Title: Worth Two in the Bush
Rating: G
Word count: 2,204
Summary: Oz attempts to do the impossible: cook Gilbert dinner. Ozbert. Alice/Sharon if you squint. For ryoura.
Note: Total early series fluff. Before the full sledgehammer of angst crashed into us all.
This is a belated birthday gift/ REALLY belated commission for ryoura (and it totally turned out longer than what you paid me for, so I hope that's at least worth it!)
First time for writing long-form Ozbert, so I apologize for any OOC-ness. And for making Oz too adorable for words.
Worth Two in the Bush
"Poulet cordon bleu…more like poulet the fool…."
Not the best of puns, but Oz Vessalius was grumpy, and when Oz was grumpy he tended to mutter to himself, and the longer he muttered, the more nonsensical the mutterings became. This was a fact few people knew about Oz, since he tended to reveal these faucets about himself only when he knew he was entirely alone.
Meanwhile, flames leapt out of the cast iron grille of the stove.
His miff-covered hand clanged the lid shut to smother the impeding disaster. He brushed the soot from his brow. How was that even possible? Oz had no idea a pot-bellied stove could explodelike that – he didn't mean to tip that entire bowl of seasoned oil over the surface….
The tip of Oz's tongue stuck out in determination. This was supposed to be simple. Show Gilbert how they could be equals, but in ways other than scolding Gilbert whenever he called him "young master," or dragging the taller man alongside him instead of having him follow three steps behind. Those options left Gil flustered and spluttering, half-apologetic, half-embarrassed. Every motion, every command only enforced this contradictory dynamic between them: Oz valued Gilbert as his servant while also trying to get across that they could be friends too (and more than that.)
Namely, it was about time to show Gil that whatever he could do, Oz could do too—and maybe even better. Hence, Oz did what he did best in situations like this: take control.
Alice was excited to be shipped off to the Rainsworth manor for the night – doing whatever girls did – and so he and Gil had an evening to themselves at the Vessalius manor. Tonight, Oz wanted to pull off an unexpected surprise as a nod toward their egalitarian status.
The smell of burnt chicken and herbs stung his nose: the waft of what was supposed to be poulet cordon bleu.
Perhaps his plan wasn't as easy as he had thought.
xxxxxxx
Gilbert didn't know what to do, but he sorely wished he did. Any moment of stillness within the presence of Oz gained an unspoken aura of uselessness that riled his anxiety. He squirmed in his seat, something cute in a teenager but unbecoming in a man his age, and stared at his gloves, picking at the nonexistent loose threads on his fingertips.
The table Oz sat him at was ridiculously long – one of the banquet tables in the ballroom of the Vessalius manor. Gilbert was quite sure that the other end of his seat was the same distance his long-range targets were positioned during field practice. He wished he could to test this theory out (at least it'd give him something to do).
Still, Oz had insisted in eating dinner there, for it created the "right atmosphere."
"You're a nobleman too, you know, and not just my valet," he had emphasized when he greeted Gilbert at the door wearing a sous chef hat and spotless white apron. Gil couldn't help but smile at how ridiculously cute that hat was, askew upon the blond boy's brow.
"Tonight, I'm cooking dinner," Oz had declared as soon as Gilbert stepped inside and instantly ushered the Nightray into the manor's largest banquet hall. The hat, slightly too large, tipped forward as they hurried forward and fell over Oz's eyes. Impatiently, Oz pushed up the hat higher before Gilbert could succumb to the urge to straighten the accessory himself.
Instead, he had asked, "Have you ever cooked before?"
Oz gave a curt glance at his manservant and replied, "That's beside the point. Besides, I have everything all figured out." Throwing open the doors to the hall, he had taken hold of Gilbert's forearms, plunked him bodily in the chair, and retorted, "Don't move from that spot until dinner is served."
Gilbert was going to point out that ordering a guest to sit wasn't suitable behavior between noblemen, but merely gave a small sigh as Oz bustled out of the room. As he waited, Gilbert noted the care that Oz took in laying out the full set of silverware for two and the new candles on the table. The centerpiece was a bouquet of fresh flowers from the Vessalius gardens, and Gilbert wondered if Oz had chosen them himself too.
The implications of Oz wanting to cook for him were not lost on Gil. Besides the fact that he couldn't help feeling flustered on seeing Oz in an apron, and how…form-fitting it could be, (well, given an apron's only a piece of cloth tied around that slim waist, oh gods—), nevertheless, it certainly wasn't right or proper to have a person of his status running around like a cook or a servant… (Gil was a different story, though; he convinced himself that he was never worthy of a title in the first place).
Worry, however, overcame this train of thought when the rumbling sounds of a small explosion came from the kitchen.
"Oz!" he shouted, jumping to his feet. The doors swung open. Profuse amounts of billowing smoke trailed after the blond-haired boy as he emerged, proffering a slightly-scuffled silver tray in his hands.
Gilbert felt the need to grab the silver from him, accompanied by a reprimanding tone: "No, that dish is hot – you should be more careful!" but the accomplished smirk from Oz stayed his tongue. Trotting out his tarnished prize in the air, arms extended, Oz then lowered the platter on the table in an exaggerated bow that gave Gilbert a nice side view of Oz's… scorch marks on his trousers. Yes, those marks, not anything else down there—
Oz coughed and Gilbert was instantly at his side, offering a handkerchief. Oz's green eyes, full of self-satisfaction, glowed momentarily before he turned aside, coughing still. "No, no, no," he said, importantly between gasps. "The nobleman must not worry about a little smoke."
Gil sat down, almost overwhelmed and trying to stop the nascent flush across his cheeks until Oz lifted the silver dome, the sight of which made Gilbert blanch entirely.
"Dinner is served."
"Um… this is…" Gil gave a quick glance at the boy and couldn't bear to cause him any sort of dismay.
"…creatively done," he managed to sum up.
This was the most creative example of poulet cordon bleu Gilbert Nightray ever had. The color palette ranged from burnt sienna to a washed-out mauve. The vegetable medley side dish looked sunken and pale, and the mashed potatoes seemed in need of an additional pounding. Oz carefully served each portion with exceeding care, trying not to make it too obvious that the chicken was stuck to the pan when he removed it with a spatula. The items plunked into Gil's plate. One half of it oozed while the other simply congealed.
"Um, thanks," Gil said slowly. "I've never seen anything quite like this."
"Oh, I know." Oz beamed up at him as he settled down at a seat perpendicular to Gilbert's. That hopeful smile was everything, and Gilbert calmed the fluttering of his stomach (whether that was from the smile or from the fumes from his plate he wasn't sure.)
In a gesture of culinary bravery, Gil took utensils in hand and began to saw through the meat.
His fork hit something. Hard. He persevered. Something pierced through eventually. Gilbert raised the fork to his lips and bit down.
Undercooked, tasteless, still had bits of bone in it…
"Delicious."
Somehow, the dark-haired man managed to swallow and then dive in again. Swallow, chew, swallow. It became a mechanical routine; Gilbert could ignore the consequences as long as he could see that smug expression of contentment on the youth's face across the table, even as Oz mercilessly teased him about whether Gilbert was jealous that he could cook meat too, and perhaps one night he'd invite Alice over and all three of them could have a nice quiet dinner together. As long as Gilbert continued the conversation ("We'd have to remind the dumb rabbit that the knives shouldn't be used for stabbing food"), he could ignore the growing pangs of his sensitive stomach.
