Original -- Something Fishy
Title: Something Fishy
Rating: G
Word Count: 746
Warnings: minor ickiness
Prompt: Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart. - Thomas Fuller at pulped_fictions
Summary: Edward Blevins has many talents. Operating a microwave doesn't happen to be one of them. (For the record, he didn't have anything to do with the fish in the fridge.)
Author's Note: You all know the drill. XD
SOMETHING FISHY
Edward was staring into the microwave and wincing. Vincent, peering over his shoulder, was significantly less homicidally angry than he’d expected-equable, even.
“I didn’t realize it was possible to make day-old spaghetti explode,” he said thoughtfully.
Edward winced a little more. “I’m a man of many talents.”
Vincent gestured to the marinara abomination plastered all over the microwave’s walls. “One of which is presumably cleaning up unspeakable messes, given your profession. I’ll see if I can find you something else to eat.”
That was remarkably generous. Either Vincent had vaguely adopted Edward like some kind of wayward nephew fresh out of full-moon rehab, or somebody had dissolved a couple of happy pills in the vampire’s breakfast blood.
Vincent opened the fridge and paused.
“Why is there a recently-caught tilapia in my refrigerator?” he asked.
“You didn’t put it there?” Edward said, glancing in. He could feel Vincent’s glare heating up on the back of his neck and hastily added, “My guess is either that Maion wanted to keep it as a pet, or that Belial’s trying to make the kitchen smell like dead fish.”
“I’m not sure which of those is more horrifyingly plausible,” Vincent said. “Fortunately, it doesn’t make a difference, because I just found your dinner.”
Edward stared. “I’ll admit my standards kind of drop when I’m a wolf, and I’ve jumped for roadkill, um, three or four times, but-that still has scales.”
Vincent shrugged, settling the casserole dish in which the fish lay, glassy-eyed and gape-mouthed, on the countertop. He then selected a knife from the block and, in a series of swift, smooth movements that spoke either of vampiric grace or of unquantifiable human practice, scaled the thing, gutted it, and sliced it into perfect fillets.
“My father was a fisherman,” he said. “Fish preparation hasn’t changed all that much since 1770.” He slung all of the excess neatly into the compost bin and then raised an eyebrow. “Can you cook this, or were you planning to Change and eat it raw?”
“Uh,” Edward said, wishing very hard that he hadn’t let the roadkill comment slip. It had only been four times. Maybe five. And he’d been hungry. And it was free. And…
Vincent was already selecting a frying pan. “My father and I actually got along very well for the first few years,” he said. “Get me the olive oil. The fishing wasn’t bad in those days-it was still early in the Industrial Revolution, after all; the worst of the pollution was yet to come. It wasn’t profitable, by any means, but we struggled along just below the poverty line, and we didn’t really know anything else. It was when I got to be about your age-” Edward’s head was going to explode. “-that things went sour with my parents, because it was then that I realized how much was out there that I couldn’t have.”
Shortly, the fish was sizzling in the pan, and Edward was trying not to breathe for fear of reminding Vincent that he had an audience.
“Certainly Paris had its luxuries, but that’s the thing about a metropolis-it’s just a different spectrum, and there’s filth enough to balance out the wealth. I fell rather squarely into the category of filth.”
Edward didn’t think he had the intellectual capacity to imagine that.
“I never quite stooped to snacking on roadkill, but I believe I drank gutter water once.”
Vincent shifted back so that no oil would splash on his dark green silk tie. The walls of the room were going to look like the microwave in a minute, because Edward’s skull was going to give way. “You…?”
Vincent gave him a thin smile. “It’s not as illogical as it seems. Consider how much some human beings can change within a lifetime-and then triple the average lifespan, and extrapolate. I’ve had more than my fair share of time to figure out who and where and what I prefer to b-”
The front door slammed open, and a shout reached them from the entryway. “What did that awful demon do to Mister Fishy?”
Vincent blinked.
Edward gulped. “Have you had enough time to figure out what we’re going to tell him?”
“We’re not going to tell him anything,” Vincent said, “because you’re going to wolf this down before he sees it.”
That, Edward decided, was a cheap shot-but it was hard to argue with Vincent’s cooking all the same.
