Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ The Sous-Chef ❯ Chapter 12

A/N: Sorry it's taken me so long to update. Health problems suck a lot. I got a lot of really great feedback for the last chapter - was it because I whined about the lack of feedback for ch. 10? :D At any rate, I decided I should give individual responses this time, so those are at the end of the chapter. This chapter's not as much fun as the last one, hopefully you won't find it boring. I know there's probably too many lists of food, but, oh well. Did it anyway. :)

 

Huge thank you to my new (first) beta, Sky Rat.

 

 

Chapter 12

 

When Farfarello came back into the living room, he went straight for the violin, picked it up and came to stand in front of Aya. “It's a good job ye stayed, since I told ye that if dinner turned out well enough I'd play Capricho number 24.”

 

Aya, who had been gazing sedately out of the sliding glass doors to the balcony, jerked to attention instantly. Paganini's Caprice No.24, short though it was, was one of his favorite compositions in the history of music. When he'd learned, during an extended break from the kitchen, that Farfarello not only loved Paganini as well but could actually play his extremely difficult music, and beautifully at that, Aya had practically begged him for No. 24.

 

“Only if supper's not fucked up,” Farf had firmly declared.

 

“So I didn't fuck up?” Aya asked hopefully, worried that he was being teased, and that Farf was going to hold out because of his mistake with the sauce.

 

In response, Farfarello simply stuck the violin under his chin, raised his bow and began to play.

 

Couched in the comfortable leather armchair, surrounded by all the warm, glowing wood furnishings, with the violinist right before his eyes, the piece took on new colors, new dimensions in Aya's mind. Farfarello played it with both passion and precision, which was the trick of Paganini - chaos revealing order, order creating chaos, and as the catalyst, the dementia of the obsessive love of sound. Watching Farf's arms and hands as he played, hearing and seeing the artistry at the same time, plucked strings in his soul that hadn't been touched before. Farf's amazing snowy hair, which he had let out of its pony tail, tossed and swung as his bow raced over the strings. His eye glowed like the fires of Hell were nesting behind it. He was mad and masterful, and Aya couldn't take his eyes off of him.

 

Aya's heart soared as it hadn't in years; he got chills from the quick staccatos and the fluid arpeggios, and grew breathless at the sudden high notes that bloomed into flowers of haunting melody. It was so beautiful, aching and bittersweet, he felt like his heart would explode and his ribcage shatter like glass. When the playing was frenzied, he was on the edge of his seat, and when it was slow he held on tight to his armrests to keep from floating away. Tears stung his eyes. He could hardly bear the beauty.

 

Nevertheless, it was over far too soon. Farf took bow and violin in one hand and made a deep bow.

 

Aya couldn't applaud; clapping seemed too trite a response. Plus, he felt rather paralyzed by the experience. So he remained like he was, gripping the leather armrests tightly, mouth open, trying to think of something adequate to say. Mind still a-swirl with music, he could think of nothing.

 

Farf watched him for a moment, then walked over to where he had laid his violin case, wiped the strings, loosened the bow and put the instrument away. Aya managed to pry his hands off of his chair in the meantime, wiping wetness from his face, embarrassed. He cried far too easily these days.

 

After storing the case in a tall cabinet, Farfarello went to a smaller cabinet with stained glass panels set in the doors, pulling out a black bottle with a large XO on the front. He poured a measure into two slim crystal tumblers, and brought one to Aya.

 

“It's forty-year old Cognac, so don't ye dare knock it back like a shot,” Farf told him, holding out the glass.

 

“Thank you,” Aya managed to say, taking the tumbler with a hand that he was proud to see was not shaking. He took a sip as Farf sat on the couch across from him.

 

The flavor was amazing - mellow and smooth, sweet, toasty, smoky, touched with oak and vanilla and other flavors he couldn't put a name to. “Why are you giving this to me? This is really special,” he asked, feeling as though his senses were going to give out from being so overloaded with the fine and the beautiful.

 

Farfarello shrugged. “Yes, it's very special. I know ye'd appreciate it the way it should be appreciated. I haven't had any guests that would do that before, so I'm taking advantage of the opportunity to drink a bit of it with someone else.”

