[Leroy]

"Whoever wrote this wants you home A-SAP, man." Raz burst out laughing the moment he came by my station to catch a glimpse of the goods in my box, tapping the letter I'd put aside for safekeeping. "Don't they know they're allowed to pick up to ten ingredients?"

"They want me bad."

"Sure do." He pulled off a devious smile, bumping elbows before heading off to the next station for some proper window shopping.

Winners of the previous challenge were going around the arena checking out everyone else's personal box for an ideal ingredient swipe; bargaining and negotiating. Laughing and swearing.

I stood behind my station, staring down the one ingredient on my counter, feeling the traces of heat in my fingers grow with every passing second. Because for the time in many years, I was feeling it. Something at the back of my mind. Something that had been resting, lying in wait; dying to flicker and spark again.

Closing my eyes changed the nature of it. Charged by a rising heat, powering through the night sky for the biggest boom knowing that was just how well he understood every living cell inside Leroy Cox.

I put the letter away for safekeeping before undoing the knot on the bundle of vanilla beans, staring at the exact bunch I'd given him the night before. Vanilla Tahitensis. An Indonesian original. A challenge.

I mapped out a sketch in my head. The thing I had the other day at that night market. Features, elements of the cuisine I'd gathered across every meal I'd had here. Alone, and in company.

The dish would have to be elevated. Different, slightly, from the usual concept of hot and cold. Not contrast. Not the emphasis of their differences.

But a combination that would feel like warm blankets on a winter morning.

"Oh?" Tenner dropped by, brows raised; lips curling at the bundle of pods on my counter. "Oh. Ohh. Mm. Uhhuh." Four different expressions in the span of five seconds had her doubling over. "Absolute monsters."

I made no show of disagreement, waved her aside with a finger while the next member of the winning team came up to my box. It was Syrup.

"Why's it empty?"

"This is it." I gestured to the palm-sized bundle in the middle of my cutting board. His eyes lit up.

"Vanilla Tahitensis. That's a local species, isn't it? These kinda pods have woody, smoky tones that enhance the vanilla flavor... makes it so much richer in desserts." He came real close to my sole ingredient. "Wow. Your loved one knows their stuff!"

I slid the cutting board toward me. "Yeah. They do."

"Wish I got a local ingredient..."

"... Sorry I don't share."

Syrup burst out laughing. The sound turned heads. "Noo! I'm just kidding. Do you really think I'd swipe the one ingredient you have? I'm not the sort of person to kick someone when they're already down."

When they're already down, huh. I snorted, trying hard not to smile and give it all away.

The process was over in a couple of minutes. Raz swiped a tray of lobsters from Hyde. Saito picked a seabass off Du Bellay's box. Syrup chose a handful of bird's eye chili from Popo. And Andre?

With sportsmanship out of the picture and the freedom to fuck things up, I wasn't surprised when he opted for the easiest method to guaranteed screen time.

"I mean it's a free for all, isn't it?" The guy came to a slow, deliberate stop in front of my station. Eyes fixed on my bundle of vanilla.

I stared back. "What the fuck."

Someone from the crew came over when I beckoned. Andre was kind enough to give a good barking of demands to demonstrate my point. I expected some immediate shutting down of his ideas but soon realized I was pinning a tad too much faith on whatever conscience I thought was left of reality TV.

"It's... not exactly against the rules, perse, but..." The producer glanced over her shoulder. "I mean, you don't need that many pods of vanilla do you?"

I gave her a look. "... You serious?"

Andre's smirk was begging for a punch. It didn't take a genius to know the thing he's got for caviar and desserts; chocolate lava cakes in particular were his apparent signature since winning master chef in the early seasons. The sort of thing always on his menu.

"See, I'm not a bully." Andre drummed his fingers on the counter. "Everyone knows how good I am with dessert. Not sure if I'd say the same about you, but I could leave you half the pods if you insist on going up against me. Just sayin', 'cuz using the same star ingredient as a Master might not be the best decision at an elimination challenge, so. Piece of advice."

