Fic: Kitchen Consequential (4/18)
Jan. 12th, 2010 05:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
withthepilotTitle: Kitchen Consequential (4/18)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,272
Pairings/Characters: Kirk/McCoy, Chekov, Uhura, Spock, Scotty
Disclaimer: Do not own or claim to own.
Warnings: AU set in New York City, 2009, with flashbacks to five years prior. Many references to the ST: XI canon.
Summary: All paths lead to the kitchen for the staff members of Enterprise, the newest critical darling on the New York restaurant scene. It's here that they come together as a team and find out just where they belong. Chapter 4: Kirk introduces Chekov to some of the characters in Enterprise's kitchen on the whiz kid's first day of work.
For a comprehensive list of series pairings, links to prior chapters and author notes, please visit the master post.
When Jim gets to the restaurant, he stops whistling the moment he sees the Russian kid sitting in the reception area, chatting with Spock. They seem to be in the midst of a fascinating conversation, Spock's favorite word to describe most everything, and he watches the kid's animated expression with an amused smirk. Spock notices him pretty quickly, though, and the conversation comes to an abrupt halt.
"Good afternoon, Jim," Spock says, bowing his head, as pleasant as ever.
"Hello, Chef Kirk!" Chekov rises to his feet with an eager smile and clutches his bag to his chest as if someone might steal it. Jim has to laugh at that, saluting him.
"At ease, Checkers." He checks his watch and is surprised to find he actually isn't late today: three o'clock, just as they'd arranged. "How long have you been here, anyway?"
"Mr. Chekov arrived at a quarter to two," Spock says, and Chekov shrugs sheepishly.
"I was worried I might be late."
"Well, no danger of that," Jim jokes.
He takes in Chekov's appearance, his carefully tucked button-down shirt contrasting with the haphazard ringlets falling down onto his forehead. He doesn't really look like he belongs in a kitchen just yet, possibly too young and naïve for the unflagging hustle and stress that can undo even the most promising chefs—but the kid seems to have what it takes. Hiring Chekov was a gut decision and that sort of choice has never failed Jim before. Plus, he learned from Pike long ago that it's hardly ever a bad idea to take a chance on a young, talented upstart—though Jim can't imagine Chekov being as much of a pain in the ass as he's always been. But he's a special case, really.
"Chef McCoy and Chef Scott are in the kitchen, handling prep," Spock says, interrupting his thoughts.
"Great, I'll bring Checkers on back to meet them." Jim cocks his head and smirks faintly at Spock. "And what about Chef Uhura?"
"I'm told she will arrive shortly," Spock replies, nodding slowly and obviously trying to sound as curt as possible.
"Uh huh. Okay, kid, let's go."
Jim beckons for Chekov to follow him and he does, after thanking Spock for a thought-provoking conversation. He's not sure he's ever met a person so weirdly polite in his entire life. Even Spock—previously thought to be the most courteous guy on god's green earth—isn't above a little sarcasm now and then. Maybe the kid's just nervous. He leads him into the dining area, motioning around them.
"Welcome to my playground," he says.
Chekov gapes as he takes in the place for the first time, though Jim is sure he's seen photos of the interior before, if he's ever opened up an issue of Food & Wine or Bon Appétit. The design is breathtakingly complex yet simple: silvers and grays and whites, like the sky above Central Park right before a snowstorm, with large, illuminated glass windows along the walls. The room is additionally lit by crisscrossing light fixtures, the junctures of which shine at varying levels so the entire ceiling almost appears flecked with stars. Each table is graced with jet black, high-backed chairs and a single, metallic light fixture hanging from the ceiling, like moons paused in orbit, aglow. Jim wishes he had something to do with it—the design was all Pike and whichever interior decorator he plucked from the Yellow Pages to help out—but it still feels like it's his own. Enterprise is like his girlfriend, in a way, and he's madly in love with every beautiful inch of her.
"It is...spectacular in person," Chekov whispers, looking at him. "Like...a sleek, otherworldly spacecraft."
Jim nods thoughtfully, impressed with the description. "You've got a way with words, kid. What're you, some kind of sci-fi geek?"
"I enjoy the occasional science-fiction film, da." Chekov gives him a crooked smile. "Most of them are too flashy and without substance, I find. And usually with a moronic, overcompensating lead character."
