RP PotHN: A Special Order


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Caleb chose the middle of the afternoon, hours before dinner, when he knew Julian and Julian alone would be in the kitchen. There was always the possibility Pris would be hiding somewhere but he didn’t mind that much if she were.

“Is it like you remembered?” He asked, leaning on one of the counters.

Julian had been adjusting, for the better part of a few hours; shooing away the fucking children that seemed to be aboard a pirate ship, for whatever Godforsaken reason, tracking down his cat, and sorting through available inventory and cookware for the ship's meals to come.

Cooking had apparently been done by the blonde one and the lumbering, scaled fellow. It was a miracle Julian could even fit into this fucking shoe-box, let alone an 8-foot fucking behemoth. The entire establishment was a far cry from the comfort of The Last Meal, and for a moment, he almost wept-- tears budding at the edges of his vision as he felt sorry for himself. This fucking luck. That he was here, again, after so many years.

It was almost too much to bear.

But he managed, as he always did, and set about sorting the cupboards to his liking. Unfortunate enough not to be left to his own devices, Julian quickly found himself in the company of the cabin-boy-turned-captain.

"Worse." Julian muttered, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. Assume the facade of the dandy chef; play up the arrogance. "Kitchen's out of sorts. I was accosted by a damned child after settling in. I wasn't aware that pirate ships full of mass-murderers had those. One of Sinead's little brats?" He gestured to the hammock in the corner of the room, sandwiched between two shelves. "I'm setting my room here. Kitchen will be cleaner that way, and I'm not sleeping in a room full of sweaty roughnecks that looked like their mother dressed them."

Another remark, for good luck. Julian rounded the island countertop within the center of the kitchen, stopping halfway to adjust a sack of carrots. "Oh, and somebody fucking vomited on the floor in the mess. And didn't fucking PICK IT UP. Which I took care of. Do you know what happens when people shit where they eat, Caleb?" He leveled a tong at the captain, accusatory. "Chaos."

“Just a stowaway we stole from another ship.” Caleb shrugged, grabbing an apple from a nearby basket and chuckling at the man’s complaints. The mention of vomit brought him a grimace, but it wasn’t like he had never done the same at least once within the decade. Probably a few times more than once.

“People shouldn’t sleep where they eat either. I don’t wanna find your hair - or your cat’s - all over my food.” He took a bite of the apple, taking a better look at Julian and noticing how miserable he looked beyond his average personality. I didn’t trash your place. Complain all you want, this is much better than what you were left to work with."

"Mm. Last I remember, the Nox didn't take kindly to stowaways," Julian muttered, cocking his head as he looked to Caleb. His eyes narrowed a moment, as if he were to say something-- but then he thought better of it, letting the Captain finish his tirade about how Julian couldn't do any better than this. The comment about hair went internalized, but not addressed. His hair was neatly stowed beneath his turban, and Pumpernickel knew better. Plus, she hardly shed, which was an advantage of her breed. Whatever that was.

"People don't come to me to socialize." Julian replied, deflecting to the matter at hand. Whatever that was. "What do you want?"

Maybe if he was less spiteful people would want to socialize more often, but Caleb wasn’t one to talk.

“Do you still know how to make those cream puffs you used to make?” He asked. “It doesn’t take too long, right? Can you make it for tonight?”

Julian seemed to have his curiosity piqued at the request, moving to the counter and leaning upon it to prop his head up with a single hand.

"45 minutes, I'll have it done. Is that all?" He asked, standing up straight and dusting his robes; a moment later, he moved to a tin at the corner of the room, pulling it from the shelf and setting it upon the countertop. "I'll need eggs. Do you have those?" He asked, looking up from the countertop after a moment's deliberation. "And I hope your butter hasn't spoiled."

“I’ll come back after supper to get it. Keep it hidden so no one eats it, somewhere your cat can’t reach. If there are no eggs here you can just get it directly from the chickens, they’re still in the same place as always.” Caleb said and got ready to leave, but stopped by the doorway. “Speaking of your cat - if it goes in my room again I’ll kill it. Train that bloody thing.”

Again, with the fucking cat. One might've thought the God-damned thing was a turncoat for the Fae, with the way Caleb was so adamantly against her. Julian's eyes narrowed at the threat as he prepped his things, giving a soft smile to the Captain as he stopped and threatened the life of his pet.

"Oh, honey. If you want me to cook desserts for whoever you're rutting, saying you'll kill my cat certainly isn't the way to do it." He stated, licking his teeth a moment as he finally found the fucking butter he'd been looking for. Whoever had organized this kitchen must've been blind. "She's fully trained. Maybe she just doesn't like you." A shrug, at that. "Or you could keep your damned door close. They don't have opposable thumbs, Caleb."

Julian adjusted his headwrap, shaking his head as he looked about the kitchen. "Neither did the previous fucking cooks here, either, it looks like..."

Rutting, if only. He did take the advice and decided to keep the door closed from now on.

“Just keep it out of my way.” He said before leaving, letting the cook complain by himself.