A/N: This was once a sidestory for a fic. Main story: Ingrid and Fillmore seek Cookware Kidnappers, a thieving team that steals expensive cooking materials. Side story: O'Farrell tries to cook. Key word- 'tries'. The main story never got off the ground (I'm still working on B2T, my other Fillmore! fic) but I thought I'd share this with you.
Warning: do not read this story before, during, or after eating.
Unsavory Situations
Only a few things could make Ingrid Third gag. Rotten meat. Sour milk. Boy bands.
She was a tough girl, one who could face disasters and repulsions of all kinds without so much as a twitch. Her father frequently left week-old dirty socks all over the living room. Her job at the Safety patrol often left her digging through garbage or slogging through muck to find evidence or suspects. Her reform school in Nepal had forced her to endure cleaning the boy's bathroom once a week—leaving her to clean hair gobs, rank stains, unidentifiable smears, and more.
Even gore rarely bothered her, since she secretly enjoyed playing Mature videogames after buying her own Ultrabox. And before her parents were divorced, Ingrid remembered her mother—a surgeon—bringing home bloody surgery photos. Ingrid had loved to look at them. Her mother even helped her dissect a frog once.
So in general, Ingrid was not a squeamish person. Few things rattled her cage or made her turn green.
This, though—
This was too much.
"It's my newest recipe!" O'Farrell said, waving the pan of mushy food under Ingrid's nose. The odor was overpowering—Ingrid fought not to vomit.
Instead, she pushed her chair back from her desk, putting a little space between her poor nose and that abomination that O'Farrell insisted was edible. Her eyes watered from the stench as she looked up at O'Farrell.
Danny O'Farrell frequently picked up new quirks and hobbies, often inspired Safety Patrol cases. From Vampirita fan to Golf Caddy, O'Farrell had done it all. This time around, it appeared he'd chosen to try out cooking—probably inspired from all the thefts that occurred in the Kitchen recently.
Today, he was definitely dressed the part. His flaming red hair stuck out from a poofy chef's hat. He wore an apron to match, and plaid oven mitts on his hands, which he used to hold the still-hot pan of steaming, lumpy, disgusting—
"Um, what is that stuff, Danny?" Ingrid asked, pointing at the unidentifiable muck. She would probably regret asking.
"Like I said! My newest recipe. Anchovy mustard casserole."
Ingrid's nose crinkled. "…Anchovy mustard… casserole." She repeated dumbly.
"Yup! It's got a lot of other things in it too. The Young Chefs of X—you know, that cooking club that meets at 4 pm—they were so nice, they let me have all kinds of ingredients from the back of their fridge!"
From the back of the fridge. Ingrid easily caught what O'Farrell had clearly missed: they gave him their leftovers. O'Farrell was too enthusiastic about the opportunity to care, though… he probably just saw their donation as a generous act of kindness.
Ingrid didn't want to tell O'Farrell this and hurt his feelings. Maybe O'Farrell didn't have much talent for cooking, but he was still a friend. Ingrid couldn't bring herself to squash his enthusiasm or his cheerfulness. O'Farrell was grinning ear-to-ear as he talked about his food; if this is what made him happy, what right did she have to make him stop?
"Uh, so, what ingredients did they give you?" she asked at last.
His eyes lit up, excited. "Oh, all kinds of good things!" he said. "Black olives, celery, okra, beets, maple syrup, some kind of white cheese, sauerkraut, barbeque sauce, and pickled ginger!"
Slowly, Ingrid moved her chair back another inch.
"They let me use some of their spices, too, but I lost track of what I used." He looked down at the pan in his hands. Suddenly he smiled. "Want to try some?"
Ingrid shrank in her seat. "Uh, no thanks," she said as quickly as possible.
O'Farrell pouted. "Aw, come on, you'll love it!" he insisted, holding it out. She caught a whiff of the vile odor. Her stomach churned again.
"Oh no, I couldn't," she choked out, brain scrambling for an excuse. "I—I just ate!"
"I won't give you much," O'Farrell promised, brandishing a spatula from nowhere.
"B-but I'm… on a diet!" she lied.
O'Farrell's head cocked to the side. You just ate and you're on a diet?"
"Yes! Yes. I started the diet just after eating. No more food for me."
"But you're so thin," he said, puzzled.
"It only looks that way," Ingrid explained. "My dress hides it all the time. Haven't you heard the phrase, black clothes are slimming?"
"Oh," O'Farrell said, "So that's what that phrase means."
Ingrid nodded. "Yes, so I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't try any of your…" she had to swallow before she could say, "Anchovy mustard casserole" without gagging.
"Oh," O'Farrell said again, his face falling. He looked like a sad puppy. "I guess I understand. I was just hoping…"
He looked at her with gloomy blue eyes. "You sure you don't want just a taste?"
Dang it, he was giving her the puppy-eyes. Normally she could resist that look, but O'Farrell was even better at it than her partner Fillmore was. She found her resolve crumbling as he stared her down.
Her shoulders slumped. "I guess a taste couldn't hurt," she said—mumbled, really.
Immediately his face lit up again, nearly jumping up and down in his excitement. The food wobbled in the pan. God, I swear, if that stuff lands on my paperwork… Ingrid groaned inwardly, keeping a wary eye on the so-called 'food' that was teetering in the pan above her desk.
O'Farrell quickly fetched a small plate from his desk, placed it before Ingrid, and then took out the spatula again. He took a scoop from the pan and slopped it down onto the saucer.
