That night, he dreamt about the look in his eyes. It wasn't a fight. It wasn't, so that look in his eyes didn't count. That cracking and all, it could be fixed. It wasn't going to stay that way. He could melt it down and wait for it to freeze back up and it would be healed. It would be whole again.

And above all, it wasn't too late. It was never too late; or so he thought.

Yet in his dreams, he would stand in the exact same spot he stood that night. He would see the look in his eyes and time would stop, as though giving him a chance, a second attempt at the moment and to rethink his actions so he would. He would think about the many other things he could have done before it all came crashing down in that very instance and the many other times he could have stopped himself from going down that path of destruction but the reconstructions, ultimately, led to the exact same end and then, he was back. In the same spot. Hearing the exact same thing. And then redoing himself; all over again.

It wasn't like how they said it would be in the books. In the movies. There was no quiet falling of tears or silent shaking of his head and the absolute look of disbelief that scratched and needled at his heart, no.

Because when the world falls apart, it roars.

That crack in his eyes tore at his heart and ripped it open to find the burning seed, the flame that was the cause of everything and desperately needed to be put out. It smelled like ruins and smoke in the middle of a thunderstorm. Destruction and emptiness. A barren land.

The night passed.

And when Leroy woke from his dream, he was alone.

====================

[Leroy]

"—the wedges." "Cox." "Wait for the flaggers. Cox!"

I looked up. Seated. Headphones for comms in the engine still on, muffled voices all around and Zales staring at me from past the open door as though I was a madman. The rest of the engine was empty. Fuck.

I made a move on, doubling in speed and surveying the parameters for a quick assessment. I was a step behind everyone else who'd brought out the step chocks and wedges but one look at the MVA and I could tell they'd be needing a hydraulic spreader. I got that out. The driver was standing to the side of the road—tended to by rookie and Jung keeping an eye on both him and the situation up front. He radio-ed for the spreader.

Minutes after the driver calmed down and had his minor cuts and bruises fixed, we sent him off on the ambulance to the nearest hospital for a final check whilst clearing the scene of hazardous material from the vehicle that could've put those walking down the street in danger. I checked the time.

He'd be awake by now. Minutes, or maybe even seconds to realize I'd already left for work, and then. Feel. I wasn't there and I'd left without a word. Feel. They told me it would take at least two to three more days until my apartment was ready so options were low. I'd have to camp out in the firehouse for a bit. Go back to get a couple of things, of course. The jacket. JBL. And my boy, of course.

Or maybe not the jacket. Maybe he thought it was about time I returned it. Maybe he was right.

We left the scene and headed back to the firehouse for the crew's morning routine and throughout the ride, the engine remained ghost-quiet. There was no stopping by the grocery store for ingredients. We agreed on take-out for lunch later on in the day.

Zales had tapped me on the shoulder and jerked a thumb towards the gym as soon as we got off and set up our gear for the next call. Probie stood behind her, over her shoulder with his head lowered. I nodded once.

We hit the treadmills after minutes of stretching. Probie on my right. Zales to my left. She didn't bother about small talk or opening with a casual attempt at 'what was up'—just jumped the gun like the person she was after starting up the machine at a speed of five miles per hour. I rang up a seven on my own.

"Bagel boy?" I heard her say, pausing at the nickname even though it was really the only thing I was expecting. My silence sort of confirmed it, and so she returned her gaze to straight ahead. Out the glass and onto the greens behind the fence.

Probie on my right was trying hard not to look like he was eavesdropping on our conversation but frankly, I couldn't care less. Vanilla wasn't some well-kept secret. And I was affected enough by what happened last night to have it show on my face. Either way, I wasn't sure if word had gotten around about that picture of me in chefs whites.

"I mean I've known you for five years, more or less, but spacing out like that—chief's not gonna let you off easy just because you're experienced. You know that, right? And yeah, you listen, Probie. 'Cuz what he did back there? That's dumb as fuck and you should never space out like that on a call. Bad example. Do not learn."

I turned to him. "She's right." And turned back. I caught Zales rolling her eyes.

The new guy cleared his throat. "I won't. But you don't look too good, sir. Maybe you'd like to swap roles with me for the rest of today? I could—"

"Woah woah woah," Zales slowed her treadmill to a walk, glancing over at Probie. "Look at you, all ready to replace this sucker! Plus, give it a month or two and he'd be Vance. Although technically you're still on probation until February so don't let your guard down, you got that? Do things right and before you know it, Cox is out of the game."