"Well, that's Hollywood for you, I guess. Come on; let's get you in with the gang."
When they enter the kitchen, Bones and Scotty are having an argument, naturally. Both men are waving their arms around and shouting obscene things at each other, so in Jim's estimation, it must be over something extremely important or not important at all; even without asking Spock to estimate the probability, he's 99.46 percent sure it's the latter. Chekov shrinks slightly beside him, obviously unused to the raging egos of the contemporary kitchen. He'll get over it soon, Jim thinks. He'll have no choice if he wants to work here.
Bones turns swiftly and regards Jim with a huff. "Jim! Tell this dingbat that I'm not intentionally trying to sabotage his precious black plum Napoleon, and that if he thinks I ordered the wrong amount of plums on purpose, he should go back to fucking Glasgow and stick it up his bagpipe."
"I'm from Aberdeen!" Scotty yells indignantly, throwing his chef's hat down on the counter. "And I cannae make the Napoleon with the puny amount of plums we did get," and he holds his index finger and thumb a fraction apart for emphasis. "There's no bloody way! And I've already prepared the pastry... How could the order have been so wildly wrong, I ask you?"
"Screws fall out all the time, evidently including the ones holding your brain together. The world is an imperfect place," Bones snarls. And, oh, Jim has to fight back a laugh at that one, because he knows Bones is pissed if he's quoting John Hughes flicks. Usually it takes an oven explosion or a sudden grease fire or Jim jumping on the bed early in the morning and yelling, "EARTHQUAKE!" to push him that far. Though the last time he jumped on the bed, Bones smacked him hard enough with a pillow to send him flying into the bedside table lamp, so he's since given up on that particular wake-up method.
"Gentlemen," Jim interrupts, holding up a hand to silence them. He then gestures to the young man cowering beside him. "This is our new commis, Pavel Andreievich Chekov." He tries not to grin when Pavel looks surprised at his name being said correctly. Well, Jim can fix that. "Checkers, for short."
"Ehm. Chekov is fine," he says, turning slightly pink.
"Yeah, yeah. He'll be training under Uhura and hopefully learning the entremetier station, in time. Checkers, this is Chef McCoy, my most capable sous chef, and Chef Scott, our head pastry chef."
Chekov smiles hopefully at the two men but they're obviously disgruntled and not in welcoming moods. They regard him silently for a moment and then Scotty points an accusing finger at him.
"Aye, I remember you. You owe me a meal," he says.
"Hold on a minute," Bones grunts, shaking his head. He squints at Chekov warily. "How old are you?"
"Nineteen, sir," Chekov replies, standing tall.
"Oh, great, Jim, he's nineteen. This isn't a goddamned nursery school, for christ's sake. When were you gonna tell me that you hired a toddler to work back here?"
"You just think I'm looking for some fresh meat to replace your midlife-crisis-having ass," Jim snorts, which earns him a rather filthy look from his sous chef. He puts an arm around Chekov and squeezes, feeling the kid tense up. "Listen. Checkers here is a winner. He made me the best damn cassoulet I've ever had, yesterday."
"And you didn't save any for me?" Scotty pouts. Bones just rolls his eyes, gesturing toward the pastry room.
"Jim, what about this plum debacle?"
"Oh, I dunno. Just put in some mascarpone or figs or something to make up for it. We've got an excess of both, so have at it."
Scotty's brows shoot up at the suggestion and he crosses his arms over his chest, tapping his chin as the gears turn. He starts to retreat into the pastry room, but points a suspicious finger at Bones as he goes. "I'm watching you, McCoy," he warns as he disappears.
"Goddamn kilt lover," Bones mutters. He turns and levels his gaze at Chekov, who seems to inch closer to Jim when he receives the death glare. "Well, if Jim says you're good, I believe him. Even if you did just graduate from kindergarten yesterday."
"That's the spirit, Bones," Jim chirps.
"I thought I was meant to be in nursery school, not kindergarten," Chekov retorts, looking slightly—could it be?— smug. Jim laughs and claps a hand to his mouth.
"Oh, snap," he says, laughing. "He got you there, Bones."
"Don't say 'oh, snap.' Who says that? Who are you, Vanilla Ice?" Bones says, and this time, Chekov is the one who's laughing. Jim scoffs and pretends to look offended.
