fair trade?”

Coffee... Ah, in truth, Henryk was more of a fan of his vine.
But Karin was a peculiar one; the confident brashness of her words never quite reaching the dim, observant brown discs of her eyes.

“Sounds a fine deal.
Just give me some space while I work; I'm a bit picky.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure...”

In every single way, it could've gone terribly.
And yet, soon the abandoned club was filled with the scent of good food, and coffee as dark as the wings of ravens.

Leaning back in one chair, her feet on a different chair she'd placed in front of her, Karin sighed.

“Hmn. I'll have to eat my words.
You're not half-bad at this.
I actually feel a little refreshed. I'll tell everybody to stop on by when they want grub.
For now, though... There's got to be something to go off of.
Catch you later, then.”

And Henryk frowned; because for a brief moment, he'd seen it.

The smile as confident and distant as a skyline, right before it rushed by.

“Be careful out there.
Nobody can tell how many more mad brutes are lurking in the old streets.
I'd hate for something terrible to, don't – don't die, you know?”

“Nobody lives forever.”

And it was there again, and then Karin laughed with that same infectious confidence, slapping him on the back – hard.

“Like hell I will. Haven't you heard?
Journalists are like shopkeepers, we're indestructible.
I'll be looking forward to hitting you up for more food later, so I won't die so easily!”

“Of course. Just make sure – to come back.”

Henryk blinked, and her shadow had receded; as if it had never been present.
And it was time to get to work.

Chapter Text

"You limp-dicked fucker.
Don't patronise me by asking me 'what I want to eat.'
I'm only here because I'm hungry.
Make a fucking meal, or I'll hit you with this pipe."

Henryk had never been good at containing his shaking hands.
It wasn't palsy or anything like that, no, no-no-no.
Merely that a mixture of fear and rage boiled just underneath the surface.

The once-fit man in the once-well-fitted suit had muscled into the club, scowling as ever.
He hadn't asked for food, but demanded it; hardly the ideal first, or really second customer.

Even a chef could show some defiance, however.

Wordlessly, Henryk retrieved a good egg, and then another.
Holding the two eggs close together...

He brought them crashing hard against the back of a skillet.

Caligura snorted, frowning.
But he watched, because hunger was a hell of a thing, wasn't it..?

Like magic, yolks fled into black; seasoned with pepper and chives.
The swirling form becoming fluffy, soft, delicate;
Because, in spite of intent, Henryk took pride in every dish.
And the fluffy omelet, with its canned tomatoes and withered vegetables, was plated and placed – not shoved – in front of the tyrannical man.

Something strange happened.

“You call this fucking thing an omelet.”

“Mmn. A fairly good one, not really worth the person its in front of.”

“Bullshit. I cannot believe every single one of you is such a goddamn maroon.
Here. Move. Just fucking move.”

Caligura edged him away from the club's small kitchen –
And delicately retrieved several eggs.

(Henryk, for his part, never one to waste good food, had began nibbling at his own omelet;
Though he watched intently, as the most peculiar of expressions drifted across the face of a seemingly immovable man.)

“Right, so.
Omelet.
You gotta make it so that it's like the sun.
Do you fucking hear me?”

“Not really.”

Smiled Henryk with a slight wan stretch of his lips.
Caligura growled – but remained focused.

“Omelet's simple. Not something fancy, not something folded.
Like – something you could eat every day, and never get sick of.
That's what an omelet is. Reminds of you when things were simple.
Everyone knows that.”

And, indeed, he'd made an omelet.

Simple and messy; nothing much to look at.
But there was painful nostalgia in the look of an otherwise cruel man, staring at at the simple mess of eggs, like it was something so much more;
Like it meant something, perhaps only to him.

Caligura rudely brought the plate to table, sitting next to Henryk, and both men ate their omelets in peace.

Despite everything, when he was done – Caligura simply stared at the empty plate, spotless and without a single crumb.
He sighed, ran fingers through greasy hair, and shot Henryk a look.

“Not a terrible atmosphere, shit-for-brains.
I won't beat you to death for the experience.
Don't spend it all in one place.”

Placing a single old coin against the counter, Caligura left without another word;
Henryk staring thoughtfully at the currency as if it could communicate something to him about what had just happened...
When he already knew that he'd never know.

Chapter Text

“Look at us.
Two dapper sirs, with nothing to do but kill time and make small talk.”

Henryk was addressing the other 'dapper sir,' who happened to be a fellow with a fantastic moustache.
He'd simply appeared, commenting that 'he knew good food was here,' and that had been enough to establish a small –
But cordial –
Bond between the two of them.

“I don't particularly care for small talk,”
Said the man – August, tersely;
Yet, he smiled as he said it.

“Of course, sir.
And what might I make for you?
A rugged steak, perhaps?”

Henryk had already started to fetch one of the few good cuts of aged beef, when he heard a hoarse laugh.

“No, thank you. I'd prefer something meatless.
Save the cut, though. The pup'll appreciate it.”

“Oh? You raise hounds?”

“Hmn... More like, we raise each other.
I suppose most who care for animals feel the same.
She's a special case, with a portentous appetite.
You, though, master chef?
I can't help but feel like you're a bit of a loner.”