Ingrid braced herself as the smell washed over her desk. The vile scent rolled under her nose, and Ingrid turned a pale green. Her eyes flicked up to O'Farrell's face, which was only excited and expectant. How does he not SMELL that? She wondered, fighting the urge to pinch her nose.
O'Farrell held out a fork. Ingrid took it, apprehension climbing in her gut and making her stomach churn even worse.
She turned her eyes on the feast before her. Though he'd only served a small scoop, it seemed much too large for Ingrid's taste. Now that it was out of the pan, Ingrid could see the various ingredients wallowing in the goop—fish heads, olive eyes, half-moons of celery. They seemed to wobble like fruit in gelatin.
The concoction began to ooze a bit as it spread out on the plate.
"Well?" O'Farrell asked. "Go on."
Swallowing the lump in her throat, then grimacing, she held the fork out. Her knuckles were white when she gripped the utensil.
Slowly, she dug the prongs of the fork into the pale mush. The casserole gave under the pressure. Its consistency was thick and yet somehow watery at the same time. Like Jello. Or snot. Maybe if I just imagine it's jello, then I'll be able to eat it. Ingrid thought, then shuddered. No, if I do that, I'll hate jello forever.
O'Farrell grinned and leaned in, barely patient, as he watched her poke at his new recipe. "You'll love it. I swear," he promised.
Ingrid lifted the forkful from the pile, drawing a bite-sized chunk away from the mound. An anchovy head stared at her from the fork.
The smell increased as she brought it close to her face, creating a wall of odor. It was worse than rotten meat and sour milk and sweaty socks and frog guts and boy bands combined.
Ugh. She was going to be sick.
"INGRID!"
She jumped, jerking her hand away. The gob flew off her fork and smacked into the nearby wall with a splat. It seemed stuck there for a minute. Then, slowly, it began to seep down to the floor.
Ingrid and O'Farrell both looked at the HQ door. Fillmore was standing there, head peeking out. He jerked his thumb at her. "We got a case! Grab your stuff, Folsom wants to talk to us!"
She couldn't have scrambled out of there faster. Ingrid grabbed her bag, case file, and notepad, and stood up. "Sorry O'Farrell, gotta run, maybe next time," she said. When she turned, she found O'Farrell at her elbow, pouting.
"But by the time you get back, it'll be cold!"
She looked at his crestfallen face. Curse my kindness, she grumbled inwardly, and sighed. "It's Ok, O'Farrell." She told him, "Why don't you make something else for me? Something new?"
His eyes lit up immediately. "Yeah! That would be fun!" he beamed. "I could make—"
"Something simple!" Ingrid cut him off. "Like a salad. You know…because I'm on a diet."
He blinked. "Oh, yeah, I could do that," he nodded, grabbing the plate from her desk. "Good luck with your case! And don't eat anything before you get back! I'll make something you can't resist."
Ingrid let out a breath in relief. She'd just dodged a bullet. She slung her bag over her shoulder and trotted out the HQ door.
Fillmore met her there. "Thanks for the save," she commented, stepping out into the hallway. "We've got a case?"
"Yeah, some punk vandalized the Teacher's lounge. No suspects yet, but Vallejo says—"
Suddenly Fillmore stopped, frowning. He sniffed the air, then turned to look at Ingrid. "…You smell like death," he informed her.
She frowned. The smell of O'Farrell's cooking was probably stuck to her. "Yes, I'm aware," she muttered.
"…May I ask why?"
Her frown curled deeper. "Because I don't know how to say no to O'Farrell."
Fillmore raised his eyebrow and peeked into the HQ again, in time to see O'Farrell scooping the glob of Anchovy mustard casserole off the wall. "A chef, eh?" he commented.
"I'll be glad when this phase is over." Ingrid said.
"Was it really that bad?"
"Let's put it this way," Ingrid said, "I'm never eating anything casserole-like again."
Fillmore whistled. "You know, when he gets back, he'll try to corner you again," he pointed out.
"No, I told him to make something different for me later. A salad. He can't mess something that simple up, right?" she asked.
Fillmore just laughed and trotted down the hallway. "Don't underestimate O'Farrell."
Ingrid sighed and followed. "No one can mess up a salad." She said.
Inside the HQ, O'Farrell grinned. A salad! Ingrid wanted a salad! He needed to think of a good recipe.
The best part, there were so many kinds of salad. Ceasar salad, egg salad, potato salad, chicken salad, taco salad… He should make something to top it all. Like… pizza salad! Or Ice cream salad! Or pizza-ice-cream salad! With Garlic! And Mayonnaise!
O'Farrell grabbed his things, about to head off to the kitchens, when he saw his discarded, uneaten Anchovy Mustard Casserole. He frowned. What should he do with it, now? Throw it away? Seems like such a waste…
Just then, Anza walked through the HQ door, nose buried in a manilla file and a large stack of paperwork under his arm.
"You know…" O'Farrell said to himself, "Anza works so hard. Maybe he'd like a break."
Anza sat down at his desk, and O'Farrell grinned. Well, no use letting everything go to waste.
"Hey Anza!" he called, "Want to try my newest recipe?"
Finis.
A/N: Poor, Poor Anza…
P.S. I just got Wayne Liggett, Frank Bishop, and Penny Madrid added to the character lists. Everyone quick, write a story about them! :)
All reviews, even anonymous ones, are greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading!