Wax

Forty Two

A/N: It is TRUE PUNISHMENT to have descriptive writing as one's primary style oh my god what a long chapter AND YET I wasn't done with where I planned to stop DAMMIT I WANTED MORE OF THAT SEXY SHIT god DAMMIT. I know I promised more fluff but my brain = descriptive and I can't hold back on words either so I ended up writing a long chapter. 

Either way, I guess that's good news because I can't wait to write next week's fluff that I've been building up (my own) anticipation for UGH I feel like I'm cockblocking myself? Is that even possible? A writer doing that??? Goodness, I am a failure. That said, this chapter is also very important for Leroy's emotional growth, so.

I hope you enjoy this one. (Though I seriously think the next chapter is the bomb DAMMIT I can't wait to write that one UGH)

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"Simple, and yet, flawlessly executed. I suppose I should thank your dog for the delightful dish?"

In his eyes were ripples on the surface of a lake. He'd enjoyed that bite and it was easy to tell he did. Some things about people, you'd think would change along the way with the passing of time. Things like the way they ate—gaze lingering on the plate after tasting—or the way they'd stall for time, thinking hard for something to say but only if the food was good enough to knock the words out of their mind.

No one has to know; the last time I prepped a crab was three years ago for Annie on her birthday. They cost a fuck ton in London, so those weren't usually on the menu. That, and we started doing take-outs instead because the kitchen was a stranger. Annie knew I'd given up by then.

"He'd like that." I said to match his mood for play. He surrendered fast—averting his gaze and hiding behind a practiced laugh.

"So. Well. Thank you. The both of you," he turned to Garland first, and then me. "As expected, you delivered a dish of excellent quality despite the time limit and have both put the culinary knowledge you gained over the course of the day to good use. Still... there must be a winner. A moment, please."

The three of them behind the tasting table turned their backs to Garland and I, a cue for us to return to our stations while they discussed. I looked around. No one was calling for a cut, so I assumed this was a free-and-easy, unscripted part of the shoot. There was one last serving of crab crostini on the plate I'd brought up for tasting.

I finished it.

Sadly, it wasn't enough. Something was up with my appetite these days; regular portions were beginning to feel kinda small and there was an urge, a craving for more. Part of it might've had to do with the travelling. Hadn't done that in years and maybe my energy levels were taking a hit without me noticing.

"You're done with that?"

Garland had her dish hovered over the bin, close to tipping it over and sending everything inside down the drain. She looked up, pausing whatever she was doing when I asked.

"Oh. Yes. Just clearing my bench so that they have less work to do."

I held out a hand for her plate. She stared.

"You... want to taste my dish?" Her eyes were blank for a second. "I mean, sure. If you're doing this to put on a show though, I don't need your pity. The judges didn't have good things to say about the cook on the fish."

"I'm hungry." There was nothing more or less to say. "A couple more minutes over the stove will fix the cook on the fish."

Garland paused to think, looking down at her plate and then handing it over with a shrug, along with her saucepan of olive oil. "Do what you like, I guess. If you're finishing it, then at least it's not going to waste."