August's eyes twinkled as he spoke.
The man was as sharp with his gaze as he was with his words, and if Henryk had flinched for a moment – so it was.

“Mmn. I have trouble trusting others.
Damnable problem, I tell you. Makes it hard to be a chef in the world, as all culinary arts are based on trust.
Trust for a master, trust for apprentices, trust for your staff, trust in your customers.”

He hadn't meant to spill so much of his heart out, but the finely dressed...
Hunter?

A hunter, Henryk felt certain.
Just, it was like he was staring right into your soul.

Laughing –
Encouragingly, rather than cruelly –
August folded his hands and let his chin rest against them.

“Seems like a dangerous game.
Makes me glad I prefer the wilds.”

“Oh?
And here I thought we were both gentlemen!
I can't abide the loss of creature comforts, you know.
This is a bit like my own personal hell.”

Confided Henryk –
Having decided on the meal-to-be.

Shepherd's pie is an old favourite in Rondon; it's an easy thing to make it meatless, and easier still to pack full of flavour.
Every chef has their own twist on the old favourite, but for those on the go –
Mysterious gentlemen who are always searching –
A familiar crust, the softness of potatoes, the steam of fresh vegetables are all delightful.

And Henryk was not at all displeased to see even the slight curl of August's moustache as he smiled.

“Well, your talent exceeds your stated trust.
Work on the other, and I think you'll surprise even yourself.”

It was such a kind encouragement, Henryk wasn't sure how to respond.
August continued to eat, in a somewhat bestial fashion – never quite descending to loutishness, but making no secret of his enjoyment.

“Actually, chef; tell me, I have to know.
What's the secret ingredient?”

“Hah! I'm too complex for one, alone; but I did add something a little special, this time.
Curry powder; Rondon was going through a curry boom, at the time.
As it wore off, I realised that it didn't have to die entirely...
And that the faint warmth of instant powdered curry adds a certain flair.”

But August had already risen, a look of determination on his face.
Henryk – who had been feeling quite proud – frowned.

“Ah, wait. Going so soon?”

“The hunt calls.
I imagine something important – well, don't worry. I'll stop on back.
Good food, good conversation, good company.
Even loners need all three.
Stay safe, chef! I'll be looking forward to seeing you trust others, and yourself a bit more..!”

He left; and Henryk was alone, with only his thoughts.

Chapter Text

“You can make whatever you want, just make it good.”

Marcoh repeated the comment again; making sure that the so-called chef heard it.
For his part, Henryk had been keeping a wary eye on the muscular fellow;
Always a little nervous and mistrusting of those who relied on brute force, but...

His tone wasn't particularly callous, and he'd come with a companion.
Anyone who happened to be able to interact with others couldn't be a total brute.

“... Oy.
You want anything?”

Marcoh shot a glance over his shoulder at the faint figure, milling against the wallpaper.
Takano?
Something like that.

“No. Not yet, I think.
I'd like to see what you're getting.”

“Gotcha. So.
Chef – “

“Are you hungry?
Really hungry, I mean, for a full meal – “

Marcoh didn't answer with his words, but nodded enthusiastically, and Henryk managed a faint smile.
Ah; if he was a fellow who could talk a bit easier through his craft, his body...
That, at least, they had in common.

Rummaging around in drawers, he managed to pull the various tools of his trade to life.
Soon, the scent of simmering butter-oil mixture, fed with garlic and tomatoes and thinly sliced bacon or salame reached out -
Drifting aromatically, to every person in the room.

“Pasta carbonera, alla Henryk.
I think you'll find a good feast of carbohydrates keeps you on your toes.
A boxer probably has to have surprisingly good feet, right?”

“... Yeah.
You surprisingly into sport?”

“No, no.
Not anymore, at least.”

Henryk said, obscuring unimportant things.

“But I can't help but notice you move with your entire body.
Must take a lot out of anyone, and if that's the case, well.
Something filling and tasty seems just the trick.
I'd pair it with something, but alas, I haven't met the cocktail wizard, not yet.”

Marcoh's friend laughed very quietly.

“Cocktail wizard, is it?
What a strange miniature world we've found ourselves in.”

“... No kidding.”

Replied Marcoh, with a – surprisingly heartening smile.
Henryk nearly lost his focus for a minute, but he was a chef, and never strayed too far from the clinging familiarity of his routine.

“Regardless, although I can't select any of the no-doubt peerless liquors for the lot of you, I'll make use of something probably underutilised.”

Both men were watching him, curiously.

The chilled milk was still good; it was a miracle it'd held, but small miracles were always something to be thankful for.

“... Milk.”

Said Marcoh, sceptically, and Henryk nodded.

“Only a fool would say you can't get poetic about something non-alcoholic.
If you're not averse to the stuff, a cold glass of milk after a long day fortifies your mind and body.
It reminds you of how hard you've worked, and that you've finally earned the time to yourself.
Perfect to pair with a sturdy meal.”

With a shrug, Marcoh dug in –
And his eyes widened, as he funnelled in pasta like a man possessed, drinking fresh milk in-between comically large chomps.