"Bones, you know I'm the Fresh Prince of Inwood."
"You're the Fresh Dumbass of Moronville."
"Who is?" a new voice asks, and it's female. In sashays Uhura, her long ponytail swaying behind her as she walks. She puts on her chef's coat and looks between everyone with a smile. "Sorry I'm late. I had a doctor's appointment uptown."
"Lady doctor?" Jim asks, waggling his brows. Bones kicks him in the shin. "Ow, fuck! God, you're fucking grumpy today." Which he shouldn't be, after the lazy, delightfully sexy morning they shared just a few hours earlier. He supposes he has Scotty to blame for ruining Bones' good mood.
"Thank you, Len," she says, nodding to him. "If you must know, it was with a chiropractor. My back's been killing me for weeks."
"You know what's good for that? Sex." Jim grimaces when he gets another kick, this one harder. "Goddamn it, it's true!"
"Jim, why don't you shut your pie hole for a damn second and introduce the kid to Uhura?"
"Ugh, fine." Jim turns to Chekov and motions between them. "Uhura, this is Pavel Chekov. He's your new commis. Best in his class over at Starfleet, makes awesome food, likes long walks on the beach and has a surprising sassy streak. Checkers, Uhura is our saucier and resident lady badass."
"Very nice to meet you, Chekov," Uhura says, exchanging a friendly handshake with him. "Pike told me some very flattering things about you; I'm sure you'll fit in perfectly."
"Didn't say anything to me," Bones grumbles, leaning against the counter.
Chekov smiles brightly to the saucier and Jim imagines he must be glad to meet someone who isn't crazy, right off the bat. Uhura's unique personality tends to reveal itself over time. "Thank you," the kid says, nodding. "Is Uhura your given name?"
"Surname. It's what I go by, though."
"That reminds me," Jim says, smirking. "Uhura instituted a surname-only policy in the kitchen a long time ago. So unless someone has a nickname like you or Scotty, once we're on the go, it's last names only. Oh, except for Gaila; she hates her surname."
"You have a nickname, too." Chekov turns to Bones, looking at him curiously. "Shall I call you 'Bones,' as Chef Kirk does?"
"It's 'Chef McCoy' to you," Bones huffs, turning away and going off to do his work. Jim pats Chekov's back when he seems to deflate.
"Don't worry; only I call him that."
Chekov nods and lifts his brow. "And Mr. Spock? Does he have a surname?"
"Nah, just Mr. Spock or Spock," Jim says. "Like Cher."
He notes the way Uhura's cheeks seem to go rosy when he mentions their dashing yet aloof maitre d', even as she rolls her eyes at the joke. She excuses herself and leaves, likely to check on her fish order and start doing prep, and Jim keeps his eyes on her until she's out of sight. He whispers to Chekov, just in case she's still in earshot.
"I think Spock and Uhura have been knockin' boots for a while. But you didn't hear it from me."
"I see," Chekov whispers back, his eyes going slightly wide. "Ah, Chef Kirk?"
"I'm only Chef Kirk when we're working, Checkers. 'Jim' is good, otherwise."
"Jim." Chekov nods and smiles at him again. The kid is all smiles, it seems. "Where does it come from, the nickname? 'Bones.'"
Jim opens his mouth to reply, to spill forth the entire tale, and then thinks better of it, shrugging. "Ehh. Long story. We'd be here all night and technically, we've gotta start feeding people at some point." Chekov laughs at this, his curls bouncing.
"I suspect there are lots of long stories I have yet to hear."
"Ahh, you'll hear 'em all, one day," Jim says, smiling back easily at him. "If there's anything we're all good for besides food, it's telling kick-ass stories."
Chekov's smile seems to grow even wider and brighter, if it's possible, and Jim decides right there and then that he's taking a liking to this kid. Hell, anyone who can put Bones in his place with a single sentence is aces in his book. And it's even more impressive, knowing that English isn't his first language. Chekov is smart when it counts and savvy in the kitchen, he can tell, and even though he's bound to set something on fire tonight—first nights always end in accidental fire, Starfleet honor roll be damned—he thinks the kid's going to do all right.
Jim glances over to the far wall to make sure the fire extinguisher is in its place, and then makes a mental note to remind Spock of its location. "Let's go over tonight's menu," he says, wrapping his arm around the kid's shoulders and leading him out of the kitchen.