 

“I'm not - “

 

“Shut up and enjoy it, Aya.”

 

Not wanting to mar Farfarello's own experience of drinking the fine brandy, Aya did as he demanded.

 

“I've got a question for ye,” Farf announced after a little while, taking in the last of his Cognac and rolling it around in his mouth.

 

“What's that?” Aya mumbled, not liking the way that sounded.

 

“Do I need to be sending ye to a psychiatrist for medication for yer depression?” His eye burned deep into Aya's.

 

“I worked construction in Japan and never missed a day even after my sister left,” Aya responded, a bit defensively. He didn't like psychiatrists. “I can give you the name, number and email address of my foreman if you want to contact him. I can assure you I will show up for my shifts on time and do the work to the best of my ability, no matter what I'm feeling. I will also carry out my missions as specified.”

 

“That's not an answer to my question,” Farfarello said softly.

 

“But…isn't that why you asked?”

 

“Partially.” Farfarello walked over to the hearth and began stacking kindling all over the two large, partially charred logs that rested in the fireplace. “I have no doubt whatsoever,” he assured as he worked, “that ye will carry out yer duties with yer usual aplomb. That much is apparent from the way ye've successfully carried out the tasks I've set for ye so far - despite yer attack of nerves this morning. However, if I invest a lot of time and money on ye, and then ye decide one day that ye can't stand life anymore and commit seppuku, that leaves me in a bad spot, ye see.” He grabbed a long match from an unadorned pewter goblet on the mantel, struck it with his thumbnail and started the fire. “Ye'll have a life outside of your work, whether ye want to acknowledge it or not. Ye'll be working sixteen hour days, at least for the next few weeks - more when ye have a…'mission,'” Farf smirked in amusement, “or when ye go to the fish market with me, and so on. So ye won't have much time to sit and brood, and perhaps the work will help lift ye out of the fugue ye've been in. However, it won't change everything that's already happened to ye. It won't eliminate the reasons ye became so withdrawn in the first place. That realization, even if ye know it intellectually, is going to catch up with ye sooner or later. The question is, will ye be able to deal with it when it does?”

 

Aya felt like someone had dropped a ball of ice in his guts. “I will handle it,” he said coldly, narrowing his eyes.

 

Farfarello held up his hands. “No need to go all Abyssinian on me. I had to ask.”

 

Feeling slightly guilty, Aya made himself relax.

 

The Irishman came and sat across from him again. “Schuldig's probably better than medication, for most people, like Yohji,” he mused. “Or would be if he was less sadistic. A lot less sadistic,” he amended with a lopsided grin. “No side effects, unless he provides them himself, and no addiction - no chemical addiction, anyway. He's fond of ye, I know, so he wouldn't screw yer head up, but unfortunately he can't be relied on in yer case.”

 

Feeling somewhat irked that Farfarello was still talking about this after he'd said he'd handle it, nevertheless that statement made him curious. “What do you mean?”

 

“Ye fight him. You're getting better at it, too, he says. He can barely glance into yer mind for more than a second or two before he has to withdraw or get sick. Granted, a second's more than enough time to give Schuldig quite a lot of information, but not enough time for him to actually do anything.”

 

“But…he talks to me all the time, telepathically,” Aya said, confused.

 

“Telepathic communication doesn't necessarily mean Schuldig has to go into yer mind. He prefers it if he can, because he's nosy, but he doesn't have to. He can receive yer thoughts just fine if you project them to him. To make it easier he's set up a link with ye through Yohji, which just means that he acts like a…satellite, I guess?” Farf frowned. “That's not exactly accurate, but you get the idea. He can't hear your conversation if Schu doesn't want him to, though.”

 

Aya sat in contemplation for a minute. “I still don't understand why he says I'm fighting him. I haven't fought him these past weeks.”

 

Farfarello's lips stretched in a wide grin. “It's because yer subconscious is just as obstinate and stubborn as your conscious mind.”

 

Aya raised an eyebrow.

