A/N: Yay update! I've been doing my *cough* Nguyen duties in Japan but I haven't forgotten you Bakers. Also, I'll be starting school from tomorrow onwards so I'm not too sure about my writing schedule just yet. The next chapter of Flight School and Crash are like 3/4 done but I'm not confident on publishing them just yet. I haven't exactly found a writing spot here either, but a quaint little cafe in this park nearby caught my eye so I'll probably be checking that out tomorrow :> 

Before you read, did you know that Wattpad will donate $1 to ILGA if you tag WattPride on your story????? WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? WRITE THE RAINBOW AWAAAYYYYY NYYOOOMM ^0^/

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

[A. Dempsey]

I waited for the words to sink in, watching as her eyes narrowed in on mine. Her sudden change in expression neither fazed or corrected my opinion but simply furthered my belief of it. She sat down, thin-lipped.

"I don't understand what you mean."

"The definition of inedible?" I frowned. "Surely, you wouldn't appreciate a word by word explanation of the term, Miss Rachel. That would be embarrassing—both for you and for myself."

Immediately, she stood. The chair dragged across the floor with an ear-piercing screech before crashing sideways, turning heads and causing the entire room to fall silent.

"I beg your pardon Mr. Dempsey, but do you not see the line before your eyes?" She snapped, eyes cold and hard. "People wait hours just to buy this in the city and you dare to say that it is inedible?"

At once, the place was swept with murmurs and eyes on the back of my head. An immense discomfort stirred in my chest but I forced it down and reminded myself to breathe.

"Miss Rachel, there is a difference between the common tongue and that of a critic's," I said very quickly, certain that she wouldn't understand either way. "These pastries are passable for the average consumer but purely relying on aesthetics—such a trick would not work on any critic."

Her face froze over like ice.

"You are disillusioned. I would advise you to leave before I call the police and sue you for defamation, Mr. Dempsey," her voice was quiet and restrained, as though bottled rage was fighting to escape with every word. "Save yourself the embarrassment. You are clearly lying through your teeth."

She called me a liar. There was no mistaking it and yet, I could not believe my ears. The polite and well-mannered lady I'd met beforehand and invited to share her best-selling creation at the event I put together had vanished—undone in mere seconds of words she could not digest!

Outraged, I stood, murmuring a curt thanks for the cake before passing her and making for the door. All of a sudden, the pink was suffocating and I no longer knew how I'd brought myself to enter in the first place, wondering if there was absolutely any chance of redemption should I write a full, honest review of my experience today.

The stakes were high. ARCD was a rising star, close to making it big and at the peak of its popularity. No chief editor would be in the right mind to publish such an article. Unless it was Lia we were talking about.

I left the place without another word or second glance over my shoulder. Even kind Vanille wouldn't have had anything nice to say about those disgusting pastries.

*

"They aren't bad," Julie's face had scrunched up mid-chew. "Just a little sour and there's like, a sting to it. Although, yeah I guess I would have expected more from a big name and—are you sure these aren't pineapples? The aftertaste is overpowering and my brain is confused."

I'd brought the take-away box of cake and mini-meringues home that evening and held it over the bin, ready to dispose of its entire existence when Julie had caught me doing so and insisted on finishing it. 'No wasting food, Alfred,' or so that was what she had said. I was almost certain that she would regret it.

"They are pineberries, a subset of strawberries that have a taste similar to that of pineapples. They look decent and, well...decent, I suppose. Although I'm not a fan of their round and...seemingly circular exterior," my nose had wriggled (involuntarily) in disgust. "But they shouldn't be sour, dear."

"Buh 'ey ar!" She said, mouth full, handing me the dessert fork. "Hy ih yo helf."

I picked apart the cake and was reminded of its overwhelming sweetness and shivered in disgust. Never again. I spooned a small portion of it into my mouth.

Julie was right. The berries were sour. But how...? Before, when I had the cake in the afternoon, it was practically an entirely different cake. Could I have ordered the wrong—no, I clearly said the pureberry shortcake. Was I perhaps given the wrong cake, then? No, the design was exactly the same.

A single word came to mind at once, loud and disappointing.

Inconsistent.

I laughed, shaking my head. Julie turned to me with a look. "I know what you're thinking, but maybe it's because we had that heavenly tart from Chip's bakery that, you know, you expected something more. I'm not sure if they used similar ingredients, well, for some reasons the strawberries are now white, but his tart was insane! He's probably had it for years."

"No dear," I corrected, "it was released the day Vanille and I went searching for your birthday cake."

"Oh!" She appeared rather taken aback. "So it's new. But then—this is new...too...? What a coincidence!"