Previous: Chapter 3 || Next: Chapter 5
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,272
Pairings/Characters: Kirk/McCoy, Chekov, Uhura, Spock, Scotty
Disclaimer: Do not own or claim to own.
Warnings: AU set in New York City, 2009, with flashbacks to five years prior. Many references to the ST: XI canon.
Summary: All paths lead to the kitchen for the staff members of Enterprise, the newest critical darling on the New York restaurant scene. It's here that they come together as a team and find out just where they belong. Chapter 4: Kirk introduces Chekov to some of the characters in Enterprise's kitchen on the whiz kid's first day of work.
For a comprehensive list of series pairings, links to prior chapters and author notes, please visit the master post.
When Jim gets to the restaurant, he stops whistling the moment he sees the Russian kid sitting in the reception area, chatting with Spock. They seem to be in the midst of a fascinating conversation, Spock's favorite word to describe most everything, and he watches the kid's animated expression with an amused smirk. Spock notices him pretty quickly, though, and the conversation comes to an abrupt halt.
"Good afternoon, Jim," Spock says, bowing his head, as pleasant as ever.
"Hello, Chef Kirk!" Chekov rises to his feet with an eager smile and clutches his bag to his chest as if someone might steal it. Jim has to laugh at that, saluting him.
"At ease, Checkers." He checks his watch and is surprised to find he actually isn't late today: three o'clock, just as they'd arranged. "How long have you been here, anyway?"
"Mr. Chekov arrived at a quarter to two," Spock says, and Chekov shrugs sheepishly.
"I was worried I might be late."
"Well, no danger of that," Jim jokes.
He takes in Chekov's appearance, his carefully tucked button-down shirt contrasting with the haphazard ringlets falling down onto his forehead. He doesn't really look like he belongs in a kitchen just yet, possibly too young and naïve for the unflagging hustle and stress that can undo even the most promising chefs—but the kid seems to have what it takes. Hiring Chekov was a gut decision and that sort of choice has never failed Jim before. Plus, he learned from Pike long ago that it's hardly ever a bad idea to take a chance on a young, talented upstart—though Jim can't imagine Chekov being as much of a pain in the ass as he's always been. But he's a special case, really.
"Chef McCoy and Chef Scott are in the kitchen, handling prep," Spock says, interrupting his thoughts.
"Great, I'll bring Checkers on back to meet them." Jim cocks his head and smirks faintly at Spock. "And what about Chef Uhura?"
"I'm told she will arrive shortly," Spock replies, nodding slowly and obviously trying to sound as curt as possible.
"Uh huh. Okay, kid, let's go."
Jim beckons for Chekov to follow him and he does, after thanking Spock for a thought-provoking conversation. He's not sure he's ever met a person so weirdly polite in his entire life. Even Spock—previously thought to be the most courteous guy on god's green earth—isn't above a little sarcasm now and then. Maybe the kid's just nervous. He leads him into the dining area, motioning around them.
"Welcome to my playground," he says.
Chekov gapes as he takes in the place for the first time, though Jim is sure he's seen photos of the interior before, if he's ever opened up an issue of Food & Wine or Bon Appétit. The design is breathtakingly complex yet simple: silvers and grays and whites, like the sky above Central Park right before a snowstorm, with large, illuminated glass windows along the walls. The room is additionally lit by crisscrossing light fixtures, the junctures of which shine at varying levels so the entire ceiling almost appears flecked with stars. Each table is graced with jet black, high-backed chairs and a single, metallic light fixture hanging from the ceiling, like moons paused in orbit, aglow. Jim wishes he had something to do with it—the design was all Pike and whichever interior decorator he plucked from the Yellow Pages to help out—but it still feels like it's his own. Enterprise is like his girlfriend, in a way, and he's madly in love with every beautiful inch of her.
"It is...spectacular in person," Chekov whispers, looking at him. "Like...a sleek, otherworldly spacecraft."
Jim nods thoughtfully, impressed with the description. "You've got a way with words, kid. What're you, some kind of sci-fi geek?"
"I enjoy the occasional science-fiction film, da." Chekov gives him a crooked smile. "Most of them are too flashy and without substance, I find. And usually with a moronic, overcompensating lead character."
"Well, that's Hollywood for you, I guess. Come on; let's get you in with the gang."