 

His grin fading, Farf's eagle eye regarded Aya speculatively. “That you're not a Talent, and yet are strong enough to fight the strongest Telepath alive, is very perplexing to Schuldig. But that's because he's arrogant, as he was raised to be, and hasn't been close to many normals. Schuldig's Talent has always fascinated me more than any other - except my own, naturally - so I've read extensively on the subject. Apparently it's quite common for normals to build a subconscious resistance to repeated telepathic invasion. Not surprisingly, the people who resist are generally introverted, and the people who don't are extroverts.”

 

Aya found himself cracking a smile. “So am I the strongest introvert alive?”

 

Farf smiled briefly, but sounded serious when he said, “Maybe. It would be impossible to measure, but according to everything I've read, a very strong telepath can blow right through a normal's resistance. So maybe ye are.”

 

“I'm an anti-telepath,” Aya murmured, intrigued.

 

This time Farf's smile lasted longer. “Maybe.”

 

“And what are you, Farfarello?”

 

Farf shook his head and stared at his hands. “Story for another day.”

 

There was companionable silence for a few minutes, while they watched the fire.

 

“Farfarello…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Thank you for No. 24.”

 

“You're most welcome.” He picked up his tumbler and motioned to Aya's with it. “Another shot?”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

******

 

Aya awoke in the middle of the night with what he had come to think of as a Botan hard-on. Meaning it was fiercely intense, and made him feel like his cock had grown about three inches longer than usual. Aya groaned softly. There was no waiting for one of these to go away. He felt weird about jerking off in Farfarello's living room, but there was no help for it. He moved his blanket so he wouldn't soil it.

 

As he always did, he thought about Botan as he reached into his boxer-briefs for his hard-on, biting his forearm to keep from moaning too loudly. Botan's silly paper airplanes; Botan's playfully dry sense of humor, which had charmed Aya in spite of himself; Botan's musky-sweet olive skin, that Aya couldn't get enough of tasting; Botan's scar, that he traced with his tongue; Botan's arms wrapping around his torso from behind, engulfing him in slightly spicy masculine warmth; Botan's large hand and clever fingers teasing his thigh, his crotch, his nipples while he drove, trying hard not to get into an accident; pulling over to the side of the road one afternoon in the driving rain, frantically undressing and sinking onto Botan's thick cock in the front seat, because he just hadn't been able to stand the anticipation anymore…

 

His hand moved fast and hard on his cock as he gasped around his forearm.

 

Botan's mouth around his cock, sucking him hard, tongue in his ass, making him scream…

 

Aya came with furious intensity, yelling into his arm and biting deep, semen striping all the way up to his chin. He released his arm, gasping, trembling all over.

 

He hadn't thought about Botan in a long time. Though he'd only spent three days and two nights (two nights of hard, grinding, pounding, fantastic sex) with the man, he'd fallen quite hard for him. Not that he ever let Botan know that. It wasn't only the sex - though that was definitely part of it - it was Botan's genuine desire to help him find his sister, and his belief that he'd one day find his daughter Azumi - which mirrored Aya's own belief that his sister would one day awaken - the way Botan kept making those ridiculous paper airplanes, the way he made Aya laugh in rare unguarded moments; the way he would take Aya in his broad embrace and just hold him, making Aya feel secure in a way he hadn't since his parents had died.

 

And then it had ended so stupidly and melodramatically, with Botan jumping in front of bullets that Aya could have easily avoided, and then getting set on fire.

 

Aya sighed, grabbing some tissues from a small box on the coffee table and cleaning himself off.

 

He knew his being with Botan had hurt Yohji. When, in their relationship, had he not hurt Yohji? Even though he had really loved the man, crop tops notwithstanding, he'd been unable to let himself express it, what with his preoccupation - okay, obsession - with his sister. Which had come to nothing since she'd taken off for parts unknown without telling him. After that, he hadn't been able to love Ken properly, which would have included not allowing Ken to hurt him. Now Ken was institutionalized, and Yohji had Schuldig. Aya wondered exactly what his place here was supposed to be, if he even really had a place here.

 

Aya shook his head, annoyed with himself. He couldn't allow his thoughts to drift like that; they always got maudlin after a while. He probably had to get up pretty soon, and he was still really tired. He cleared his mind with an effort and drifted back to sleep.

