Half the fun of cooking — actually more than half the fun — was in eating the finished product. Jim had always enjoyed carefully combining ingredients to get the desired flavor, blending in tastes and textures that would complement the meal while adding something special to it. And when he was done, he would be able to serve up two or more plates, sit down with his mom — or Toby, or whoever else might be there — and get to enjoy not just his food, but their reaction to it.
He wasn't going to lie, he was going to miss that.
But he could still have some of it. He could still cook, and he could still serve up a plate to Claire, and watch her enjoy it — if she did enjoy it, of course. That part remained to be seen.
Cooking just wasn't the same anymore. He had first noticed it at home, not long before the battle, back when he had been trying to hold onto some semblance of normality in the wake of the change he had gone through. The food hadn't smelled like food, it hadn't made his mouth water, he hadn't been able to look forward to sitting down and eating. He had gone through the motions, but even before he had tried to taste what he had made and found it inedible, there had been something missing. It had been like trying to paint without being able to see the colors.
The same had been true today. It wasn't as though he had expected anything different, but the realization was still difficult, it drove home that this was forever, one more aspect of his life that was never going to be the same.
"Okay, I think we're done…" Jim said. He carefully lifted the finished omelet from the pan and onto the slightly warmed plate. It looked fine. An slightly uneven surface, browned to perfection on each ridge, yellow as sunshine everywhere else. Where the two edges met, the filling peeked out just the right amount, showing just a hint of the carefully selected collection of ingredients within.
He had chosen fairly something simple for his first try, though he hadn't been able to resist adding in a twist or two, but most importantly, it was something that he wouldn't normally have tasted as he cooked. Some foods, he would add ingredients a little at a time, tasting as he went to make sure he got the amounts right. That… wasn't going to work anymore. If he wanted to cook anything a little more adventurous than this, he was going to have to get used to working from a recipe. Well, that or learn how to trust someone else to do the taste test for him.
"Now, I'm not sure what this will be like…" he said warningly.
"I'm sure it'll taste as good as it smells," Claire told him. "And it smells pretty great."
Jim inhaled deeply through his nose, taking in the scent. It was familiar, but unappetizing. Not unpleasant, but it just didn't smell like food. He sighed as he reached for a sprig of parsley, shredded it with fingers that sometimes still felt too large and awkward for more delicate tasks, and sprinkled it on top of the omelet with a flourish.
He picked up the plate, and turned to present it to Claire. "I'll have to take your word for that," he said.
Something clouded her expression, not pity, not exactly, but some close relative of it. "Jim…" she began.
"Buen apetito!" he interrupted quickly — Toby was right, he did reach for Spanish when he was nervous — and put the plate down in front of her, slamming it just a little bit too hard on the table. The sound echoed around still almost empty kitchen of the new place. He winced. "Uh… sorry. I still don't know my own strength sometimes."
"I know; it's okay," she assured him. "I'm sure you'll get used to it eventually."
She was right. Honestly, he almost was used to it already. Parts of it, he could no longer imagine being without. The strength, the speed, the resilience. The missing finger on each hand still felt strange, but he had stopped jumping when he caught a glimpse of his own reflection out of the corner of his eye… Mostly. What he wasn't sure he would ever get used to was the loss of the little things. No longer being able to walk down the street — the street of a human town anyway — with his hand in Claire's. Not being able to walk down a street at all, for that matter. Never being able to feel the sunlight on his skin again. Not being able to sit down and enjoy a meal he had cooked with somebody he cared about.
"I know I will," he said. "Now eat up already, before it goes cold."
Claire cut off a corner of the omelet with her fork, speared it and raised it to her lips. She paused, and frowned. "You're not going to stare at me like that the whole time, are you?"
Jim blinked. Was he staring? Yeah actually, he was. He realized now that he was kind of hovering next to her, waiting to see what she thought of the food, waiting to make sure that when she began to cut into the omelet that it looked the way it should on the inside too. He didn't remember being this nervous to serve somebody food since… actually, he didn't ever remember being this nervous.
He backed off a couple of steps, sat himself on a chair at the opposite side of the table, and tried not to watch her. He glanced down at his hands on the table, then over to his side, where the hot pan still lay on the top of the stove.
"Sorry. Just don't expect too much from that omelet, okay?" she said. "It's been a while since I cooked anything, I might be a bit out of practice. I mean, it's not like it's the most complicated thing to make — that's why I chose it — but, I mean, it doesn't even smell like food to me anymore. So just… don't be disappointed it it's bad, okay?"
Claire shook her head from one side to the other and sighed. "It's going to be great." She took her first bite. Jim tried not to watch too intently.
"Well?" he asked.
Claire chewed, then swallowed. She paused thoughtfully.
"Just… be honest, okay? Too much salt? Not enough? You hate the filling! I knew I should have gone for something more simple."
"Jim, stop," Claire said.
He stopped. Whatever it was, she would tell him and maybe he would even be able to fix it. If not, he would be able to fix it next time.
"You can put ketchup on it if that helps," he added. "I won't be offended, I promise."
"It's good," she said.
He frowned, confused. "It's…"
"It's delicious," she told him. "I mean, don't get me wrong, a side of guacamole would make it like ten times better, but I'd challenge you to name any food that wouldn't be improved by guac. You're still an amazing chef, Jim."
Troll food, Jim thought. It wouldn't improve that at all. He smiled self consciously. "You're not just saying that?"
Claire shook her head. "I'm not just saying that," she assured him. She took another bite of omelet, and another, and another, then looked up. "You're not eating?"
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "You know I can't…"
"I know you can't eat this," she agreed. "So eat something you can."
Jim shook his head. "Nah, I'm fine. I'm not hungry. I actually don't have to eat as often anymore. Anyway, Blinky invited me over for supper later tonight. late late, I mean. You'll be asleep by then." He was hungry, as it happened. All the cooking and the thinking about food probably, but he could wait. He had to wait, he wasn't ready for Claire to see that.
It was strange, actually, but once he had gotten over his instinct not to eat the things his body needed now, once he had gotten his head around that fact that it was food, he had begun to actually enjoy it. Like almost everything in his life now, it was different, but that didn't mean it was bad.
"Maybe next time," Claire said. "We can't have dinner together if you won't eat in front of me. I can handle it. Honestly, its a little insulting that you think I can't."
"It's not that," Jim assured her, then hesitated. It wasn't that, but there was something so… inhuman about that aspect of his life now. It wasn't like he thought she would be disgusted, more that it would widen the divide between them."
"You're worrying about nothing," Claire told him.
He smiled. "Oh yeah? How do you know? You don't even know what I'm thinking about."
She shrugged. "Doesn't matter, I'm right." She finished the last piece of omelet, put down her fork and reached for Jim's hand. "Trust me."
Jim took a deep breath, he looked down at her small hand on top of his larger, blue one. Maybe she was right. She had seen him turn into a troll and stuck with him. If the fangs and the horns hadn't torn them apart, a dinner date wasn't going to do it. "Maybe you're right," he said. "Next time."
And maybe he really would.