"..."

I get it. The guy probably lost half his last functioning brain cell to spear fishing on the way here but still. To think he'd even consider swiping an ingredient from the one chef with nothing else in his box, let alone challenge him to use the same ingredient and expect him to back the hell off because of the overlap was out of line.

"You want vanilla as your star ingredient...?"

Andre shrugged. "I'm standing right here, so."

No fucking way the guy doesn't bother asking properly thinking I'd hand him the golden goods with the manners of a five-year-old. You'd think grade school would have taught the kids to say 'Please' and 'Thank You' when asking for shit.

"Two pods."

"Five."

"Three or none." I wasn't about to give him half the pods in the bundle after painstakingly selecting them yesterday for the world's greatest genius only to have him re-gift it in the best way possible.

The producers, hungry for some development, soon put a countdown on the clock and so eventually, Andre settled for three. I was reluctant for obvious reasons, but slid out a couple of medium-sized pods from the bundle and wrapped them up in kraft. Didn't matter how they'd be used; vanilla beans deserved first-class treatment. Nothing less.

"Staples and equipment in the pantry are free for all, folks," they gave us baskets and ten minutes to browse the shelves. I grabbed a couple of basics while a sketch formed in my head. Something old. One I'd kept tucked away between yellowed pages of a handwritten journal. A recipe, constantly changing in my head as the years went by and thus, never tried.

"Monsters," said Layla Tenner under her breath as she passed me at the pantry, grabbing a stick of butter while I reached for cream. "Think you'll need a second opinion?"

I paused.

"... Tasting?"

She shrugged. "Just in case."

I considered her offer. There were no downsides. Still, knowing I'd be relying on someone else to give objective feedback on the taste of my dish wasn't the best feeling in the world but this was do or die. If another trusted chef in the room was willing to offer a second opinion or pop by my station for a second throughout the duration of the cook, I'd at least be sure about the individual components. Taste-wise. Whether or not they'd come together on the final plate, though, was a gamble I had to take.

Tenner glanced over her shoulder. "I'm four stations down. Might be a bit of a reach if I said I was 'passing by' so. If you think of someone else who fits the bill, go for it."

I nodded in thanks, turning to the crates of fruit lined up in the middle of the pantry. Local. Fresh from the market, judging from the condition of the produce. Du Bellay stopped right across the aisle with a basket of her own, filled with potatoes, butter, and a small bottle of coconut water.

She reached for a green coconut.

"That's a young one," I told her just as she was about to add it to her basket. "You dealing with the flesh or the water?"

"Oh. Well I've got some coconut water right here so... I thought of grating the flesh for some texture on my dish," she glanced at the older, matured coconut I had in my basket. "Should I be using something like the one you have?"

"The flesh is firmer. Holds it shape."

"Thanks." She sounded surprised, returning the one in her hand back to its crate. "You seem... seasoned for someone who doesn't do desserts. I'm curious to see what you'll come up with."

Du Bellay was a station down; right in front of mine where all she had to do was turn over her shoulder to see what I was doing. Felt like this could be it; alongside yesterday's conversation at the terrace, it made perfect sense without raising any alarms.

"I need a second opinion," I told her. "If you're up for it."

"Oh!" To think she could sound even more surprised than before. "I'd like that. Thank you for... considering me."

With a good foundation of ingredients to start with and a couple of tools and equipment stashed in a box under my arm, I headed back to my station while starting a timer for thirty on my G-Shock. I was laying things out on the counter when a figure passed along the aisle with folded arms, slowing as he neared.

Something had caught his eye.

I wasn't a fan of Siegfried nosing around on set but he had a headset on and papers in hand like any other chief producer would've had. In my head, I assumed he was looking out for side interviews with Mavs and Masters on the go, but his attention narrowed in on the one ingredient I'd placed on top of my crate.