Chortling, Henryk moved his hands through his hair –

“Excuse me. Sir. I'd like to ask for my order, too.”

Chapter Text

“So I see, mister..?”

“Tanaka.
Yes.
That's my name.”

For a minute, two men stared at one another.
Marcoh set his meal down, staring fixedly at Henryk; his visible muscles flexed just enough to imply that, if there was a problem...

But Henryk hadn't been thinking anything unpleasant.

“Just know that, if you want anything from Edo, I never got the chance to study there.
I know, I know – failure for a chef, especially from Rondon, given the previous alliance – “

“No, no. That's quite fine.
I actually had a request myself, you see.”

In an instant, the tension was smoothed over, Tanaka smiling –
A bit thinly, but hardly impolitely, as Henryk managed his own mirror of it.
Indeed, they might have had more in common than it appeared...

“Monte Cristo. The sandwich.
I always get one when travelling abroad, for good luck.
I had told Marcoh, perhaps the fact I didn't order one, ah, lead to this entire mess...”

“... That's not true.
Lucky rituals are dumb.”

Opined Marcoh, chewing loudly.
And, to Henryk's surprise, Tanaka -
Who had seemed somewhat retreating -
Looked set to argue the point, before laughing, ever-so-quietly, and turning back with a stoic expression.

“I trust for...
Rondon's finest, that should be no challenge?”

“Hardly. It's one of my favourites, though if you must know?
I actually prefer the Croque Madame. I think a good sandwich is one of the skills that many of my peers neglected.
Of course, that makes sense, since we were all aiming for the top...”

Tanaka, as it turned out, was a good listener –
Watching intently as Henryk fired up his skillet, carefully pan-frying the sandwich.

“Savoury and sweet, covered with a thin layer of powdered sugar, but the most important part has to be the cheese.
We don't have cave-nurtured Gruyère, I'm afraid.
But I'll do the best with what we have – “

“Hmn.
What if I told you the best wasn't good enough?..”

Flashing him a brief smirk that reminded Henryk a little ominously of Karin -
Tanaka sat down next to Marcoh, who'd finished his entire helping of pasta.

“Well, I'd just – “

Began Henryk, as Marcoh stared at him –
Soulfully.

“Yes, I see, very good, I'll make more for you...
I didn't expect to be overworked.
Cooking is an art, you know, and rushing the chef is highly barbaric – “

Added Henryk, trailing off to make it clear how he truly felt.

(Henryk enjoyed the praise of others immensely.
Whether spoken or said entirely through body language; both was fine.)

Soon, not only was Tanaka's sandwich done, but more pasta had been fished out and made –
Though slightly less elegantly than before.
Nevertheless, the small chatter of the two men as they ate contently...

“Don't forget to come back, you know – “

Henryk said, even as they'd already left.

It was strange, how he'd almost started to think of this place as something almost like home.

Chapter Text

“So...
A military man...”

Henryk and Pav stared at one another, and Henryk felt that the armour of the kitchen would do little to protect him -
If the Bremen officer decided that enough was enough.

Pav, however, had a very easy-going manner that seemed to defuse conflict before it had started.
A bizarre thing to find in a Bremenite, but that was the world for you –
Mad and barbaric, as it always was.

Shrugging, Pav fell into a chair, one leg lazily across the other.

“I've been told.
Ahahaha.”

There was a strange lilt to his laugh, and with the skills of a professional chef, Henryk paid it no mind.

Easing up to a more confident position, Pav removed his cap, set it against the counter, and placed his hands next to it, one against the other.

“People are starting to talk about what you've set up here.
I have my own duties, of course, but in a world where every day can be your last, it makes sense for a soldier to have a last meal, doesn't it?..”

Henryk smiled, at that.

“But of course!..
Nobody can live on patriotism alone.
Death has a nasty way of regurgitating the latter, doesn't it!”

Perhaps that had been a mistake, was his immediate thought –
But Pav laughed heartily, wiping the faintest of tears from his eye.

“You know it! Though, hardly a subject for the table, isn't it?
I've got to ask the chef, where he learned his tableside manner, hmn?”

“Oh, I wasn't always a chef!”

A safe answer.
Henryk paused, swirling his words around like a fine wine.

“But I'm not good with military types.
Not generally, I'm surprised at how easy you are to get along with – “

“Most people are.”

“ - Nevertheless, you're here to enjoy a meal, and I highly doubt good conversation alone can fill that need?
Did you have something in mind..?
The goulash is quite good – “

“Ugh. I've eaten enough goulash in my life to turn a man's brain to mush.
No offence, I'm sure it's lovely. How about...
Can you do a green salad? Classier, of course.
I can tell this is a high-end establishment!”

Henryk smiled faintly, and set to work.

Green salads are another unsung hero of the culinary world.

Unsung, that is, save in most of the border nations between Bremen and the Union.
Here, there were roughly twenty different types of salad (that Henryk was aware of!), each possessing a different culinary niche and taste.

Some were worked into soups, others were dishes on their own, some were light fare meant to be eaten like a snack.

Pav seemed affable, but not starving;
And so Henryk carefully considered his plan of attack.

