Chapter Text
“Ugh,” Harrowhark huffed as she flicked the small pirate flag on the bookshelf, tipping it over. The skull on it remained just as jolly, still smirking at her from the different angle. Gideon’s latest, ridiculous obsession. And the sole contribution to the bookshelf.
“Bones are bones!” She had parried when Harrow insisted pirates didn’t fit their aesthetic. As if that justified its presence among Harrow’s carefully arranged collection of research tomes and historical texts, which was already threatening to overflow its expanded shelves just four months after they had moved in.
Harrow was almost done with her share of the weekly cleaning. Sunlight streamed through the large window of their far-from-new apartment, highlighting the damp, freshly washed hardwood floor. It also illuminated the scratches Gideon had added with an ill-advised indoor sword practice session.
Harrow glared at the wall where said sword hung with offensive pride. Gleaming, battle-ready, “rad and needed,” according to Gideon. “Ugly and completely unnecessary,” according to Harrow. The only thing more offensive in the living room was the sunken red couch that served as Gideon’s bed, currently sporting a rumpled hoodie, two pillows, and sunglasses. In front of it was mounted a TV. A little too high, Harrow suspected purely to make her strain her neck during their shared movie viewings.
After taking another look at the books at different angles, making sure there was not a single speck of dust that escaped her gaze, Harrow exhaled in relief. She put the microfiber cloth away, grabbed a book and sat down in the armchair nearby, getting ready to dive into a biography of some old person no one cared about.
Distant sounds of cars from the street didn’t distract her and even added to the pleasant atmosphere. A fresh breeze from the window felt soothing, making her close her eyes for a moment to breathe it in. Her shoulders relaxed as she was reading a particularly dull passage about the invention of some obsolete technology from centuries ago.
Her peace and quiet lasted for about twenty minutes before her loud and obnoxious roommate barged in, ready to talk about something she would rather not.
“Come to the kitchen, emergency taste test!” Gideon exclaimed, her swept-back red hair bouncing as she gestured towards the door with her head. She was wearing a t-shirt with an ungodly number of skulls and, of course, pirates of some band she probably didn’t even listen to. Over it she had a dreadful custom-made apron with the words “I just want to Grilleon” that never failed to make Harrow’s eye twitch, as it did right on schedule.
“Really, Nav? I thought we had an agreement. You get free rein in the kitchen and leave me out of your cooking escapades,” she said, lowering the book to her lap. “I don’t want to taste your food, you add too much of… well, everything. Salt, spices, or ‘love’ as you say,” she added, her expression souring into a scowl, a shudder running through her at the thought of Gideon’s usual additions. She wasn’t sure if love or spices made her skin crawl more. “So, if you are looking for someone to taste your culinary achievement, how about you find a more suitable target? Like a toilet bowl or perhaps a garbage bin?”
“The toilet bowl probably has a more refined palate than you, but, believe it or not, today I made something specifically for you, spite and scorn instead of spices and corn,” Gideon replied with a wink. “It’s easier to show than explain, so get your ass up or I’m going to lift you and bring you here anyway. Chop-chop, you have two minutes, Nonagesimus,” she said before disappearing into the kitchen.
Harrow quickly weighed her options. Could she be fast enough to grab her boots and leave the apartment? Gideon would hear the door closing and she was infuriatingly fast. She wasn’t even sure if Gideon would really grab her and drag her to the kitchen, but it didn’t sound like something she would like to verify personally. Then she looked at the window and sighed. They were on the third floor and it didn’t work quite well as an emergency exit.
There was also something intriguing about what Gideon might have cooked specifically for her. She didn’t smell anything coming from the kitchen, which was unusual and didn’t make any sense. Gideon was there for almost two hours today and she surely wasn’t just cleaning. Curiosity slowly pulled her out of the chair as she shut the book and left it behind. She approached the door cautiously with occasional sniffs. Nothing.
After several deep breaths, she stepped inside. On the stove was a lone pot covered with a lid. Gideon was standing near the table and gestured grandly with her palm towards the bowl of pale, unappetizing, watery porridge.
“Is that…?” the necromancer asked, slightly surprised by the meal presented, which was absolutely nothing like the things Gideon typically made in her pursuit of unlimited gluttony.
“Yes! Maybe. I don’t know. You’ll have to try it first to be sure,” said Gideon as Harrow sat down and grabbed a spoon. Casting glances at the cook, she reluctantly filled the spoon with the poor-looking meal. She took a couple of sniffs. Even up close, there still was no particular aroma, neither tempting nor revolting. Just a faint, neutral trace of grains. Carefully, she brought the spoon to her lips, giving it a taste. Her eyebrows involuntarily shot up and her eyes widened a little.
“Tastes just like…”
“That god-forsaken gruel from Drearburh! I didn’t want to taste it myself while making it and probably never will, so it was trickier than I thought. Especially since it’s impossible to find ingredients as shitty in quality as we had back then,” she said, leaning on the table with both arms, looking at the bowl like it was her sworn enemy. “So, did it work? Tell me I got it, because I busted my ass for that baby.”
Harrow ate another spoonful. “It’s not exactly the same, but it’s pretty close.” She continued eating it slowly, spoon by spoon. The gruel didn’t have a definite taste. It was more about the texture, the specific way the lumps formed and messing up just the right amount that was difficult to replicate. “What are you aiming for, Griddle? You didn’t have to do this,” her eyes narrowed as she raised them at Gideon.
“Because you keep ruining my pots trying to recreate this monstrosity! And keep ordering food and takeouts that you clearly hate. So how about I keep making it for you, but only if you promise to eat it sometimes and not just live on it and vitamin supplements.”
“And in return? Out with your agenda,” she replied while still eating the thin meal.
“And in return you’ll also eat other stuff I make.” As Harrow started to get up, Gideon raised both of her palms. “Just hear me out. Please? I will make a completely different meal prep for you, the blandest and most boring garbage you can imagine, with no spices or anything like that. It will be a good challenge for me.”
Harrow sat down, then ate another spoonful, and another. She could always refuse once she had finished. Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember when she had last eaten like that, freely and without picking at her food, and couldn’t recall it. A lump formed in her throat.
“Doing a completely different preparation just for me is too much effort.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, can’t you just accept it? Do we really have to argue about what is worth the effort and what isn’t?” Gideon leaned in closer, golden eyes fixed and unwavering.
Harrow looked down, trying to escape those eyes that cut through everything. A little gasp escaped her lips as she saw that the bowl was already empty. While not filling, the gruel gave her a slight warm feeling inside, something she couldn’t quite pinpoint, yet also didn’t want to let go of. She craved more of this. Maybe she swallowed all of her pride together with the gruel, but after tasting it and knowing that such food was within her reach, refusal didn’t seem like an option anymore.
“Fine, Griddle,” she looked back up, black eyes meeting golden ones. “If you promise to keep everything else edible, as you say, I can agree to your terms.” Harrow glanced at the pot on the stove and then back at Gideon, whose face was already beaming in triumph. “And… Thank you.”
“Anytime. And don’t worry, I promise to make it awful, just how you love it.”
And then Gideon heard the words that Harrowhark Nonagesimus had never said in her life before: “Can I have seconds?”