He altogether paused. Frowned at the bundle of pods. "Did Annabeth really...?"

I said nothing; continued laying the stuff I'd gathered on the counter. It didn't take him long to figure out Annie wasn't the one who wrote my letter.

"Jesus Christ. He wants you eliminated," Siegfried said under his breath. Disbelief all around.

I snorted a laugh, musing over the look on his face. Something in his eyes shifted at the sound—like he was surprised and never thought I could have this much fun in a kitchen. 'Cuz truth was, he'd never seen that look on me. Ever.

He left soon after. I was locked in on drafting the dish out on paper; its layers and flavors, concept and presentation. The marrying of influences and ideas; the art and the science behind it. Sure, I'd been experimenting and researching on hot and cold like a man on a mission up till this very point but pulling off the thing of my dreams under pressure and a time limit for its debut wasn't the kind of challenge I'd been expecting.

And this was exactly how I liked it.

The next two hours would be about turning an idea—a mere concept—into reality.

Seven years was a long time to come to terms with the truth that I'd never been a fan of and even then, nothing guaranteed the correlation between time and acceptance. Fifty years could pass and still, the heart could dwell. If anything, moving on was harder than moving back or regressing; carrying on one's back a whole other load that could at any time, crush and kill. The image in my mind was proof of that.

That over the years, I'd had in my head a flame that was the culmination of the time we'd spent apart and the time I'd stayed and dwelled on the past; the time I spent with the company in my head. Him.

I like to think that I moved on from losing my sense of taste for all things sweet. But really, all I did was move with it. And maybe for the longest time, I'd been dreaming. Dreaming of this day; biding my time. Now, his words said all that I needed to know.

That he'd been waiting for me to prove him wrong.

___________________

"What's taking them so long?"

Half the room gave Andre the side eye for disrupting the peace. They had us waiting outdoors in a fancy lounge by the beach that looked visually stunning for the camera but a huge pain-in-the-ass for the sound guys. Minutes passed, and then it was a full hour after I'd prepped my dish for tasting. Supposedly, production gave us the green for a water break and some shuteye but no one was in the mood for a nap. The air outside had been heavy to begin with, and the silence after the server left the arena to present my dish—the last one—added to that weight.

Andre had been the first to kick up a fuss. Nothing new.

"Maybe we all crushed it," Tenner reasoned, staring up at the darkening sky while she laid on her back and rested her leg. They'd given her an extra chair for support. "So the judges are in there having a hard time deciding on a winner."

Nods went round. Sparrow nudged me in the side and tilted the screen of his phone. My money's on you.

I snorted, pulling up my Notes app and typing: Says the guy who made birch-smoked perch in a coconut velouté. Had to re-spell the last word three times.

"Well, I think we all deserve a pat on the back presenting such amazing dishes with unique concepts. The letters were a nice touch from production. I wasn't expecting it." Du Bellay smiled from across the room. "Cooking with sentimentality changes the nature of every chef in the kitchen. My word... Cinder's never looked so alive. His dessert was stunning. The whole concept was extremely elegant and just, something you'd see in the best of fine-dining restaurants."

"Always thought you were more of a savory kind of guy." "Oh he's got cards hidden up his sleeve, fam. Beware." "This is good. Opens up a ton of options for team challenges instead of just one guy on dessert all the time."

Andre didn't like the sound of that. Guess he thought himself some kind of an expert; chocolate lava cake and all.

"Pretty sure edible candles are a thing at birthday parties for kids."

"... I'm sure it's not a block of chocolate, Chef Andre." Du Bellay was clever enough to back out of the conversation trap he laid. "The bottom line is that everyone fulfilled today's challenge competitively, advantage or not. And so the judges are having a hard time finalizing their decision. That's all there is to it." She ended him in seconds and turned away to speak to Popo before he could continue.

The compliments were cool and all but strangely enough, here I was stewing in a pot of what ifs with zero clue how things were going to turn out.

Truth was, I didn't taste my dish.