Diced and shredded white cabbage met fermented red cabbage and cut carrots;
Wild onions and their cultivated peers, leeks, and just a hint of lemon and dill.
The end result...

“Oho, I see you know your stuff, chef.
Consider this your official notice from the Kaiser –
You're allowed to stay in business.”

Henryk smiled, or winced.
Winced-smiled.

“Sorry, bad joke.
This is – nostalgic, actually.
Do you have any mint water?
I'd prefer something – well, no, it's not important.
Mint water, if you have it, would be amazing.”

With a silent speed, Henryk produced mint water –
Which seemed like one of the world's easiest and laziest drinks, and Pav sighed happily.

“Very good. I can die contently; if only someone were around to eulogise me, I might even ascend into heaven.”

“Don't – joke like that, so easily. Sir. Just come back later.”

Chapter Text

“Oh!
Cute girls, well, well-well!
I knew this job would pay off for me!”

He had meant it affectionately, of course, but once more had his words exceeded his wisdom;
The dour stare of the young woman sitting across the table was held like a blade to his throat;
And Henryk revised his words even though her posture and demeanour made it clear she wouldn't hurt anyone at all, if she could help it...

(She was just really peeved.)

“Huh?”

Appended Marina, and to be fair, maybe the second girl had just come in after her, patiently waiting her turn.
Fair enough; not every Marcoh could be lucky enough to have a Tanaka attached, or something –
Henryk buried the thought.

“Nevermind.
My apology, I think we must have gotten off to a poor start there, Ms. Marina.
How about, hmn, let me start over...
What can this humble establishment do for you?”

“Not talk so formally, for one.
For another –
Any chance I could acquire some of that – “

“I'm afraid not.
I've been told you've got no licence – “

“Gah.
Why is everyone in this place so awful?..”

But Marina laughed a bit, quietly bemoaning her own terrible luck.
And he had to admit, not being able to drink in this pit, well...
How awful it must be –

“You're from Rondon, right?
Please tell me you can at least make a cuppa.”

He wanted to bristle and say that not everyone in Rondon drank tea like a fish, but...
It would've been a lie, and the slight sag of his shoulders admitted as much.
Marina chuckled again, and eased back her hair.

“Do you happen to have the Baronet Grey hiding back there?
I developed a fondness for him, during my studies.”

“Alas, madame; no.
There's still some Eastern Union black, however, and it's similarly rich.
With a bit of work, I can make you something close enough, though...
Surely that's not all you want?”

Marina's slight pout met the air as she exhaled, mulling over the somewhat limited options.

“No offence meant, chef, but unless you've got salmon on a cedar plank, roast boar, maybe some pheasant or something – “

“You can't be serious – “

“Maybe, maybe not.
I don't want all that, but given the atmosphere, and the fact I can't get a drink, and the fact things just keep getting worse...
I want something meaningful.”

Henryk had a flash of inspiration – and set to work.
Prehevil was fairly provincial compared to some of the largest Europan cities, but it had a steady supply of fish.
And one of the hallmarks of Bohemian cuisine was a dish enjoyed, hopefully, by the upper and lower strata alike...

Marina's keen eyes didn't miss a beat as Henryk filleted and boned carp and bass, setting them apart in two different segments.

“Not bad. Prehevil polyvka?”

Shite.
She'd figured it out!

“Aha, I'm afraid you caught me.
Hopefully, it will be to madame's taste?”

“It was usually a holiday dish, in my household.”

Complicated emotions wrung themselves to words, and Henryk did not ask for answers he had not earned.

“But it goes good with tea, and I think the broth'll suit me just fine, at least.
I'm surprised a Rondonite knows about it, though.
You must be something of a traveller.
Not just an ordinary chef.”

He choose to remain silent to her implied questions, next.
And though they might never get along well, he made sure to wish her well, as well as a safe return, when she left;
A thoughtful smile on her face, an empty plate and an almost-empty cup of tea the only traces she had been present.

Chapter Text

“U...
U-uhmn...”

“You've been u-uhmning there for some time, miss.
Please do step up, if you're hungry.
I – you look as if you could use something, surely.”

That wasn't the whole of it; the young woman who'd been in Marina's periphery the entire time looked almost like a ghost of some kind.
So pale was her skin, and so dark was her hair, it was difficult not to believe she was a phantasm, a night-creature, a trick of the light.

But then the light hit her, and her eye-bags and grimy hair and poor posture all made it abundantly clear she was just a woman;
And one somewhat retreating, at that.

Henryk rarely felt

Henryk sometimes felt pity, and sometimes felt like pitying others was itself cruel.
She had waited patiently for her turn, regardless of the full flush on her face when Marina walked past her, not noticing her at all.

Yet, she had stayed, and he was not going to belittle her when it was clear that doing so had taken an incredible effort.

“...
G,...
I...
Uhmn... T, t-the truth is, could I have, what she had...”

“Terribly sorry, madame.
We're out of fish, unless that fine fellow with the moustache turns out to be a fisherman, too; or perhaps the boxer.
I've heard men good with their fists catch fish well enough – “

He'd meant to joke a bit, and cheer her up, but she drew in on herself.

