Chapter Text
Wil is up to his ears in dough.
There’s some on his ears, too, which Dreena will find later, and ask in frustrated bemusement ‘how does that even happen?’ even though both know it’s due to him absentmindedly brushing his curls back or tucking the recipe-writing pencil behind his ear.
On the large, extra-tall table before him are four different durasteel bowls, with their sloping sides covered in hieroglyph-looking Space Chalk scribblings. Dreena will swear it’s not written in Basic, but Wil can tell at a glance every one of the different proportioned ingredients each bowl contains. He’s draped damp towels over them, placed two in his oven’s proving drawer, and is carefully balancing the other two in the window to soak up the last hour of afternoon sun when Kleya comes in, sudden and unannounced as the afternoon rainbursts.
“Wilmon, I need your eggy drink recipe.”
“Hi Kleya. Nice to see you. My holidays have been good, how about yours?”
Kleya squints at him, but more interrogative and friendlier than a glare, which he counts a win. “You saw me two nights ago at Arrol’s party to kick off Fete Week.” she states.
“Yes.” Wil scatters a handful of flour over his recently cleared benchtop space and retrieves one of the four lumpy balls of pie crust from the chiller.
“I didn’t seem as though I was having fun?”
“It’s more . . . I’m asking . . . you’re being very literal. I was just trying to demonstrate, perhaps too passive-aggressively, that often one leads off with niceties. Especially if you’re asking for someone’s secret recipe.”
Kleya’s forehead furrows. “I’m plenty versed in social manipulations.”
“I believe that.” Wil snarks under his breath as he begins rolling his crust out.
Kleya either does not hear or does a good job of pretending not to. “I can spout niceties for days without meaning a syllable of them. I thought those sorts of things were expressly unnecessary with actual friends.”
Now Wil is flummoxed. “You consider me an actual friend?”
“What do you consider us?”
“I think . . . I think maybe I thought you didn’t consider me worth considering.” Wil stumbles to the end of his sentence and flips the crust around to roll again.
“I speak to you when not actually required. I wired your intercom system last month. I buy your bread twice a week no matter how far out of my way I have to travel for it. I talk to you about Vel, and listen to you about Dreena. Those are friend things.” Kleya pauses.
It takes Wil two more roll-turn-roll-turn of the pie crust before he realizes Kleya is waiting for a response. “Yes, you do! All true. And I appreciate it.”
“I came here to ask for your secret recipe. As we only just saw each other, and had quite a long talk, I thought we could get directly to my purpose, which is also more interesting than empty platitudes.” Wil squints at Kleya, trying to put the pieces together. Kleya continues, “Leading into my request by asking rote questions I know the answer to is what I’d do to someone I considered an enemy, or at best an acquaintance.”
Wil simply stares, holding the rolling pin suspended over his flattened crust. “And because we’re friends, you didn’t bother.”
“Exactly.”
“That makes quite a lot of sense, actually.” Suddenly, Wil remembers what he was doing. “Damnit” he says “One second, sorry, the butter is going soft.” He hastily loops the thin, fragile disc over his rolling pin, unrolls it over a waiting glass pie dish, slips a metal sheet under the whole thing, and shoves the sheet into the chiller, carefully balancing it on top of various jars and bottles and precariously stacked bowls already crowding the space.
“Now” he announces, dusting flour off his hands. “Let’s start again. You were here for a recipe.”
“I want to make a holiday Chandrilan beverage for Vel.” Kleya’s face lights up when she says Vel’s name, and Wil’s heart softens as fast as his pie crust butter had. “I did some research and discovered plenty of traditional egg drinks they made around Yule time, most of which looked disgusting, but one which seemed quite close to the egg custard drink you mentioned a while ago.”
“Eggnog.”
“Is that the official name?”
“One of them, but it’s my favorite. A nice symmetry to it, and a nice mouthfeel when you say it.” He sees strong skepticism cross Kleya’s face, which she doesn’t even try to hide. “No, really. Say it!”
“Egg. Nog. Eggnog.” Her look of skepticism is replaced by a look of pleasant and total surprize, and Wil giggles, not only from witnessing Kleya displaying actual shock, but that he himself was the person to introduce it. “That was indeed delightful.” Kleya acknowledges. “But yes, the new year celebration is my desire for your eggnog recipe” Kleya slows the words down just a fraction, to feel them roll pleasantly over her tongue.
“I’ll dig that recipe out in a second. While I find where in my metal filing box I put it in . . .” Wil grabs a tray holding three glass jars with shrivelled Sriluurian raisins in liquid, takes three toothpicks, and uses them to fish one booze-soaked raisin each from the jars. “Could you give these a taste and tell me which is best?”
“Do you not digitize your recipes?” Kleya asks, as she takes the first boozy fruit from the toothpick, sniffs, then pops it in her mouth.
“Writing them down makes it easier to look at the whole thing at once.” Wil watches Kleya’s face, which betrays nothing as she chews. “Also, you would not believe how many datapads I nearly totalled by dropping them in melted butter or getting flour on their datachips.”
“How did you manage that?” Kleya asks as she bites into the second raisin.
“Honestly, no idea.” Wil points to the jars in turn, assuming she may not be able to read his chalk-scrawl. “That one’s rev. The first one was cognac. Third is some of Arrol’s rye home-brew.”
Kleya tries the third one, and tilts her head to the side. “Well, cognac is the best of the three, but honestly, any of these would only bring down the quality of your bread. Which is really very good.”
Despite the compliment, Wil’s shoulders slump. “I usually use brandy, but couldn’t get my hands on any, so I’ve been trying everything else. So far, you’ve confirmed what my taste buds thought.”
“Weeeeeeeell,” Kleya says suggestively, “I might know where you could get some brandy. A trade for your recipe, if you will. Should a quart of brandy be enough?”
Wil’s shoulders make a miraculous recovery. “That will do nicely. But how on earth—”
“I cannot reveal my source, but giving you that much will still leave plenty for my eggnog purposes.”
Wil squints at her, an expression which uncannily echoes hers from a few minutes before.
Kleya sees his expression, and reads it perfectly. “Don’t feel bad. I’ve been trying for several weeks, and only this morning did I manage to lock it in. I’m sure you can pay me back sometime when I need an illicit item.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“Yes, Wil, I am. But if we were not friends, I would not bother.”
Wil beams.
“Now,” Kleya continues, “Since making enough eggnog for everyone will be quite voluminous, can I also borrow some space in your chiller?”
-
Fete Eve is a muted, cozy affair. Dreena has a late shift at the harvest storage facility where she’s been moonlighting, so everyone gathers at Wil and Dreena’s to wait for her. By the time they’ve finished dinner and more than one bottle of rev, Karis is fast asleep in their carrier, and BeeTwo has powered down next to them in the corner.
As it nears midnight, Wil dims the house lights, and Vel begins lighting the traditional candles, revelling in her slight pyromania.
“Kleya, could you grab us something to make a toast?” Wil suggests, giving her a knowing wink.
Kleya goes to the chiller and pulls out the large glass jar of eggnog; somewhat easier now that half of Wil’s dishes and dough balls and concoctions have been consumed or used as ingredients in other dishes for the night’s celebrations.
It takes Vel a beat to realize the thick, speckled, creamcolored liquid Kleya has produced is meant to be drunk, but when she recognizes what it is, her eyes go wide. “Merles, my favorite! How did you know?!”
“Vel.” Kleya intones dryly, as though actually insulted. “You remember my job for years was gathering information, yes?”
Vel grins. “And you being incredibly good at it is why we’re all here.”
A touch of solemnity wafts over the proceedings, just for a moment, as everyone considers the many ways they all had to be not just good, but lucky, and loved, to be here at all. The solemnity quickly transitions into joy: we are here, and together, we may as well celebrate to the fullest.
Wil takes the large, sweating glass jug from Kleya and begins pouring it amongst the seven waiting cups. While the rest of everyone is occupied, Vel wraps her arm around Kleya’s waist, pulls her close, and says, low and just for her, “It’s so very thoughtful. I adore my gift, and you.”
Maybe it’s the candlelight which makes Kleya’s cheeks warm, but maybe she’s blushing. “I know it’s not exactly traditional, but I thought it’d be nice to have an unusual surprize to share.”
“Well, I say, cream punch is a yearly tradition now.”
Kleya makes a face. “Wil was right, eggnog is a better name.”
Vel tilts her head in acquiescence. “You made it, I suppose you can call it what you like. So long as you continue to make it every year.”
Kleya smiles. “I think I can manage that.”
Wil comes over and hands each of them a cool glass. Vel takes a whiff and grins at the strong brandy underneath the rich milky smell and sharp bite of fresh nutmeg grated in a healthy dusting over the top.