 

******

 

Aya parked his car next to Farfarello's pick-up, and pulled at his new white cook's jacket and checked pants. Farfarello had assured him they'd get less scratchy after they'd been washed a few times, and Aya hoped he was right, because he didn't think he could stand to wear them every day if they were going to feel like this. He vowed to wash them at least three times when he got home.

 

He got out of the car and joined Farfarello, smiling once again at his attire - Farfarello wore the same uniform, except with the sleeves torn off. It reminded Aya of his old blue vest. It hadn't registered with him the one time he'd seen Farf in the restaurant before. It felt so strange to walk next to him, both of them with long braids swinging behind them. He wondered what they would look like to the average passer-by. Not that there were any passers-by back here.

 

Aya followed his new boss through the back entrance to Thibodeaux with his mission face on to hide his nervousness. As Farf showed him around to the walk-ins and dry-goods storage, he raised an eyebrow at it, but said nothing.

 

“And this,” Farf said, leading him through a door next to a small window with a blood-stained counter, “is the boucherie. Not a lot of restaurants have their own butcher. It's quite convenient,” he boasted, taking Aya past skinned and headless calves, pigs, rabbits, poultry…

 

“We also keep the game back here. The game all comes from unofficial purveyors; it's not commercially available. Well, some of it is, but I don't want to buy it commercially. It's not as fresh. This is one of the things that separates us from ordinary Cajun-Creole restaurants.” He opened a box filled with small, very familiar birds, still feathered with varicolored plumage. “Pigeons,” he said. “People think of them as flying rats, but they're actually quite good. These are raised out of the city, though. Can't really go around shooting pigeons in Jackson Square, though ye'd probably just get applause if ye did.”

 

Aya nodded. Tokyo had its share of pigeon problems; people had even grumbled about them in Kyoto. Some of them were very pretty, but Aya wasn't particularly fond of them. The thought of eating one didn't exactly thrill him. “You sell many of these?” he asked dubiously.

 

Farf grinned. “Can't keep `em in stock,” he assured Aya. “It's almost like revenge for people, I think. Ye know, eating the bird that pooped on yer head or yer favorite sweater, or whatever the fuck people get so pissed over.”

 

Aya nodded. “Is that the only game?”

 

“Not at all. We try to some of whatever's in season on hand. Right now it's these,” he nodded at the pigeons.

 

“Those have a season?”

 

“Believe it or not. Chickens also, but naturally we have to sell those year-round.” Farf rolled his eye. “Turkeys too, but since wild turkey is in season, we have those also. A turducken with wild turkey is actually much better than with farm-raised, despite the slight gaminess.”

 

“What did I use yesterday?” Aya asked.

 

“Farm-raised, since that's what we use here. Though wild turkey is another big seller, we have to keep the turducken consistent, and turkey's not always in season. There's a couple of guys on staff whose only job is to make turducken, since it's so labor-intensive and we sell so many.”

 

“I can't imagine how,” Aya remarked. “They're enormous.”

 

“We ship `em out to people, and corporations and so forth, for banquets and parties and things.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Anyway, also in season now are capons - castrated roosters, but don't tell anyone,” Farf smirked, “geese and domestic ducks. I know there wasn't much about the preparation of game in yer reading, so I'll have to teach ye about it. But not today.”

 

Farf led him out of the butcher's. “Now I'm going to take ye to the place that really sets us apart,” he announced, sounding proud. Aya smiled. It was obvious that Farfarello enjoyed this place a lot. Aya's mission face had long since relaxed.

 

Aya followed Farf out the back door, toward a large, ramshackle wooden building with a tin roof in a small, littered vacant lot, about thirty yards away. Aya had noticed it coming in, but hadn't thought anything of it.

 

“This,” Farfarello announced, throwing open the door, “is the domain of Jean-Louis Gaston, sausage maker extraordinaire. But call him the charcutier if ye don't want to get on his bad side.” Aya stepped inside, and was almost bowled over by the rich, spicy, meaty aroma. Four enormous refrigerators dominated three walls of the smallish room, and along the fourth was a long, stained counter which sectioned off what looked like a makeshift kitchen.

