Wax

Two

A/N: Sorry I'm about an hour late! This chapter turned out to be 6k words, as every other chapter in the sequel have, so coincidentally, turned out as well. I hope you enjoy it! I read comments asking about what Xander and Chip would be like in this timeframe and heheheh you're in for a ride! Albeit not too soon. huhu. 

[Vanilla]

Chicken was the kind of dog to wait at the door for the return of his owner. Due to the unfortunate circumstance of having our arms full of unbagged groceries however, neither of us could greet him with a mannered pat on the head. He didn't seem to mind, trailing behind us into the kitchen whilst wagging his tail and gazing up with an expectant look in his eyes.

"He's asking for food," his owner translated, nodding towards the pantry. The rest of him busied away with fresh ingredients laid out on the countertop. "Can you get it?"

The intention was to stay as far as I could from any flame-related, culinary-equivalent tasks; allowing the certified idiot a chance at teasing me for my non-existent kitchen skills despite having remained in the industry for seven years was not a mistake I was going to make. Filling a dog's food bowl was the job I had to settle for.

"Leaving breakfast to you would be a wise decision." I picked up an unexpectedly charming food bowl that had tiny cartoon chicken drumsticks all over it, setting it down in front of the dog before heading back into the pantry. "Hold on. Wasn't that pan I used... wasn't that your only...? Well, unless you have something else hidden away, I don't see how breakfast is going to be made."

I'd paused mid-step to glance his way, only to observe microwavable, air-tight containers laid out on the kitchen counter. Said chef promptly looked up from the bell pepper he was dicing with amusement on the corners of his lips.

"Don't believe in magic?"

"... you mean microwaves?" I had to stop my head from shaking and remind lungs to breathe, heart to beat. "You cannot be serious."

He shrugged with play in his eyes. "Prodigy critic enjoys microwaved food, ingenious," motioning in the air as though every word was part of some imaginary headline picked up by a cheesy tabloid without much better to write about. I, a mature adult with a developed sense of humor, could not find in myself the reason I had seemed to remain highly susceptible to one idiot's foolish madness. Not as though I was ever the kind of person to express amusement at the sort of nonsense teenagers used to laugh about, no, but.

This sole individual being an outrageous exception was making me out to be a terribly biased human being. Either way, I hadn't quite expected the microwave (albeit no one expects the microwave), not from the very man who'd nearly topped the interschool at the age of sixteen; who'd trained alongside established experts in the field since he was eight. All of that, presently reduced to the mere boxed contraption of rotating food.

"Should I clean the kitchen while you...?" I surveyed the rest of the room. "Or your laundry, for starters. There are clothes everywhere and I'm beginning to doubt you have a closet."

"Most of my stuff, they're at the firehouse," he clarified, eyes still fixed on the containers he were filling. Omelettes in a box. "I do seventy-two-hour shifts at one-day intervals."

"That's barely enough rest," I had to note, unsure if any human being could stand three full days of emergency calls, all throughout the nights.

He seemed indifferent. "Not as though I make plans on my days off anyway. Annie's been busy with her date so I see her once in... dunno. A month." He tore open the packaging of some honey baked ham we'd picked out over the butcher counter. "And odd jobs when I'm up for some extra cash but that's kinda it."