When they enter the kitchen, Bones and Scotty are having an argument, naturally. Both men are waving their arms around and shouting obscene things at each other, so in Jim's estimation, it must be over something extremely important or not important at all; even without asking Spock to estimate the probability, he's 99.46 percent sure it's the latter. Chekov shrinks slightly beside him, obviously unused to the raging egos of the contemporary kitchen. He'll get over it soon, Jim thinks. He'll have no choice if he wants to work here.
Bones turns swiftly and regards Jim with a huff. "Jim! Tell this dingbat that I'm not intentionally trying to sabotage his precious black plum Napoleon, and that if he thinks I ordered the wrong amount of plums on purpose, he should go back to fucking Glasgow and stick it up his bagpipe."
"I'm from Aberdeen!" Scotty yells indignantly, throwing his chef's hat down on the counter. "And I cannae make the Napoleon with the puny amount of plums we did get," and he holds his index finger and thumb a fraction apart for emphasis. "There's no bloody way! And I've already prepared the pastry... How could the order have been so wildly wrong, I ask you?"
"Screws fall out all the time, evidently including the ones holding your brain together. The world is an imperfect place," Bones snarls. And, oh, Jim has to fight back a laugh at that one, because he knows Bones is pissed if he's quoting John Hughes flicks. Usually it takes an oven explosion or a sudden grease fire or Jim jumping on the bed early in the morning and yelling, "EARTHQUAKE!" to push him that far. Though the last time he jumped on the bed, Bones smacked him hard enough with a pillow to send him flying into the bedside table lamp, so he's since given up on that particular wake-up method.
"Gentlemen," Jim interrupts, holding up a hand to silence them. He then gestures to the young man cowering beside him. "This is our new commis, Pavel Andreievich Chekov." He tries not to grin when Pavel looks surprised at his name being said correctly. Well, Jim can fix that. "Checkers, for short."
"Ehm. Chekov is fine," he says, turning slightly pink.
"Yeah, yeah. He'll be training under Uhura and hopefully learning the entremetier station, in time. Checkers, this is Chef McCoy, my most capable sous chef, and Chef Scott, our head pastry chef."
Chekov smiles hopefully at the two men but they're obviously disgruntled and not in welcoming moods. They regard him silently for a moment and then Scotty points an accusing finger at him.
"Aye, I remember you. You owe me a meal," he says.
"Hold on a minute," Bones grunts, shaking his head. He squints at Chekov warily. "How old are you?"
"Nineteen, sir," Chekov replies, standing tall.
"Oh, great, Jim, he's nineteen. This isn't a goddamned nursery school, for christ's sake. When were you gonna tell me that you hired a toddler to work back here?"
"You just think I'm looking for some fresh meat to replace your midlife-crisis-having ass," Jim snorts, which earns him a rather filthy look from his sous chef. He puts an arm around Chekov and squeezes, feeling the kid tense up. "Listen. Checkers here is a winner. He made me the best damn cassoulet I've ever had, yesterday."
"And you didn't save any for me?" Scotty pouts. Bones just rolls his eyes, gesturing toward the pastry room.
"Jim, what about this plum debacle?"
"Oh, I dunno. Just put in some mascarpone or figs or something to make up for it. We've got an excess of both, so have at it."
Scotty's brows shoot up at the suggestion and he crosses his arms over his chest, tapping his chin as the gears turn. He starts to retreat into the pastry room, but points a suspicious finger at Bones as he goes. "I'm watching you, McCoy," he warns as he disappears.
"Goddamn kilt lover," Bones mutters. He turns and levels his gaze at Chekov, who seems to inch closer to Jim when he receives the death glare. "Well, if Jim says you're good, I believe him. Even if you did just graduate from kindergarten yesterday."
"That's the spirit, Bones," Jim chirps.
"I thought I was meant to be in nursery school, not kindergarten," Chekov retorts, looking slightly—could it be?— smug. Jim laughs and claps a hand to his mouth.
"Oh, snap," he says, laughing. "He got you there, Bones."
"Don't say 'oh, snap.' Who says that? Who are you, Vanilla Ice?" Bones says, and this time, Chekov is the one who's laughing. Jim scoffs and pretends to look offended.
"Bones, you know I'm the Fresh Prince of Inwood."
"You're the Fresh Dumbass of Moronville."