 

“JL and his apprentice make all our sausage, as well as selling direct to specialty shops and butchers, markets and so forth. In these fridges are our fresh sausages - saucisses -- boudin noir, boudin blanc, saucisse de Toulouse, chaurice, and so forth.”

 

Aya followed him through a door too a much larger, smoky room, filled with ropes and links of sausage hanging from the ceiling, many of which looked like they were wearing socks. “In here, in case all the smoke didn't clue ye in, are the smoked sausages -- andouille, tasso - not technically a sausage, but this is where you get it - JL's famous smoked seafood sausage, and a lot of other experiments of his. Actually, his experiments are everywhere,” Farfarello said, poking a strange-looking green string of links hanging near him. “Upstairs are the saucissons - the dried, non-smoked sausages -- Creole hot sausage, sabodet, garlic sausage, veal sausage, saucisson de Lyon, etc. We don't have to go up there right now, I just want ye to know where ye go to get the stuff, if JL's not around.”

 

Aya remembered most of those from his reading, but his head was still spinning. “Two guys make all of this?” he wondered. It seemed impossible to him.

 

Farfarello shrugged. “The cookies or the dishwashers help out from time to time, but mainly just the two of them, yeah. JL is quite devoted. We've debated whether he really ever sleeps many times.”

 

“Where is he now?”

 

“Buying meat, most likely. The boucherie is only for the kitchen. JL's basically got to get all his own supplies. Eric should be here, though - “

 

As if summoned, a door opened, and a handsome youth with coffee-colored skin and wiry hair burst into the room. Aya could see a narrow stairway behind him.

 

“Oh, Far!” Eric closed the door, shut off his discman and hung his headphones around the back of his neck. “Didn't know you were here. Who's the new cook? She's a total babe.” he asked, giving Aya a wink and a wide smile, which faltered when Aya bristled and narrowed his eyes.

 

Farf looked amused. “That `babe' is Ran, my new sous-chef. Say hi to Eric, Ran.”

 

Aya hid his shock that Farf was using his real name - he hadn't thought Farf even knew his real name, but the once-madman seemed to know an awful lot of things about him. He crossed his arms and scowled briefly at his boss, then turned to the newcomer. “Hello, Eric,” he growled menacingly.

 

The apprentice paled. “Oh…uh…sorry, man. I didn't - I just saw your face and - “ He gulped as Aya's glare intensified. “So, Far!” he cried, his voice falsely bright. “Need something?”

 

“No, we were just leaving. Probably later.” He began walking toward the door to the fridge room.

 

“Good,” Eric said. “I mean, uh, yeah, we're always here! Whatever you need, man!”

 

Farf stopped at the door and turned back to the apprentice. “Eric?”

 

“Yessir?”

 

“Put yer headphones back on and shut the fuck up.”

 

“Shutting the fuck up, sir,” he chirped, replacing his headphones and going over to make adjustments to the smokers.

 

Aya chuckled to himself as he followed Farf out of the building.

 

“Farf,” he said, stopping before they reached the back door, “why are you using my real name?”

 

The albino looked back and stopped walking. “I don't want to have to hear `Hiya, Aya!' every day for however long you're here. We've already got a Randy, as well, so ye probably don't have to worry about their stupid jokes there. Plus, Ran sounds a bit more masculine, even in English. Why, do ye not want to use yer real name?”

 

“It's okay, I guess,” Aya sighed. “I just wish you'd have asked me first.”

 

“If I'd asked, ye'd have said no.”

 

“That's my prerogative, isn't it? It's my name,” Aya said, a bit miffed.

 

“Yes, it is yer prerogative to say no if I ask. That's why I didn't ask,” Farf responded, smiling, and turned back to the door, opening it and holding it for Aya.

 

Aya stayed where he was, stunned, unable to figure out if he was angry or not. He thought he ought to be angry. Farf let the door close and walked back to him. Aya stared at the door until Farf blocked his view, then he turned his head slightly to stare at the wall. He was still trying to think, and he couldn't think when he looked into that yellow eye.

 

Farf put his thumb under Aya's chin, guiding his head around so he could look Aya in the eyes. Aya didn't resist. “Don't make this into a bigger deal than it is, Aya,” he warned. “If it means that much to ye - “

 

“It doesn't,” Aya interrupted. “It's not the name. It's the presumption. I don't know how big of a deal it is, but I don't like it.”