“Wait there, ah... Miss – “

“Samarie.”

And Samarie didn't answer.
She pronounced her own name like a curse.
Like she hated every part of it, the perceived daintiness, the syllables, all of it.

Henryk glanced up to the ceiling, and thought.

“... You, care for her, a bit?
Miss Samarie?”

It wasn't as if he was ancient.
He had been younger, however old she was, and recognised the trembling fingers, the sharp inhalation of breath -
And the regretful whisper before they'd even reached him.

“... No.”

“Very well, then.
Why not get behind the kitchen here?
I don't know what I'll make, but – I can probably make something like what she had.
What do you say?”

Samarie didn't answer for some time.
But very slowly, she did just that –
Fingers reaching for one of several aprons present, and tying it neatly against her waist.

“I've cooked before.”

She said, without elaboration, and...

Kitchens are fascinating places because they expose tiny fragments of the human heart.

Henryk had not expected much, but Samarie was a dutiful chef, whose care and love was visible in every small gesture.
The moment she had stepped behind the kitchen, he'd found himself watching her -
As she shaped dough into small forms, sweet cookies flavoured with almond and cardamom.

Each cookie depicted smiling people, men and women, nobody real.
They were not depictions of the woman that Samarie had been staring at with such moonstruck eyes, merely smiling figures

who had no regrets
that they were
alive.

“D... D... Y...
D'you, uhmn...
Sometimes, I eat the dough.”

“That's terribly unhealthy,”
Chastised Henryk, wincing as she winced, before he'd even had the chance to 'comically' grab some dough and take a bite out of it.
But when he did –

Her smile, luminous in spite of her gloomy appearance, radiated brightly enough to wipe everything else from her face.

And he couldn't remember what they'd talked of, only that she'd had a single cup of unremarkable tea, and left as quietly as she'd came...

Only after making a second batch of cookies, just for him.

He turned the smiling, carefree figure of one over in his hand.
Over and over, face increasingly unreadable, the lingering scent of cardamom slowly fading in the kitchen.

Chapter Text

“FINALLY, ah –
Sir?”

For a brief minute, Henryk wondered if he was being impolite.
Daan had a very slight frame, and a somewhat evasive presence.
But Daan smiled at the last word said, and that was quite enough.
Pretending to still be furious, Henryk frowned.

“I've been managing this place on my bloody lonesome.
Unthinkable, sir, unthinkable!”

“Yeah.
Sorry about that.
Things happened.”

Daan shrugged a weak shrug, clearly not caring too much that he'd been late.
But he seemed significantly happier the moment he beheld the bar and liquor storage;
Hood eye wandering the bottles with the care of a professional sommelier.

“This, though...
We might just be in business.
I'm going to need a test of your skills before I work with you, though.”

“Of course,"
Said Henryk, a little coarsely, and Daan's cat-like smirk was infuriating.

“Keep your cool there, Henryk.
If you can't, you'll probably end up chasing our clientele out.
By the way? Have you been – letting people know it's safe here?”

“Mmn. I keep telling people to come back.
We'll see if they do.”

Nothing could be done to force the issue; and two men retreated to separate thoughts.

Daan sat down behind the bar, pulling up his chequered trousers slightly.
Kicking his feet back and forth, the doctor sighed.

“There's roughly a thousand foods I'd enjoy in a better situation.
I'm sure you feel the same. But if I had to choose something, right now...
It'd be something from Rondon. I don't have any strong feelings about the Kingdom, but the principal is like triage.”

Smiling weakly, Daan balanced his chin against his left hand, his right just above his pocket.

“When you're feeling gloomy, you want something familiar. Isn't that right?”

Henryk –
Wasn't sure.

Shaking the sudden feelings of presque vu...
Henryk racked his mind for a good Rondonite dish he could make with the ingredients they had on hand.
Rondon was a well-to-do and cosmopolitan state;
And though his immediate thought had been curry! due to materials on-hand and personal preference...

“All right, sir, I think I might have just your number.
You can pour me something you'd think I'd like in return.
Ah, this way, it's like we're each giving one another a hand!”

Daan groaned, rolling his eye – but some of his gloom had fled, because...
Frankly, playing around a bit like this was fun, even for grown men.
Perhaps especially when you were grown, and needed a reminder that life was more;
Perhaps especially in a situation like this.

The distinctive scent of a mother sauce always made the kitchen feel better.
If he'd been asked, Henryk might have suggested that cooking itself was an innately nurturing thing;
That it turned even distant folk into friends, and friends into more.

“My. My, my.
That wouldn't happen to be rarebit, would it?”

“I see I'm two for one in letting my intentions through.
The little madame, Marina, saw right through me as well – “

“You better not have sold her any liquor – “

“Hardly.
We took tea.”

Daan smiled, softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, good.
Anyway, sorry I saw through your plan.
Let me try to get a read on you for the second round. You're sophisticated...
But off the clock, you like something a little hard, don't you?
A little common?”

“HmMMmmmmn,"
Intoned Henryk, smiling in spite of himself.

“Right, knew it.
Prehevil Dark, it's got just the right balance between kick and smoothness.
A little something for a man with class, but who packs a surprising punch.
Naturally, I'll be having some, too...”