"Who is?" a new voice asks, and it's female. In sashays Uhura, her long ponytail swaying behind her as she walks. She puts on her chef's coat and looks between everyone with a smile. "Sorry I'm late. I had a doctor's appointment uptown."
"Lady doctor?" Jim asks, waggling his brows. Bones kicks him in the shin. "Ow, fuck! God, you're fucking grumpy today." Which he shouldn't be, after the lazy, delightfully sexy morning they shared just a few hours earlier. He supposes he has Scotty to blame for ruining Bones' good mood.
"Thank you, Len," she says, nodding to him. "If you must know, it was with a chiropractor. My back's been killing me for weeks."
"You know what's good for that? Sex." Jim grimaces when he gets another kick, this one harder. "Goddamn it, it's true!"
"Jim, why don't you shut your pie hole for a damn second and introduce the kid to Uhura?"
"Ugh, fine." Jim turns to Chekov and motions between them. "Uhura, this is Pavel Chekov. He's your new commis. Best in his class over at Starfleet, makes awesome food, likes long walks on the beach and has a surprising sassy streak. Checkers, Uhura is our saucier and resident lady badass."
"Very nice to meet you, Chekov," Uhura says, exchanging a friendly handshake with him. "Pike told me some very flattering things about you; I'm sure you'll fit in perfectly."
"Didn't say anything to me," Bones grumbles, leaning against the counter.
Chekov smiles brightly to the saucier and Jim imagines he must be glad to meet someone who isn't crazy, right off the bat. Uhura's unique personality tends to reveal itself over time. "Thank you," the kid says, nodding. "Is Uhura your given name?"
"Surname. It's what I go by, though."
"That reminds me," Jim says, smirking. "Uhura instituted a surname-only policy in the kitchen a long time ago. So unless someone has a nickname like you or Scotty, once we're on the go, it's last names only. Oh, except for Gaila; she hates her surname."
"You have a nickname, too." Chekov turns to Bones, looking at him curiously. "Shall I call you 'Bones,' as Chef Kirk does?"
"It's 'Chef McCoy' to you," Bones huffs, turning away and going off to do his work. Jim pats Chekov's back when he seems to deflate.
"Don't worry; only I call him that."
Chekov nods and lifts his brow. "And Mr. Spock? Does he have a surname?"
"Nah, just Mr. Spock or Spock," Jim says. "Like Cher."
He notes the way Uhura's cheeks seem to go rosy when he mentions their dashing yet aloof maitre d', even as she rolls her eyes at the joke. She excuses herself and leaves, likely to check on her fish order and start doing prep, and Jim keeps his eyes on her until she's out of sight. He whispers to Chekov, just in case she's still in earshot.
"I think Spock and Uhura have been knockin' boots for a while. But you didn't hear it from me."
"I see," Chekov whispers back, his eyes going slightly wide. "Ah, Chef Kirk?"
"I'm only Chef Kirk when we're working, Checkers. 'Jim' is good, otherwise."
"Jim." Chekov nods and smiles at him again. The kid is all smiles, it seems. "Where does it come from, the nickname? 'Bones.'"
Jim opens his mouth to reply, to spill forth the entire tale, and then thinks better of it, shrugging. "Ehh. Long story. We'd be here all night and technically, we've gotta start feeding people at some point." Chekov laughs at this, his curls bouncing.
"I suspect there are lots of long stories I have yet to hear."
"Ahh, you'll hear 'em all, one day," Jim says, smiling back easily at him. "If there's anything we're all good for besides food, it's telling kick-ass stories."
Chekov's smile seems to grow even wider and brighter, if it's possible, and Jim decides right there and then that he's taking a liking to this kid. Hell, anyone who can put Bones in his place with a single sentence is aces in his book. And it's even more impressive, knowing that English isn't his first language. Chekov is smart when it counts and savvy in the kitchen, he can tell, and even though he's bound to set something on fire tonight—first nights always end in accidental fire, Starfleet honor roll be damned—he thinks the kid's going to do all right.
Jim glances over to the far wall to make sure the fire extinguisher is in its place, and then makes a mental note to remind Spock of its location. "Let's go over tonight's menu," he says, wrapping his arm around the kid's shoulders and leading him out of the kitchen.
Previous: Chapter 3 || Next: Chapter 5