I blessed her with a middle, then gave Probie a nod of thanks, following up by turning him down. "Appreciate your offer, buddy. But I'll snap out of it." And then his shoulders sort of fell so I added that if it was exposure and experience he wanted, I didn't mind dropping him a couple of practical tips after dinner. He lit up.

"Yo a private lesson?! I mean uh. Of course, sir. I'd really appreciate that. Thank you."

They pretty much left me alone right after, deciding that I felt bad enough about spacing out in the middle of a call and that harping on the matter wasn't going to make me feel any better, so they dropped it all completely. Even over lunch and the next couple of calls, no one said a thing; and for the rest of the day, it was never brought up. Either Zales gave 'em a heads up about me not wanting to talk about it or they experienced some miraculous boost in reading minds and knew I wasn't in the state to talk.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't thinking about him the entire day. What he was doing. How he was holding up in the office. It was in these pockets of time that he came back in to sit in my head. Him and his voice. And that look in his eyes. The one that cracked.

Probie and I were in the engine bay after dinner on inventory checks when we got a call for a small kitchen fire two streets down. I was dishing out verbal advice, tips and tricks and occasionally demonstrating with the equipment we had on hand and he wrote everything down on a notebook. We dropped it all and headed for the engine. Zales hopped into the driver's seat after gearing up.

On our way down, I felt my phone in the back pocket of my bunker pants. It wasn't supposed to be there—it's never going into the structure with me, for safety reasons—so I fished it out and stuffed it into a duffel bag that stays in the rig. The phone was vibrating when I did.

At the scene, Jung had the owner of the kitchen out on the lawn explaining what happened while I dealt with the small-ass fire inside that was out in seconds flat with a class B extinguisher. Easy. Probie checked the pipes for gas leaks. There were none. Just a normal grease fire.

"What's with bacon and grease fires?" Jung snorted into the radio once we were back in the engine and heading to the next EMS call. "People can't handle a little supper situation? Frying up some bacon? Waiting for their kitchen to explode or something?"

A tough one. All I could think about was his first visit over at my place. Five years later, he was downstairs making me breakfast, within arm's reach. And then seconds later, setting the pan on fire. He smelled like chamomile. In the snow.

I felt for my phone in the duffel bag under my seat, checking the screen for a Caller ID from earlier. Four missed calls. All of them from Rexi.

It made me pause for a moment before the radio picked up instructions from dispatch but I had my attention split between an incoming call from Rexi, again, and the victim's condition on site. I rejected the call and sent a text instead.

To: Rex

On a call. U ok?

The engine pulled up outside a pub and we hopped out on cue, assisting the EMS vehicle with the stretcher and tending to two casualties. One with a shoulder fracture and another with a broken wrist. Several cuts and abrasions. Bruising. Drunks in a fistfight.

By the time we pooled back into the engine and headed for a trapped-occupant-rescue in an elevator stuck between floors two streets down, Rexi had gotten back to me with a wall of text. I sped through it.

From: Rex

Sorry love. It's about Annie. I don't know what she was thinking but I came home for lunch and found her passed out in the kitchen and a pot of chicken soup ready to explode on the stove. It looks like she fell and you know she's not even supposed to stand, let alone be anywhere near cooking apparatus. Thank god I came home for lunch. She said something about recreating some chicken soup she had the other day.

Don't panic. I just wanted you to hear her voice. She's come to. That's why I called you. The EMS from station nine came in minutes flat. We're in the nearest hospital. I'll text you the details later.

Attached to that was a photo of Annie flipping off the camera.

In that moment, all I could think of doing was sending one back. I was pissed; why the fuck did she push herself knowing that her muscles weren't fully recovered? Obviously, she knew her legs weren't going to hold up standing for anything more than five seconds without support and anything to lean on so what the fuck was that for? And why the fuck did she have to... fucking chicken soup was... ah fuck.

It was nearing midnight when we finally headed back to station twelve—six more till the end of my twenty-four-hour-shift. I told the new guy to spare me five so that I could give Rexi a call before heading back to the engine bay for inventory. She told me that visiting hours were over and would start at eight in the morning.