Rating: G
Word Count: 746
Warnings: minor ickiness
Prompt: Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart. - Thomas Fuller at pulped_fictions
Summary: Edward Blevins has many talents. Operating a microwave doesn't happen to be one of them. (For the record, he didn't have anything to do with the fish in the fridge.)
Author's Note: You all know the drill. XD
SOMETHING FISHY
Edward was staring into the microwave and wincing. Vincent, peering over his shoulder, was significantly less homicidally angry than he’d expected-equable, even.
“I didn’t realize it was possible to make day-old spaghetti explode,” he said thoughtfully.
Edward winced a little more. “I’m a man of many talents.”
Vincent gestured to the marinara abomination plastered all over the microwave’s walls. “One of which is presumably cleaning up unspeakable messes, given your profession. I’ll see if I can find you something else to eat.”
That was remarkably generous. Either Vincent had vaguely adopted Edward like some kind of wayward nephew fresh out of full-moon rehab, or somebody had dissolved a couple of happy pills in the vampire’s breakfast blood.
Vincent opened the fridge and paused.
“Why is there a recently-caught tilapia in my refrigerator?” he asked.
“You didn’t put it there?” Edward said, glancing in. He could feel Vincent’s glare heating up on the back of his neck and hastily added, “My guess is either that Maion wanted to keep it as a pet, or that Belial’s trying to make the kitchen smell like dead fish.”
“I’m not sure which of those is more horrifyingly plausible,” Vincent said. “Fortunately, it doesn’t make a difference, because I just found your dinner.”
Edward stared. “I’ll admit my standards kind of drop when I’m a wolf, and I’ve jumped for roadkill, um, three or four times, but-that still has scales.”
Vincent shrugged, settling the casserole dish in which the fish lay, glassy-eyed and gape-mouthed, on the countertop. He then selected a knife from the block and, in a series of swift, smooth movements that spoke either of vampiric grace or of unquantifiable human practice, scaled the thing, gutted it, and sliced it into perfect fillets.
“My father was a fisherman,” he said. “Fish preparation hasn’t changed all that much since 1770.” He slung all of the excess neatly into the compost bin and then raised an eyebrow. “Can you cook this, or were you planning to Change and eat it raw?”
“Uh,” Edward said, wishing very hard that he hadn’t let the roadkill comment slip. It had only been four times. Maybe five. And he’d been hungry. And it was free. And…
Vincent was already selecting a frying pan. “My father and I actually got along very well for the first few years,” he said. “Get me the olive oil. The fishing wasn’t bad in those days-it was still early in the Industrial Revolution, after all; the worst of the pollution was yet to come. It wasn’t profitable, by any means, but we struggled along just below the poverty line, and we didn’t really know anything else. It was when I got to be about your age-” Edward’s head was going to explode. “-that things went sour with my parents, because it was then that I realized how much was out there that I couldn’t have.”
Shortly, the fish was sizzling in the pan, and Edward was trying not to breathe for fear of reminding Vincent that he had an audience.
“Certainly Paris had its luxuries, but that’s the thing about a metropolis-it’s just a different spectrum, and there’s filth enough to balance out the wealth. I fell rather squarely into the category of filth.”
Edward didn’t think he had the intellectual capacity to imagine that.
“I never quite stooped to snacking on roadkill, but I believe I drank gutter water once.”
Vincent shifted back so that no oil would splash on his dark green silk tie. The walls of the room were going to look like the microwave in a minute, because Edward’s skull was going to give way. “You…?”
Vincent gave him a thin smile. “It’s not as illogical as it seems. Consider how much some human beings can change within a lifetime-and then triple the average lifespan, and extrapolate. I’ve had more than my fair share of time to figure out who and where and what I prefer to b-”
The front door slammed open, and a shout reached them from the entryway. “What did that awful demon do to Mister Fishy?”
Vincent blinked.
Edward gulped. “Have you had enough time to figure out what we’re going to tell him?”
“We’re not going to tell him anything,” Vincent said, “because you’re going to wolf this down before he sees it.”
That, Edward decided, was a cheap shot-but it was hard to argue with Vincent’s cooking all the same.