Visually, I'd hit a home run and everyone seemed to think the same. Du Bellay, Tenner, and even Sparrow had come by my station over the course of the challenge for a second, third, and fourth opinion. Individual elements had to be near-perfect after that much refinement, so I knew it was going to be good to some extent but up against the other dishes that everyone else came up with, I wasn't going to place my bets on anything just yet.

Don't get me wrong; I wanted the win. So fucking bad. And with Tenner in the middle of her recovery period performing at half her best and most of the other Masters and Mavs having to pick star ingredients from a limited selection that wasn't exactly meant for Indonesian flavors, I had, in some way or another, the upper hand.

Yet, no one else in the right mind would've said the same in my position.

Without the edge that came with winning the team challenge, my options were limited to the ingredients in my personal box. One ingredient. And with that, came the unspoken words I'd never thought he would say.

It was time for dessert.

"Chefs." One of the producers peered out the entrance to the lounge with a folder in hand. "Places in five. The judges are ready."

Chairs scraped and we got ourselves in order while the assistants on set fixed us up. Minutes later, we streamed back into the arena with the stations and stood in a row before the wide open space facing the double doors to the private room the judges had spent the last couple of hours in. Stan entered next with a couple other producers in tow. Siegfried was one of them.

I didn't expect him to meet my eye across the room, holding his gaze for a second longer than usual. Could have been an omen, for all I knew.

"Silence on set."

Didn't matter if it was Masters or Mavs; everyone's attention remained fixed on the entrance, waiting for the trio's return. Hyde had her fingers crossed behind her back. Popo's, in front of her. Clasped. Even seasoned chefs like Saito and Du Bellay seemed fazed by the heat in the air.

"Welcome back." Their expressions were difficult to read but the energy in Streisand's voice was different. You could tell she was in a good mood. "I'll save you all the formalities. We're here to announce the best and worst dishes of today's challenge—to create a local-inspired dish from ingredients picked by your loved ones, and for that dish to tell its story. To start things off: well done. Every plate wowed us in one way or another. We still don't know who, exactly, made which dish. But we do know... what the least appetizing dishes were."

I could feel the adrenaline in my ears; the beat in my head as the room tensed like a spring. The wait was long.

"The first dish we did not like... was 'Simple Joy'—chicken and waffles," he spoke first, starting off with my daily fill of glasses-adjusting. "Inspired by Indonesia's signature Ayam Penyet smashed chicken dish, the flavors were authentic and reminiscent of humble origins but unfortunately, fell short in execution."

"We were also, unfortunately, less than pleased with the 'Seafood Paradise' platter. Albeit traditional and innovative with a touch of Harissa and sambal, the variety of expensive seafood on a plate did not do well for the dish's supposed star ingredient—tiger shrimp. The lack of attention to detail treating each specific ingredient made the overall dish lose its intended extravagance."

Hell, they weren't us cutting any slack.

"And finally... 'Adolescence'. A dessert inspired by an all-time favorite snack across the islands of Indonesia. Chocolate fried bananas paired with a scoop of vanilla ice cream did not turn out to be the best of ideas, especially if the declared star ingredient is an exquisite vanilla bean of local variety. Simply put, there was little, if not, no emphasis on the main ingredient of the dish that ultimately felt disappointingly one-dimensional."

He was handing out blade after blade like this was a fish market and they promised a one-for-one deal for every swimmer he hooked. Three of us were up on the block. No one seemed to know who they were except the chefs themselves; Master or Mav.

"And of course... we have the best," Pao rejoined with a clap of his hands, heels rocking back and forth. Eager.

"First, we have a clever clever idea never seen before... Beef rendang dumplings in spicy broth, called 'Bags of Gold'. Oo, this was so good. The broth hit the senses like a spank, you know? And who would think rendang in dumplings could taste so good? Juicy and perfectly cooked. So creative. We loved it! Even Amelia who is weak to spice could not resist having two."

Popo's.