"I'll camp out in the café. It's open around the clock. If anything happens, I'll drop you a text, okay? You go be busy. Don't worry. Annie's fine. She fell asleep before I left the room."

I told her I'd bike over right after the end of my shift and she told me to take my time. Then I got back to work; wrapped up the one-on-one training with Probie in less than thirty minutes; hopped into the shower; and tried to get some sleep in my room.

He weaved in and out of my dreams. Like a stream.

*

It wasn't an hour until the start of visiting hours when I arrived, so I joined Rexi in the café and she ordered a smoked salmon cream cheese bagel to share while we waited. She ended up letting me have the whole thing.

"Two weeks," she said when I asked, sighing over a cup of tea. There were a couple of other tables filled in the café but not many. It was quiet. "That's what the doctor said. She needs to be monitored. It's her muscles. And her back acting up again."

I kept it together, nodding with my mouth full. Turning away. She tapped the table for my attention. It was hard to look her in the eye. Sometimes, Rexi felt like the other parent I never really had.

"So?" She raised a brow. "Don't you have something to tell me?"

I downed a glass of water, wiping my mouth with a napkin before finally facing her with a tired laugh. "I fucked up." The look in her eyes softened. I guess it helped that Annie and I shared one verbal dictionary. It wasn't very thick.

"You looked pretty good in those chef whites."

"Thanks."

"Oh come on Leroy. I'm on your side. You've got to give a little more than that. Is everything alright? What were you doing at Chef Andre's?"

I sighed. Having my head filled with streams and melting snow left nothing for thoughts about anything else. Which sucked because there were other people I had to be answering to apart from him.

"It's exactly what they're saying about me all over the net, Rex. I'm the mystery chef. Siegfried knew. I didn't want it out. He kept it under the wraps but expected me to head Andre's tea service in his bistro. I don't know what for. And now he's extending an invite to some... fancy-ass TV show. Program. Thing. Competitive cooking. He's nuts."

I dropped the hard-hitting facts as simply as I could. She paused, taking it in; then pulled me into a hug. It was weird. Never knew I needed one.

Felt, I guess, kinda nice.

"Whatever you do, Annie and I will always have your back. Except murdering people. That, we don't. But you need to open up to us every now and then, you got that? We care for you. And that cute little critic of yours—" Think I died a little inside at the thought of him. It was tough breaking it to anyone about last night. "Don't forget we'll always be there for you."

"Until Annie accidentally kills herself or something," I snorted, once we pulled back. Rexi laughed, rolling her eyes. "She's got to stop with the stupid shit when you aren't around."

"You think I don't know that? I'm the one who has to remind her about it all the time." She reached over to mess with my hair. I ducked. "And don't forget, you two pretty much rival each other when it comes to being stubborn about things."

I let her have it. "Does she know?"

Rexi raised a brow. I nodded at the wards. She shook her head.

"If it's about you, I don't say anything unless you give the green. And Annie doesn't give a shit about culinary news. Probably avoids it because she knows Siegfried would be everywhere. I want you to tell her yourself."

I gave in with a sigh, glancing at the time. People were starting to head towards the entrance of the next building where visitors had to be registered. We got up, cleared the table, and followed suit. Wrote some stuff down, got our passes, headed up the elevator, counted the wards as we made our way down the hallway. It was familiar. The whole thing. I mean I used to do it every other week, back then.

Annie was awake. The first thing she did when we appeared at the door was to roll her eyes.

"I know, I know, you don't have to say anything—I was dumb and oh come on that cabinet's the devil." Her voice had lost some of its energy and she was trying to make up for it with the attitude. Still, it sounded weak. A little coarse from sleep. "Fuck that cabinet. If you wanna blame anything, blame the cabinet, okay? The handles were slippery. God I swear, that chicken soup tasted so good you should have tried it."

It was weird, looking her in the eye. I couldn't do it. This was that time, all over again. Seeing her in under those sheets, back propped up against a couple of pillows, a tube running into her veins, that thing on her finger... too familiar. Things of the past, back to haunt.

I sunk into the chair beside her bed, leaning right into it and dropping my head on the space beside her hand. In the sheets. Hiding.

"Just stop fucking talking already." I shook my head. Closed my eyes. "You could have died."