Two glasses clinked, and two men shared a glorified cheese sandwich.

Despite the fact that it was an incredibly simple meal, the distance between them receded almost entirely.
And, for a minute, anyone entering into the club might have felt they were just waiting for opening hours to start...

Chapter Text

The two had set about fixing things up –
As best as they were able.
People had started to come in and out of the club, though rarely in more than pairs.
Once, Henryk saw Karin storming by, hands in her pockets.
She caught his eye, grinned, and walked on.

He was glad; he truly was.

What he wasn't glad for, or rather, didn't know how to deal with...
Was the slightly silent young man with eyes that were almost discs, staring emptily at the piano.

Looking to Daan like the other man was a lifeline, Henryk felt betrayed by the slight shrug he got in return.
But it was fair; Daan had spoken to a Levi a few times, before, and while they got on decently enough...

It felt like Levi was in a strange mood.
Henryk had heard that a quick slap sometimes helped heal that sort of thing, but it'd always seemed – a tad barbaric, to him.
Even if Daan hadn't been present, he couldn't imagine doing it to someone who seemed so sad.

Sighing, he wandered over to where Levi stood, and cleared his throat.

“You know, the piano can't feed you.”

“...”

The motion of eyes can tell a story in their passing.
Levi's shattered gaze refocused, slowly crept up, left immediately.
As if the mere presence of Henryk had –
Reminded him of things, despite Henryk doing his best to smile openly and with a welcoming hand outstretched.

“You... Make anything, here?
That we can think of?”

“Within reason, young man.”

“... Crepes.”

He answered without any hesitation at all, and it almost sounded like an order -
But anyone who had heard desperation, understood precisely how important something simple could be;
A tether, holding us to things we can't have.

“Really... Really sweet ones.
Please. With - lots of sugar, and any kind of jam.
Or – fruits, or preserve.
Anything at all.”

Even though he didn't run back to the kitchen, Henryk walked with purpose.

Crepes are a remarkably wonderful food because they're so easy to prepare;
Each thin pancake off the plate and ready to be rolled the moment you've the next one on the griddle.

Stacked or singular, each crepe is yours to make how you please –
And though they might not have every single thing he'd wanted, they had plenty of sugar.

Powdery clouds drifted through the air, causing Daan to sneeze slightly, and shoot Henryk a piercing glance from behind his single eye.

But what was anyone supposed to do about that?!
It was just a hazard of cooking!

Grumbling sulphurously to himself, Henryk made the prepared as sweet as he could physically manage –
And carried a platter over to where Levi had detached himself, with some effort, from the piano –
Before drawing himself down to a seat against a booth.

Levi paused, frowning;
Almost as a matter of course, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

“Those can't...
All be for me?”

“Hmph.”

Said Henryk, and then added quickly –

“All of them are, absolutely.
You should ask for more, too, so my associate has to suffer more sugar inhalation –
W, woah there, slow down!”

But Henryk wasn't entirely unhappy to watch as Levi dug in, smiling as brightly as if the world had fixed itself in an instant.
The faded robin's-egg blue plate had been overloaded with crepes, and although the first ones had just been fruit and sugar affairs...

With Levi seeming so happy, if he'd made a few dozen more,
and some were stuffed with chocolate,
and some were glazed with honey,
and some were eaten with rowan berries,
all of those things were fine.

It was important to remember that the armistice of good food was an armistice, and Levi had soon drifted back to the haunts that followed him –
And had left soon after that.

For a moment, however, he had been allowed to be nothing more than a young man, enjoying a food that was sweet, and cute, and kind.

Henryk could not, would not regret that; not ever.

Chapter Text

“Don't worry about me; I'm very easy to please.
It's not like I'm used to being spoiled for choice!..”

Olivia was easy to get along with, Henryk felt.
She had a kind personality, an understanding nature, and –
Even if the thought was cruel –
Her condition meant that she was used to hardship.

Meaning that she was, in many ways, the ideal guest for a somewhat introverted chef, like himself.

Daan had left to find more liquor, promising he'd be back before nightfall.

To be honest...
Henryk had wondered.
And he wondered if it was a cruel thing to tell him to be safe, to return.
But he hoped that Daan did, and hoped they'd all meet again, soon.

For now, Olivia was smiling somewhat feyly.
Her hands to her cheeks, her glasses off, and clearly soaking in the ambience of a proper club.

“I don't worry about any of my guests, madame.
If you've got a request, I'll fulfil it.
You can clearly see I'm serious about it..?
Any of them.”

“Oh, any!
So bold!.. Well, let me think it over.
But while I do, a question. I've been thinking about this whole – all of it.
It's odd, but... I've always wondered if someone might write a book about us.”

“A book.”

“Mmn. Imagine if we all get out of this alive;
Our words, our thoughts, everything we've done here –
Turned into frozen moments in time, for others to play with as they please.
And don't tell me you can't see it happening!
Karin does seem the type to publish memoirs, huh?..”