 

Farf lowered his hand and nodded. “Can ye live with it?”

 

Aya brows drew together. “Of course I can live with it!”

 

“Good.” He walked back to the door and held it open again. “Come on, then.”

 

Aya took a deep, exasperated breath, and went inside.

 

******

 

“I have to warn ye,” Farfarello said as Aya attempted for the third time to roast veal bones for demi-glace without burning them, “the crew is pretty vulgar. Some of it'll be in various incarnations of Spanish - do ye have Spanish?”

 

Aya shook his head, not taking his eyes off the oven.

 

“Good. Neither do I, actually, but I can swear like a native now. They'll call ye a lot of names; the important thing is not to be offended, and to try to give as good as ye get.”

 

Aya turned his head briefly to raise an eyebrow at his boss.

 

Farf chuckled. “Just don't be offended if they start calling ye `pato' or `cabrón' or, in English, `assrag' or `dickweasel' or some nonsense. It just means they like ye. If they start calling ye `my friend', that's when you worry. Except Octavio, he never insults anyone. Hey, ye didn't burn `em this time, way to go, ye fucking cocksmoker!”

 

Putting the tray of bones on the counter, Aya turned to Farf with his brows drawn together. His lips twitched, then he snorted and burst out laughing. “What the hell are you running, a primary school playground?” Aya managed when he subsided a little.

 

“Close,” said Farf through a wide grin. “Pirate galley. Didn't ye notice the eyepatch?” He flicked it. “I'd half-expected ye to take that badly. I'm glad ye didn't. Ye've a decent sense of humor, so make good use of it here.”

 

“Aye, aye, Cap'n,” Aya muttered, still chuckling, as he put the bones in one of the enormous stockpots, covered them with water and turned the fire on under them. As he set up another pan of bones, he heard voices chattering in what he assumed was Spanish.

 

Since he knew the exact correct cooking time for the bones now, he was able to turn from the oven without worrying. Two men entered, a tall, heavyset man with a beard, olive skin and large, liquid black eyes, and a younger one with a darker complexion, wearing baggy pants and a muscle shirt.

 

“Hey, Far, you beautiful bastard,” said Muscle Shirt, “can I take off early today?”

 

“No,” Farf said flatly.

 

“Aw, c'mon! I - “

 

“You have too much shit to do today, Ban.”

 

“Far, it - “

 

“Get to work, pajero.”

 

“Fucking chocha podrida, are you still pissed about those deliveries?” Ban asked, petulant. “Wait, don't answer that. Is that the new sous?”

 

Aya finished taking the bones out of the oven and turned around as Farf introduced them. “Ran, this is Esteban, the prep guy - “

 

“Just Ban,” the prep guy said, his interruption earning a glare from Farf.

 

“ - and the man with decorum and manners over here is Octavio, the butcher. He doesn't speak a lot of English, and he sure as hell doesn't speak Japanese, so be patient with him. This is Ran, the new sous.”

 

Octavio came forward and took one of Aya's hands in both of his. His hands were very large and strong, and he wore several chunky gold rings on his fingers. Aya looked down into his smiling face, seeing one of the most friendly, open expressions he could recall seeing on a grown man. He found himself smiling back.

 

“You and I, we be friends, yes?” Octavio asked, squeezing Aya's hand gently.

 

“Of course,” Aya responded, thinking, why the hell not?

 

“Is good,” the large man said, his smile broadening. He patted Aya's hand and let him go.

 

Ban immediately slung an arm around Octavio's neck. “C'mon, idiota. You can molest the new guy later. Help me with the palettes.” He half-dragged the larger man out of the kitchen toward the loading bay.

 

“Octavio's very odd,” Farfarello commented, and Aya turned to him. “He's been dicked over by life as much as anyone, and a lot more than some, but he is the most genuinely happy person I've ever met. He's at peace, devoted to his wife and kids, believes in everyone wholeheartedly until they give him some reason not to. Plus, he's a great butcher.” Farf looked thoughtful. “Sometimes I really want to cut him open and see what makes him tick,” he murmured. He shook his head, as if to clear it. “He takes it seriously when he says he's yer friend, so ye ought to as well. Everyone here loves him, and if ye displease him ye'll probably be ostracized. Luckily, it's difficult to displease Octavio.”