"Oh come on," she coughed, wincing a little. I could feel her do it. Her back probably hurt. "Whatever's up there hasn't got the balls to do anything after I beat its ass five times. I'm fine, Leroy." I felt her hand on the back of my head. Gentle. I continued to hide. "Rex says you have something to tell me."

I paused. Breathed in deep. "It's a lot."

"No shit, sweetie," she laughed. Weak.

She began stroking the back of my head. Like she used to when I was young. On late afternoons after closing the diner, we'd be on the couch watching TV and I'd have my head on her lap. Lying down. Something would be playing. Some cooking channel with PG shit with no cursing, 'cuz Gordon Ramsay's swears got on her nerves. Probably because they actually sounded alike. Kinda missed all that.

"We broke up. For real, this time," I began. And already, to have those words actualized in the real world, for me to hear, and to say in my own words was enough to leave a crack in my voice. "I think it's over."

Tough. This one's tough.

It was quiet for a while and she'd paused at the top of my head; just resting her hand on it. And even though we weren't exactly looking at each other and all I really saw was the darkness of the sheets behind eyes closed shut—just so nothing would flow—I somehow knew. She was crying too.

There was another hand on my back. Beside me, a presence.

"What was the reason?" Rexi.

I braced for the fall. "I lied. To him."

"About?" Annie.

"..."

"About?" Again.

I raised my head, away from the sheets. Looking her in the eye. No surprises. I must look like a wreck.

"I made that chicken soup you had that night at Andre's. And the eggs en cocotte. And the fucking scallops. And sirloin. All the shit you had that night—"

"You're cooking again?" My mother breathed, eyes wide.

"Yeah." Swallowed.

"Oh Leroy." Her arms were wide open and I was stunned. I leaned in. Unsure. "Oh you fucking idiot." She had her head in my shoulders, buried there for some time and I waited for her to recover. It was difficult to make anything out of her words and I had been expecting a little more disbelief than she was showing at the moment. "Ah fuck, my back. Okay let go."

I let go.

Rexi swiped at the tissue box and handed us a bunch each. We blew our noses. Aggressively. A whole lot of noise. For some reason, we harmonized. I laughed a little. Annie smiled.

"You know Leroy.

"Somehow, I knew. And I think he did too. I could just tell from the look on his face, when, you know, we were having that five course at Andre's. I could tell that he was thinking about you the whole time.

"And you know what?

"That fucking sucks." Her smile turned into a laugh and in my eyes, I felt something crack. She was warm. Like a flame. "You have no idea. No idea how much he loved what you made and how much it would fucking hurt for him to realize that to eat what he loves, he'd have to see you suffer."

I leaned backwards, resting my head on the back of the chair, staring up at the ceiling and closing my eyes. Just listening to her voice and nothing else.

"But let me tell you something you'd never wanted to hear since you were a child. Not everyone starts off loving the very thing they want to do for the rest of their lives. Sometimes it takes weeks. Sometimes, months. And sometimes... years.

"All your life, you never wanted to love the kitchen for what it was. Well. Mostly because Free sucked balls at being a parent, but eh, there's never a book for that." She laughed. "But if there was anything we had in common, Free and I... it's our love for cooking. Hands down. The love of our life.

"And maybe if I never let you go; never let him do as he wanted with you and taught you shit all day, maybe... maybe it would've been the love of your life too."

She held my hand and I felt the beat. It was fast. Her words came to a stop and she sighed. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper. Like she was letting me in on the greatest secret of all time. The only one in the world.

"So go fuck 'em up, little lion. Learn to love the kitchen. 'Cuz it's about damn time you do that."

===================

The room was full by the time I entered.

Rexi had me kicked out of the room when I told her they had some meeting for the contestants arranged at eleven and by the time I arrived at The Shard, I was thirteen minutes past the time Siegfried stated on text. I wouldn't have noticed. Not if I weren't intending to show up in the first place but Annie was something else. She'd be the god of middle fingers or something, if she wasn't down here on earth being my mom. On the ride here, I'd felt invincible.

Facing a table of forty-odd people in the culinary world, not so much. Just the urge to flip 'em off, grind hard as fuck for the next couple of weeks leading up to the competition, and serve their egos up on a plate.

