Work Text:
George Karim was in his element.
‘Dreams’ by Fleetwood Mac was playing softly from the stereo in the drawing room, the sounds carrying over faintly into the kitchen. He had also propped open the window above the sink and could feel the hot, muggy London air bringing in the earthy scent of petrichor. The whole kitchen was awash in the golden hues of the evening, and he could feel tears forming in his eyes.
Although, admittedly, that had more to do with the onions he was currently chopping. He had decided to sharpen the kitchen knives in 35 Portland Row on a whim, after taking on the usual whetting and polishing of their rapiers and chains, and it had turned out to be an extremely good decision. George watched with satisfaction as the knife glided through the flesh of the onion with barely a hint of a press, the soft thuds of the blade meeting the chopping board feeling oddly soothing. This was his therapy, however unintentionally tear-jerking it was.
In the Karim household, it was a tradition that a rainy day called for a steaming plate of khichuri for supper. Maybe it was the eighty percent chance of a shower this evening, or the low grumbling of his stomach, or maybe both, that propelled him to make this dish today. Or maybe it was the sudden gripe of loneliness (one he had usually tried to bury) that had him reaching for the kitchen in search of comfort. The point was George Karim had a lot on his mind and this was his release.
He used the back of his hand to wipe away some of the stinging tears collecting in his eyes, knocking his glasses askew a little as he did so. Usually, he was more of a grab-it-while-you-go type of cook that never had anything prepared beforehand, but today, the simple act of ‘mise en place’ felt reassuring to him. He put the onions aside as he went over to the stove where the oil was heating, and he started to bloom some of the spices. The fragrant smell was already chipping away at some of the unease weighing heavy on his shoulders.
He was dancing through the kitchen with an ease and familiarity that felt very thrilling to George. There weren’t many places on earth where George Karim felt understood, but here, in the quiet hours of the evening, this kitchen had become his sanctuary. He was surrounded by dark mahogany cabinets that he now knew the contents of like the back of his hand. He knew where to get the plunger when the drain in the sink started to clog again, or where to find his secret stash of jammy dodgers stocked away for restless midnights (he prayed Lockwood would never deign to peruse what was in the nondescript yellow container in the topmost right shelf). Against all odds, Portland Row had become his home. And he was damn protective of it.
That was perhaps why he had been less than eager when Lockwood had announced his decision to hire a third agent. In George’s mind, this set-up between the two of them worked. He had just begun to feel truly at home here and the addition of a stranger, in this space that meant so much to him, could threaten to turn everything upside down. When the interviews had all started going south, a part of George had actually felt relieved. But even George knew that living like that couldn’t have gone on forever. He’d have to face the music at some point - and it had ended up being sooner rather than later when Lucy Carlyle came knocking on their doors.
The onions sizzling on the pot interrupted his thoughts. He was washing the rice now, three parts rice and one part lentils (that had been slightly toasted to release more flavour), and sweat had begun to collect on his brows. He needed to be careful with the amounts of spices added now. Into the pot went two teaspoons of salt, along with a pinch of turmeric, some thinly sliced thai chilies, some garlic, ginger, cumin, and finally, coriander. He allowed the spices to simmer a little before - oh! He had forgotten the cardamoms. He added those in too. When he had finished letting the spices get to know each other in the pot, he added in the rice (with lentils), poured in just the right amount of hot water, and then finally closed the lid. Now, all that was left was to let it cook. He let out a little breath.
Goerge wasn’t really in the mood to prepare any additional curry or meat to go with the rice, so he decided to do something quick. He cracked three eggs in a bowl and whipped together a spicy South Asian style egg omelette - with lots of onions, thai chillies, and cilantro. With all the cooking finally over, he took to washing the dishes and utensils he had used, leaving them out to dry on a wire rack.
Sometime during the last few minutes, the song had changed to ‘Gold Dust Woman’ and he hadn't even noticed when he started humming along to it under his breath. This one was one of his mother’s favourites, one which she loved to sing when she sat in her favourite chair to knit. And while she couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, George loved the sound of her voice all the same. Some of his best memories included his mom singing and knitting by the fireplace while his dad set out experimenting with a new recipe in the kitchen. It was Javed Karim, after all, who had taught George the recipe for the khichuri that was now being put to use, he reminisced with a pang.
It would be a lie to say George didn’t miss his parents, or his older brothers, even if he never was that close with any of them. He had moved out the day after his fifteenth birthday, and while he did love his family, he knew he had never really fitted with them. At least not the way he fits in here, at 35 Portland Row, with Anthony Lockwood and Lucy Carlyle. Because, yes, he had come to accept Lucy as a part of his life now too, and he suspected that she didn’t really have any place else to call home either. For most of his childhood, George had always felt like a defective puzzle piece that should have been tossed in the discard pile in the factory. But here, the three of them seemed to slot together perfectly, jagged edges and all.
George grabbed the cleaning supplies from the cupboard under the sink. While the rice cooked, he decided he could at least make himself productive and organise the kitchen a little bit. He swept away stray crumbs from on top of Thinking Cloth, a fresh one that only had a few markings and the occasional doodle. He wiped the counters till they shone in the fading sun, put away the dried dishes, and made note of how dirty the inside of the oven had become. It would need to be deep cleaned, but that was a chore for another day, he decided. He obsessed over a tiny spot on the backsplash, one that looked an awful lot like - ketchup? He scrubbed it out and then headed to the bathroom to fill up a bucket.
