Work Text:
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
The knife fell on the cutting board over and over and Eliot prepared vegetables for stew. In his hand the knife was more than a tool. It was an extension of himself. Where he needed and the blade began was a blurry line in his head.
It had been that way for longer than he wanted to think about. Back before he stopped using any weapon but his own two hands and blunt force objects. The part of his life that he wished he could erase. But that he would spend the rest of his life working toward even part way redeeming himself from.
He finished the carrots and moved onto the potatoes.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
The blade of the knife had no problem getting through the root vegetables. He kept his knives too well sharpened for that to be an issue. They were his most important tool in the kitchen. He could work with even the most mediocre of anything else but his knives were the thing that he would not sacrifice any quality for.
A dull knife was even more dangerous than an inexperienced wielder. It left behind jagged and dangerous wounds. Not even to get into the fact that it was so much easier to slip and mess up when the blade couldn't get through the skin of the vegetables. One slip and it was stitches.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
Cooking was his therapy. It was a phrase that he had seen while looking at the various random websites that Hardison sent him to. But unlike so many of the people he saw use that word it was real for him. It was all he had. He got to use his skills to help and not harm.
To give life.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.