I'd passed her station on the way to the equipment room to grab a mist gun and caught a whiff of savory spices—an aroma that instantly felt like grandmother's cooking at dinnertime after school on a Thursday afternoon. Her story behind it was short and simple, told over a cup of iced coffee we had in the waiting room earlier: her kids loved her dumplings. The ingredients in her crate matched those she would use every other week to pamper her children, and the reason they knew exactly what she needed was because making dumplings together in the small, cramped kitchen of their family home was a core memory of theirs.

"Rubbish. My spice tolerance is the standard. You're the one with an unholy threshold." Streisand bit back with a smile. "The second dish we absolutely adored was 'Once Upon a Time', an amazing duck confit that demonstrated a mastery of French culinary techniques while incorporating humble local flavors."

Du Bellay's.

She said it was a memory. Not from her childhood or her hometown, but a dish at Arpege's. Her first. Before she truly aspired to be a chef, afraid she'd started her journey too late in life.

"... lightly cured and marinated in the signature Balinese spice paste for a flavor profile with a kick. And that skin rendered glass-crisp! The perfect coconut-infused pomme purée underneath complementing..."

The wait was hell.

My head tapped in and out every other second and the thing in my chest was about to dip. With two dishes already singled out and put under the spotlight, the chances of landing the top spot was—

"But the dish deserving of the toque for this challenge... is 'Company'."

I looked up.

His eyes were nowhere near mine despite the words he'd said but one fucking look and I could tell; just how hard he was trying not to meet my gaze in the midst of Masters and Mavs turning my way, the applause, the cheers. And when he couldn't seem to resist the draw of the flame any longer, he did.

Those eyes did not leave.

I stood. Snowed in—sealed in the midsummer pool that all of a sudden felt like waves lapping against the shore of the beach in our dreams. White sand that looked like snow collecting at our feet. The world, quiet at its peak and yet, filled with the sound of a feeling. One I hadn't heard in the longest time.

The moment before the boom.

I could see Pao beckoning in the middle of the noise. Popo beside me reaching up for a hug. Sparrow clapping me on the back. Tenner coming up to me with an I told you so. The first Mav to win a toque. One of the youngest too, I reckon. Just some ordinary guy without his dictionary; whose one favorite dish in the world was simply a dessert he could no longer taste.

Streisand was the one who pinned the toque blanche onto the lapel of my chef's jacket.

"You. Shocked. All of us. We were blown away by your dish. You never said a thing about being good with sweets! Hid the card way up your sleeve and needless to say, it worked wonders. The artistry, the concept, the sheer execution of what may seem like simple tempering techniques... and the taste of an idea that feels like years of dedication. Well, I'd better let someone much more articulate describe it."

She stepped aside and heads turned.

He stood quite still.

"Vanilla?" She prompted. The rest of the room disappeared with his silence, surprised by his very first show of failed words.

He swallowed once.

And when he was ready, asked just one, quiet question.

"Did you taste your dish?"

I faltered. There was no reason to lie. "... No."

He might have rejoiced in that moment—back there in the private tasting room, with a candle for company. If this was going to break his spell, so be it.

But he smiled. It was the kind I missed.

"Well..." He reached behind him. "I saved some for you."

__________________

There was something about the rain that reminded him of the day he left behind.

It smelled of iron and ice; roads and fields of grass crossing paths in the thundering above for the round, mellow scent of soil, asphalt and rain. Even in the firehouse where it was warm, he could feel the chill of the storm. And in the cold, Leroy knew; he was alone.

"Lads, sound the alarm. We're out of ice cream."

The day had been long. His first forty-eight was a shift filled with back-to-back fires. The engine was due for some cleaning, the gear needed to be checked; his PPE hosed down and dried; the lawn mowed; the treadmill in the gym repaired; the bathroom scrubbed; the fridge re-stocked. Yet, all he could think about at present, gazing out the window at stormy grey streets was walking the dog he'd taken in after his first day at station twelve.