Dreena has already distributed the rest, and Karis has woken up by the excitement so Bix puts a little un-brandied nog in their bottle, and they all form a lumpy circle around the table. Wil raises his glass, and the rest all follow suit, clinking around with everyone else’s.
“Speech!” Niika says, and Arrol takes up the cry. “Yes, speech!”
Wil turns to Kleya. “Your beverage, your toast.”
Kleya blinks a few times, uncertain about being asked to give a ceremonial speech with no forewarning, but everyone acts as this is the most natural thing in the world. She raises her glass, and everyone else follows suit. “To all of us, and the friendship we share. We make our own family, we make our own traditions.”
-
“What. Did you PUT. In that eggnog.”
Vel is lying flat on her back, a pillow over the top half of her face to ward off the overhead light Kleya has flicked on.
“If I had to bet, your condition would be due less to the brandy, which was heavily bolstered by fat and protein in two glasses of eggnog, and more about the bottles of wine with dinner and the straight rev you drank after?”
Vel groans. “I love Arrol, but even the smell tells you exactly how potent that rev is. Your nog, on the other hand, tastes so delightful I simply did not realize what it was doing. Utterly lethal.”
“Since it’s so deadly, I presume you would object to my using it this morning to prepare Ghor Toast for breakfast?”
Vel whips the pillow off of her face, immediately regrets that decision, and rolls over to bury her face in the sheets. “No,” her voice is muffled but insistent. “Actually, I think it will be good for me. You know what they say about hair of the rancor and all that.”
“That is a myth, but anyways the thermal effect of cooking will burn off most of the alcohol, leaving mainly the taste.”
The only response from Vel is another, longsuffering groan.
“Right. I will be in the kitchen, whenever you’re ready.”
It’s only a few minutes before the frying pan sizzle lures Vel out into the kitchen. She slips her arms around Kleya’s waist and kisses her shoulder as she observes the orderly assembly line next to the stove: stack of bread, bowl of eggnog mix, two slices already cooking on the griddle, a fresh plate on the other side waiting to receive the finished product. “Smells amazing.”
Kleya slides the flat metal spatula under the first slice and flips it. “About five minutes away, and the kettle is just off the boil.” Kleya tips her head towards where a conical filter sits waiting, fresh caf grounds next to it. “Would you do the honours?”
Vel groans again, but a much different timbre than the previous complaint. “I would indeed.” She steps aside toward the free counter space and begins making caf; as soon as the process is underway, she sidles back over. “Have I mentioned yet this morning how wonderful you are?”
Turning away from the still-cooking Ghor toast, Kleya doesn’t even pretend to consider. “You in fact have not yet.”
“Allow me to correct my oversight. You,” Vel leans forward and punctuates her words with a kiss, “are absolutely wonderful.”
Kleya smiles. “I know.” She leans in to kiss Vel again, a little slower this time.
“Mmmm.” Vel’s eyes slide closed, and her arms wind their way back around Kleya’s waist, pulling her a bit closer.
They remain that way a few moments, until the sizzling of the griddle pulls Kleya’s attention back; she flips the two pieces of toast off just before they round the corner from golden-brown towards browning-burned.
Once everything is cooked and brewed, they carry the plate stacked with Ghor toast and mugs of steaming caf to the table – Vel pauses before putting anything down. “How about outside for the sunrise?”
“If you think your head can handle it,” Kleya says, straightfaced, but knowing full well Vel will take it as a challenge.
Which she does, marching directly outside to lay the coffee on the box of odds-and-ends they use as a table, then taking the chairs one at a time where they lean them, upside-down against the siding to keep rain and critters off the seats. As Kleya sets down their plates and cutlery on the boxtop, Vel presents her chair with a flourishing bow.
Kleya doesn’t even make a jibe about ‘potential overcompensation much?’, she just inclines her head in thanks and takes her seat, then wraps her hands around her caf mug with a soft sigh of happiness. The bite of midwinter air is more of a nip, just enough for one’s hands to want something solid and warm to hang onto.
As the rising sun pushes orange light across the lightening sky, they sit in comfortable silence eating their breakfast, enjoying the bounty of their new life and each other, a moment of relative peace amidst the chaos of the galaxy.
When the sun gets above the line of silos and shoots beams out towards them, Vel squints and grumbles good-naturedly before holding her mug out.
“Happy new year and new start, to us, love.” Vel says.
Kleya raises her mug and clinks it against Vel’s in salutation. “And many more.”