Henryk had been surprised by how outgoing Olivia was when she started talking –
But the surprise was far and away a pleasant one.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to imagine the kind of 'memoirs' Karin might sell after their incredible circumstances;
And for some reason, all he could think of was her finally having removed her hands from her jacket pockets.
One in a thumbs-up, while grinning viciously and/or victoriously.

No.
Definitely not.
He did not want to be a bit-part in Karin's memoirs.

“Heh, sorry, bad topic.
I can tell you just thought about it...”

“Ugh.
Yes.
I did.”

“Let me make it up to you.
I do have some things I like – watercress sandwich..?”

“Oh, a Rondonite favourite!
I'm afraid that's not happening, though.”

Snapping her finger, Olivia laughed – a little quietly.

“Isn't that just the story of my life.
Let me try again, hmn...”

Her glasses snapped into place, and she stared at him – really stared.

“You're not bad, up close.
You looked very blurry, a moment ago – “

“Thanks? I think?”

“How about germknödel?
I'd be surprised if you know it, but if you don't, I can –
'Walk' you through it, help you make something that almost feels the same.”

Henryk's eyes lit up.

“I love germknödel.
It has one of, no, one of the key desserts humanity has ever produced.
Perhaps with some barley tea to pair it with!”

Olivia smiled brightly, hands clasped together.

“You a mind reader?
I spent hours studying and sipping on that stuff.
Ah, it's supposed to be good for concentration, though I can't say it helped.
Thanks, chef!”

Doughy dumplingflesh soon revealed itself -
And Henryk made himself a promise that it was fine for the chef to make seconds for his own personal taste.
Just part and parcel of cooking, really.

Canned plum reserves worked perfectly for the sweet filing;
And a dash of poppyseeds and melted vanilla cream perfectly completed the ensemble.
Olivia 'ooooed' and 'aaaaahed,' playing her reactions up slightly –
Right until she took a bite, wherein they became quite real.

“Holy...
You're not bad, woah...”

“I try.”

And he might have been preparing to try for even more compliments, when the next customer walked through the door.

Chapter Text

“Hmn. I do see the 'chef' has established himself.”

“Yes, yes he has...
Magician.”

“Magician, hmn, I do consider that a worthy title.
Olivia; my sincerest apologies, again, for the slight amusement at the – “

Olivia near-slapped her face into pastry, and if it smothered a minor scream, Henryk pretended not to hear it.

“I-already-said-it-was-fine-moving-on, hello, O'saa!
I think even you'll be impressed by what our chef has on offer, here.”

“That remains to be seen.”

But O'saa said it agreeably enough, taking a seat next to the both of them.
He sat comfortably and with a great deal of confidence, much like how he moved -
Whether all his comments about magic were true or no, he held few doubts.

Henryk stared, wracking a brain that had only just started to finalise the likes of his fellow 'contestants.'

“I heard from a little bird with a razor-sharp tongue, that you humour requests.”

“Karin...”

“Yes, that might have been her name.
I am a forgetful man, and as it stands, I have a simple request.
One that's going to be a test for you, my friend; let's see if you can fulfil it.”

O'saa's good cheer instantly evaporated;
And the seriousness locked behind golden eyes conveyed that this wasn't a 'request' or a 'test,' it was an order that –
If left unfulfilled, would cause grave and dire portents to pass.

“I want a burger.
A massive, overly-packed burger, and you are going to make one for me.”

Now, Henryk admitted to himself, was a puzzle.

Burgers are innately good, to those who enjoy meat.
But the thing is, to a chef, burgers are basically a cruel trap.
If you offer a single burger on your menu, everyone will order the burger.
You will become a 'burger restaurant.'
Nobody will buy your other cuisine, and over time, people will just go 'ah, uh, the burger.'

Oh, well; they were all here, it wouldn't hurt.

The slightly sweet sizzle of pan-fried beef soon had both Olivia and O'saa staring intently.
And the faintest flicker of a respectful smile began to form on the mage's face.

“Well, now this is a surprise.
I expected more hesitance.
What are you planning on adding?”

“I've already added some things; when I must make a burger, I crumble bits of – bacon, shite,”

“No, don't worry.
I enjoy teasing people. I'm not cruel; bacon is fine for my diet, dear chef.
Go on..?”

“Bacon, minced garlic, minced mushrooms, and onions.
When I say minced, I mean it.
The important thing is to treat it like a sausage grind; the meat sizzling with these ingredients draws out subtle flavours –
Oh, Olivia, would you perhaps like one, too?”

“I wouldn't say no...”

A problem had emerged in that most of the bread they had on had wasn't going to cut it.
More could be made over night, but a burger without a bun felt like a concession, a failure of O'saa's little test.

Or that was what Henryk thought, until O'saa took a very small bite of his burger –
And immediately shut his gilded eyes, smiling softly.

“My condolences. No, not those.
My thanks. Though I think I'm not quite done, here.
Now, I'll make you something; you have to have been cooking throughout the day.”

Henryk couldn't keep from staring, agape, as O'saa gently – but firmly – pushed past him, and set about cooking.
The end result was spiced rice, wrapped in a grape leaf.
A man of endless culinary curiosity, Henryk set about it with enthusiasm, nodding thankfully with every bite.