Gilbert didn't have the heart to tell Oz about how over the years, his smoking and caffeine habits and "humble" (aka impoverished) living had reduced his constitution to the point that he couldn't consume rich foods (especially meats). Dutifully, he proceeded to finish up the whole plate during the course of their lighthearted chatter despite the protesting grumbles below: about Sharon asking Oz for permission to take Alice on promenades through the park to help teach her social graces, which Oz thought was peculiar, because it wasn't as if he was Alice's guardian and Sharon her suitor or anything; about the general memo Lord Barma sent out reminding everyone how rude it was to throw candy wrappers across the board table at meetings; about Elliot's determination to challenge Break to another duel and to demand Oz to serve as Break's second – since Gil refused to play any part in his foster brother's mission.
Staring at the empty plate, Gil dabbed at the perspiration that had beaded on his forehead and gave his master a watery smile. "Next time, let's trying working in the kitchen together," he suggested politely. "Since, um, equal fellows share the same task, don't they?"
"Of course!" Oz laughed, bouncing in his seat in excitement. "Can you imagine teaching Alice how to bake? We should do that! I read up on this great cobbler recipe…"
Gilbert stared, golden eyes glazing slightly, gripping the table and noticing for the first time that in his enthusiasm, Oz hadn't touched a single thing from his own dinner.
Suspicion reared its ugly head.
Was this only one of Oz's pranks? Did he know how awful that meal was…Was he waiting for Gil to speak up and assert himself? Was that the real goal of this hour of gastronomic torture?
Gilbert slammed down his napkin onto the table with half a groan. He meant to lean forward and admonish Oz for trying to play him the fool, but the room began to spin once he rose from his seat.
"Don't tell me…" he started, before a severe pang in his bowels stopped him short.
"Gil? What's the matter?" Oz bit into a piece of his burnt, and now cold, chicken. "You want seconds?"
The sound of Gilbert's body hitting the floor was the answer he got.
xxxxxxxx
A couple of hours later, Oz waited patiently by Gilbert's bedside.
"Um… more tea?" He poured the hot chamomile and mint beverage into a teacup made of bone china, as Gilbert hid his head beneath the pillow. Gil was trying desperately to maintain a strong front, but the previous two hours in front of the porcelain throne had destroyed every ounce of dignity he had.
Proffering the delicate cup before his manservant, Oz bowed his head, a sense of self-consciousness clouding his usual buoyant mood.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, head bowed.
Oh, wasn't he lucky to have a master as understanding as Oz was. Oz had apologized profusely as he dragged Gilbert into the guest room; he had no idea that the chicken was undercooked; he thought that was how the recipe was supposed to be…Gilbert rolled his eyes to himself and emitted a passive noise as he reached for the cup and took a sip. It had been years since anyone brewed him a cup while in bed. In fact, the last time was probably over a decade ago, when Oz dragged in an entire tea service while Gil lay in bed with the flu…
Through hazy vision, despite the lingering nausea, the memory warmed him. Oz never needed to prove anything with a fancy dinner; he had always been there for him, in his own way.
"Dammit, stop blaming yourself. You didn't know because-"
And even once he said that, Oz promptly cuffed his shoulder.
"I should know what makes you upset, Gil," he snapped. "But I didn't because, you're right, that was the first time I cooked anything for anyone."
A playful expression danced in his golden eyes. "Well, young master," Gilbert replied, reaching out to ruffle the boy's feather-light hair. "I'm honored that you served me so well."
That got another pout as Oz flushed a deeper red. A half-smile crossed Gilbert's face as he settled the cup on the bedside table and pressed his bare palm on the side of Oz's neck. So warm.
Oz gave a little jump at the gesture. "Gilbert…"
"You know," he said, that half-smile giving away to a gentle smirk. "I'm so honored, I wish that you never grant me the honor ever again."
"Shut up…" Oz ducked his head. Gilbert chuckled affectionately and leaned back onto the pillows.
"At least this tea's nice. You didn't undercook that."
"Shut up!" But Oz was giving that cheeky grin now, bouncing back in the way Gilbert so admired. He clambered onto the bedspread and leaned against Gil's shoulder. "Tea in bed, then. I can do that."
And over time, Oz learned that there were easier – and far less devastating – ways to serve.
Which Gilbert much appreciated.