It wasn't until he was just about done mopping the floors that he heard the pounding of footsteps on the stairs. Even without looking back, George knew it was Lucy; he had the sound of each of their steps memorised.
Lucy stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. “Something smells really good,” was her astute observation.
“It’s definitely not you,” was George’s quip.
“You’re hardly one to talk. Have you ever been inside your room, George?
“I wasn’t implying I smelled good, I just said you didn’t. Curious why you’ve been in my room, though, Lucy.”
“I had to go to your room to fetch your report on Mr. Chen’s case last week”
“Did you get a good sniff?”
Lucy didn’t deign that with a response. She walked over to the stove where steam was escaping from the little hole on the lid of the pot. “What’s this?”
“It’s a pot.”
George couldn’t see her face from this angle, but he bet his entire collection of 2000 AD that she was doing the Lucy Carlyle™ eye roll. “I meant, what are you cooking, George? It smells really good.”
George propped the mop against the fridge, taking off his glasses to wipe them on his t-shirt. He regarded Lucy with his signature blank look. He was, perhaps, a little bit annoyed at having his peace disturbed when he was so clearly in the zone. There were times when George just needed his own time, when he didn’t have to worry about saying this, not that, and all the other intricacies that came with social interaction. But here was Lucy asking him a harmless question, in this sweet haven of the kitchen, and George found his irritation melting away quickly. He put the glasses back on.
“It’s khichuri. A South Asian yellow rice dish.”
Lucy looked to the pot and then back at his face, a little awed. “I never know how you make all this fancy stuff. I can barely boil rice without making it all mushy.”
“This was a basic staple at our house. Hardly anything fancy,” George remarked, now walking over towards the stove too. He should probably check on the rice. “Besides, you make good sandwiches.”
They both shared a small smile. Lucy had been in charge of the snacks on one of their last cases (a particularly stubborn Cold Maiden), and she’d made decent coronation chicken sandwiches that they had devoured on their tea break.
George turned off the stove and removed the pot from the heat. He usually wouldn’t consider himself as someone who initiated conversations with people, especially since Lucy had only been with them for a few weeks now and they were yet to be fully comfortable around each other, but he found himself enjoying her company. She watched, quietly, as George took out a jar of ghee from one of the cupboards, and scooped out two spoonfuls worth on top of the steaming rice. Instantly, the ghee was melting and giving off the most rich, flavourful fragrance. George turned towards Lucy.
“This is ghee. It’s clarified butter. It just gives the rice a richer flavour,” he explained, even though she hadn’t really asked.
“It smells really good,” Lucy echoed her earlier sentiment, nodding fervently. “Where’d you learn how to make it?”
“My dad,” George said softly as he looked out the window at the twinkling ball of light, slowly dipping lower, and lower. The deep ache in his chest was still there, all the cooking, and cleaning, and conversations may have done its job to abate the longing, but he still felt scrubbed raw.
Lucy reached out and squeezed his shoulder, once, and barely lasting a second, but firmly. Then, just as quickly, she was moving around behind him to set the table, plates and glasses clattering. He blinked out of his trance, his brain still catching up to speed.
George wasn’t much for physical touch but Lucy’s hand didn’t linger or expect anything else, like a hug. It was just grounding. Suddenly, he felt a deep sense of appreciation for the girl behind him.
He brought the pot to the table and placed it on top of a trivet as Lucy called Lockwood down to join them for dinner. He fetched the spicy egg omelette, and a jar of pickled green mango that he had bought from Arif’s a while back, to put on the table with the rice. Then, remembering what he was doing before, he took the bucket he had been using, threw out the dirty water, and returned the mop to its rightful place in the tiny closet by the stairs. In the drawing room, he shut off Stevie Nicks right in the middle of a partucularly depressing chorus before, finally, returning to the kitchen.
Lockwood and Lucy were both seated on the table, engaged in some quiet, frivolous debate. Lucy was absent-mindedly sketching something on the Thinking Cloth and Lockwood was pouring her a glass of water. They had turned on the kitchen light, now that it was really getting quite dark, and, although this was London and he had been expecting it the whole day, he was startled to find it was raining outside through the kitchen window. He'd have to close the window soon if it rained any harder, especially with curfew looming, but for now, he let it be. There was a quiet sense of peace lingering in the air with the smell of rain, and it was washing over him now with astounding clarity.
He swept his eyes across the kitchen once more. Right then, all George was longing for was the warmth of the kitchen, the company of his friends, the frivolous debates, and a full belly - just an average day at 35 Portland Row. He could belong in this place, wholly and truly, and still miss his family. He didn't have to wrack himself with guilt or loneliness any longer.
Lockwood was serving heaps of rice onto George’s plate when he slid into his seat. “Dinner looks great, George,” Lockwood grinned at him as they all grabbed their cutlery.
That night, all three members of Lockwood and Co. enjoyed their dinner in garrulous conversation and loud bouts of laughter, with the rain pattering softly on window panes, and the fluorescent light flickering overhead.