"I fear that it is something more than that, Julie." At once, I fished out my pocket planner and made a couple of notes. "I no longer know the direction of this review. It would be impossible not to come off as offensive and...it's not like this hasn't happened before in the history of baking. This happens everywhere. Taking a fresh idea as fast as possible and confusing consumers on who came first, which to choose. Obviously, they'd opt for the more popular option because that's always the safest and—goodness."

It was in the middle of my rambling that I realized my investment in the matter. Julie flashed a smile, listening. I pulled up a chair and sat, collecting my thoughts.

"I would never poke my nose in these sort of situations but. Perhaps I simply find it absurd and disappointing that one of the nominees for the most sought-after annual title would...would do something like this."

"Or," my fiancé laughed. "You simply care about Chip and his bakery and want them to be acknowledged."

I shook my head, turning away. "Oh don't be ridiculous Julie."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Alfred, can I speak to you for a second."

The meeting was in fifteen minute's time and I was gathering my documents and collated reviews for the next issue when Ruth had stopped by my desk, arms folded across her chest in a strange manner. I glanced her way before going back to organizing the folders.

"Sorry, I'm running a little late but if it's short..." I managed to fit everything into my laptop bag, taking a sip of my coffee before turning back to her.

She sighed. "It's unbelievably short, Alfred, and there's no need to go anywhere—you're fired."

Ruth had said this with the most apologetic look on her face I'd ever seen and it stunned me more than anything before the message started to sink in. I was speechless.

"You can't possibly fire me, Ruth," I managed after a moment's pause, unable to make any sense of the situation. "That doesn't—that simply cannot be! I've...I've written for the Times since we barely had any readership!"

She shook her head, averting her eyes. "Yes, and so it's time for you to go."

"What?" Was all I could say at this point, completely bewildered. "This is impossible. Insane! At least give me a reason. You cannot expect me to accept something like this without a logical explanation."

I was desperate at this point. The full weight of her words began to weigh on my shoulders and the ability to lose everything I've built up to this point in a single second filling every corner of my vision. To be provided no close; no logical explanation for it would then be the worst that could happen.

"I'm sorry Alfred," she shook her head once more. "I...it was the shareholders. One of our major ones. They had veto power—I couldn't do anything about it. I came to ask if you'd done anything to offend anyone. Not that, you know, you haven't offended every single person you've ever crossed paths with," she added jokingly, and I would have found it fairly humorous had I not been in this position at all.

"A major shareholder? Is there a name...?"

"I can't tell you," Ruth pulled her pink cardigan tighter around herself. "And I honestly don't know how they'd be related to you in any manner because, like every other shareholder in most companies, they don't have anything to do with the baking industry. You couldn't have offended anyone beyond that."

"In fact, I wouldn't!" I stood up, confused and frustrated. "I would never go out of my expertise and you know it."

She shrugged, sighing. "Exactly."

The two of us fell into an uncomfortable silence, not knowing what to say to the either and what to do next.

"I don't know about you, Alfred," Ruth cracked a smile. "but your writing is remarkable. I've enjoyed your reviews—both good and bad—for the past eight years and with your skill, it's the company's loss for firing you. Wherever you decide to go to next, well. They'd better treasure the gem you are."

"Oh Ruth." I sighed, quiet. "That is...well, I appreciate it. Thanks. I guess."

She laughed shortly. "Still the same, aren't you. Well. You know the drill."

Leave before the day ends. "Yes. I'll pack up in an hour." Just how should I break this to Julie and Vanille?

The latter, who aspired to be a critic like myself and was already working towards it? I would be a disappointment; a shame! And Julie, who'd insisted on a small-scale wedding banquet when I'd assured her that it was alright to be generous with the invitations? Had she sent them out already? Would the bank agree to loan an unemployed man that much money for a lavish celebration? And what of Julie's dress?

At once, I was overwhelmed by the mess that two simple words had funnelled into and yet, no close. The cause of it—completely unknown. It was only then that I'd thought of yesterday's events at Rachel's Patisserie and the possibility of her having something to do with this...it was unremarkably high.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

[Xander]

I was on my way home, thinking about dinner, dessert (you know exactly what I'm talking about) and if I should get Finn to give beach volley a go after seeing his inability to even team worsen ten thousand times today when an unexpected bean caught my eye.

He stood outside a fancy gate that read 'Evergreen Kindergarten for Future Leaders', hands gripped onto the straps of bookbag that was bigger than him, staring down the road as though waiting for someone to appear in the distance.

It was the boy with the weird name. The one that had taken a liking to Chip. Well, I couldn't exactly blame him. Just who in the right mind wouldn't fall for the angel that was my husband? Seriously, I have that many competitors to fend away.

I was about to continue down the sidewalk to where the bus stop was when boy-with-weird-name called out to me first, in the weirdest way possible.

"Mr. Handsome! Hello!"