That was a week ago.

Looking down at his boy all snuggled up on the couch by his side, Leroy wasn't sure if he had the energy to do anything at all after his first forty-eight-hour-shift—about to end in approximately six minutes at five-thirty in the morning—let alone check off a single one of the tasks he had on his to-do list.

He figured he hadn't much of a choice, eventually. Being on probation meant having a team of senior firefighters to impress and at the very least, putting in the effort to fit in and be a part of the crew.

Alas, he sucked.

Leroy knew batshit about making friends and while the kitchen was never a place for rainbows and unicorns, the work of a firehouse depended on the bonds of those living in it—finding themselves knee-deep in life-or-death situations and having to look out for each other on a daily basis.

One week into the job and still, he hadn't a single proper conversation about non-work-related matters under his belt. And even then, the crew had devised a ton of ways to crack open his shell over the week with signature dark humor and memes; so the snuffed-out candle knew, full well, that this was all him. The homeschooled boy with knives for friends and pots for companions. The introvert living inside him; closed-up and storming.

Just how he'd always been.

"Ice cream?" "Zales. Mate. It's freezing outside! You alright in the head?" "When is it ever not raining in London?" "It's fucking five in the morning! Sit your ass down and have something else. I'll make you some tea." "I can't be the only one thinking about ice cream after a day of fires on a forty-eight. I hate all of you." "It's freezing and you're nuts. Just grab anything else!"

"Cravings don't work that way."

The room turned to stare at Leroy who'd spoken out of the blue. He was known as Probie back then. The quiet one, who preferred his own time and space, away from the noise.

Just like he'd always... no.

Maybe it wasn't. Maybe, he wasn't always like this and there was a time he'd felt the draw of another's presence and basked in every opportunity of conversation with the one, crystalline chill. At present, he'd become something akin to that himself. A cold, sharpened knife that had known nothing except the heat of the kitchen all its life and now, placed elsewhere, felt a little lost.

"They're... not that easy to ignore, is what I'm saying," he added after a pause, realizing he'd spoken out of turn and the entire room had gone silent when in truth, Zales, Parker and Jaeger were beyond pleasantly surprised and needed a moment to recover from hearing his voice for the first time in hours.

In fact, half the team had been expecting news about Leroy dropping out of probation and leaving for good.

"Hey." Station twelve's battalion chief walked into the scene of chaos that was a winter storm. He paused, momentarily shocked by the silence in the common room. "So uh. Shift's about to end in five and I'm thinking of running to the store for... whatever it is you kids need. Anyone got a list?"

"... Chief, you don't ever run errands." "... Shut the fuck up." "BC? Doing chores?" "It's just heading to the store and buying a bunch of shit. Where's the list?" "Add ice cream to the bottom of that." "Just this once. Aight the rest of you, get out of here. Shift's over. Probie," he singled out Leroy before leaving the room. "Come with me."

The knife had seen this coming.

He knew whatever had happened that day was no mistake, and the time had come to pay the price; perhaps no matter how hard he tried, there simply was no other place for a tool meant only for the kitchen. No other place he could belong.

"So you wanna tell me what went down at the school the other day?" The chief said as soon as they hopped into his SUV and made the drive two streets down.

Leroy was quiet. Words had never been a friend of his and at present, they felt stranger than ever.

"Parker said he'd never seen you so worked up. Something about the prank hit a nerve?"

It was clear to him that everyone else reporting about the incident had tried to downplay his reaction to some college seniors who thought locking people up in a freezer was the best and only way to initiate freshmen into the club. College hazing. And to Leroy, something of that level was no simple prank. This was a ritual, conducted with every intention, to cause pain and harm to another as part of their initiation into a childish, unimportant fraternity.

"I understand it can be tough to open up sometimes. And I want you to know that the crew have nothing else but great things to say about your work ethic. But you haven't spoken to anyone the entire day and it's affected your performance on every call in the past couple of hours. On top of that, those college kids have their parents threatening to file charges against you. It's... big reason to fail your probation, Cox."