 

“I'll keep that in mind,” Aya said, a little bemused.

 

“Come over here a second, Aya,” Farf said, motioning him over to a spotless station on what Farf had referred to as “the line”. “This was Sean's mise-en-place. He's now bequeathing it to ye, whether he likes it or not. And these,” he continued, reaching up into a shelf above the station and pulling out a wooden box. “His knives. Vanadium steel, lightweight, low maintenance. They're custom-made, so they might not suit yer hand, but they're a damn sight better than the shit I gave ye last week. Carollo will get ye yer own knives if ye want `em.”

 

Aya opened the box to reveal a small set of gleaming knives that looked like they'd never been used. Someone had obviously loved them. He picked up the chef's knife. It felt nice in his hand, almost like he wasn't holding anything at all. “Who's Carollo?”

 

“The owner-manager. Don Carollo's grandson.”

 

“Don? Am I supposed to know this person?” Aya swung the knife a few times, flipped it from hand to hand.

 

“Don as in mafia Don. Became head of the family when he was seventy. He's ninety-two and still jogs every morning, and heads off to Rio to use the escort services twice a year. Ye probably won't meet him, but he's quite a character.”

 

“Hn.” Aya put the box back, keeping the chef's knife out. “What am I doing now?”

 

Farf gestured to Aya's mise-en-place. “Get yer meez set up, since it'll probably take ye a long time today. Familiarize yerself with where everything is. When you're done we'll go from there.”

 

“Hai.” Aya knelt down and began rooting around his reach-in fridge to see what was in it.

 

******

 

Aya got home at midnight, exhausted, only wanting to shower and sleep. After what was probably the fastest shower he'd ever taken, he stumbled towards his room with a towel around his waist, but saw the living room couch first and ended up flopping down on that instead.

 

Almost sixteen hours of work…Farfarello had told him that when he first became head chef, he'd actually slept in his office in the restaurant, taking catnaps while working basically round the clock. And he promised Aya would only have this grueling schedule for a couple of weeks, until he was demoted. He was glad, because he didn't know how long he could keep this up, and it was only the first day. Being a florist had been much easier, although he certainly didn't miss the gaggles of schoolgirls squealing at him like a herd of piglets. Assassin work could be physically grueling but usually wasn't - a lot of it was hiding in the dark, waiting. Although Aya used to unwind by practicing katas for hours on end…

 

He really had to start doing katas again. He was obviously out of shape.

 

Thinking about his schedule for the week, he groaned. He had to get up at 3 in the morning to go to the fish market with Farfarello, and then tomorrow he had to get up at 4 for the meat market with Octavio. Unless he was going to remain awake for the next 48 hours or so, he had no time for katas.

 

His brow wrinkled. When he was 18 or even 20 he would've been able to do that, no sweat. He must be getting old.

 

::Feurig, 25 isn't old unless you're planning on entering the Olympics.:: Aya looked up as Schuldig entered the living room, wearing a brilliant blue robe that almost perfectly matched his eyes. He bent his legs to make some room on the couch.

 

Schuldig sat down, taking hold of Aya's legs and laying them across his lap. He started giving Aya a footrub that had Aya almost crying with relief, it felt so good.

 

“So, do you like working with our erstwhile psychopath?” Schu asked softly, working his thumbs along the sole of one of Aya's feet.

 

Aya, who had almost been asleep, considered the question. “He's… he's very cunning,” he decided. “Extremely intelligent. I never knew. He's like a quiet dictator. I do like working with him so far.”

 

Schuldig chuckled. “Yeah, Farf was never what you'd call noisy, except in Berserker mode or I-Hate-God mode. And he's good at hiding his intelligence.”

 

“Yohji asleep?” Aya mumbled, drifting.

 

Schuldig smacked the bottom of his foot, jerking him awake, and he glared. The German laughed. “Yes, he's asleep. Want some tea, Feurig?”