That was before the receptionist showed me to a seat that my name on it; complete with a folder of shit I'd have to read before signing off. That sort of thing would usually take me an entire night to finish.

The speaker up front didn't seem to care very much about the short interruption and carried on with his slides without pausing, allowing the rest of the room to take their eyes off me and return their attention to the projector screen. Save a couple of familiar faces. Siegfried. Andre. Marseille. She was competing? That's a tough one. There was another. Siegfried's sous chef. I didn't know her by name. And then there was him.

He'd looked away before I could meet his gaze, pushing up his glasses and writing something on his notepad before turning elsewhere up front. He was a couple of seats down, across the table on the other end. The back of his head was soft. A turtleneck. Navy. It suited him.

I got comfortable in my seat, tuning in to the speaker and the papers before me. The person to my left whispered a page number. I gave her an appreciative nod.

"And now, a list of locations shortlisted for the six-stage-competition. Starting off in London, of course. The following cities have not been confirmed and would still require..."

I noticed a fair bit of distance between Andre and the other contestants. Beside him sat Siegfried's sous chef. If this was a casting call for some TV show, it wasn't so hard to believe they'd already found their main characters. The people farther towards the back like myself, well. Backup, I guess. Like Siegfried had said; I was pending.

"Jakarta, Indonesia. Florence, Italy. Tel Aviv, Israel. Chongqing, China. Mississippi, the US..."

Felt like I was back in high school and doing the lecture thing again. I was never good at the lecture thing. Not so much of a theory person. Never been.

"Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Mexico City. Hawaii. The list goes on. Just a reminder: this information is not for the public. Please exercise discretion."

Coming in hot, I hadn't exactly thought about the traveling thing. I knew I was going to be taking some time off the station, probably a sabbatical, to get myself back on track and... probably actually start attending those shitty therapy sessions for my tastebuds. But still. This was moving fast.

There was a whole load of legal shit and compulsory stuff we had to be doing leading up to the actual competition and all that really went into my head was the fixed number of thirteen contestants, hand-picked for a diverse cast and 'compelling stories'. Didn't know what that meant but okay.

It'd suck if the only reason I ended up making the cut was thanks to Andre and the whole shitstorm but even worse if it was being Siegfried's prodigy son. The only solution was to prove my worth as the little lion she'd raised me to be. Then, at the very least, he wouldn't think I was doing this for him.

Because I wasn't.

I was doing this for me.

*

We were free to leave after instructions for a preliminary round of eliminations a week before Christmas. Officially applicable to all nominated contestants but really, who were they kidding; pretty sure they had a couple of names written down before anything was served. Andre, for sure.

I had my eyes on hair the shade of snow throughout the thing. Kept me awake. He never once turned to meet my gaze. So when the room was dismissed and everyone stood to make their way out, I was surprised to see him looking in my direction—something soft in his eyes.

The view got cut off as soon as I was appreciating it, which of course got me pissed so I turned to whoever it was only to see Chef Marseille staring into my soul as though this was culinary school and I forgot about homework. Although... pretty sure I was one of her favorites. Maybe not as much as Vanilla, but still.

"Hey chef."

"Cox! What in the—you can't be... I mean I thought you were," she tried to find the words. Marseille was tall. And her heels were crazy. Our eyes were levelled. "I thought you left this behind. No, don't say anything. Just keep your mouth shut I don't want your father breathing down my neck although really, I could just step on his toes if that happens but I'm going to be frank. Yes, you are extremely talented. But I'm pretty sure you have no chance going up against industry professionals after spending years out of the kitchen. I'm not competing, but. Just a word of warning."

"Thanks chef," I snorted, mildly amused. Then glanced over her shoulder. Fuck, he's gone. "Gotta go."

"No you don't." All she had to do was say it, really. There was no tone of intimidation or anything like that. Marseille should have stayed in school and made all those kids suffer like we did. "I'm worried about you, Cox. And I'm here to help if you need anything."

I paused; returning my gaze to meet hers.

"You know chef. Have you ever... instead of teaching your kid the alphabet or multiplication tables and shit like that... have you ever thought of replacing normal school with. I don't know. Making braised chicken and napoleons?"

I said this casually. Like this was a free for all and she wasn't my ex-instructor. It felt weird, meeting someone else from the past. Who knew the Leroy I'd shed and left behind. The one I thought I did.

