|
|
| |
Title: Hunger Makes a Great Chef Author’s Note: Written as a part of the Alias Unconventional Pairing ficathon for fleshtones. She asked for Noah/Francie, not necessarily romance or extreme AU, no smut. |
|
| |
Stirring the risotto, Francie rolled her eyes and cleared her throat, ready to draw his overblown rhetoric to a halt. “Hey, Noah, speaking of recycling, wanna take ours out?” “Will do,” he replied before Sydney had the chance to intercede. Meeting the new boyfriend was always hard, but Francie had expected someone a little more their speed—cute, scruffy, maybe with an earring. Sydney was just starting her sophomore year, and this Noah was obviously suffering from a mid-life crisis. She folded the Parmesan into the risotto. Maybe he was like Michael Douglas. Nothing was worse than dating an aging sex addict. Sydney never had said much when it came to men—her father had always ignored her, so she shot down them like pop-up targets at a firing range. Francie had seen myriads bite the dust, and that didn’t even cover the Wills of the world who watched from the sidelines. Noah entered the kitchen and tied off the recycling while Sydney trailed two steps behind, her eager dimples ample proof of her infatuation. She’d spent so many years starved for love that Francie barely recognized her. Sydney’s beeper went off. Startled, Francie jumped, then looked over her shoulder at the happy couple. An urgent look crossed Noah’s face. “One night of peace would be too much to ask from Arvin Sloane.” Sydney shushed him, and then offered Francie a familiar shrug. “The bank,” she explained. She then turned to Noah, looking for something—approval, maybe—but he brushed her off and left, recycling in hand. The screen door slammed. Francie flashed a quick smile, continuing to stir the risotto at an even pace, small figure eights. “It’s okay, Syd.” She’d repeated that line often since her friend had started this job and, really, it was okay. She’d never lived a charmed life, what with a dead mother and a father who pretended she didn’t exist. But for the few friends she’d made, work was all she had. The screen door opened again, and Noah stepped inside. He gave Sydney’s shoulder a squeeze, a peace offering of sorts. “Francie and I will eat the risotto,” he said, “maybe even save you a plate.” * * * The kitchen was the size of a postage stamp, and there was no dining room, just a coffee table positioned squarely in front of the television. Pillows that skirted the line between dusty and dingy served as chairs. She set their plates on the table while he opened a bottle of wine. Taking her seat, she watched him fill the glasses, curious as to how they’d spend the evening. She’d met him once before at a party, but between friends distracting her and the bank calling them away, she’d never spoken with him face-to-face. “So you work for the bank.” “Same department, but I’m slightly senior.” “How senior is that?” The words had rolled off her tongue before she could capture them, and struck like lightning. “Sydney’s a big girl.” He gulped down some wine. “She can take care of herself.” A shiver ran up her spine. Jack Bristow had uttered those same words to Francie’s mother at their high school graduation. All of the other parents were wringing their hands between bouts of pride, anxious about sending their children off into the world, but not Sydney’s father. There was no discernible pride in her accomplishments, just the cold expectation that she’d continue to perform as she always had, like a reliable stock. Francie lined up a clever retort, picked up her fork, and smirked. Still, if she crossed the line between concerned and hostile, there was no going back. This time she hesitated just a little too long. His eyes lingered on her hand, on the fork that she held in a tense grip. “Look, if you’ve got something to say—” “You know what?” She laid the fork down, then stood up and headed for the kitchen. “I forgot the bread.” * * * She pulled out her chef’s knife—her only knife—and after five minutes of whetting the blade, even she acknowledged that there was such a thing as too sharp. Before meeting Sydney, there were many things that she’d taken for granted—afternoons shopping with her mother, dinners arguing with her father, holidays filled with platters of food and young cousins running through the house. Sydney only had a box of photos to tease her imagination and a shelf of books to stave off her loneliness. Slicing the loaf, Francie had to concede that Sydney needed something in her life. She arranged the chunks of white bread in a cobalt-colored bowl. Bowl in hand, she headed for the living room. There were worse things than Sydney dating a somewhat younger and emotionally available version of her father and it was certainly better than trying to change Jack Bristow into the parent he could never be. If Sydney had found what she’d been missing in her workplace mentor, at least she’d found it somewhere. * * * She returned to the table to find that Noah hadn’t touched his food. “Want me to taste it for you?” “You don’t have a reason to poison me, not yet,” he said, cracking a smile. “I was waiting for you. Polite society and all.” She placed the bowl of bread between them and sat down. Picking up her fork, she picked at a tiny patch of rice, looking for the most tactful way to voice her concerns. “The thing about Sydney,” she said, the words catching in her throat. “She’s easily influenced by small gestures.” “If you think that a romantic dinner or a dozen roses will disarm her, you don’t know her at all.” He shoveled a forkful into his mouth. “I’m not talking about the roses,” she replied as she lifted her fork, the fragrant fennel rising with the steam of the dish. “It’s the notes that you send with them or the phone call at the end of the day.” “Noted,” he said. “In the future, whenever I’m overwhelmed by the impulse to say or do something loving, I’ll check it at the door and treat her with the same indifference that her father does.” She took a deep breath, trying to let the tone of his remark roll over her like a wave. He took a bite and nodded appreciatively. He pinched his thumb to his index finger and gave her the okay. “Excellent, perfectly cooked.” She met his gaze. “It’s all a matter of technique. You have to stir it constantly,” she said, still smarting from his comment. “It helps if you have a good pan.” He took another bite and washed it down with a sip of wine. “So you’ve known her for one year or two?” For longer than you have, she thought, but then she reconsidered. She’d practically labeled him a pedophile for his interest in his nineteen-year-old co-worker. She wasn’t convinced that she was wrong—not by a long shot—but if Syd liked him, she had to give him a chance. “We met in high school. You?” He grinned. “I’ve known her for about nine months.” * * * She put the last pan in the drainer. He was a little behind on drying, but he also had no idea where anything went. She pursed her lips, uncertain whether to say anything. “Earlier, when I lectured you on Sydney, I didn’t mean—” “Yeah, you did,” he said, giving a vigorous nod. “You’re her friend and you’re worried about her. If I were in your position, I’d have done the same thing.” He reached for the pan, dried it off, and then looked quizzically at her. She pointed to the lower cabinet. “I just don’t want see her disappointed.” She held on to her words for a beat. “So don’t let her down.” They both turned their heads at the sound of the deadbolt turning, followed by the clank of keys. “We’re in here,” Francie yelled. Sydney came into the kitchen. “So how was dinner?” “Delicious,” Noah replied, sliding his arm around her waist. “Fun with the clients?” Sydney’s eyes shifted to her roommate —she was interested in the tenor of their interaction, not flavor of the risotto—but Francie dodged her glance. Silverware still needed to be dried and put away. “Another trip,” Sydney said, letting out a sigh. “Sometimes it’s like a never-ending cycle.” Whatever doubts Francie harbored, she hated to disappoint her best friend. Her mom had always said that, with a father like Jack Bristow, Sydney needed an extra serving of love. “Syd, you missed a great dinner,” Noah said in a tone that verged on tender. Francie’s concerns softened like a tab of butter. She turned around and gave Sydney a smile. “Here, let me get you some leftovers,” she said as she opened the fridge. “Hunger makes a great chef.”
|
|
| |
Send Feedback!
|
|