 

“I have to get up at 3.”

 

Schuldig looked at him as though he'd just announced that he was joining the Marines. “You're crazy. How long've you been up? Never mind, don't tell me. I'll get you a blanket and you can slee - “

 

He was interrupted by the ringing of a cell phone - Yohji's, by the sound. Grumbling, Schu pulled it out, opened it and began swearing in German. Then he went still. “Takatori?”

 

Aya's eyes drifted shut, and he didn't hear anything after that.

 

 

 

A/N part deux: Mailbag time!

 

mm-chan: ha, you WERE first last time! I can't lose all my hair; I don't have any to begin with. I just shaved it all off again, much to my father's chagrin. There will be non-chocolate dessert at some point, I'm just not sure when.

 

darke: thanks! I'm glad I could contribute to your perceived insanity. And that you found that stuff funny.

 

mel*soong: I'm glad you reviewed. And that you found SchuxAya hot. As for a 3-some…lots of people want it, and lots don't. does it make any difference to me? No! :D I'll do whatever I think is right for the story. Not that I mind people telling me what they'd like to read; sometimes it gives me ideas.

 

jukebox: I just had some duck tonight - LOVE the stuff. I don't mind a little gaminess, though. I've actually never eaten a turducken, but I went through about 100 recipes for them. Cooking times were anywhere from 3 hours to 24 hours. Honestly, to make the menu he did, Aya probably would have had to go to Farf's house either the day before for prep, or in the middle of the night. I take some liberties. :) Um, I mean, Aya's just that good!

 

dragon_deb: soon is a relative term. In geological terms, I'm posting all these chapters simultaneously.

 

Vana: Hee, you're obviously a woman of discerning tastes. I'm glad you like Farfarello as Not An Idiot - I enjoy him that way myself, especially since I don't think he was an idiot in canon, either. I think I mentioned somewhere before that this was meant to be FxA, but who knows? Lots of things have happened in this fic that I didn't plan on.

 

MikaSamu: what a great review, thank you! I enjoyed reading your insights. Aya will have his first mission next chapter. I'm having to restrain my fingers from dropping hints about things. I'll just say that about the assassin jobs, you're both correct and incorrect. As for pairings (triplings, orgies, whatever), I'll have to listen to my muse (Chuck) on those.

 

Shinigamiseiji: thanks! er, I'm glad you don't hate it? :D

 

Soxy: thank you!

 

KD: I am glad you found it amusing, and that it didn't seem as long as I was afraid it would. Thanks, Fearless Leader!

 

Dimonyo-anghel: you're welcome! Aya looked sad because Farf's really recruiting him to be an assassin, not to be a chef. Hee, speaking out in defense of Farf! Yohji's just gotta find a place for Farf to fit comfortably in his mind as well as his life. Which may or may not happen.

 

Omni-sama: ot3? That's so great, did you make that up? Yeah, almost all of the 3-some fics I've read are either YxSxA or BxSxA. You are reading Irondog's Shadows/Light fic, right? Right? I am afraid you might still be squicked a bit by Farf in TSC, but hopefully not so much that you won't be able to read about sweaty man-sex that involves him.

 

Blythe: Really, you can't understand the characters? It might not be just you, you know. Perhaps I'm not writing them understandably, or believably. I think Yohji got over Schu kissing Aya so fast because he understands why he did it, and they've likely been over this ground before - five years is long enough to have dealt with jealousy issues over and over, I think - and Yohji, at least, has accepted what he should take to heart and what he shouldn't. Does that make sense? I'm glad you're still enjoying reading this regardless.

 

deunank: I'm glad you're enjoying! Heh…I've actually never eaten turducken either (see comments to jukebox above) but fried turkey is really outstanding. I expected not to like it, too. So is fried suckling pig - dad likes to experiment with his deep-fryer, heh.

 

eva84: thanks! I'm enjoying my YxS. Ran will work in the kitchen, he just may not be allowed to stay. I'm so glad you like Farfarello! He's been a lot of fun so far.

 

ratso: your favorite part of the fic yet, huh? It'll be alllllll downhill from there. :D I love that part myself. I remember most of the lyrics to all the lolliwinks' songs, too…