"That would be stupid," Marseille scoffed like I was the idiot. The real was stupid a couple of feet away, talking to Andre and some other guy. "That kid's gonna grow up knowing how to cook braised chicken like the back of his hand but wouldn't even know how to spell the... or count his... change."

She paused then. As though realizing what I meant. And what it meant for me.

I saw the look in her eyes then and it wasn't something I liked to see. Pity. But then it disappeared and she was back at it, going for my throat.

"You just promised me a win, Leroy Cox. Keep that up and you'll continue to be one of my favorites."

I snorted. "Thought Mr. White was your favorite."

She smiled. "No one beats Vanilla."

=================

It was after much deliberation that the man decided to fetch his things from the place he called home. Just the day before, it was home. At present however, he wasn't so sure if the owner of the apartment would allow that.

He thought of ringing the bell even though he had the spare keycard ready in hand but it was half past midnight by the time he'd arrived at the owner's doorstep and the latter could have very well turned in for the night. And the last thing Leroy wanted to do was upset Vanilla any further.

He scanned the keycard and headed in. The first person to greet him was his boy. Quiet and obedient; gazing up at him with huge round eyes and a happy tail, glad to witness the return of his owner.

There were other things that needed to be fetched. Like that Bluetooth speaker he needed and used on a daily basis. He found it on the coffee table in front of the couch and into his duffel bag it went. A shirt draped on the back of the loveseat. That, he'd missed. Spotting it jolted his memory. That, too, he grabbed. And then came the jacket.

He knew where it was. He knew exactly where he'd left it. On the back of the chair in the bedroom. The one that came with the desk. Vanilla would sit there, at times; replying to an email on his laptop, speeding through an edit or two with his head lowered, glasses slightly askew from the angle. He braced himself for a talk.

It did not happen.

Slumped on the desk with his head resting on his arms in a serene state of dreams was the one he missed; breathing slow and steady, slender back rising and falling as he did. Closed eyes revealed lashes he could stare and count for days but right behind him, draped over the back of his chair, was what he'd set out to retrieve.

Having taken in the view however, Leroy wasn't so sure about himself.

Perhaps it was time he returned the jacket. If anything, now was the time. He drew closer for one last look at it. One last touch; felt it between his fingers. It's scent, lingering.

Beside, the sleeping figure stirred and his arms shifted for warmth; shivering just a little.

Leroy did not stop to think. He removed the bomber jacket he had on him and in a single, gentle motion, draped it over slender shoulders and watched the figure snuggle into the familiar warmth. He then headed back into the kitchen to make a steaming cup of chamomile tea and set it on Vanilla's desk, just within arm's reach. Along with the spare keycard.

The tea filled the room with something he knew not what and that, he appreciated for a moment. And then, he left as quietly as he came.

When the sleeping figure woke, the first thing he saw was steam rising from a cup of goodness. The air smelled of candles and chamomile and draped over his shoulders, was yet another scent that he missed. Vanilla took it into his arms and breathed in deep.

It felt like company.

=========================

A/N: It's been long since I wrote a note! I've put it off because I think sometimes, notes take away from the immersive value of a story but I guess today felt alright. I say alright because it is indeed very tiring to write 5k words in a single day and also keep up with physical publishing deadlines and my real job, which has nothing to do with writing. Hehe. 

I met a two friends yesterday and we talked about my writing. I told them some of my struggles and why I was never really able to write what I truly enjoyed and the dissonance I had with the work I am proud of and the work that a general, common audience would like. 

It has always been the case with the Baked series and the rest of my work. Flight School, especially. 

I am going to be honest: I am in love with the Leroy and Vanilla at present. I love that they have faced the truth of something not working out despite their greatest attempts at making things work, and I love that they are fighting the demons within in order to face the demons out there. 

I have dreamed of the ultimate climb for an ultimate payoff. An unimaginable satisfaction unlike any simple coming together of two people and all-too-miraculous solving of inherent issues. 

Underneath our desire for a happy escape from reality and yearning for smooth journeys unlike our own lies the raw, incredible human who feels it deep and feels it all. 

The best sort of high often comes from the best of the lows. 

I cannot wait for you to see what the snow and candle have in store. 

-Cuppie