God dammit Julian, I have a name! Don't go shouting that in public and waving me over holy shit kids these days.

I turned sideways and waved lifelessly. He waved back vigorously, jumping in the air and tip-toeing as he landed as though trying to make himself more visible when there was absolutely nothing blocking me from seeing him. I snorted a laugh, crossing the deserted street.

"Where's Demps—your, uh. Uncle?"

"Uncle Al's a little late today so I'm just waiting for him here at the gate till he arrives, like I always do," the clever little shit piped in return, staring up at me through those huge-ass glasses that were literally about to fall off his face.

"Okay kid, good for you," was all I could think of saying because Chip had always been there to interact with kids on my behalf and Giselle was never really a kid anyway, so. "See you around. Bye."

"W-wait," I felt something tug on the back of my shirt and prevent me from turning to leave. "Don't you want to hear why Uncle Al's always late when it comes to fetching me?"

Uh, no? Was what I planned on saying but I soon visualized a very stunned and indignant angel chiding me on my shoulder so I kept quiet and sighed, nodding for him to continue. It wasn't as though kids were socially-aware enough to know that all I wanted to do was go home, take a bath and have dinner after teaching little devils how to hit a ball into the ground and not at people's faces.

"I've...got a minute, I guess." I watched his face light up.

"Uncle Al's very busy because he is such an established critic in his field and has written thousands and thousands of reviews about bakeries and patisseries all around the world! He's been to France, America, England, Japan, Indonesia, the Philippines, and and and Italy, and—"

"Okay, okay," I stopped him from going any further or he'd have to list all the countries in the world or something. "That's enough countries. I get your point."

"Uncle Al's just soo good at what he does. He even managed to triple Baker's Times readership every year since he joined! He helped them get to where they are today! Isn't that amazing? He's a really, really good writer. Many people like him because he's honest."

I was about to burst his bubble by telling him that Dempsey once wrote a trashy review for my husband's bakery and see his reaction to that when, again, the little angel on my shoulder tapped its wand on my cheek and crossed its arms, shaking its head. It looked strangely like a tiny version of Chip.

"Uh. Great. Honesty is always...good. I guess. But sometimes, people get punished for it."

Julian stared up at me like he was trying to figure out a new word in the dictionary or solving a Sudoku puzzle. He looked like the kind of kid who'd do Sudoku puzzles. "Oh. Really?"

I was about to say that he was probably too young to understand that sort of thing just yet when some other kid—probably from the same school—came sauntering out of the gate and stopped in his tracks upon seeing us. There was nothing, no emotion, written on his face. He raised a brow.

"You are?"

"Ah—Leroy?" Julian addressed him first, failing, however, to take the kid's eyes away from me. "It's okay, he's my uncle's friend! We've already met several times. Don't worry, he's not dangerous or anything."

Oh I will be, if that friend of yours continues to stare at me like that kiddo.

"Where's your uncle?" Kid named Leroy finally turned away and looked at the person speaking to him.

"Oh, um," Julian fiddled with the straps of his bookbag. "He's just a little late. How about you? Are you heading home? U-uh how about your friends? You always walk home together with them."

The way he'd put it made me realize that the two of them weren't very close—or at least didn't interact very much in school at all.

Kid Leroy shook his head warily. "They went back early."

Not much of a talker, huh...well, at least I can relate. At least he provided me the cue to leave, so. Thanks buddy.

"Don't have to look at me like that," I stared back at the other kid, amused. "I'm leaving now."

Apparently, Julian didn't like the sound of that. "W-wait, you're going already? We weren't finished talking just yet..." He turned around at the sound of approaching footsteps.

A lady in a blue apron and floral dress had surveyed the front porch of the school before spotting Julian and his friend at the gate and making her way over. She glanced at me before looking partly confused.

"What's wrong Miss Buttons?" Buttons? Okay, that's some weird-ass last name. Or was it a fake? Do they still do all that in kindergarten? I wouldn't know. I never attended kindergarten.

"Oh! Vanilla," her gaze alternated between me and the kids. "Your uncle just called and he said that he wouldn't be able to pick you up today. He told me to bring you inside to wait for Miss Julie to arrive. And this is...?"

"Just pas—"

"He's my uncle's friend! Mr...Mr...um, I wasn't supposed to call him Mr. Handsome, so," Julian turned back to me in a whisper. "What do I call you again?"

I sighed. "It's Jaxon-Honeycutt. Jaxon's fine. I was just passing by."

"Oh! I see, then..." she appeared to be waiting for me to say something. Julian's stare alternated between us two. The remaining kid looked like he was glaring at me. I gave up.

"Guess there's no helping it," I threw every towel in and felt like my entire body was releasing a huge sigh. "Tell Julie I'll bring the kid home."