If the enigmatic mage looked a little proud, well, he could bloody well do that.

The three enjoyed mild conversation, before O'saa left –
And then, Olivia.

It had been an overwhelmingly pleasant day, for the situation they'd all found themselves in, and Henryk wasn't quite sure it could get any better...

Chapter Text

… The atmosphere was slightly thick.
Choking, really.

“I –
Did apologise, didn't I?”

He hadn't.
She hadn't made a huge deal of it, because that wasn't her style.
But the no-nonsense look he'd gotten in kind, had made it clear enough.

Abella was staring at him, lips tightly pursed.
Since he'd spoken first, he'd taken the air out of the room, and made it clear he'd still been thinking about –
Speaking a bit too much, earlier, and –

“S'fine. I've got a decent figure, nothing I haven't heard before.
Think a bit, though. You seem to be a thoughtful sort.
You can do a bit better, next time.”

In truth, that made it worse.

Being gently reassured by someone who was quite fine, entirely his type, for things he didn't fully want to apologise for...
But that he knew he bloody well ought to...
Grumbling, Henryk ran his fingers through scraggly blond hair.

“No. I probably won't.
I have a bad tendency to act without thinking, then stew in it.
Not sure why I'm telling you that, but –
Even when I try to do better, I don't.”

Her intense expression stared at him, evaluating every word he'd said, every small action, even the distance between them.

Abella sat down at one of the booths, and motioned him near.

When he'd moved –
A little cautiously closer, she gave him a firm pat on the shoulder.

“You clearly do understand why real ladies'd take it poorly.
Which means you'll do better. That's just the feeling I've got.
Anyway, I didn't come here to lecture you, let alone make you feel better.
Why don't you prove you've got it in you, by surprising me?”

He could – do that.

“Just a warning. I've been working at some – garbage machine I found.
Figured it might be salvageable. No idea what it does.
I'm fearful hungry.”

“Right, well, if the fair lady – “

“Heh.
Quit it.”

The non-committal response left him with no clue whether that was a...
'Do go on' quit it, or a 'this wrench is rated for heads' quit it, and recommended a non-committal reply, in kind.

" - wants something filling, then I'm fairly certain I have you covered.
Do you have any clues for a humble chef?"

"Something filling, something new.
Probably a little bit healthy, too.
Dessert can be less healthy."

Everything he'd practised up until this point had been nothing more than a lesson, and this, this was the culmination –

She's not going to give you a second glance, you know. Do knock it off...

But feeling significantly better about everything, Henryk set about the kitchen with a spring in his step, and song on his lips.
Abella quietly laughed, but made no attempt to engage in conversation –

Though she did stare intensely as he brought the first plate out, then another and a third.

“So!
Henryk's full course, alla Oldegård.
Rice plov with almonds and yoghurt, fried pork cutlet and fried herring, and spring salad with mustard greens and carrots...
Madame.”

Abella's intense, unwavering, and otherwise unreadable expression betrayed only the slightest of grins.

“Hmn. Not bad at all.
Yet, I think I asked for a dessert – “

“Go on, you.
If you can finish all that, I suppose I can bring dessert in.”

The thing was, Abella did not eat quickly, she savoured every bite;
Like if she didn't, somebody was going to come in and take everything away from her.
He – would have been lying if he said he didn't understand.

Perhaps it was one reason he'd become a chef, after all.

But when she was done, he brought in the fourth plate; a ginger-rum bundt.
Once more, her sardonic expression communicated a great deal;
Yet she took it with grateful, slightly grease-stained fingers quickly wiped against overalls.

And she ate quietly, even daintily, and he felt –

Like he'd done quite well, for everyone.
And even if they didn't make it out of this place, that he'd done – well, been a bit better.
And that – truly – all was well.

Chapter Text

Fourteen, minus thirteen.

It had taken so much work, so much trust, to make this simple plan come to fruition.
And they all lay about him, having come together to 'celebrate,' because things were looking up.

Each, in kind, had trusted him a little more.

Henryk stared at his hands, and it would've been easier if they'd been the grotesquely water-swollen hands of a beast.

They were pale, simple hands; human hands, and nothing more.

”Masterfully done. I cannot imagine a more brilliant way of doing things! No, really, I cannot!”

From behind the table he'd lay against, he could 'hear' a 'voice.'
A laughing voice, the voice of a fool in full motley.
The voice spoke, and reached his head, but did not emit sound.
It was cruel and callous, but in its own way –
Terribly fair.

“It appears we have a winner, and you and I are going to have to discuss things personally.
But before we do, doesn't a master chef think he deserves to celebrate a little?
Let's have a feast, you and me!”

Henryk didn't respond.

Each and every word had died, frozen in his throat.
But he could do one thing.

Fire, burning; water, scouring, a jet of needles tortured from a basin.
The hiss of valves, the rattle of shaken sachets, a chorus that went on without end.
When he was done, he had created a new dish.

It didn't need to have a name, because he'd just poured flour over water over plant fibre over molasses over rotten meat over crab legs over butter over tar over vomit over mucous membrane over lager over rice over scissors over fragments over dyes over

nothing.

And it tasted like nothing, too.