He knew.

"Anyone else in the right mind would agree with you. Hazing is fucked up, and pranks like that, people should never be allowed anywhere near them. Those kids thinking about bribing you and the crew afterward with their million-dollar lunch money to leave them out of your report, yes, dumb motherfuckers deserve to be taught a lesson, but Cox. We don't use our fists."

He knew.

"Never choose violence. Man, we're supposed to be the ones patching people up, not the ones putting them down. So. I need you to know... over here, we fight fires."

He knew.

"And sometimes, that includes our own."

He began to sob.

The thing in his chest felt, then, so pained and weak at the memory that stung from within that all he could do was watch it burn inside and leave in its wake, dust and ruin. Quiet tears made every word feel like a shard in the back of his throat that he was dying to remove but suffered as he did; baring his heart in a moment of entirety, he spoke of a time when the one existence he so cared for had been a victim to a similar circumstance and yet, all he could do was watch.

"I'm sorry chief," he cried, lost in the flames. "Fuck."

"... Leroy." They pulled into the parking lot at six in the morning, the only car in front of the store. "You don't need to apologize to me. That's not what I'm looking for. What I wanted was to hear your side of the story and that was exactly what you told me. And I thank you for sharing something so painful and personal—it's not easy, and it's certainly not what you see every day. And I'm sorry you were put through something like that in the past."

He held out a box of tissues. The probie swiped at it.

"Things like this happen. Back in my probation days, pretty sure I fucked up much more than you ever did. And don't tell Jaeger, but he got people suing him left right center for damages. I'm not failing you, Cox. But you gotta give me your word: something like this must never happen again."

And so he gave him his word.

The pair spent some time in the SUV in silence and memories, collecting themselves before heading into the store with the crew's shopping list in hand.

It was a pleasant, almost profound and tranquil experience going through the aisles this early in the morning when the rest of the world was still asleep and waking. Shelves were in the process of being stocked up, baskets cleaned and fresh produce wheeled in. They made exceptions for the local heroes every now and then, shopping late into the night or before the break of dawn when everything was still and quiet.

In fact, the only time they began to hear the noise of the day was halfway through their shopping list, running into another pair of firefighters in the store who'd popped by on the pretense of coincidence.

"Ey look, it's chief and probie." "What are you guys doing here?" "Just, you know, shopping for home, things, uh, didn't know you guys liked this place huh." "... Zales, this is the only store open at this time, what the hell are you on?" "Why can't you just play along for once chief?" "Aight you two shut up and get the rest of the things on the list would 'ya? Cox and I got us down to half." "So... the ice cream is just right around this corner." "Jaeger, has she been like this the entire day?" "I don't know what she's on, chief but do we get to choose the flavors at least?" "You kids are spoiled motherfuckers."

They picked out a tub of mint chocolate chip and raspberry ripple for the team before hovering at the boxes of individual ice cream cones. Assorted flavors.

"Pick one," said the chief, turning to Leroy with a smile. "It's on me."

Neither Zales or Jaeger complained. They knew he needed a little something extra after his toughest forty-eight yet.

And so, the truth was due. He told them about his condition; that all sweet things inevitably tasted like nothing, and that he'd lived with this for the past several years. This revelation did not seem to matter very much to the party of three; of which, one had already known.

Jaeger clapped him on the back.

"Don't worry about it. Savory stuff is the way to go anyway, so you're not exactly missing out. What would you pick for your last meal on earth? I'd go for—" "What the fuck Jaeger, the kids' only just come on board and you're asking about his last meal before he dies." "What's the harm? It's just hypothetical, so I ain't seeing any issue here." "Probie, you don't have to answer that question." "Why do you always have to spoil the fun? The guy's a good kid. He'll play along."

Collectively, they turned his way. Waiting for an answer.

______________________

The one taste that was a sound.

______________________