No sane and rational-thinking soul could not tell that the kid was pulling every sentimental string my husband had attached inside of me with a bat of an eyelash. I was, very unfortunately, starting to get a little too fond of him; kids in general stayed at least ten meters away from myself.

I watched his eyes go wide with excitement. "Really? Can we stop by Mr. Chocolate Chip's bakery—"

"No."

*

After Julian's teacher made the call and settled everything on Dempsey's side (and actually gave us the green light for me, a kinda-stranger to take Julian home albeit accompanied by a raise of the other kid's brow), we made for the crosswalk down the street, passing a couple of grocery and convenience stores that made him stop every now and then. I started to understand the real reason why parents had to hold their kids' hand and, well, drag them along. Their curiosity was endless. That, or their longing for ice cream.

Julian was no different. He stared at ice cream boxes, popsicle stands, soft cream posters that were put up just before the start of summer—it was bullshit. I didn't sign up to bring the boy home and get him ice cream along the way, which might actually get me in trouble with Dempsey. That dude's just so uptight all the time.

"Mr. Handsome?"

"Jaxon," I corrected. "What?"

"Do you and Mr. Chocolate Chip and Miss Red-coat live together?" He proceeded to ask; unfazed.

"Yes."

He turned to me with 'o' shaped lips. "Wow! That's so nice!"

"Well we're family, so." I blinked, not exactly expecting him to delve into this. We took a left in the direction of the park. "Of course we'd live together."

Julian looked mildly surprised. "Mr. Chocolate Chip is your brother?" His left suspender slipped off his shoulder and it was funny to watch him scramble to fix it.

"No, he's my husband."

"Ohh..." He did the thing that kids would do, roll his head all the way around to exaggerate some form of understanding. "Marriage."

"How...how do you know if you're going to marry someone?" Was what he posed next, the most disarming question any kid had ever asked me.

I did a double take, adjusting the duffel bag over my shoulder as we waited to cross the street.

"I don't know," I said honestly, "when the time is right? Of when you feel like: this is the person I can spend the rest of my life with?"

Julian stared up at me, both hands gripping the straps of his bookbag. "So is that what Uncle Al feels when he proposed to Miss Julie? And when you and Mr. Chocolate Chip decided to get married?" He looked away, quiet. "Do you think anyone will ever feel like they could spend the rest of their life with me?"

I had to remind myself that the kid was fucking four. Or was it five.

"Well—" Sigh. "It's not that easy too. If it's feeling like I could spend the rest of my life with him, I already felt that, like, since I was eight or something. Even if you feel like you could spend the rest of your life with someone else, that doesn't mean that you can. There's other stuff to consider: like if you're going to be a burden to that person if you do spend your life together. Stuff like that."

"And," I paused, not sure how to get around the latter question without offending him. Chip was better at that sort of thing. "Kid, you're four. You've got your entire life to find someone willing to spend the rest of their life with you. You don't have to rush things."

I reached down to mess with his hair. "And sometimes, you never find that person. If you're lucky, you do. That's it."

Julian looked like he was about to cry. See? Told you I was bad with kids. Might as well turn around and send him back to the kindergarten before people start thinking I was some kidnapper.

"Thanks Mr. Handsome."

"Jaxon," I shook my head, already giving up. "It's Jaxon."

*

We were walking up the hill, about a mere two houses away from Julian's when someone else was doing the same from the other side (except walking down instead of up), lugging a seemingly huge box in front of him. I felt as though I'd seen this before.

"Uncle Al?" Kid called out, questioning. The general silhouette of the man did give me the impression of a salty critic, confirmed when his head popped past the box to respond to his nephew's voice.

"I—Vanille? That was unbelievably quick. I thought. Well, I thought you were going to be a little longer," there was a struggle in his voice to smile and I could see him hiding behind the box more than he should be.

It didn't take me very long to find the scene familiar; what with my father snipping strings all the time and firing his employees one after another as soon as they made a single mistake. That box and his expression. Already, I'd known what happened.

"Uh...hey."

"Jaxon," he nodded once in greeting. "I heard from Miss Buttons. Thank you for taking Vanille home."

"Sure." I paused, noticing a couple of baking sheets stacked on top of the box, as though to hide what was inside. "It's nothing."

I didn't know what to say.

Julian ran up to him and hugged his leg. "What's in that box, Uncle Al? Did you bring home more cakes today?"

Dempsey smiled. It was a sad, troubled kind of smile. It was uncharacteristic of him. "W-well, I—"

"Yeah, he did," I interrupted, speaking out of turn. Uncharacteristic as well. "And he's got more to try from Chip's bakery too." The critic met my gaze with the most priceless look on his face.

Funny.

He looked as though he was about to cry.