milliways kitchens, carl and trudy

[one_man_army]

[after this]

They make their way into the kitchens, ignoring the various looks given to them by the waitrats (and the rats running around the kitchen in aprons and little white chef hats) as they head for the walk-in cooler.

"You might want to stay put," he says. "Just in case I don't come back. You can go for help?"

He's kidding.

Mostly.

(This is Milliways. Who knows where this door leads.)

Comments

[hallelujahpilot]

"Maybe you need to take some string with you," she says, helpfully. "Or a rope."

She's briefly distracted by one of the kitchen-rats chittering at her. "What, you are in bare feet. Okay, okay, Jesus." She kisses Carl, briefly. "I'm going to get put on some jeans and shoes before we're kicked out. Meet you back here."

[one_man_army]

"I'll be here. Or returnin' shortly, at least."

He briefly squeezes her shoulder, before turning to go find a sink to wash his hands. Then he'll tackle the contents of the walk-in.

When she returns, he's not back yet.

But there is a perfectly ripe, peak of season, Georgia peach sitting on the counter. Waiting.

[hallelujahpilot]

She comes back, like she said, wearing jeans. As she's also wearing socks and tennis shoes, her toes are starting to talk to her again.

She eyes the peach.

It's a peach.

And gorgeous.

And there.

And she picks it up, but doesn't eat. Because some things are hard to shake off, the idea that fruit is way beyond her paygrade being one of them.

(But it's such a nice peach)

[one_man_army]

Carl emerges a moment later, looking rather victorious.

(With a basket tucked under one arm.)

"Consider that a 'welcome back' present, if you've gotta."

The basket goes on the counter, and he starts unloading the various spoils of the raid onto the surface.

(Apples, squash, an onion, some herbs, two pieces of pork tenderloin, and other things.)

[hallelujahpilot]

"Yes," Trudy says, solemnly, "from my epic quest for a pair of jeans that actually fit." Being short with a decent pair of hips can be a real bitch sometimes.

"...what the heck is that?" She asks then, gesturing with her head towards the squash as she bites into the peach.

(and no, that is not a faint whimper of pleasure, oh no.)

[one_man_army]

"Butternut squash."

He gathers the garlic, sage, and nutmeg -- mince, chop, grate -- salt and pepper, and then mixes the spice rub up in a bowl, to pat onto the slices of pork.

"Good peach?"

[hallelujahpilot]

"Terrible."

[one_man_army]

"Sad to hear it."

He moves onto the squash and the apples, chopping them up into neat squares, adding in the honey mustard sauce, and the leftover garlic. Once he's gotten it all chopped and mixed, he layers the squash and fruit out on a long strip of foil, wrapping it up.

"It looked like a good one."

[hallelujahpilot]

"Appearances, honey. Be deceptive, and all that jazz."

God, it's a good peach.

"Want any help?" She feels she should offer, feeling vaguely useless standing there eating. On the other hand, she's enjoying what she's watching. Mmm, food. Mmm, Carl's hands.

[one_man_army]

"Can you find a skillet to brown the pork in?"

That will be a start. He can brown the meat, he just needs the skillet. And then she can watch his hands all she wants.

[hallelujahpilot]

"Sure."

Those, at least, haven't really changed much, even if it does take a bit of a quest (and, this being the Milliways kitchen, a lot of raised eyebrows) to find one.

[one_man_army]

"The real trick will be findin' an oven that is set to Earth temperatures."

The wrapped up squash and apple foil pouch goes onto a baking pan; he's waiting with the oil near the range whenever she gets back with the skillet.

[hallelujahpilot]

The skillet is handed over with all the solemnity of a promotion ceremony; his question gets a blink.

"I...thought I saw one usin' Celsius over there."

She's pretty sure about this, anyway.

[one_man_army]

"You're probably right."

Oil into the skillet (he accepts it with a hint of a bow because that's just proper) and then the pork goes in.

He glances around.

"Need a spatula."

[hallelujahpilot]

"A what?"

[one_man_army]

"Spatula."

He looks over at her -- and realizes she's asking because she doesn't know what it is, not because she didn't hear him.

"To turn the meat over. Handle with a little flat part at the end."

[hallelujahpilot]

"Paddle thing. Got it." She smirks briefly before going off to search for it. When she comes back, she hands it over with a, "Jesus, it's been too damn long since I've cooked."

[one_man_army]

"What's that thing they say? S'just like ridin' a bike, you can get right back into it?"

[hallelujahpilot]

"Yeah, if I ever had opportunity to practice."

[one_man_army]

"Tell you what," he says, after a moment. He points the spatula at her. "C'mere. Help me."

[hallelujahpilot]

Trudy smiles at him.

"Yes, sir," she says (well, the way he is pointing the spatula at her is very dramatic), and walks over.

[one_man_army]

The spatula is presented to her with a flourish.

And he slips one arm around her waist, pulling her to stand beside him at the stove.

"You can make sure it doesn't burn. I'll...supervise."

Right.

[hallelujahpilot]

"So that's what they call it in 2010. Gotcha."

[one_man_army]

His hand settles on her hip, thumb hooking into the belt loop of her jeans.

"You'd believe me if I said yes, s'the thing."

[hallelujahpilot]

There is a pause as she pokes experimentally with the spatula, more to test how much it bends rather than anything else.

"Well, now I won't."

[one_man_army]

"...shite, that's true. I'll have to find some other way to convince you."

[hallelujahpilot]

"You're imaginative. I'm sure you'll think of something."